Ann Cleeves - The Healers

“What happened then?”

“There was a period of free time before dinner. For people to reflect quietly in their rooms or explore the garden.”

“Or go for a swim?” Hunter demanded.

“Yes. Some of them went for a swim.”

“But not Faye? She didn’t swim until later, did she?”

“No,” Daniel said awkwardly. “That’s right.”

“Tell us about that,” Ramsay said confidentially. “Tell us exactly what happened.”

“I don’t know,” Daniel cried. “I wasn’t there. No one was.”

“Take me through the evening then.”

“We had dinner. Helped clear up. That’s part of the deal at Juniper. Everyone mucks in. After the meal there was a talk by a visiting speaker. He went on rather. It was gone ten by the time he’d finished. We had coffee then most people drifted back to their rooms.”

“Wasn’t that unusual?” Ramsay asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I get sent on conferences too. Not so uplifting, of course, and I expect the food’s better, but the set-up’s similar. I always mean to got to bed early but I never seem to manage it. There’s too much going on. People you’ve not seen for years. I always find myself up until the early hours chatting.”

“It’s hardly the same, Inspector. Our sort of programme is very intensive. Emotionally draining. People need time to come to terms with what they’ve learnt about themselves.”

“They don’t all go off to the pub then?”

“We don’t need alcohol, Sergeant. That’s not encouraged.”

“And yet,” Ramsay said, ‘after a long day of looking after the children and this intensive group therapy Faye decided to go swimming. By herself. I wonder why she should do that.”

“I don’t know, Inspector. All I know is that she was found drowned the next morning.”

“Who found her body?”

“My wife did,” Daniel said. “She’d gone out for a walk before I was awake. Of course she was terribly distressed. She came to find me and once we realized Faye was dead we called the police.”

“Yes,” Ramsay said. “I see.”

There was a silence. Daniel looked at his watch. “My next patient will be coming soon, Inspector. If there’s nothing else…”

“Faye’s diary,” Ramsay said.

“What about it?”

“It wasn’t among her belongings at Juniper Hall. Not when the police arrived.”

“She must have left it at home then.”

“In your house? Did you ever find it?”

“No,” Daniel said. “Not in our house. In her bed sit I don’t know what happened to her stuff there.”

“Did Faye ever meet Ernie Bowles?” Ramsay asked. The questions came quickly. He knew that his time was running out.

“Of course not. Why would she?” He found it hard to contain his impatience. The telephone rang. “That’s my next patient, Inspector. I’ll have to ask you to go now.”

“All right, Mr. Abbot. Perhaps we could see if Mrs. Pocock can help us.”

But there was no sign of Magda and she’d left a message with the receptionist to say that she’d be out for the rest of the day.

When they got back to the incident room they noticed a change of mood. They had left the team submerged in an air of morose quiet, which had little to do with hangovers, the result of the night before. Nothing was happening and nothing, the team felt, was likely to happen. The case had reached a stalemate. But now there was conversation, a lift of spirits. It was clear that they had been waiting impatiently for Ramsay’s return.

“Well?” he said. “What’s been going on?”

“We’ve traced those hippies, sir. The gang Slater claims to have spent the night with when Ernie Bowles was killed. A postie said he saw their blue Transit up a track just west of Berwick. A man, a woman and a kid. It must be them. We reckon they must have been hiding out up there. They might even have been in on the murder.”

They looked at him expectantly. They all wanted to go to check it out. They were like children, he thought, waiting to be chosen for the school football team. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see hands in the air, to hear cries of “Pick me, sir. I’m the best.”

“I’ll do it myself,” he said, not out of diplomacy but because he felt like a trip out. He could do with a fresh perspective on the case. “You come with me, Sal. You can play with the bairn while I talk to the adults.”

He saw her turn away and realized he’d offended her. Stereotyped again, she was thinking. Why couldn’t Hunter mind kids as well as her? He could hardly explain that he’d only said it to save Hunter’s pride. Really he wanted her along because she was so sharp. She could sniff out a liar better than anyone he knew.

She spent most of the trip in silence to express her disapproval. She was driving and Ramsay followed the route on an Ordnance survey map. They came to a scattered village with a school, a pub, a shop built into the garage of a stone cottage. A sandy track led on to a piece of overgrown woodland and the Transit had pulled off that. If they had not known it was there they would have missed it, though when they walked in through the trees there were traces of a fire, and a makeshift line with washing hanging on it. A few weeks earlier the ground would have been covered by bluebells. Now most were dying though the colour remained in patches, out of the sun.

A little girl with black curls squatted in the leaf mould and rolled out Play Dough on a tin tray. Sally crouched beside her.

“What are you making?” she asked.

“Cakes.” The girl was not curious about them. She did not look up.

“They look lovely. Can I have one?”

“Of course not!” The child was contemptuous. “They’re not cooked. You can’t cook Play Dough.”

“What do you want?” The question came with a slight stutter. They turned to see a tall man in his late twenties who had followed them on foot into the wood. He had a thin face and long straggly hair and reminded Sally of images of Jesus she had seen in stained glass windows. He carried a rucksack on his back. It must have been heavy because he swung it with relief on to the ground. Cans of beans and soup, loose vegetables rolled out.

“What do you want?” the man said again, not aggressively but with resignation.

“I’m Inspector Ramsay. Northumbria Police.”

“Inspector? They’ve never bothered with an inspector before. Hey, Lorna! We’ve got an inspector come to visit.” His voice was Welsh, nervous, rather bitter.

A woman climbed out of the back of the Transit. She wore a crushed velvet skirt, over scuffed suede desert boots, and a long sweater with holes at the elbows. Her hair was tied back with a scarf flecked with silver thread. Ramsay thought she looked more of a gypsy than Romanies he had met.

“You can’t make us move,” she said. “This is common land. We checked.”

“Common land law is very complicated,” Ramsay said. “But we’re not here to move you on.”

“What then? We’ve done nothing.” She was the stronger of the two. She stood with her legs apart, her hands on her hips, facing them out.

“Some questions,” Ramsay said. “That’s all.”

“We don’t claim dole.” She nodded towards the groceries in the rucksack. “We paid for all that ourselves. I make jewellery. Silver and enamel. I can show you… And Wes gets work whenever he can.”

“Though there’s not much call for a classics graduate in rural Northumberland,” Wes said. The stutter was more pronounced.

“You’re a classics graduate?” Sally looked at Ramsay to apologize for butting in, but she was intrigued.

He nodded.

“Then why…?”

“Do I live like this?” He finished the question for her, mocking.