Ann Cleeves - The Healers

But we’ll have no trouble from him again.”

Magda moved her head, her hands, her feet in slow, fluid movements. Ramsay stood in the street and watched her. She could not see him because it was almost dark. Besides, her concentration was complete. Tai Chi, he thought. Weren’t Chinese parks fun of elderly men at dawn, performing the same sort of actions? What could they hope to get out of it?

There must be something positive. Even the cynical Hunter was wondering if he was missing out.

Ramsay walked on up the street and when he turned back to look at the Old Chapel Magda was sitting perfectly still, in some form of meditation. Perhaps he should give it a go, he thought. Because he had the feeling that he now had all the information he needed to draw the enquiry to a conclusion, and if he was sufficiently focused and concentrated he could come to an answer.

Prue answered the phone immediately so he thought she’d probably had an early night. Often she worked in bed. He could imagine her there, surrounded by books and scripts, a bottle of wine on the bedside table, a packet of chocolate biscuits.

“Saw you on the telly tonight,” she said. “Very impressive.”

“Did you think so?” He was rather flattered.

“Very. You got over what you wanted from the public and gave them no information at all.”

“Oh.”

“When am I going to get you back then?” she said. “I don’t much like being a single woman again.”

“Soon,” he said. “Very soon. I think it’ll all be over tomorrow.”

When he went back to the incident room Magda was still sitting by the uncurtained window, her legs crossed, her eyes shut.

As expected there were plenty of calls from cranks and exhibitionists. People with a grudge wanting revenge. People with an axe to grind. The link made by the press of the murders to the Old Chapel gave the venom a particular flavour. Supporters of the Natural Therapy Centre claimed the police investigation had been an establishment plot to discredit complementary medicine. Religious bigots made accusations about New Age ideology: satanic ritual and paganism.

But there were genuine callers, hesitant and embarrassed, who stumbled over their explanations: “I don’t suppose it’s important but…”

When Ramsay returned to the incident room the phones were still ringing. There had been a quiet period after eight o’clock but the appeal for information had been broadcast again at nine-thirty and there was renewed activity.

Rob Newell was sitting at the desk nearest the door. He looked quite incongruous, dressed in a Young Conservative’s idea of casual clothes twill trousers, a shirt in Boy Scout khaki and a tweedy tie.

“Well?” Ramsay asked. “Any pattern emerging?”

“Several people have phoned about a car parked in Ferndale Avenue that Monday evening,” Newell said. “It was parked outside the McDougals’ house for a couple of hours, though no one seems to have seen the driver.”

“Description of the vehicle?”

“Small red hatchback. Nova or Fiesta. We’ll send people out with photos tomorrow and try to narrow it down.”

“What about the day James McDougal died? Was the same car seen then?”

Newell shook his head.

“We’ve had a disappointing response on that,” he said, ‘though a neighbour confirms that Mrs. Abbot was there. Saw her from an upstairs window. Apparently there were residents at home but none of them had any reason to go out into the street. It was early afternoon. Kids were still at school. The people who did venture out only got as far as their back gardens to sit in the sun.”

Ramsay allowed his impatience to show. He raised his voice so the whole room could hear. He wanted them to know how important it was. “Are you telling me that Ferndale Avenue was empty all afternoon?” he demanded. “Because I don’t believe you. What about tradesmen? What about bin men? Window cleaners? Find out what time the post box in Ferndale Avenue is emptied and talk to the postman. Find out if any charity envelopes or advertising junk was delivered in the area that afternoon. Do any of the elderly residents have home helps? You get the idea. Use a bit of no use and imagination.”

The impatience was real. He knew what he was looking for. He knew who had committed the murders and how it was done. He only had to prove it.

Newell was impressed by the list of instructions, almost happy. He was always more comfortable obeying orders than working under his own initiative.

“Right,” he said. “I’ll start checking at once.”

“Sir!” Sal Wedderburn called from the other side of the room, her hand over the telephone receiver. “Another witness has called about the red car parked in Ferndale Avenue on Monday 10th. He’s convinced it was a Fiesta. M reg. Do you want to talk to him?”

The caller was a computer freak with his own consultancy business. He’d just landed a contract with a chain of travel agents and, he told Ramsay, he was feeling pretty good that night driving home. That’s why he remembered the date so well. The next morning there’d been police all over the place though no one had asked him any questions. He’d left before the house-to-house enquiries started. He was never there really. He worked all the hours God sent.

“Why did you notice the red car?” Ramsay asked.

“Because I’d never seen it before. That time it’s mostly neigh hours vehicles on the street’

“What makes you so sure it was a Fiesta?”

“I was thinking of getting one for the wife.

She’s always nagging about a car of her own. It’s her fortieth birthday next month. I checked it out, thought it was a smart little motor.”

By the time he had replaced the receiver Ramsay remembered where he had recently seen a new Fiesta. He called to Hunter.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re going visiting.”

“Where are we going, then?” Hunter asked when they were outside. He looked at his watch. It was only ten o’clock but the town was deserted. Like a bloody morgue, he thought. He’d treat himself to a Friday night in town when this was all over, in one of the pubs where the barmaids went topless. That was probably all he needed to sort himself out: a few beers and a bit of smut.

“Long Edge Farm,” Ramsay said. “Mrs. Richardson drives a car that matches the one in Ferndale Avenue.”

“You don’t have her down as the murderer?” Hunter said. “I can’t see it myself. Not that I’ve met the woman, like. And wasn’t it a bit daft to park right outside the victim’s house for all those hours? You’d think she’d have moved it up the street a couple of hundred yards. Unless it wasn’t premeditated, of course. But she was hardly just there for a chat ‘

Ramsay cut through the rambling. “The lad, Peter, drives his mother’s car,” he said. “And he is a bit daft. But let’s see what he has to say for himself.”

There was no Fiesta standing outside the farmhouse. A full moon had come up over the hills and they could see quite clearly. The living-room curtains were drawn and there was the sound of the television, rather loud, a burst of canned laughter. Ramsay led Hunter round to the back door.

Through the uncurtained kitchen window they saw Mrs. Richardson. She was dressed in a fluffy pink dressing gown and her hair was wrapped up in a towel. She was sitting at the table, obviously working on the farm’s accounts. There was a calculator on the table beside her and she pressed at the buttons quickly and efficiently. She was wearing pink-rimmed spectacles. Ramsay watched her through the window when Hunter knocked at the door. She remained seated and still concentrating on the figures in front of her called: “Come in!” She sounded a little surprised to be disturbed so late at night, but not anxious. Perhaps she was used to the guests from the cottages turning up at all hours, but Ramsay thought there was more to her calm response than that. Owning land gave people confidence. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to be frightened.