Ann Cleeves - The Healers

“No,” she said quickly. “Don’t do that. She lives with her parents in one of those modern bungalows up on the hill. I’m not sure of the number. It’s got a blue gate. You’ll find it easily enough.”

“What’s her surname?”

“Booth.” She paused. “Look, perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything. You mustn’t blame me if this is all a waste of time.”

They stood, awkwardly. The children were suddenly quiet.

“It would be a lot simpler if you told me what’s going on,” he said.

She shook her head.

“I’d best go and talk to Rebecca then,” he said sharply. “She will be home by now?”

They looked at the hall clock. It was five-fifteen.

“I think she finishes at five, so she’ll be back in the next few minutes.”

When she saw him to the door he hesitated, but inside one of the children was crying and she slammed the door shut without a word.

In the car he swore out loud and wondered how he could have come to make such a bloody fool of himself. He’d go and see the girl anyway, he thought. See if he could salvage something from the afternoon. But a call came on to the radio summoning him back and he did not get to see Rebecca Booth that night.

James McDougal left school early again. At lunchtime he wandered down the drive with a gang of sixth-formers who were going to the chip shop and just didn’t bother going back. That afternoon was double English which he usually enjoyed but he knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on The Waste Land. He had other things to think of.

He walked home along quiet suburban streets dappled with sunshine, lost in thought. In the house he drank a can of Coke and played some music but he could not settle. On impulse he picked up the telephone and dialled the number he had found in the local paper. A voice on the other end of the line said, “Mittingford incident room.” He hesitated for a moment then replaced the receiver. He could have asked to speak to Ramsay but what would he say? That his mother had become disillusioned with alternative medicine? So what?

A little later he left the house and began the walk to the cemetery to visit Faye, only because he could think of nothing else to do. He stopped, as usual, to buy flowers at the garage. He walked with his head bent and he did not look round. There was a big red-brick primary school on the main road which he had never really noticed before, because he’d always come at weekends, when it was quiet. Now it was home time and the pavement was crowded with parents. There were cars parked all the way back to the garage and on as far as the cemetery wall. A lollipop lady was shepherding children across the road. The girls wore red and white gingham dresses newly bought for the summer. They chased past James to find their mothers. Still he did not look behind him.

There was no sign of the flower seller at the cemetery gate. Her trestle table was still set up as normal but it was empty except for an upturned bucket. James missed the confrontation with her and imagined her at home. She would live in a council house with a Rottweiler in the garden and a brutish lover who drove a truck and had tattoos. He smiled briefly at the cartoon picture. What would his mother have thought of his prejudice? Then he walked in between the massive wrought-iron gates.

He had never known the cemetery so quiet. There was bird song but it seemed to come from the surrounding gardens. There were no joggers, no dog walkers, no other mourners. It was the hottest day of the year so far, and after the walk he felt drained of energy. He came to a bench which had been donated by an Alderman of Otterbridge Town Council in 1961. He sat there and began to doze. A peacock butterfly settled on the wooden plank beside him. It was the last thing James saw.

James’s body was found on the grass next to Faye’s grave at five o’clock. The old man who had almost stumbled over it was quite sure of the time when Ramsay questioned him later. Five o’clock exactly. He was a retired railway man and knew the importance of precision. He said he came to the cemetery every afternoon for a constitutional before his tea. Not to visit one of the graves. His parents were buried in Newcastle and his wife was still alive, thank God. They’d celebrated their golden wedding in February. No, he liked the cemetery because it was a quiet and pleasant place to walk. Better than the main road with all those diesel fumes at any rate, and he wasn’t one to be bothered by the thought of dead bodies. He’d been a stretcher bearer in the war.

“Did you touch the body?” Ramsay asked gently. They were standing by the cemetery gate. The whole area had been cordoned off. It was evening by now, and the place was in shadow.

“Aye. It was still warm. But then it was in the sun.”

“Did you see anyone else in the cemetery? When you were out for your walk?”

The man thought.

“My eyesightls not what it was,” he said. “Not long distance.”

“But you think there might have been someone there?”

“I heard something,” the man said. “Footsteps running. But not in the cemetery. Along the pavement on the other side of the wall. Just before I found the lad.” He looked at Ramsay sadly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s not much help. It could have been a kid, anyone.”

“Did it sound like a child?” Ramsay asked.

“What do you mean?”

“A child would be lighter. Have smaller paces.”

The old man considered again.

“So it would,” he agreed. “No. You’re right. It was an adult. In a hurry. Someone fit and not very heavy.”

“It could have been a woman then?”

“Aye, I suppose it could.”

“Which way were they running? Back towards the town?”

This time he was certain immediately.

“No, the other direction. North towards the dual carriage way

“And the footsteps just faded away?”

“No,” he said carefully. “There was a car. The footsteps stopped and there was the sound of an engine starting.”

“Thanks,” Ramsay said. “I’m sorry to have kept you hanging around for so long.”

“I don’t mind.” He was a little, round-faced man, irrepressibly cheerful. “Beats mowing the lawn, which is what the wife would have had me doing. You did send someone round to explain where I was?”

“Of course.”

“That’s all right then. She’ll have had my tea ready for hours and I’m more scared of her than of any bloody corpse.”

Hunter ducked under the red and white tape to join Ramsay. He’d been quiet since he’d arrived. Usually murder brought out the worst in him, made him loud and facetious. Ramsay wondered if the squad’s teasing had got through to him.

“The lad wasn’t killed where he was discovered,” Hunter said. “They found his scuff marks in the grass where he was dragged to the Cooper girl’s grave. Not very far, but you wonder why anyone should bother. It was risky enough anyway attacking him in broad daylight.”

“Was he strangled?” Ramsay asked.

Hunter nodded. “With a thin nylon rope. Like his mother.” He paused. “Win Abbot was coming to see him this afternoon.”

“How do you know?”

Hunter paused again, embarrassed. “Lily Jackman told me. She was minding the Abbot bairns in the park. She gave me some information, not much, but a lead. She suggested we should talk to that young receptionist at the Centre. I went to the Abbot house later, hoping for more details, on the off-chance Jackman would still be there. She was pretty fed up because she’d been expecting Mrs. Abbot back sooner.”

“At least that puts Lily Jackman in the clear,” Ramsay said. “You must have been there around five?”

Hunter nodded. “Left at quarter past.” He had made the point he had intended. Lily could have played no part in James McDougal’s murder.