Ann Cleeves - A Day in the Death of Dorothea Cassidy

Inside the wardrobe door was stuck a photograph of Dorothea and Clive together, standing formally outside the vicarage. Clive was upright and proud and grinning broadly. Was it tact, Ramsay wondered, which had caused him to hide the photo away? Did he think his mother would be hurt by his affection for the vicar’s wife?

Ramsay looked under the bed and found a pile of comics and a lot of dust. On the chair by the bed was a plastic mug of water and Clive’s watch. That too, Ramsay remembered, had been a present from Dorothea. Clive had been wearing it the day before when he waited for her to come out of Mrs Bowman’s flat in Armstrong House. I never asked the old lady about that, he thought. I never followed up the discrepancies in their stories. He could not see why it would be important but the thought of the watch troubled him, niggled throughout the rest of his conversation with Theresa. Before going downstairs he paused and looked out of the boy’s window and wished again that he could be in Heppleburn.

In the living room it seemed that the women had hardly moved. He found that he had no patience with either of them.

‘Coffee!’ he said briskly. ‘ I think we could all do with some coffee. Perhaps you could make some for us, Miss Masters?’

The social worker looked surprised but she went into the kitchen. Theresa watched her go with terror.

‘Theresa,’ he said. He tried to sound kind but realised that the effect was patronising. Fatherly concern did not suit him. ‘I’m sorry to intrude like this but I need to ask you some more questions…’

She nodded.

‘You didn’t tell me what Dorothea talked about when she came here late yesterday afternoon,’ he said. ‘ It would be helpful if we knew what her plans for the rest of the evening were. Has anything come back to you?’

She was more alert now, and very tense. ‘It was nothing important. She just came to see how I was feeling.’

‘Tell me about Clive, then,’ he said, keeping his voice calm. ‘When he left here today where did you think he was going?’

‘Back to work,’ she said. ‘You were here, weren’t you? You heard what he said.’

‘Was it usual for him to come home for his lunch? It’s a long way.’

‘It depended what he felt like,’ she said. ‘They weren’t paying him.’

‘But he was there to do Community Service,’ Ramsay said. ‘He wouldn’t have been allowed just to wander about.’

Hilary Masters came in then, carrying mugs of coffee, holding them awkwardly by the handles, all in one hand.

‘It wasn’t really Community Service,’ she said. ‘Not in the legal sense. He was a juvenile. He was placed on a supervision order and the arrangement to work at the old people’s home was made informally between Dorothea and the warden.’

‘So he never worked set hours?’ Ramsay asked.

‘He was supposed to,’ she said, ‘but it was hard to keep him to a timetable. He was easily distracted.’

Ramsay remembered that the same thing had been said about Dorothea. He wondered if the boy’s inability to stick to anything had been a factor in his death. Had his attention been caught by something the murderer wanted kept secret? Had he, in his vacant, bumbling, innocent way, become involved in Dorothea’s murder?

‘He might have gone to the fair,’ Theresa said suddenly. ‘He always liked the fair.’

Ramsay put the mug to his mouth but found the liquid inside almost undrinkable. Hilary had put milk in it and he wondered if she would ever know him well enough to realise that he always drank it black.

This is ludicrous, he thought. I’m so tired. I can’t think straight. Outside in the street there was the sound of a car horn being hit over and over again, laughter, a radio played far too loud. Someone had started their celebrations before reaching the town.

‘Did Clive tell you anything?’ he said. ‘Anything which might help us find out who killed him?’

Theresa shook her head and looked at him over the rim of her coffee cup, like a stupid, frightened animal.

‘He never talked to me,’ she said sadly. ‘Not once Mrs Cassidy started visiting.’ She paused. ‘I expect it was my fault too. Things were different after Joss came to stay.’

‘Did he have any enemies? Anyone who disliked him enough to kill him?’

Theresa set the coffee cup on the floor at her feet.

‘Only that man at the church,’ she said deliberately.

‘You mean Walter Tanner?’ Ramsay said. ‘The church warden who didn’t want Clive to take part in the service?’

‘No, not him. I mean the vicar, Dorothea’s husband. He hated Clive.’

‘What do you mean?’ he demanded. ‘ How do you know?’

But by now the exchange seemed to have exhausted her. She lay back on the sofa with her eyes closed. Perhaps the sedation given by the doctor was just starting to take effect, perhaps it was a way of avoiding more questions. Ramsay felt the urge to shake her. What right had she to escape into a drugged sleep? he thought. But he said nothing, aware that any attempt to disturb Theresa now would be interpreted by Hilary as callous brutality. He stood up.

‘I’m sorry,’ Hilary said. ‘ I told you she wouldn’t be much help. It’s all been too much for her to cope with.’

‘What will you do with her now?’

‘Wait till she wakes then take her home with me. I don’t think she should be left alone and I don’t like the idea of staying here.’

She paused. This is it, he thought. She’s giving me the chance to find out where she lives. But he was as nervous as a boy and could not ask for the address. He could always find out later.

‘Perhaps if Theresa feels like it we’ll stop to watch the carnival,’ Hilary continued. ‘ She’s like a child. She’d enjoy it. It may stop her brooding for a while.’

‘You’re very patient with her,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘ It’s my job. Besides, I explained. Theresa’s always been special, my first client. She trusts me. It’s a responsibility.’

And how can I compete with that? he thought. He saw clearly for the first time how frustrating it must have been for Diana, his ex-wife, competing for his attention against the responsibilities of his job.

They stood awkwardly on the doorstep. A mongrel ran along the pavement and cocked a leg by the wheel of his car.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘When this is all over perhaps I could cook you a meal. Show you that not all social workers live on lentils.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘ I’d like that.’ He realised that he was beaming.

When? he wanted to ask. When can I come? Instead he wrote his home telephone number on a scrap of paper and shyly handed it to her.

In the car he talked to Hunter on the radio and learned that Imogen Buchan had been reported missing, but he was thinking of Hilary Masters.

‘The boy hasn’t gone back to the vicarage either,’ Hunter said. ‘Do you think they’ve done a runner?’

Ramsay was indecisive. ‘I don’t know, I’ll leave it to you. They might be at the carnival like everyone else.’ Yet he thought there was a desperation about the murders which might indicate the intensity of youth. ‘Put out a general alert,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to find them.’ Then, again: ‘ I’ll leave all the arrangements to you.’

He had become preoccupied by the difference in the accounts of Dorothea’s return to Armstrong House. Clive had been the only witness to suggest that Dorothea and Emily Bowman had spent a long time together and now he was dead. It might be coincidence but with Clive’s murder it was now crucial to speak to the old lady and sort the matter out. He pulled away from the kerb, aware that Hilary Masters, standing by the window in Theresa’s front room, was watching him.