Ann Cleeves - A Lesson in Dying

That morning she got up a little early. She was calmer and more efficient than she might otherwise have been on a Monday. She even had time to wash the breakfast dishes and make the beds before walking the children to school. They too were quiet and subdued.

The playground was crowded with parents. Even the careless mothers, the slatterns, who usually stood on the doorstep unwashed and undressed, to wave their children out alone, were there this morning. They would have heard of the murder. Patty was aware of stares and whispers. They would have heard too that she had found the body. Patty stood alone and waited until Andrew and Jennifer were safely in the school.

When she got home Ramsay was sitting in his car outside her house. He saw her approaching and got out to stand on the pavement. He might have been a lover impatient to take her into his arms. It would have been warmer, she thought, to wait in the car. The fog had lasted all night, but now, as she walked down the road towards him the sun broke through the mist. It was a hazy globe above his head.

‘I need to talk to you,’ he said.

‘One of your men came last night and took a statement.’

She could not make polite conversation with him; She wanted to be honest but she was not sure what he wanted. It would be easier if he went, then she could resume the ritual of the day.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s not that. I need your help.’

‘Do you want to come in?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you out. Where shall we go?’

She thought of the previous day, of the children’s appeal: can’t we take the car and go to Whitley Bay? ‘Let’s go to Whitley,’ she said. It represented safety, the time before the walk up the gloomy lane, the possibility of fun.

‘Why not?’ he said.

It was a big car and he seemed to drive off very fast. There was something reckless and exhilarating about driving to the coast beside an attractive man and she thought again that the old rules of her life no longer applied. He pushed in a cassette which played loud music – opera, she thought. It was hot in the car and she found it hard to breathe. He smelled of pipe tobacco and leather.

A scattering of old ladies were walking dogs on the links, but the beach was almost empty. The mist had disappeared and there was a soft breeze from the southwest. It was like an early spring day. He opened the car door for her with a flourish and they walked along the promenade towards Cullercoats. On the other side of the road there were chip shops, amusement arcades. In the sunshine they seemed less sleazy and dismal than usual. They were jolly, with a fifties innocence. The light was clear and reflected on the wet, ridged sand and the retreating tide. Everything was clean and bright. She saw it all very sharply.

He ran across the road to buy her an ice cream and returned with a huge multi-coloured cornet. It seemed to her a frivolous gesture. She felt the morning had a great significance and wished he would take it more seriously.

‘Aren’t you busy?’ she said. She thought he was being irresponsible. Surely he should be working. There was a murderer in Heppleburn and he was enjoying a jaunt to the seaside. She did not recognize his desperation.

‘I thought you would like ice cream,’ he said. ‘But perhaps you would have preferred the candy floss.’

She held the ice cream awkwardly. It dribbled down the cone and onto her fingers. ‘I don’t want to take up your time,’ she said. She wanted him to say that although his time was valuable he would give it to her.

‘It helps me to get away from it for a while,’ he said. ‘I’ve not had much sleep.’

They walked on until they came to a seat looking out over the beach, and sat there. A woman in jeans and sweater was pushing an old lady in a wheelchair along the promenade. They were laughing together over some joke.

‘How can I help you?’ Patty asked. It was what he had been waiting for and he answered immediately.

‘Give me your time,’ he said, ‘and your local knowledge. Listen to what’s going on in the village and tell me what you find out. I was sure Kitty Medburn killed her husband. Of course I was wrong and I have to start from the beginning again. You and your father discovered more by poking around the village than I ever will. I had a long talk to Jack on Saturday night and I was impressed. Jack’s no good to me now. He’s distraught. He’ll blame himself for Kitty’s death. Besides, he’s lost his incentive. He doesn’t care who the murderer is.’

‘I’ve no incentive,’ she said.

‘But you’ll help,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘ You will help.’

‘I’m not easily bribed,’ she said, to give herself time to think. ‘I’ll want more than an ice cream cornet.’ She knew she would do anything he asked her.

‘You’ll have your village back,’ he said. ‘When the murderer’s found, it’ll belong to you again.’

She looked up suddenly, amazed and flattered because he understood so well. ‘What do you want me to do?’

Later she thought he must have enchanted her because she agreed so readily to his plans. Perhaps the shock of finding Paul Wilcox’s body had left her weak and impressionable. Perhaps it was because she had been attracted to him from the first time they met, in her front room, after Medburn’s murder. She knew she was being manipulated but could do nothing about it. He smiled at her, as if she had lived up to all his expectations.

‘What you’ve been doing all along,’ he said. ‘ Listen. You’re a good listener. You persuaded Angela Brayshaw to talk to you about Harold Medburn. Talk to her again. Medbum left her all his money in his will. Did she tell you that?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘She didn’t mention it. Perhaps Harold hadn’t told her that he was making a will in her favour.’

‘Perhaps. Or perhaps she’s cleverer than we realize.’ He turned away from her and she quickly dropped the remainder of the ice cream into a litter bin and wiped her face with a handkerchief.

‘Did your father tell you that Medburn was drugged before he died?’ he asked.

‘It was in the papers,’ she said.

‘He was drugged with Heminevrin, a medicine used in the care of old people. It’s a controlled drug. I need to know who would have access to it.’

‘Angela Brayshaw’s mother runs an old people’s home.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve been there. She’s giving nothing away.’

‘Paul Wilcox used to be a nurse,’ she said, trying to be helpful.

‘Did he? That’s hardly relevant now.’

‘Should you be telling me all this?’ Patty said helplessly. It seemed a terrible responsibility. ‘Isn’t it confidential? It doesn’t seem right to discuss the case with me.’

‘I trust you,’ he said. It sounded better than confessing that he was making up his own rules for the investigation. ‘I need a result soon. The press is already having a field day about Kitty’s suicide. They’re blaming the police for her death of course. They have a point. I made a mistake. I should never have arrested her.’

She wanted to console him, to tell him that she did not blame him, but he wanted more than that. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I can be much use.’

She hesitated. ‘Have you been to see Hannah Wilcox?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘I suppose she’ll be going home to her parents.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘ I don’t think so. She told me she wanted to stay at the old mill. She thought it would be better for the children.’

‘But she must be so lonely!’ Patty cried.

‘Perhaps you should visit her,’ the policeman suggested smoothly.

‘She needs friends now. And she’ll probably find it easier to talk to you than me.’