Ann Cleeves - The Baby-Snatcher

‘A lunch appointment, she said. She was all tarted up.’

‘Was it usual for her to go out on a Saturday?’

‘No, if she’s going to meet her friends it’s usually during the week. Weekends most people spend with their families, don’t they?’

‘I suppose they do.’ Unless they’re policemen, he thought. ‘When did she ask you? Was it a last-minute arrangement?’

‘Not really. She fixed it up a couple of days ago.’ She wiped her forehead again. ‘So I got there and the kids were already wound up. Their dad had bought them kites and they wanted to go out to fly them.’

‘Did you go out straight away?’

‘No. I gave them dinner first. To be honest, I thought if we waited a bit the weather might change. Not even Mrs Coulthard could expect me to take them out in the rain.’

‘But it didn’t rain.’

‘No.’ Claire turned in her chair so she was facing him again. ‘So I thought I’d better get it over with. I put on their coats and I took them out. I had Helen in the pushchair and the boys carried the kites. David wanted to help though the kite was bigger than him. They played nicely enough for half an hour then I realized Helen needed changing, so I said “That’s it, boys. Time to go in now. You can play again with your dad tomorrow.”

‘But they weren’t having any of that, were they? David threw a tantrum. He’s that sort of age. If I’d had him on his own I’d have picked him up and carried him into the house. I don’t stand any nonsense. But I had Helen in the pushchair screaming and Owen with a face like thunder. He looks just like his mother when he’s in a mood and he’s stubborn as a mule. So I said, “ OK. You can stay for a bit longer, but you’ll have to keep an eye on David.” And I took Helen back to the house. Of course, Mrs Coulthard picked that minute to turn up.’

‘Did you see anyone else out in the Headland?’

She shrugged. ‘A couple of dog walkers. It was sunny. That sort of day.’

‘But no one you recognized?’

‘An old lady with a Jack Russell who lives at the end of the Row. The Laidler kids. They’re allowed to run wild.’ The gang who’d found Mrs Howe’s body, Ramsay thought.

‘Was there anyone who took a special interest in the children?’

‘Not that I noticed. I had my hands full.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course.’

There was a moment of silence.

‘Did you see a man on his own? Thirtyish. Unshaven.’

‘Oh him. Yes. But that was earlier, when I was on my way up to the Coulthards’. He was walking down the cliffs to the jetty.’

‘You didn’t see him when you were out with the children?’

She shook her head. ‘You don’t think I’d have left them if there’d been someone like that hanging around?’

Sally Wedderburn came back into the room.

‘Well?’ Claire asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Do you know where Bernie’s working this afternoon?’ Ramsay asked.

‘A private party in Gosforth. A doctor’s kid. Bernie went there last year too. That’s why he had to work out a different routine. You can’t do the same act twice.’

‘Where exactly in Gosforth?’

‘I don’t know the address. It’s one of those big houses that look out over the Town Moor. I’d have fancied going if Mrs Coulthard hadn’t asked me to work. Like I said, I only agreed to do her a favour.’

‘Would you mind if we looked out the back?’ Ramsay asked. ‘A team’s searching all the yards in the street but it’ll save you being disturbed later if we do it now.’

‘Do what you like,’ Claire said, but she didn’t move.

‘I’ll open the back door for you,’ Marilyn said. She had been in the room all the time, sat up to the table listening.

They trooped through the kitchen after her. Claire stayed where she was. Even with just the three of them the yard seemed crowded. They had to duck to avoid the washing on the line. A row of large vests and elephantine underpants billowed gently.

God, Sally thought, it was enough to put you off marriage for life. Her boyfriend was slim and fit but perhaps Bernie Howe had once been like that.

Ramsay stood in front of the shed. It was red brick, like the house. There was one small window, which was so covered in coal dust and cobwebs that it was impossible to see in. He tried to pull the padlock open but it was locked.

‘Where’s the key?’

‘In the kitchen,’ Marilyn said. ‘But there’s nothing inside. Claire bought the padlock. She’s trying to persuade Dad to keep his bike in there but he never remembers.’

‘All the same,’ Ramsay said. ‘I think we’ll check.’

‘OK.’

He watched her return to the kitchen and take a key from a shelf just inside the back door. Like the padlock it was shiny and solid.

The key turned smoothly but the paving stones in the yard were so uneven that at first he could only pull the door open a fraction.

‘There’s a knack,’ Marilyn said. ‘You have to lift it.’ She stepped forward. ‘I’ll do it if you like.’

‘No,’ Ramsay replied quickly. ‘That’s all right.’

Because even with the door open just a few inches, the late afternoon sun slanting over the back wall into the yard lit up a patch of the concrete floor. The floor wasn’t dusty, which is what he would have expected, but there was a dark stain as if oil had been spilled there. Ramsay hoped that it was oil.

Ramsay hesitated. He heard gull cries, the distant sound of a train. Inside the house Claire must have switched on the television because there was a short blast of music followed by excited speech. From the shed, silence. He turned back to Marilyn.

‘I’ll tell you what you could do,’ he said. ‘Put the kettle on. I’d love a cup of tea.’

‘All right.’

She returned to the house. Ramsay shut the kitchen door firmly behind her and gave the shed his full attention. He gripped the door close to the hook through which the padlock had been fastened and lifted it, pulling it towards him at the same time. Sunlight flooded in. Now the stain on the floor, rusty coloured, looked more like blood than oil. The corners were still in shadow.

The shed was split into two compartments. One, presumably, had housed the privy. In the other coal was stored. The spaces were separated by a chest-high brick wall and looked like animal stalls. There were no tools – Bernard Howe obviously had no interest in DIY – except a small trowel which had been newly purchased, Ramsay thought, to plant up the tub in the yard. A defunct vacuum cleaner lay on its side. In one corner was a pile of threadbare clothes destined for a charity shop. A plastic sack with AGE CONCERN written on it had been folded over the partition wall. And on top of the pile of clothes lay a small child. His head was thrown back uncomfortably. His arms, palms upwards, were outstretched.

The boy was alive but sleeping. His face was dirty and stained with tears. He opened his eyes and began to whimper.

Sally crouched beside him, making reassuring noises, but she seemed afraid to touch him and it was Ramsay in the end who picked him up. He was still half asleep and he didn’t struggle. He’d wet his pants and Ramsay felt the damp seep through David’s quilted trousers and on to his shirt. He was holding the boy so close that he could feel his heart beating.

‘Give Grace a call,’ he said. ‘Tell her to put the Coulthards out of their misery. But tell her not to give any details. Just that he’s alive and well. She can come and fetch him. I don’t want the Coulthard’s turning up on the doorstep. We’ll have discretion all round. I want no lynch mobs here.’

‘How did Claire hope to get away with it?’ Sally demanded. ‘She didn’t even stop us coming out here to look.’