Ann Cleeves - Murder in My Backyard

“Does he have any friends?” Ramsay asked.

“Not really,” Elliot said. “He goes to the Castle and buys drinks all round. They say he’s a grand lad then, but they’re laughing behind his back. They think he’s made a fool of himself over Maggie Kerr. Then Henshaw’s never been popular and they like it when Charlie’s rude about him. They haven’t the guts to say the things he says, but they cheer him on. They set him up.”

“Does he drink too much?”

“Aye,” Elliot said. “Probably.” He hesitated again, then went on in a rush. “ I talked to Mrs. Parry about him. I thought she might understand. She was a magistrate.”

“What did she say?” Ramsay asked.

“To give him time,” Elliot said. “And encouragement. She said he was bright. ‘He’s wasted at the garage,’ she said. ‘He should have a business of his own.’ I even thought of selling the post office to set him up. But then where would I live? It would have been different if Henshaw had decided to build the cheap houses. Mrs. Parry offered to talk to him, but when I told him he just laughed at me.”

From the other room there was a sudden, loud burst of music, then silence.

“Dad!” Charlie Elliot called. They heard his footsteps approaching the door. “What about some tea then?”

He pushed open the door and stood, just inside the kitchen, staring at Ramsay. His rudeness was deliberate and contrived, but it was the result, Ramsay thought, of insecurity. Throughout the interview the bravado hid considerable stress.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m a detective,” Ramsay said formally. “ I’m enquiring into the death of Alice Parry.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Charlie Elliot said. “ Someone’s been here already.” It was hard to tell that he had once been a soldier. He was overweight, unshaven. Ramsay was not surprised that Maggie found him unattractive.

“I know.”

“What are you doing here then?”

“Just a few more questions,” Ramsay said easily. “Routine.”

Fred Elliot had turned to the sink and was filling a kettle as his son had ordered. He clearly found the exchange embarrassing. Charlie sat on one of the chairs. “You’ll have to be quick,” he said. “I’ll have to be back at work soon. Tom Kerr’s a real slave driver.”

“Mrs. Parry received a threatening letter on the afternoon of her death,” Ramsay said. “ Did that have anything to do with you?”

“No,” Charlie Elliot said. “ I had my say at the meeting. What was in the letter?” He grinned unpleasantly and spread his stockinged feet towards the fire.

“It threatened to kill her.”

“She got what was coming to her then, didn’t she?”

“Charles!” Fred Elliot turned on his son. He was white-faced with anger. “I’ll not have that talk in my house. It’s indecent.”

The outburst shocked Charlie. He was unused to contradiction. He seemed confused and offended, like a spoilt child reprimanded in front of strangers.

“Where were you on Saturday evening?” Ramsay asked.

“I’ve already told that Hunter.”

“Tell me.”

“I was in the pub,” Charlie said. “ I always go to the pub on Saturday night. There was a darts match.”

“What time did you leave?”

“I don’t know. About quarter to eleven.”

“Wasn’t that unusual?” Ramsay asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you usually wait until Maggie had finished work?”

Charlie looked at Ramsay with deep hostility. “That’s none of your business.”

“I’m sorry,” Ramsay said. “ I’m afraid it is. Usually you waited until Maggie finished work and followed her home. What made that night different?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie muttered. “Perhaps I realised she wasn’t worth it. I’d had a lot to drink.”

Ramsay said nothing, waiting for Charlie to expand his explanation.

“Look!” Charlie cried. “Perhaps I’d come to my senses, realised I couldn’t carry on like that. I’d decided to leave the village. I’m going to look for work in the south.”

Ramsay nodded his understanding but gave no indication of whether he believed Charlie. He continued impassively: “ What time did you get home?”

“About eleven o’clock, I suppose.”

Ramsay turned to Elliot, who was stirring tea in the pot. “Is that right?”

Elliot hesitated, then nodded. “Aye,” he said. “ I always wait up for him. I know it’s daft.”

Ramsay returned his attention to Charlie. “ Did you see Mrs. Parry on your way home?”

“No.” Charlie had recovered some of his composure and was showing off. “I didn’t see her, but then I’d had eight pints of Scotch. I might not have noticed.”

Ramsay stared out of the misted window. “ So you can’t remember what you did,” he said. “You were drunk.”

“I can remember fine.”

“Did you stop on the way?”

“No,” Charlie said. “Why should I stop? It was cold.”

“Did you meet anyone in the street?” He spoke in a flat, courteous civil-servant’s voice.

“No.” Charlie was sneering. “Most of Brinkbonnie’s in bed by ten o’clock. It was dead quiet.”

Then his triumph at remembering despite the alcoholic haze overcame his resentment of the policeman. For the first time he contributed freely to the conversation. “ There was a girl! In the churchyard. I saw her when I came out of the Castle.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t recognise her. She was all right. Young, you know.”

Ramsay gave no sign that the information was of any importance to him. He turned back to the window. “Did you speak to her?” he asked.

“I might have shouted to her,” Charlie said. “ Something about it being a cold night.”

“Did she answer?”

“No, snooty cow. She walked through the gravestones towards the Tower. She looked like a bloody ghost.”

“Did she go through the gate into the Tower garden?”

“I didn’t see. I wanted to get home. I needed to piss.”

“What did the woman look like?”

Charlie shrugged. “It was hard to tell in that light,” he said. “Small, dark. I think she had long hair.”

“And what was she wearing?”

“How should I know? She was on the other side of the wall. I couldn’t see much more than her head.”

“You are sure,” Ramsay said slowly, “that there was a woman? This isn’t a game to annoy the police.”

“Oh,” said Charlie. “Think what you like.” He swore under his breath.

Ramsay ignored him. “ Did you notice a car near the green?” he asked. “ One not usually parked there?”

“No,” Charlie said. “ I didn’t notice anything.” But he spoke too quickly to have considered the matter and it seemed that the childish resentment had returned. “ Look!” he said. “How much longer are you going to keep me here? I’ll lose my job.”

“You’re free to go at any time,” Ramsay said. “We know where to find you.”

He rubbed a clear patch in the condensation on the window and looked out into the yard. Charlie Elliot went to a cupboard in the corner and pulled out a jacket. They watched while he laced shoes and fastened buttons and then Ramsay saw him go out into the yard. Fred Elliot was standing helplessly in the middle of the room with a teapot in his hand. “ I’ve made this now,” he said. “Do you want some?”

“No,” Ramsay said. “ I expect you want to open the post office.”

“Yes,” Elliot said. He seemed miserable and lost. “I suppose I should.” He seemed afraid to be left on his own. “ There’s no hurry.”

“Is it just a post office or is it a shop, too?”

“Yes,” Elliot said. “ It’s a newsagent. We sell magazines, stationery, confectionery. The post office counter is at the back. It’s a canny little business. Especially in the summer.”