Ann Cleeves - The Healers

“Where did you first meet Lily and Sean?” “My wife met them here, in the cafe, downstairs. She brought them home for a meal. She’s given to collecting strays.” He must have realized that the words sounded bitter because he added with a forced smile, “I’m always telling her she’s too soft-hearted.”

“And they’d just turned up in Mittingford?” “Yes, I suppose they must have done. Win would be able to tell you more about them. I think they were part of a convoy of travellers who’d pulled up on some common land on the edge of town. They came here to buy food, keep warm. Win took pity on them.” There was a critical edge to his voice. “When the rest of the convoy moved on they stayed. I could have done without it actually. Because Win had befriended them people thought they were something to do with us, that we’d encouraged them to stay. It caused a lot of bad feeling locally, just as we were establishing a good reputation here. The farmers in the area didn’t like having them camping and called the police. They were dos sing in a clapped out old van which wasn’t road worthy and didn’t have any tax so they couldn’t move on. Things were starting to get really ugly when Win thought of the caravan at Laverock Farm.”

“Mr. Bowles was a friend of yours?”

“Oh no, hardly.” He gave a brief smile at the suggestion. Snobby bastard, Hunter thought. “Cissie Bowles, his mother, was my patient. I was treating her for arthritis. She came here to the Centre first but by the end she was almost bedridden and I went to the farm. That was how we knew about the caravan.”

“It didn’t work then, did it?” Hunter couldn’t help himself. He had behaved for long enough.

“What do you mean?”

“The acupuncture. It didn’t work if she ended up having to take to her bed.”

“It slowed the progress of the disease and helped relieve the pain.” Abbot spoke slowly as if Hunter were stupid. “We don’t claim to work miracles.”

“I’d like to ask about another patient,” Ramsay said.

Abbot was rattled, Hunter thought. He was hiding it well but he was definitely rattled.

“But perhaps you’ll be expecting that,” Ramsay went on. “I’m surprised that you didn’t come forward yourself

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector.”

But you do, Hunter thought. You know what we’re talking about all right.

“I mean another suspicious death,” Ramsay said. “Another victim connected with the Alternative Therapy Centre.”

Abbot said nothing. He stared at Ramsay. Perfectly controlled but terrified.

“You must have seen the news report,” Ramsay persisted. “Val McDougal. She was murdered in Otterbridge on Monday night.”

Then surprisingly, there was relief. Hunter was sure of that. A relaxation of tension.

“No,” Abbot said. “I didn’t know. At least I didn’t realize it was Val. Someone told me a teacher had been killed in Otterbridge but I didn’t hear the name. We don’t have a television and not much time for reading papers.”

“But you did know Val McDougal?”

“Yes. She was a patient at the Centre. She came to me originally, complaining of panic attacks. I referred her on to Magda. I saw her occasionally in reception, then she came with us to our weekend retreat in Cumbria last autumn.”

“You didn’t actually treat her?”

“No,” Abbot said. “I did a traditional diagnosis, took the pulses, blood pressure, but decided that re birthing seemed more appropriate.”

“She was killed on Monday night,” Ramsay said. “Strangled like Mr. Bowles.” He paused, then continued provocatively. “Could you tell me where you were on Monday evening?”

“Why?” Abbot demanded, no longer frightened but very much on his dignity.

“It’s a matter of routine,” Ramsay said smoothly. “Elimination. I’m sure you understand.”

“Win and I were in Otterbridge actually. At the Further Education College. An old tutor of mine was giving a lecture.”

“Mrs. McDougal was working at the college on Monday evening. Did you see her?”

Abbot shook his head impatiently.

“What time did you get home?”

“Not till late. After midnight. A few of us took the lecturer out for a meal. Then I had to take Lily home.”

“Lily was in Otterbridge with you?”

“No. She was here, babysitting. I dropped Win off and drove her back to Laverock Farm.”

“Sean wasn’t with her?”

“No.”

There was a pause while Ramsay considered the information.

“Would Mrs. McDougal have known Lily and Sean?”

“Lily certainly. They both went to Magda’s group.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Ramsay said. “The Insight Group. And Mr. Bowles? Would she have known him?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so. Unless she went to Laverock Farm to see Lily.”

“So the Old Chapel is the only link between the murders,” Ramsay said. “I think that puts you in a rather uncomfortable position…”

“What are you implying, Inspector?” It was an expression of injured surprise.

“I’m not implying anything,” Ramsay said calmy. “It’s not as if you benefit from either of the deaths.”

“No,” Abbot said, a little uncertainly. “At least not personally.”

“What do you mean?” For the first time Ramsay’s voice was sharp. “We’re not playing games, Mr. Abbot.”

The man leant forward across the desk in a conciliatory gesture. “Look, I’ll have to explain about Cissie Bowles or you’ll not understand. She came to us after a row with her GP. To pay him back, I suspect, for not giving her enough attention and not being sufficiently polite. You can hardly blame the doctor. She was a demanding and cantankerous old thing. Certainly not polite herself. Given to strange oaths of a vaguely biblical nature. I think she’d been through three GPs already before she decided to try me. I’m sure she only stuck with me because it amused her to be treated by what’s known generally in the town as “that group of hippies”. She’d never been properly accepted here, although she was brought up in Laverock Farm and went to school with most of the old crows who disapproved of her.”

He paused for breath. Ramsay said nothing. He was prepared to wait to see where this was leading.

“Ernie was her only relative,” Abbot went on. “Her parents were middle-aged when she was born and she was an only child. I know all this because I took a personal history when she first consulted me. Her parents died when she was in her early twenties and she took on the farm. Ran it, apparently, almost single-handed until Ernie was old enough to help. There was a hired help. He was an outsider, too, I imagine. Not immediately local anyway because he had to live in.”

Ramsay raised his eyebrows. “Ernie’s father?”

“Yes,” Abbot said. “Ernie’s father. She fired him as soon as she discovered she was pregnant and made do after that with casual labour from the town…”

This is very interesting,” Ramsay interrupted, ‘but I don’t see how you come to benefit from Mr. Bowles’s death.” He suspected that Daniel Abbot was stringing him along.

“I’m coming to that,” Abbot said. “Cissie left the farm to Ernie for his lifetime and in the event of his marrying and having children to his offspring after his death.” He stopped, took a shallow breath and completed the explanation in a rush. “If he was to die before having children the farm would come to the Alternative Therapy Centre.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that before?” Ramsay demanded. “You didn’t say anything to the officer who came earlier in the week to take a statement.”

“Shock, I suppose. Embarrassment. And at that time I only had Cissie’s word as to what was in the will. She might have been leading me on. It would have been quite in character. But I had a phone call from her solicitor this morning.”