Ann Cleeves - A Day in the Death of Dorothea Cassidy

The parish church was close to the river, next to the abbey ruins, at the end of a narrow street full of stylish boutiques, second-hand bookshops and small restaurants. Outside the parish hall, on the other side of the street, well-dressed elderly women were carrying trays of cakes and scones from the boots of large cars. They spoke in loud voices about the laziness of the caretaker who had failed once more to set out the tables they had requested, and Ramsay thought with relief that they had not yet heard of Dorothea’s death. The vicarage was behind the church, almost invisible from the street. Ramsay had never really noticed it before. It was large and gloomy, with a wilderness of a garden. The stone was grimy and even in full sunlight it looked cold. Ramsay stood on the front step and rang the bell. The paint on the front door was beginning to peel in long strips so the bare wood showed through.

The door was opened almost immediately by an athletic young man who seemed to be on his way out. He was dressed in jeans with patched knees, a dark T-shirt and trainers. He seemed surprised to see Ramsay on the doorstep, as if he had been expecting someone else and he stood for a moment staring, the door wide open behind him.

‘Can I help you?’ he said.

‘I’m looking for Edward Cassidy,’ Ramsay said.

The young man continued to stare and for a moment Ramsay wondered if this was the vicar. They wore jeans, didn’t they, those trendy young priests the papers made so much fuss about? But he realised immediately that this was impossible. The boy was eighteen or nineteen, too young certainly to be a clergyman. And too young to be married to Dorothea Cassidy.

‘Yes,’ the boy said. ‘Of course, I’ll get him. Who shall I say it is?’

‘Ramsay,’ the inspector said quietly. ‘ Stephen Ramsay. But he won’t know me.’

He expected the boy to ask for more information but perhaps he was used to strangers turning up on the doorstep.

‘Yes,’ the young man said. ‘Right.’ He left Ramsay outside and disappeared down a long, dark corridor yelling, ‘Dad, there’s someone here to see you!’

The vicar must have asked if it was Dorothea because Ramsay heard the boy reply. ‘No, sorry. It’s a man,’ in a tone that surprised the detective. There was no sympathy there.

Soon after, the boy returned. He was fair, sandy-haired, with the pale, almost transparent, skin that freckles like a child’s, and strangely unblinking eyes.

‘He’ll be here in a minute,’ he said. ‘I’m in rather a hurry, I’m afraid, so I’ll have to leave you to it.’

Yet he lingered beside Ramsay on the doorstep. He was very thin and seemed to have an enormous, barely controlled energy.

‘Oh,’ Ramsay said in a polite, interested way. ‘ Where are you off to?’

‘The university,’ the boy said, almost rudely, as if it were none of Ramsay’s business.

Ramsay was surprised that he did not mention Dorothea. His stepmother had been missing all night. Hadn’t he guessed that Ramsay was a policeman?

‘I’m sorry,’ the inspector said apologetically. ‘ I must ask you to stay at home this morning. I’m a police officer investigating the disappearance of Mrs Dorothea Cassidy. I’ve some news for your father. I don’t think he should be left alone today.’

The boy stared in bewilderment as if he did not understand what the man was saying. Ramsay had expected him to ask questions, demand information, but he said nothing.

‘If there’s any problem with the university,’ Ramsay said, ‘I could always phone and explain.’

‘No,’ the boy said. ‘It’s not that.’ He stood, loose-limbed, the sports bag still in one hand and for a moment Ramsay thought he might volunteer information. He seemed on the brink of saying something important, then changed his mind.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘ I’ll be in the garden if you need me.’ And he walked off to be swallowed up almost immediately by the overgrown shrubs and trees.

Ramsay walked slowly into the house and shut the door behind him so that he was suddenly in shadow. After the stark sunlight of the garden he could make out little in the gloom and when Edward Cassidy approached he was at first aware of him only because of the sound of firm steps on wooden floorboards. Then his eyes grew accustomed to the shade and he saw a tall man, grey-haired, straight-backed, handsome. He must have been at least twenty years older than Dorothea but he was still attractive. He looked after his appearance, Ramsay thought with irrational disapproval as if it were wrong for a vicar to care what he looked like. He wore casual trousers and an open-necked shirt and possessed the same air of easy affability as a politician or a chat-show host.

‘Yes?’ Cassidy said. ‘How can I help you?’ His voice was rich and without accent. He added, more uncertainly, ‘Is it about Dorothea?’

‘My name’s Ramsay. I’m from Northumbria Police.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Then before Ramsay could continue. ‘What am I thinking of leaving you standing here in the hall? Come in and sit down.’

He threw open a door and suddenly they were in a room full of light and colour. Sunshine flooded in through a long window. There was a shabby but richly embroidered chaise-longue, a worn leather chesterfield with a red-striped rug thrown over the back, vases of dried flowers, paintings, photographs. Against one wall was a desk covered in books.

‘Sit down,’ Cassidy said, and Ramsay was surprised that he seemed so calm, so determined to do the right thing.

‘Do you know where my wife is?’ the vicar asked. ‘You must have some news.’

‘Yes,’ Ramsay said. ‘I’m sorry.’ He paused. ‘She’s dead. Her body was found early this morning in Prior’s Park.’

He looked at the clergyman, waiting for his response. Surely now he would lose his pose of considerate composure. Cassidy stared, his mouth open, looking almost ridiculous in his confusion.

‘Dead? How can Dorothea be dead? There must be some mistake. She was young, you know. Much younger than me.’ He shook his head in a gesture of disbelief. ‘I can show you a photo,’ he said, moving impulsively across the room. ‘That will prove that you’re wrong.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ramsay said interrupting. ‘There’s no mistake.’

Still the priest seemed not to be convinced. He opened a drawer and frantically pulled out a leather-bound photograph album.

‘One of our officers is a member of your congregation,’ Ramsay said. ‘He identified the body.’

Cassidy stood quite still, clutching the photographs.

‘How did she die?’ he said. ‘She never told me she was ill.’ The tone was almost petulant.

‘There are suspicious circumstances. I’m afraid there will have to be questions.’

‘What sort of suspicious circumstances?’

‘We’re afraid,’ Ramsay said, ‘that she was murdered.’

‘No. That’s impossible. Who would murder Dorothea?’

Yet still Ramsay thought that he was self-conscious, continually aware of the impression he was making. Perhaps performance was a habit and spontaneous response was impossible for him.

Then Cassidy sat down on a wooden chair with a curved back close to the desk and put his head in his hands, and for the first time Ramsay thought he had stopped acting. But the gesture seemed not so much an indication of grief as an attempt to come to terms with the fact of his wife’s death.

Ramsay sat still and quietly waited for him to recover. At last the man looked up.

‘Can I see her?’ he asked.

‘Of course, but later. You understand that there are procedures, formalities.’

‘Yes,’ Cassidy said. ‘I understand.’ He was very pale.

‘Do you feel ready to answer questions now? Can I fetch you anything?’