Ann Cleeves - Murder in My Backyard

“You can’t start building,” one of them said. “Not until the council’s come to a decision about taking an appeal to the high court.”

“I’m not building,” he said.

“What are you doing then?” She was a farmer’s daughter, fearless, unintimidated.

“That’s my business,” he said.

“No,” she said. She was redheaded. “ It’s our business. Village business.”

He pushed past the women and climbed the stile into the field. He stood, calf-deep in mud, separated from the farmer’s daughter by the fence.

“If you don’t like my plans for the village,” he said quietly, “ what are you going to do about it? Murder me to keep your precious village intact? That’s what Charlie Elliot did to Alice Parry after all.”

“You don’t know that,” the woman cried. “ It’s your greed that was responsible for her death!”

“Greed!” he shouted back. “ You’re a fine one to talk about greed. Don’t tell me that you’re worried about scenic beauty. The only thing that bothers you is that a new development would bring your house prices down.”

The redhead saw the school bus coming down the hill and controlled herself.

“I’m not going to descend to your level by having a public slanging match,” she said. “ But you’ll not get away with it. I can promise you that.”

The children spilled out of the bus and the mothers moved away.

Ramsay walked on down the street to the stile.

“Mr. Henshaw!” he called. “ Could I have a word, please?”

The builder turned and scowled, but moved back towards the fence.

“What do you want?” he said. “I’ve had enough disruptions for one day. I’ve got to make a living. Not like those bloody women with their fancy talk.”

“Have you heard that we’ve found Charlie Elliot?” Ramsay asked.

“No,” Henshaw said. “ Does that mean you’re all going to go away and leave us in peace?”

“Not exactly,” Ramsay said. “ He was murdered. He was found by Mr. Grey on the land behind your house.”

Henshaw said nothing.

“It might be considered a suspicious coincidence,” Ramsay said. “The two people in the village who opposed your plans most vehemently are dead. I suppose that’s convenient for you.”

“Look,” Henshaw said. “I’m a powerful man. I can get my own way without resorting to violence.”

“But that wasn’t the case in the past, was it?” Ramsay said. “I’ve been hearing rumours that you used to find violence rather useful.”

“I’ve been convicted of nothing,” Henshaw said. “You shouldn’t listen to gossip.”

“Perhaps not,” Ramsay said. “ I have some good news for you. Your story about Saturday night has been confirmed. We know Mrs. Parry was alive when she left you. She was seen in the pub late that night.”

“There you are then,” Henshaw said. “What did I tell you? This business has nothing to do with me.” It seemed to Ramsay that he was too relieved. “Now perhaps you’ll leave me and my wife alone.”

“Of course,” Ramsay said. “ We don’t intend to intrude.” He paused. “Are you sure you didn’t leave your house after Mrs. Parry went to the pub on Saturday night?”

Henshaw was suddenly furious. “ What do you mean?” he cried. “What’s she been saying?”

“Who?” Ramsay asked mildly. “What’s who been saying?”

“Have you been to my house again,” Henshaw demanded, “talking to my wife without my permission?”

“No,” Ramsay said. “ I’ve not been to your home. Do you think Mrs. Henshaw has some information that might be useful?”

“No,” Henshaw said. “ This is all a waste of time.” He turned on Ramsay. “You should have stopped those women from bothering me. This is my land. That’s what we pay you for.”

“Oh,” Ramsay said, “I should have thought you could handle them.” He was about to return to the subject of Henshaw’s movements on Saturday night, but the builder interrupted him.

“And it’s not only them.” He nodded towards the gaggle of women disappearing up the street. “That reporter from the Express phoned me up this morning. Could she come to see me? she asked. She’s doing an article on local businessmen. Like hell you are, I told her. Sod off and bother some other bugger. I’ll get the police on you for harassment.”

Ramsay knew Henshaw was trying to distract him, to stop him from following up the questions about Saturday night, but he was interested all the same.

“Which reporter?” he asked, though he knew the answer already.

“Raven,” Henshaw said. “They call her Mary Raven.”

Of course, Ramsay thought. It always comes back to her.

She was the vital link between all of the major suspects in the case.

“If she gets in touch with you again,” Ramsay said, “ will you let me know?”

Henshaw nodded. He had recovered his composure and Ramsay allowed him to turn and walk away to the surveyors, then went back to the Castle to collect his car.

When it was dark, Hunter and Ramsay met in the police house. Outside was a glass-faced notice board with the faded photograph of a child who had been missing for five years and would look quite different now, even if she was still alive, and a poster about car theft. Every rural police house seemed to have the same notice board and to be built to the same design.

Ramsay had been to Otterbridge to face the anxieties of his superintendent.

“So you were right about Charlie Elliot,” the man had said. “Well, well. You know I always trust your judgement.”

“Elliot could still have murdered Alice Parry,” Ramsay had said impatiently. His superior seemed incapable of logical thought and chose his theories according to convenience and what would provide maximum publicity.

“Do you think so?” The superintendent had seemed surprised. “Well, as I said, I’m prepared to trust your judgement on that. Just keep me posted, Steve. The door’s always open, you know.”

“We’ll need a press release,” Ramsay had said. “ I’ve just been given a provisional time of death for Charlie Elliot as between five and six-thirty this morning. We’ll need anyone who was out in Brinkbonnie to come forward.”

“Of course, Steve.” The man had relaxed. “You can leave that to me.”

Hunter had just come back from the hill. He was flushed from the afternoon in the open air and full of good humour. Even the discovery that Ramsay had proof that Mary Raven had been in Brinkbonnie on the night of Mrs. Parry’s murder could not suppress him.

“Why was she lying then?” he asked. “She can’t have anything to do with the murder. I told you. She was at the party in Newcastle before midnight”

“I don’t know,” Ramsay said. He felt that he still knew very little. “ Perhaps she knows who killed Mrs. Parry and she’s trying to protect him. Perhaps she has reasons of her own. Did you find out anything else from the student in Newcastle?”

“Yes.” Hunter was grinning. “Mary has a boyfriend.” Ramsay looked at him sharply. “Who?”

“She won’t tell them. It’s all a big secret.”

“But they’re her friends. They must know something about him.”

“I don’t think so.” Hunter was eating a Mars bar. He screwed the wrapper into a ball and threw it towards a waste-basket in the corner of the room. “It seems that Mary’s a bit of a loner. She goes to their parties and gets drunk with them, but she doesn’t talk to them much.”

“Is the boyfriend married?” Ramsay asked.

“The girl thought so.”

“Perhaps she was waiting for him in the churchyard,” Ramsay said. “But why Brinkbonnie? Because he lives here?”