Ann Cleeves: A Day in the Death of Dorothea Cassidy

Ramsay too was feeling his way. Apart from his work he had little contact with young people. He distrusted them and envied their freedom and irresponsibility. He was not sure how to talk to them. Patrick Cassidy had flattened a path in the long grass between the house and the patch of open sunlight where he sat. As he walked along it Ramsay could feel the boy looking at him and he was nervous too. The vicarage garden backed on to the river though the water was hidden by the shrubbery beyond the lawn. Cassidy’s wait, the night before, must have been accompanied by the music of the roundabouts at the fun fair along the bank. On the opposite shore the pathologist and the scene-of-crime team would be looking at Dorothea’s body. From an upstairs window it might even be possible to see them.

When Ramsay reached Patrick Cassidy the boy stood up, not it seemed because of an old-fashioned respect for authority but because he found it impossible, any longer, to sit still.

‘Please,’ Ramsay said. ‘ Sit down.’ He took off his jacket and sat on the grass. But then he did not know how to continue.

‘What are you doing here?’ the boy asked. ‘Where is Dorothea?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ramsay said. ‘Your stepmother is dead.’

Patrick Cassidy did not move. It was as if he had been winded by a heavy blow. Ramsay was sure the news came as a surprise to him.

‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘Of course. I should have known.’ ‘ Should have known what?’

‘That she was dead. When she wasn’t here this morning. I should have realised.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ramsay said. ‘I don’t understand.’

The boy shook his head in confusion. ‘I had thought that there might be some other reason for her staying away. Perhaps one of us had upset her without realising. But that was foolish. She and Dad were happy.’

He spoke quickly, without emotion. The sun had made his face red and as he leaned forward in the chair his blue eyes stared out with unnatural intensity.

‘What happened?’ he demanded. ‘Was it the car?’

‘No, it wasn’t the car. We believe that she was murdered.’

‘Who killed her?’ The boy spoke very quietly and again he was quite still, as if holding his breath.

‘We don’t know. Not yet.’

‘Where was her body found?’

‘Here in Otterbridge. In Prior’s Park, close to the river.’ That seemed almost to bring him some relief.

‘Prior’s Park,’ he repeated. ‘What was she doing there?’

‘We don’t know,’ Ramsay said. ‘ I’m here to ask questions. We need to trace her movements.’

‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. When you said she was dead I thought there must have been an accident. She drove that bloody car like a maniac.’ He turned to face Ramsay. ‘It must have been a stranger. No one who knew Dorothea would have wanted to kill her.’

‘She had no enemies then?’ Ramsay asked mildly. ‘I understood from your father that she wasn’t always popular in the church.’

‘Oh!’ Patrick said. ‘Those malicious old biddies were harmless enough. They might stab you in the back figuratively but not literally.’

‘Mrs Cassidy was strangled, not stabbed,’ Ramsay said quietly.

Patrick went pale and for a moment Ramsay thought he would be sick.

‘I’m sorry, it was just a manner of speaking. I didn’t realise.’

‘No,’ Ramsay said. ‘How could you?’

There was a silence. Patrick stood up and looked down at the policeman.

‘She wasn’t frightened of dying, you know. We talked about it once. She was the sort of person you could discuss anything with. How could she be? she said. I think that’s why she drove the car so recklessly. She wasn’t frightened of anything?’

‘When did you last see her?’ Ramsay asked.

The boy paused. ‘ Yesterday morning at breakfast. Dad was there too, hiding behind his newspaper, waiting for us to go so that he could have the place to himself. Dorothea was in a rush, disorganised as usual. She had half a bowl of muesli and a glass of orange juice. And lots of coffee. She was a coffee addict. She offered me a lift to the station. I usually get the train into town – but she was obviously in a hurry and I said I’d walk.’

‘Did she tell you what her plans for the day were?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Not in any detail.’ He remembered the meal, the strain between them, Dorothea’s demands for information and his refusal to give it. And throughout it all his father sitting oblivious reading the Telegraph. Then he remembered that in the end his father had lowered the paper and there had been a conversation of sorts with Dorothea doing most of the talking.

‘Something was worrying her,’ he said, because he wanted to tell the policeman something. ‘A case conference. “I hate the idea of taking a child into care,” she said, “and this time I’m not even convinced that it’s necessary.’” He looked down at Ramsay. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t really listening.’ And that was true, he thought. He had other things on his mind.

‘Thank you,’ Ramsay said. ‘That’s very helpful.’ A case conference meant that Dorothea Cassidy had been involved in something official. A case conference meant social workers and teachers. It should be easy enough to find out where that had taken place. ‘Did you see your stepmother again during the day?’ he asked. ‘Or her car?’

Patrick hesitated and for the first time Ramsay wondered if he might be lying. He seemed for a moment to panic but when he spoke at last he was calm enough.

‘No,’ he said. ‘ I was in Newcastle all day. At the university.’

‘What time did you get home?’

‘At about five thirty. I came on the bus.’

‘Was anyone in the house when you arrived?’

‘No,’ Patrick said very quickly. ‘It was Dad’s evening for the cottage hospital.’

‘And no sign of Dorothea?’

‘If there had been,’ Patrick said firmly, ‘I would have already told you.’

‘Yes,’ Ramsay replied absently. ‘I’m sure you would.’

The boy sat down again on the deck chair, and curled in it to face the policeman.

‘I can’t help you. I’m sorry.’

‘All the same,’ Ramsay said mildly. ‘I have to ask the questions. I’m sure you understand. What time did you leave the house again?’

‘Just after seven.’

‘How did you spend the time before that?’

The boy shrugged as if this were all a waste of time, but Ramsay could sense his discomfort and persisted. ‘Please answer, Mr Cassidy.’

‘I had a shower and changed,’ Patrick said. ‘There was some ham and salad in the fridge. I helped myself to that.’

‘Were there any phone calls?’

‘Two. Both for Dad. They said they’d phone back later.’

‘Did they leave their names?’

‘No.’

‘Where did you go when you left the house at seven o’clock?’

‘Just into the town.’

‘Were you with friends?’

‘No,’ Patrick answered, perhaps too quickly. ‘Most of my school friends have left the town now and the people at the university don’t like leaving Newcastle.’

‘So you were in Otterbridge from seven o’clock until past midnight on your own? What did you do?’

‘I like it here at carnival time,’ Patrick said defensively. ‘I went into a couple of pubs where there was live music. I thought I might bump into someone I knew but it was so crowded… you could be a couple of feet from your grandmother and not realise.’

‘Where exactly did you go?’ Ramsay asked, and Patrick named two pubs in Front Street.

‘Did you come straight home when the pubs closed?’

‘No,’ Patrick looked embarrassed. ‘I went to the fair.’

Again he would have liked to explain the attraction of the oily machines and the childhood smells of hot dogs and candy floss, but he said nothing. Ramsay found the boy’s explanation of his evening plausible and frustrating. It provided no sort of alibi, yet it was impossible to disprove.