Ann Cleeves - The Healers

“She was babysitting when Val was killed too,” Ramsay said to himself. “I suppose that’s a coincidence…” He looked up. “What was Mrs. Abbot going to see the lad about?”

“Jackman said it was a gesture. Mrs. Abbot went to offer their sympathy.”

“And a homoeopathic remedy to put it all right again, I suppose,” Ramsay muttered under his breath.

“What was that, sir?”

“Nothing. This lot are starting to get on my nerves.” He looked at his watch. It was gone seven but still the day seemed unusually hot and airless.

“Track them all down,” he said. “The Abbots, Magda Pocock. I’ve no idea where she’s been all day. And someone had better see what Sean Slater’s been up to. We know he’s clear of the Bowles murder and he’s unlikely to be involved here because he’s got no transport, but we can’t rule him out. The sooner it’s done, the better.”

Hunter nodded gloomily and walked away.

But later, when the information was put together, it seemed that none of them had a satisfactory alibi. Except Lily, of course, who’d been seen by Hunter.

Mrs. Abbot was jumpy and tense. She admitted, in a voice so low that he could hardly hear, that she had gone into Otterbridge intending to see James McDougal.

“What happened?” Hunter demanded.

“When I got to the house no one was in. I waited for quite a long time, thinking he might be on his way back from school, held up, you know, but at five o’clock I gave up and drove home.”

“You sat outside the house for more than an hour?” Hunter was sceptical.

“I suppose I did,” she said. “Actually I quite enjoyed it. The peace, you know. There’s not a lot of that here.”

Daniel Abbot said he had spent the afternoon in a private home for the elderly in Otterbridge. It was run by an enlightened matron who believed that complementary medicine had a place in work with old people. It was a regular commitment. He went once a month.

He was very happy to give Hunter the name of the nursing home, but was vague about the time he had left. Late afternoon, he said. He couldn’t be more specific. He hadn’t noticed the time. He’d finished treating his patients at about three, but he liked to stay on to chat to the residents. The old dears didn’t see many new faces; some had no visitors at all. When pushed by Hunter he said he thought it was at least five when he left. The residents had been given tea. He was sure of that.

But when his story was checked with the matron of the nursing home she said that none of her staff had noticed Daniel after three-thirty. He could have been there, of course. It was a big building and he visited so often that he was almost part of the furniture, but no one could honestly remember seeing him.

Magda Pocock appeared to have disappeared into thin air. She was not in her flat and her car was missing. She had not been seen since early afternoon.

Ramsay decided to see Sean Slater himself. Hunter volunteered to visit Laverock Farm but Ramsay told him to take a break. It had been quite a day.

He found himself unusually moved by the death of the boy. He rarely knew the victims of the crimes he investigated. He could remember James alive, imagine the conversation they had had in his bedroom, and that made a difference.

Lily was sitting on the kitchen step of the farm, her hands cupped around a mug of tea. She greeted him with amusement. “I haven’t been able to get away from your lot today. What have I done now?”

“There’s been another murder,” he said.

She looked at him sharply. “Who?” There were no hysterics. She did not pretend to be shocked.

“James. James McDougal.”

“No,” she said quietly. “Not James.” She stood up and clutched her arms around her body as if she were cold.

“Where’s Sean?” he asked.

“He’s in the garden,” she said. “He’s been there all day. I’ll show you.”

Sean had taken off his shirt and his shoulders were pink from the sun. Lily led Ramsay through the gate in the wall so at first he only saw her.

“I was going to call it a day,” he said. “I’ll be in now.” There was a square of brown earth and a pile of weed and bramble. “Not much to show for a day’s work, is it? I’ll tell you one thing, I’m bloody unfit.”

Then he saw Ramsay and put his hand above his eyes because he was looking directly into the setting sun. “Inspector. How can I help you?”

“James McDougal’s been murdered,” Lily said.

He thrust his spade in the earth and walked over to her. He put his arms around her and stroked her hair while she cried on his shoulder.

In the morning Ramsay gathered his team together in the incident room. They looked washed out and lethargic. James’s death was like a personal insult. They knew that they’d been out-witted. They had no answers. The sun was shining again. There were no blinds at the windows and they squinted awkwardly against the light, waiting for the inspector to speak, not expecting too much.

Ramsay knew he should provide positive leadership. He had seen it done. A charismatic officer could pull together a team in minutes, make them believe in themselves again, send them away with renewed enthusiasm. But that had never been his style. He wasn’t up to it.

He looked out at them. They sprawled across desks or in chairs tilted back against the wall. Hunter was perched on a windowsill with his feet on a filing cabinet and stared out towards the children’s playground. In the last few days there had been none of the sarcasm, the deliberate attempts to undermine Ramsay’s authority, which usually marked their relationship. Ramsay supposed he should be grateful but Hunter’s disengagement from the enquiry was beginning to worry him. It was another problem which would have to be sorted out by the end of the day.

He stood to speak. Sally Wedderburn flashed him a smile, not of encouragement but of pity.

He began by giving them the details of James’s death in a flat, matter-of-fact voice.

“The boy was strangled between four-thirty and five. At four o’clock he was seen by a school crossing patrol in the road leading to the cemetery. Neither his father nor his school friends knew that he was planning to visit the cemetery that day, so we must assume that neither did his murderer. The implications of that are obvious…”

He paused and looked into blank, gum-chewing faces. The room was wreathed in cigarette smoke and dust. There was no response so he continued.

“James must have been followed from his house. Either on foot or by car. The kids were just coming out of Otterbridge Primary School. Parents were waiting for them. That means there were lots of witnesses. It gives us something to work on. Sally, I want you outside the school at home time today. Talk to the mums. Take a photo of James. Was there a car travelling particularly slowly? A pedestrian nobody recognized?”

She nodded.

“James was strangled several metres from where he was found. He’d been sitting on a bench. The ground was dusty and the footprints of his trainers were quite distinctive. Then he was dragged to Faye Cooper’s grave and left to lie there. Any ideas why?”

There was a silence. A hand was raised at the back of the room. It was Newell, an ex-public schoolboy and graduate entrant whom no one could quite take to. He had an Army haircut and a Home Counties accent. The general opinion was that he was a pompous prat. It didn’t help that he came from the south and knew nothing about football. Ramsay felt some sympathy for Newell but knew that to intervene would only make matters worse.

“To make a point, sir.”

“What sort of a point?”

“Well, sir, if the murders are motivated by revenge for Faye’s death there would be more satisfaction in making a show of it. There’s always an element of ritual in revenge, isn’t there?”