Ann Cleeves - A Day in the Death of Dorothea Cassidy

Ramsay walked quickly but at the end of the bridge he stopped to call Hunter again to see if there was any news about the warrant.

‘They’ve been seen!’ Hunter said. He was very excited. ‘In the fair. But it’s a madhouse in there and our blokes lost them in the crowd.’

‘That’s all right,’ Ramsay said. ‘Pull all our people out and cover both ends of Front Street. They’ll have to come that way and it’ll be easier to get them on their way out.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ Hunter asked. Ramsay knew his sergeant would like to be there for the arrest. He would hope for some dramatic chase so he could show off in front of the crowd.

‘Supervise the search,’ Ramsay said. He sensed Hunter’s disappointment but insisted. Hunter would be mercilessly thorough and he still thought they would need Dorothea’s belongings to secure a conviction. ‘Get in touch if you find anything.’

Suddenly he felt very tired. He longed for it all to be over. The whole town, it seemed, was a madhouse. Two women in fancy dress walked towards him in the middle of the road. Each had an arm around the other’s shoulders, and they did a shuffling dance which ended when they collapsed into giggles. Somewhere, someone was singing ‘The Blaydon Races’, tunelessly, very loud.

He walked on, ignoring his own advice, pushing through the crowd on to the fairground. On the dodgems boys in black leather did battle in earnest silence, leaning forward over the driving wheels, bracing themselves for the shock of collision. The cars squealed as the boys braked and turned and blue sparks cracked at the end of the power lines. Some of the smaller stalls and the roundabouts for young children were being dismantled, but the crowd seemed reluctant to leave. Still people queued to ride the Pirate Ship, the waltzers and the Big Wheel, and while they were prepared to pay the fair stayed open. Ramsay stood by the Pirate Ship, scanning the faces and watched as it began to rock, at first slowly like a large version of an old-fashioned swinging boat, then more deeply in sickening plunges until it made a complete revolution. He turned away, no longer interested, certain that there was no one on the ride he recognised.

Ramsay saw the two figures at the top of the Big Wheel from a distance, and thought at first that they were children messing about. He wondered angrily what sort of parents allowed their bairns to be out at a time like this, then thought he had no right to judge. If he and Diana had produced children they would probably have been uncontrollable. He walked on, moving backwards and forwards over the litter-strewn grass to cover as much ground as possible, scanning the crowd at head height, vaguely aware that the Big Wheel was moving. He came back to the Big Wheel from a different angle just as it was stopping again. The operator, a short, square man with huge hands was shouting:

‘Last ride, please, ladies and gentlemen. Last ride.’

And there was a jostle in the queue as they all pushed forward anxious not to miss out. Very slowly the wheel moved round to allow people off two at a time and the new riders on.

Ramsay walked down the length of the queue, looking at the faces, then began to move away, thinking he would join his colleagues in Front Street. He had an irrational fear that without his supervision they would make a mess of the arrest.

When he heard the showman shout: ‘Take care, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t push,’ he glanced back briefly. There was a skirmish at the front of the queue. Two teenage boys had been pushing for first place and the struggle had got out of hand. One of them had a cut lip. Their friends pulled them apart and Ramsay might have walked on when his attention was caught by the same two figures on the Big Wheel he had seen earlier, only as silhouettes. Now he could see them in detail and he recognised them immediately. They would be the last people to get off the ride and still their chair had not reached the peak of the circle. As he watched it rocked violently and he knew that this was no children’s game of dare.

He moved to see more clearly. Theresa Stringer had her hands around Hilary Masters’ throat and was trying to force her backwards, out of the chair. Hilary’s knees were caught under the safety rail but her back was arched beyond the top of the chair and each time Theresa rocked, it seemed inevitable that she would fall.

Nobody else had seen what was going on. The drama was taking place above their heads, beyond their line of vision. They were too eager not to miss the last chance for a ride to look about them.

Ramsay shouted, but with the fairground noise, nobody heard. He rushed towards the operator, pushing his way through the crowd. They thought he was trying to jump the queue and stood together, shoulder to shoulder, menacing, and would not let him through. He waved and pointed and they thought he was drunk. In his panic he had lost all his authority.

The Big Wheel moved round again and Theresa and Hilary, still struggling, swung to the highest point of the circle.

Then, perhaps because someone in charge had decided that they could flout the bye-laws no longer, that the evening would have to end soon, the music was switched off. In the silence that followed Hilary’s scream came as clear and sharp as a whistle, and everyone turned to watch, straining their necks in an effort to look up, as if this was some free entertainment to end the show. Ramsay thought it was like witnessing some dreadful pornography: the women locked in combat, their skirts pulled round their thighs, scratching and tearing at each other’s hair and faces, and the crowd breathless, excited, aroused by the possibility of tragedy. For a moment the showman stood, entranced, as if he were waiting for Hilary to fall at last. Then Ramsay swore at him and he pulled a lever and the wheel moved round jerkily until the women had reached the ground.

‘They must be pissed,’ someone in the crowd said. ‘Lasses shouldn’t drink. They can’t take it.’

That seemed to relieve the tension and the people moved away, realising that there was no chance now for a last ride.

Hilary still sat in the chair, her head in her hands, crying. Theresa jumped out furiously. She was like a cat, spitting and clawing, and would have gone for the social worker again if the showman had not pulled her off. He stood, holding her from behind by the elbows and she was so small and frail that she hardly reached the ground.

Ramsay’s radio buzzed and cracked and Hunter’s triumphant voice cried out:

‘We’ve found them. Just where you said they’d be. We’ve got her now.’

Yes, Ramsay thought sadly. We’ve got her now.

He walked up to the two women. ‘Hilary Masters,’ he said, not looking at her, ‘I’m placing you under arrest. I must ask you to come with me to the police station.’

He put his hand on her shoulder and felt the silk of her blouse and the bone underneath and thought sadly that he had been wanting to touch her all day.

He sat with her in the interview room. There was a woman constable sitting in a corner her knees primly together, her hands on her lap, but they took no notice of her. They were like lovers in a crowded street, so caught up with each other that they can see no one else.

‘She can’t understand,’ Hilary said. ‘I only did it for her.’

‘Theresa?’ he said. ‘ You’re talking about Theresa?’

She nodded. She wanted to explain.

‘It didn’t seem fair,’ she said, ‘to rake it up after all this time.’

‘To rake what up?’ he asked, though he had guessed.

‘The baby,’ she said. ‘Nicola.’

‘It wasn’t a cot death?’

She shook her head. ‘Theresa smothered her.’