Ann Cleeves - The Baby-Snatcher

‘He called himself Paul.’

‘You don’t think that was his real name?’

She shrugged. ‘Could have been. But he’s married, and he wasn’t giving much away.’

‘And where did “Paul” live?’ Hunter recognized no contradiction in his previous fantasies about Kim Houghton and the disapproval of her behaviour which expressed itself in sarcasm.

She seemed not to notice. ‘Newcastle.’

‘You can’t be more specific?’

She shook her head.

‘What about a phone number?’

It wasn’t that sort of thing. Just a bit of fun. At least it was supposed to be.

‘What do you mean?’

She had been smoking a cigarette and stabbed it out fiercely in a glass ashtray.

‘Went all weepy on me, didn’t he? About how his wife didn’t understand him. About how screwed up she is. Just what I needed. Not.’

‘How did you get here on Friday night? Taxi or his car?’

‘His car.’

‘Which was?’

‘A red Mazda. Very fancy. Very fast.’

‘Number plate?’

‘New. N reg. That’s all I noticed.’

‘And it was parked in the street all night?’

‘That’s right.’

Hunter sat back in his chair and looked at her. ‘Didn’t it bother you? Folks knowing you had a bloke to stay. Going out in the morning to see him off?’

He imagined her standing there in her dressing gown. With nothing on underneath.

‘Stuff them,’ she said. She picked up the packet of cigarettes from the table, knocked one out, lit it. Her hands shook slightly but her voice was steady. ‘ Stuff them. They could do with some excitement in their tired lives.’

‘What time was that?’

‘I don’t know. Too early.’

‘You didn’t see Mrs Howe’s daughter? She walked down to wait for the bus into town.’

‘I didn’t notice.’

‘What about later?’

‘I didn’t see anyone. I put on a video for Kirsty and went back to bed.’ She caught his eye and held it. ‘I was knackered, wasn’t I?’

‘Did Claire Irvine babysit for you on Friday night?’

‘Yes.’

‘So she will have met your friend Paul. When you got back.’

‘No. He waited in the car until she’d gone home.’

‘Tactful.’ Again the sarcasm was intended.

‘Yeah!’ she blazed back at him. ‘Tactful. If you must know he was really nice. We had breakfast together, him, me and Kirsty. He made a real fuss of her. He didn’t have to do that.’

‘Did you talk to Claire before you went out?’

‘A bit. While I was getting my things together, waiting for the taxi.’

‘How did she seem?’

‘Same as she always seems. About a hundred and fifty. And it’s not surprising, is it? Wiping kids’ bums all day and staring at the walls in that house all night. I’ve offered to take her out clubbing with me but she’ll not go.’

‘Did she mention Mrs Howe at all?’

Kim shook her head. ‘All she could talk about was the kiddies’ party and how good it would be.’

‘Did your daughter go to that?’ Hunter was surprised.

‘Oh yes! Kirsty and me had a royal invitation. Very honoured too. No one else on the Headland was asked.’

‘What was it like?’ He was intrigued.

‘It was all right. I mean, I only went because I thought Kirsty would like it and she’s friends with Owen at playgroup. But it was OK. Plenty of booze. Decent food. A proper buffet, not just stuff for the kids. And that Bernie Howe was good. I was surprised. You’d never think it to look at him. I mean, he could make it really big. He’s better than blokes I’ve seen on the telly. And though most of the mothers were stuck-up cows, the fellas were friendly enough once they’d had a few drinks. Yeah, it was a good party. Until mad Marilyn came knocking on the door, shouting that her mam was missing.’

On his way down the hill from the Coastguard House Ramsay saw Hunter leave Kim Houghton’s house. The sergeant paused for a moment outside number eight, leaning his notepad on the window sill to scribble a few notes, then he knocked at the door. It was opened immediately by a large elderly woman brandishing a mop like an offensive weapon. She seemed nervous about letting him in, stood, blocking the doorway, feet apart, but Hunter must have talked her around because when Ramsay looked again the door was shut and Cotter’s Row was quiet.

The whole Headland was quiet. There were no dog-walkers or pram-pushers. Even the washing lines along the backyards were empty. The only activity was in an area around the jetty. There a group of overalled officers were stooped, searching, but they were too far off for Ramsay to hear voices. The cloud had lifted and there was pale sunshine, a view down the coast as far as St Mary’s Island.

He was tempted for a moment to walk on down to the jetty to ask what had been found. He would have welcomed evidence that Kath Howe had been killed there , her body tipped immediately into the cut to be carried away and brought back on the next tide. It would have been something to work on. But it seemed a dreadful discourtesy to walk down Cotter’s Row without calling on the Howes and at number two he stopped. He stood on the pavement, preparing what he might say, especially to the girl.

In the house across the road a curtain was lifted then fell back into place. He tapped gently on the door. Sally Wedderburn answered it and let him in.

Sally was a redhead with a pale, freckled skin and brown eyes. Hunter thought Ramsay was grooming her for stardom, and perhaps he was. Perhaps he wanted to prove to Prue that he could take positive action to push a woman up the ladder, that he was doing what he could to support her cause. Recently he had recognized the danger of trying to please Prue and made an effort to be more clear-sighted. Sally was a good officer but she needed to learn patience. Which she would be doing sitting in this tiny house with nothing to do but listen.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked in a whisper. They were standing very close together in the narrow hall.

‘The women are in the living room. Mr Howe’s upstairs. He said he wanted to be on his own.’

‘Distressed?’

‘Not outwardly. He was all set to go to work this morning until I persuaded him it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. More puzzled. As if he can’t get his head around the idea that his wife’s dead.’

‘And the women?’

‘Shocked I suppose. No tears. Not while I’m there at least. They don’t talk. Not to each other or to me.’ She was disappointed. She had hoped to have something for him and felt she had failed.

‘Time enough for that.’ But he was disappointed, too.

‘Do you want to come through?’

‘I’ll see Mr Howe first. Don’t announce me. I’ll go on up.’

He found Bernard Howe in a room at the front of the house. Although it was clearly the biggest bedroom most of the space was taken by a high double bed, spread with a blue candlewick quilt. There was a wardrobe but no chest of drawers and clothes were piled untidily on shelves which covered one wall. The shelves also held books and the equipment for Uncle Bernie’s magic act. There were strings of brightly coloured ribbons, chiffon scarves, wooden boxes. A cup hook had been fixed to the highest shelf and hanging from it, by its neck, was a ventriloquist’s dummy. The latex head was egg shaped, bald at the top with long wispy strands of hair at the back and the sides. It looked remarkably like Mr Howe, a mirror image of the man who sat on the bed, playing with a pack of cards, shuffling and twisting them with supple fat fingers.

‘Practising?’ Ramsay asked.

Bernard Howe looked up, startled. He had not heard the footsteps on the stairs.