Ann Cleeves - Murder in My Backyard

“She’s a magistrate and a well-known lady. Her nephew’s James Laidlaw, editor of the Otterbridge Express .”

“Yes,” Ramsay said. “I know James Laidlaw. Does that matter?”

“Steve! Does it matter? Remember Heppleburn. We need the press on our side.”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

This is all I need, he thought. The press will be here, watching every move we make.

“Has the murder weapon been found?” he asked.

“No, and we’ve no information yet on what we’re looking for.”

Then the superintendent went away, telling Ramsay to be careful, that he would deal with all press enquiries, and Ramsay was left alone with the smell of ivy and wet leaves.

By then it was eleven o’clock and the congregation for parish communion were coming out of the church. The vicar, his cassock billowing about him in the breeze, stood at the door to greet his parishioners. There had been a christening and the mother stood proudly, holding the baby in its long robe while admiring friends took photographs. Then there was the giving of the amice-the coal, bread, salt, and money wrapped up in a napkin that in Northumberland churches is given to the first child the baby meets-and more photographs. Ramsay wished they would all go, but some of the congregation must have heard about the murder because they came up to the wrought-iron gate and stared at the policeman searching the garden.

He found his sergeant, Gordon Hunter, in the kitchen talking to Olive Kerr.

“Sorry to call you out,” Hunter said cheerfully. “How are you settling in?”

Ramsay said nothing. He disapproved of Hunter’s easy familiarity. Perhaps it had been a mistake after all to invite him into his home. A murder enquiry needed tact and gravity. Yet he noticed that even the straight-backed, straitlaced woman was responding to the sergeant’s attention. Hunter would be making her feel special, playing the part of the attractive, rather wayward son who needed looking after. Soon she would be making him tea and telling him to wrap up warm before he went out because the wind was cold. Hunter whispered something to Olive, which made her smile, then stood up.

“We need screens,” Ramsay said. “ There are already people in the churchyard staring. They can’t see the body from there, but it’ll not be long before we have the press in the garden.”

“The press is here already,” Hunter said. “ In the house. One of Mrs. Parry’s nephews is the editor of the Otterbridge Express .”

“I know,” Ramsay said. He was already feeling depressed. “Tell me who else is here.”

“Laidlaw’s wife, Stella, and their daughter, Carolyn, and his brother and his family. They’re all in here.”

Hunter led him through the hall to the warm square room where the family had waited the night before for Alice’s return. As soon as he saw them all, Ramsay knew that these were Diana’s sort of people and the thought triggered a profound unease and an excitement. They could easily have been friends of Diana’s, invited to her dinner parties, sharing evenings at the theatre, meals in dimly lit foreign restaurants. He recognised the style. Although the women wore jeans and hand-knitted sweaters, their wardrobes were probably full of clothes that Diana might have chosen to wear. It had always surprised him that Diana would admit quite happily to having found a bargain in a charity shop or at a jumble sale-“ a real silk shirt and only five pounds”-but refuse to go near the cut-price chain stores in the high street where his mother always shopped. It always seemed to him a strange sort of snobbishness, though Diana always said he had no taste and could not possibly understand. Throughout the interview with the Laidlaws he felt that, with Diana’s arrogance, they were saying the same thing. You’re different from us, they implied. You’re from a different background. How can you possibly understand?

Yet he felt from the beginning that because they were Diana’s sort of people, he did understand them. It was his secret weapon, that understanding. They would always underestimate him.

He stood just inside the door and looked around the room. James Laidlaw sat on a worn leather Chesterfield reading an old copy of the Times . He recognised Ramsay and stood up.

“Inspector,” he said smoothly, “ I’m glad it’s you. It’s always easier to work with a person one knows.”

Ramsay nodded but said nothing. There seemed to have been no collective support or sympathy, no communication between them even. Max Laidlaw was sprawled on the floor. He was tall like his brother but younger, good-looking in a dark Celtic way. He seemed too inexperienced, Ramsay thought, to be a doctor. It was hard to imagine him taking responsibility. He was too careless of other people, too self-absorbed. He took no notice of Ramsay.

It was the women who held Ramsay’s attention. Their sophistication stirred memories that disturbed him. A fair, fine-boned woman sat on a small chair close to the fire smoking a cigarette. Her wrists were so thin and long that it seemed as if they would snap as she moved the cigarette to her mouth. She wore a white mohair sweater with a huge collar, and in contrast her eyes were very dark. She was so pale that he wondered if she were ill or had taken some medication. He had seen addicts with the same drawn pallor. But perhaps she was only scared, he thought, moved by her beauty. James Laidlaw saw Ramsay looking at the woman and introduced him.

“This is Stella,” he said. “My wife.” With the few words he gave the impression of great pride.

She turned towards Ramsay. Her neck was very long and the hair was tied back so tightly that her head seemed small. She smiled sadly. “ Good morning,” she said, and returned her gaze to the fire.

The other woman was quite different in colouring and stature. She had a round face like a child’s and copper-coloured hair. He thought she would easily be raised to anger. When James introduced her as Judy Laidlaw, she did not speak but glared at him. Ramsay thought she was probably the sort of woman who disliked policemen as a matter of principle.

At a coffee table away from the fire two children were making a jigsaw. They worked in silence, in a dreamlike absorption.

“I’m sorry,” Ramsay said. “You’ll be upset. But you realise I’ll have to ask some questions.”

“Of course,” James Laidlaw murmured. “Anything we can do to help.”

Judy stood up and walked quickly to the playing children. “Carolyn,” she said quietly. “Would you mind taking Peter into your bedroom to finish the puzzle? We want to talk.”

Ramsay thought for a moment that the girl would object or cause a scene. She turned towards her parents, who seemed not to notice that she was pleading to stay. Then, with an adult resignation, she picked up the jigsaw and left the room. Peter obediently followed her.

Judy stared at Ramsay with a mixture of hostility and curiosity. “That is all right?” she said. “Peter found the body. He still seems terribly confused and I don’t want to make things worse.”

“Of course,” Ramsay said. “ I’ll need to talk to him later, but it can wait.”

He stood by the fireplace and looked at them, waiting for some response, for their questions. Judy was struck by his stillness. He must be very confident, she thought, to stand there quite immobile, watching us, waiting for someone to break the silence. For the first time she considered the police not as despicable but as frightening. Suddenly the silence was too much for her.

“Max said Alice had been murdered,” she said. “ Is that true? I can’t believe it.”

“Yes,” Ramsay said. “ Mrs. Parry was murdered. She was stabbed. It probably happened quite close to where Dr. Laidlaw found her. The murderer must have covered her body with the leaves. He, or she, might have thought it would take longer for Mrs. Parry to be found. If Peter hadn’t gone to play on the swing, it would have taken several hours, I should guess.”