Ann Cleeves - The Healers

He might be an arrogant young sod, Ramsay thought, but he was brighter than most of them.

“That’s certainly possible,” he said. “Any other explanations for moving the body?”

“Someone’s trying to piss us about.” It was Hunter, contemptuous. “Like that anonymous letter. All the evidence is that the girl’s death was accidental. It’s an attempt to distract us and waste our time.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“To lead us up the bloody garden path.”

“I think it might have been to divert us from the real motive,” Ramsay said. “But we can’t ignore Faye. Even if the letter and the moving of James’s body is some sort of elaborate game, it’s significant. The murderer must have known her, known that there was some uncertainty about her drowning, so we’d waste time investigating it.”

“Are you saying that the murderer was at Juniper Hall?” Hunter said abruptly.

“Either that or he was close to someone who was there. It narrows the field, doesn’t it?” He paused, turned back to Hunter. “Didn’t you say you had more information on Faye Cooper?”

“It’s not much,” Hunter said reluctantly. “A hint, that’s all. Lily Jackman suggested that I talk to young Rebecca, the lass who does the clerical work in the Alternative Therapy Centre. I thought I’d catch her at dinner time. Apparently she usually goes home…”

Ramsay nodded his agreement.

“We need the Abbots’ alibis checked again. Properly checked. Talk to the McDougals’ neighbours. Was Mrs. Abbot’s car really there as long as she claims? And what about another strange car? If James was followed to the cemetery the murderer must have been hanging around somewhere. It was a fine day. People will have been in their gardens. It’s an area full of retired people and housewives There will have been folks about.”

He sensed that the mood in the room was changing slightly. It wasn’t quite optimistic. But they started to realize there might be a way forward.

“I’ll talk to Magda Pocock,” Ramsay said. He knew Magda was important. He saw her as a big spider who had attracted them all into her web. Trapped them and controlled them.

“Above all we need publicity,” he said. “The murderer didn’t get to Laverock Farm and the McDougal house on a magic carpet. Someone must have seen him, seen his vehicle. We’ll prepare a request for information and try and get it on the television tonight.”

They began to file out of the room. Not enthusiastically. But at least with a sense of purpose.

Rebecca Booth clip-clopped up the hill in a pair of platform sandals which she’d bought with last week’s wages. Hunter, sitting in a car outside her parents’ house, watched her. When he was young he’d made stilts from cans and pieces of string, and he thought she looked as if she were balancing on those. Otherwise she was smartly dressed in a sleeveless black pinafore dress and a white blouse. It could have been a school uniform. She looked that young.

The house was a small detached bungalow with big plate-glass windows and wood cladding on the gable, which had been built in the sixties. There was a steep terraced garden with little stone walls separating immaculate lawns. She let herself into the bungalow, opening the door with a key. Hunter hoped that meant both her parents were out. If he knew anything about young girls she’d say nothing in front of them.

He rang the bell. She opened it nervously, just a crack. She’d been well brought up. Told not to talk to strangers.

“Oh,” she said, relieved. “It’s you. You’re the policeman.”

She opened the door wide to let him in and he saw that she was barefoot and there were plasters on her heels.

“Are your mum and dad in?” he asked.

“No. Dad’s working. He’s the postmaster.” She was proud. “Mum’s a community nurse. She usually works evenings but she’s gone into Newcastle shopping. For my sister’s wedding.” She blushed. “You don’t want to hear all this…”

“Do you always come home for your dinner?” he asked. It wasn’t far. A ten-minute walk up the hill but this was her first job, you’d think she’d want a bit of independence.

“Yes,” she said. “Mum gets a bit lonely on her own all day…” It sounded lame, like an excuse.

“Is that the only reason?” he asked.

He’d followed her into the kitchen. Her mother had left her a tray. A plate of sandwiches covered with cling film a packet of crisps, a slice of homemade cake.

She blushed again and did not answer. “Do you mind if I get on with this? I don’t have long…” She made him a mug of instant coffee, offered him a sandwich, hoped perhaps that he’d forgotten the question.

“Well?” he said, quite gently. “Is that the only reason?”

She shook her head and he saw that there were tears in her eyes. “I don’t like it at the Centre when there are no patients,” she said. “It’s nice to get away.”

“Why don’t you like it? They all seem very pleasant.”

“Mrs. Pocock’s all right,” she said. “She’s kind. But she’s not always there.”

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“It’s Mr. Abbot,” she said, in a rush. “At first I thought he was just being friendly, making me feel welcome. You know.”

“But it wasn’t just that?”

She shook her head. “It’s the way he looks at me,” she said. “And he always tries to be on his own with me.” She turned away. “He touches me. Wandering hands, you know.”

The phrase was strangely prim and he was moved. “Couldn’t you tell anyone?” Hunter said. “That’s sexual harassment.” Listen to me, he thought. I never believed anyone’d catch me saying that. “Couldn’t you tell Mrs. Pocock?”

“I was frightened I’d lose my job,” she said. “I was so pleased to get it.” She hesitated. She was desperate to explain. “My sister’s training to be a nurse,” she said. “She was always brighter than me. Took A Levels. I was never much good at school. Mum and Dad wanted me to stay on into the sixth form. I did the first year but I couldn’t face exams. I’ve never stood up for myself much, but I stuck out for getting a job. In the end they said if I found one I could leave. When I got taken on at the Old Chapel at Easter I was over the moon. I was determined to make a go of it.”

“What about your parents?” Hunter said. “Couldn’t you explain to them?”

“It would have been like admitting I was wrong,” she said. “It’s not that they’d be horrid about it. They’re dead nice. But that’s part of the problem. I’d feel that I was letting them down.”

“Of course,” Hunter said.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears.

“You did talk to someone about this, didn’t you?”

She nodded.

“Lily,” she said. “The girl who works in the health food shop. I met her in the cafe and she asked me how I was getting on, if I was enjoying it. She seemed almost to have guessed that there was a problem so it was easier to tell her.”

“And what did Lily say?”

“That I should tell someone. She asked if I wanted her to tell Mrs. Pocock. I made her promise not to. What would Mrs. Pocock think? Mrs. Abbot’s her daughter.” She hesitated. “She might think I’d been leading him on.”

“What else did Lily say?”

“That I mustn’t take it personally. It had happened before. He just fancied young girls.”

“When did it happen before?” Hunter asked.

“They had a girl working for them in the house. Her name was Faye. Lily said you could tell Mr. Abbot was let ching after her all the time she was working there, though Faye never noticed. She was too innocent, Lily said. Too naive. He didn’t try anything on then because she had a boyfriend. Peter Richardson. He went to school with my sister. Do you know him?”