Ann Cleeves - A Lesson in Dying

‘Which nurse was that?’ Mrs Mount seemed to regret the question as soon as it was asked.

‘Mrs Medburn,’ Patty said. ‘ I understand that she used to work here. Before she died.’

‘Did she tell you that?’

‘Oh yes,’ Patty said. ‘She told me all about Burnside.’

The words were simple but they triggered a dramatic response in Mrs Mount. Her smile disappeared. She stared at Patty, her lipstick-red mouth slightly open, her long, sharp canine teeth protruding to the lower lip. Patty was suddenly frightened and thought it had been a mistake to have come.

‘Did Mrs Medburn explain our routine to you?’ The smile returned and Patty thought how foolish she had been to be scared. She was determined to achieve something from the visit to Burnside, something to take back to Ramsay.

‘She told me that some of the old people took a drug at night to help them sleep,’ she said. ‘It was called Heminevrin.’

There was a vicious silence. There was no attempt now to pretend that this was an interview for a job.

‘What are you doing here?’ Mrs Mount hissed. She leaned across the desk towards Patty. ‘Why are you snooping? Who are you?’

‘I want to know,’ Patty said, ‘ about the Heminevrin.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you notice, for example, that any was missing? Did you finish the bottle sooner than you would have expected? Who collected the prescription for you?’

‘Get out,’ Mrs Mount said. Her face was drained of all colour so her scarlet lips seemed unnaturally bright and glossy. Patty was reminded suddenly of a vampire in a horror film and she wanted to giggle. The situation had turned into a farce.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I should have explained before why I’m here.’

But Mrs Mount was beyond explanation. ‘I won’t talk to you,’ she said. ‘I don’t care who you’ve been speaking to. What goes on here is none of your business. Now get out.’

She calmed herself quite suddenly and stood upright behind her desk. It was as if nothing unusual had happened. She was in charge again and the smile had returned.

‘I shouldn’t make any accusations you can’t substantiate,’ she said. ‘There’s been quite enough unpleasantness in Heppleburn already, don’t you think, with two murders and a suicide?’ She shouted to a woman waiting in the shadowy hall: ‘ Margaret dear, show Mrs Atkins out. I don’t think she comes up to the standards we require of our staff.’

In the car Patty sat for a few moments before driving away. She was shaking with relieved tension but satisfied with her achievement. Mrs Mount was terrified. She must know something about Angela and was obviously trying to protect her. Perhaps a quantity of the drug had disappeared after her daughter had been to visit. Perhaps Angela had confessed to the murder of Medburn. How pleased Ramsay would be with the information! Patty was convinced that Angela was the murderer. She had only to prove it.

As she drove back into the village she saw that the mist in the valley had thickened and when she arrived, breathless, in the playground to collect the children, it was almost dark.

The fog rose in the valley like a tide. At the foot of the school wall it was as if it had reached high water, because above the school and the church the sky was clear and the stars were shining. In the valley it was grey, mixed with coal dust and smoke, and it smelled of sulphur. The cars moved slowly through the village and the orange street lamps gave off no light. Ramsay parked outside the Northumberland Arms and stood for a moment in the doorway of the pub, his back to the warmth and brightness. He had very little time. There had been calls from the press that he should be replaced on the case. He was only at work now because his superior was indecisive and weak, but Ramsay knew that soon he would be forced into action. He must have a successful result by then. He had never been a sociable policeman. The practical jokes with which his colleagues had relieved the stress of their work had never amused him. He had never been particularly liked. Now he knew they were watching his discomfort with the same childish glee as they had used to plan their infantile pranks.

Ramsay decided to walk to Matthew Carpenter’s flat. As he walked away from the Northumberland Arms he was surprised to see Jack Robson coming in the opposite direction, carrying a small suitcase. He supposed Patty had persuaded him to stay with her. He would have stopped to talk to him, but Jack turned quickly into the public house. Ramsay walked on. The more he thought about Medburn’s murder, the more he was convinced that Carpenter was the culprit. He had motive – he had been victimized by Medburn and threatened with dismissal. He had opportunity – he had a key to the school and could have bought the bandages for the noose from some busy chemist in the town days before.

It was true that the pharmacist who owned the flat swore that no Heminevrin was missing from his shop and was indignant at the suggestion that Matthew might have stolen it. His drug cabinet was always locked, he said, and Matthew had no key to that. Yet it seemed too much of a coincidence to Ramsay. Carpenter’s demeanour on the night of the murder pointed to some crisis. He had been drunk, unbalanced, obviously upset by something, and he had left the party early. Perhaps murder was an overreaction to Medburn’s unfairness, but he was young, alone, an outsider from the south. All that Ramsay needed was a confession.

The shop was in a terrace which faced the Morpeth road. Matthew’s flat was approached from the back by a flagged footpath which led to another similar row of houses. After leaving the Northumberland Arms Ramsay saw no one. The fog and two murders had kept people at home.

When Matthew opened the door he seemed flustered and nervous as if he had been startled from sleep. There was a narrow staircase which led over the shop to the flat. Ramsay went up first and walked into the living room. Matthew followed him and stood awkwardly in the middle. It was a very small flat. Through an open door Ramsay could see the kitchen and a mound of plates on the draining board. The room was furnished with shabby, elderly pieces donated perhaps by aunts or grandparents who wanted to contribute to his first home. It was warm, heated by an old-fashioned gas fire, which hissed and provided a comforting background for their words. A tabby kitten sat on the chair nearest to the fire. Matthew lifted it off carefully and held it. Like a child with a teddy bear, Ramsay thought derisively. Matthew moved away to offer the policeman the seat.

‘Would you like some tea?’ he asked, eager to please. ‘I was just going to make some.’ His head was bent over the kitten and he did not look at Ramsay.

‘No,’ Ramsay said briskly. ‘I’m too busy to drink tea.’ He had been drinking tea that afternoon, talking to his team in Otterbridge police station, but he wanted to intimidate Carpenter and show that he meant business. He was hoping that the teacher would lose his nerve. It had become clear to him that Carpenter dreaded the questions, hated the interviews. Ramsay thought that with sufficient gentle pressure he would be persuaded to confess.

‘Just a few more questions,’ Ramsay said easily. Matthew sat on the floor on the other side of the fire, his legs stretched before him, the kitten on his knee. Ramsay was disconcerted by the informality of the seating arrangement. He could only see the man’s forehead and his mop of curly hair. By choosing to sit on the floor Matthew seemed casual and relaxed. It indicated a greater confidence than Ramsay thought Carpenter possessed.

‘Do you own a car?’ he asked, though he knew the answer already.