Ann Cleeves - Killjoy

‘I want someone on the front door,’ Ramsay said. ‘No unauthorized access. We’ll need back up. Immediately. I want to get to the scene of crime as quickly as possible. If my sergeant arrives send him on down to me. Tell him no interviews at this stage. I’ll talk to Mr Wood myself later.’

The last thing he needed after the cock-up of failing to see Mrs Wood the night before was Hunter bullying the witnesses.

‘Which is the quickest way?’ he asked.

‘Through the garden. There’s a gate in the wall with access straight on to the hill. You won’t miss it from there.’

Ramsay thought that the Woods must have paid for help with the garden. Apart from a few beech leaves on the lawn it was immaculate. The vegetable plot had been dug over for the winter, the paths were clear, the trees and shrubs regularly pruned. He could not imagine Dennis Wood getting his hands dirty and even with her ferocious energy Amelia would hardly have had the time. Besides, from what he had learned of her, horticulture would have been too tame an interest. The door through the wall was arched. It could be bolted from the inside but had been left ajar. Ramsay went through it and stood for a moment to take his bearings.

The hill was a piece of windswept common surrounded on three sides by houses and bordered on the fourth side by the dene. There was a view over roofs to Tynemouth and the sea. Ramsay stood now at the corner where the dene and the houses met. There was access to the hill from a number of points but a well-trodden footpath led from Martin’s Dene village opposite him to the corner, where a cinder track had been created through the trees down the steep side of the valley. At the village end of the footpath was the Holly Tree restaurant.

There was already a considerable police presence by the body and he was impressed by the efficiency of at least some members of the Hallowgate force. A Land-Rover had been driven over the hill and a policeman in a navy anorak was marking the area with blue and white tape. As he walked towards it Ramsay caught the jolly Scottish voice of the pathologist unnaturally loud in the still, clear air. It was still cold and the grass and each branch and twig were covered with hoar. At the bottom of the dene a pool of mist lay over the burn. He stepped over the tape and joined the group of people looking down at the body. Among them he recognized Hallowgate’s chief superintendent, a quiet, studious man, nearing retirement. He was considered soft by some of his subordinates, too liberal by far, but Ramsay liked and respected him.

‘Ah, Ramsay,’ the superintendent said. ‘ Thank you for getting here so quickly. Any connection, do you think, with the Paston murder?’

‘Almost certainly,’ Ramsay said. ‘Mrs Wood was at the Grace Darling Centre on Monday evening, when Gabriella Paston’s body was discovered.’

‘You think she witnessed something?’ Ramsay was aware of a sharp intelligence.

‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately she’d left the Centre before the girl was found and we couldn’t get hold of her yesterday to take a statement.’

‘Yes,’ the superintendent said quietly. ‘I see. That was unfortunate.’ He said nothing else. He was not the sort of man to be critical in front of outsiders.

‘Have you discovered any other connection between Mrs Wood and the Paston girl?’

‘None at all at this stage.’

‘But it seems sensible to you to consider both murders as part of the same investigation?’

‘Definitely. Unless we come across any evidence to the contrary.’

‘Well then,’ the man said, briskly indicating, as he intended, his confidence in Ramsay. ‘I’ll leave you in charge. Report back to me later today. We’ll need details at some stage for a press conference.’

‘Of course,’ Ramsay said, wishing that his boss in Otterbridge was half as sensitive. He watched as the superintendent, slightly stooped, more like a scholar than a policeman, walked back towards the Woods’ house.

‘What have you got for me, then?’ he asked the pathologist.

‘Hey, man. Give me a chance. What do you want? Miracles?’

‘Cause of death would do for a start.’

‘She was strangled,’ the pathologist said. ‘Not with a rope or wire. Something thicker. A scarf maybe.’

‘Time of death?’

‘Hard to tell at this stage. Got to allow for the cold. It’s bloody freezing. Yesterday evening probably.’

‘Can’t you be more specific?’

‘Not yet.’ He stood up and grinned. ‘Find out when she last ate and I might be able to help you later today.’

On his way back to the Woods’ house, at the garden gate, Ramsay met Hunter. The sergeant was defensive.

‘I tried to get hold of her,’ he said. ‘I found out she was at court all day, but when I phoned there she’d already left. The usher chased after her and gave her the message to get in touch. I phoned him back to check that he’d got hold of her and he said she was going straight home. She hadn’t contacted the station when I left so I called here on the way to Otterbridge. There was no reply. I can’t see that I could have done any more.’

‘No,’ Ramsay said. There was nothing more that Hunter could have done. ‘What time were you here?’

‘About nine, I suppose. We left together, didn’t we?’

‘You didn’t see anything unusual?’

‘No. There was a light on at the back of the house but I thought it might be a normal security measure to leave a light on when the family was out.’

‘Yes,’ Ramsay said. ‘I see.’

‘What do you want me to do now?’ Hunter asked.

‘Keep people off the hill and out of the dene until we’ve done a search. I suppose you can organize that.’

He walked back to the house thinking he had been unfair to Hunter, too abrupt. In the kitchen he found the jogger, still staring out of the window, still clutching a mug of tea which was obviously cold. When he saw Ramsay he turned with a start.

‘Can I go now?’ he said. ‘ I’ve classes to take this morning. It won’t be easy for them to cover for me.’

‘Just a few questions,’ Ramsay said. ‘What made you come to this house? Did you recognize her?’

‘No. I didn’t even stop to look at her closely. When I touched her hand it was freezing. She was obviously dead. This was the closest place.’

‘You came in through the back gate?’

The man nodded.

‘Was it open?’

‘Yes. Slightly open. I was surprised. You expect people in houses like this to worry about security.’

‘Was there a light on in the kitchen?’

‘No, the house was quite dark.’

When Ramsay had begun talking to the teacher, Wood had made his excuses and left the kitchen. Ramsay found him in a cold living room, slumped in a chair, his eyes shut, his face grey.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Ramsay said. ‘But I do have to ask some questions.’

Wood sat up and hunched forward, his elbows on his knees.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘ of course.’

‘What time did you get home last night?’

‘I’m not sure exactly. About midnight.’ He looked apologetically at Ramsay. ‘I’m afraid I’d had a skinful.’

‘But you must have noticed that Mrs Wood wasn’t here.’

‘Oh, yes. Of course I’d noticed. But it wasn’t unusual. We lived very independent lives. I thought she was out at some council function or charity do.’

‘Yes,’ Ramsay said. ‘I see.’ Evan Powell would never have understood that sort of marriage but it made sense to him. He had never known where Diana was.

‘She had been home,’ he said, ‘after finishing at court?’

‘Was she at court yesterday?’ Wood was faintly curious, unsurprised. ‘Yes, she had been home. I realize that now. Her car’s in the garage.’