Ann Cleeves - The Healers

“I’ve got an idea about that,” Ramsay said.

They went to Laverock Farm that night. Hunter, knowing Ramsay’s reputation for caution, for sticking to the rules, insisted on it, pushing the argument to the point of insubordination.

“We’ve got to take Slater in tonight,” he said stubbornly, although in fact Ramsay had voiced no disagreement. “Charge him with the car theft, if nothing else. Anything to get him out of that house, prevent another death. Then, his voice almost hysterical: “Come on, man, you must see that Lily Jackman’s in danger! We can’t take the risk of leaving it until the morning.”

“No,” Ramsay said quietly. “I don’t think we can.”

It was almost midnight when they got to Laverock Farm and there were no lights on. Washing still hung from the line in the orchard and a white sheet billowed in a sudden breeze like a sail in the moonlight. They parked in the farmyard and waited.

There was a sudden noise in an upstairs room. Slater pushed open the sash window and the sound of the creaking wood running up the cords was shocking in the still air.

“Who is it?” he shouted. “What do you want?”

A lack of control in his voice made Ramsay cautious. He opened the car window and shouted back: “It’s me. Ramsay. Why don’t you come down? We can talk.”

“Are you on your own?”

“No, Sergeant Hunter’s with me.”

“That’s the bastard that’s been hassling Lily. Keep him out of this.”

“All right,” Ramsay said easily. “I’ll come in on my own.”

“No,” Slater said. “Just stand in the yard where I can see you. You can talk from there.”

“It would be more comfortable inside.”

“Maybe it would. But you’ll do as I say.” He swung round violently and they saw he was carrying a shotgun. He waved it wildly out of the window and repeated, “You’ll do as I say.”

“Where’s Lily?” Ramsay asked.

“She’s here with me. Where she belongs.”

“Is she alive, Sean?”

“Of course she’s alive. Do you think I’d hurt Lily?”

“Why don’t you bring her to the window? So I can see her.”

“No!” Slater said. “Just sod off!”

In the silence that followed Ramsay heard Hunter on the radio, calling for back up, specialist officers. He knew that the nearest firearm officers were in Otterbridge and it would be hours before they’d get out here. He thought it would all be over by then.

“Where did you get the gun, Sean?” he asked,

for something to say, just to keep him talking. It hardly mattered now and shotguns were two-a-penny in the countryside.

“It was Ernie Bowles’s,” Sean shouted back. “I found it in the glory hole under the stairs. Your blokes must have missed it when they searched. I knew he had one and it must be somewhere.”

There would be plenty of questions asked about that, Ramsay thought. Recriminations. Passing the blame.

“I know why you did it, Sean,” he shouted. “I know why you killed the McDougals.”

There was a brief pause.

“You know nothing!” Sean yelled back angrily. He pointed the shotgun into the air and fired it. The noise was like an explosion and made Ramsay turn away. It was followed by a screech as a barn owl was frightened from its roost in the tractor shed. The big white bird glided across the farmyard and settled on a tree behind the house. Everything was quiet and still again.

“Well, why don’t you tell me then?” Ramsay asked. “Why don’t you tell me how it happened?”

He moved closer to the house, away from the car, hoping to establish a more intimate contact. He stood under Slater’s window and spoke in a lower, conversational voice. He’d gene once to a seminar on hostage situations but he could remember nothing now of what he’d been taught. He didn’t even know if this was a hostage situation. From where he was standing he could not see inside the room.

“Well, Sean? Why don’t we hear your side of the story?”

“You wouldn’t understand!” Sean screamed. “You wouldn’t bloody understand!”

“I might,” Ramsay said. “If you explained. Just put the gun down and tell me.” He might have been speaking to a child throwing a temper tantrum.

“They didn’t think I was good enough for her.” Sean turned his head so the light caught his face. Ramsay saw that he was crying. His voice became broken by sobs. Just because I wasn’t taken in by them, by their talk. Because I wouldn’t go to their bloody groups. Inner knowledge and inner healing. What does that mean anyway? I didn’t need all that. I always knew what I felt. I bloody showed them.”

“But that wasn’t why you killed them, Sean, was it?” Ramsay’s voice was quiet, considered, interested.

“I did it for her!” The words came out as a bellow and reverberated around the valley, sending the monkey-faced owl into the air once more.

Hunter watched Ramsay move away from the car. When he was sure the Inspector held the boy’s full attention he opened the passenger door slowly. Then waited. There was no response from Slater. The car was parked sideways on to the house and the passenger door was out of his line of view. Hunter rolled out of the car and into the shadow of the tractor shed. He lay still, breathing heavily. In the distance he heard the conversation between Ramsay and Slater continuing. There was a smell of grain and old sacking. The floor was covered with dried hen droppings.

He crawled on his stomach away from the car, keeping to the shadow, thinking that this jacket had cost him a fortune and that the force had better cough up for a replacement. He knew he had to find a way into the house. The kitchen door was no good. He couldn’t get to that without Slater seeing even if a sudden, miraculous cloud covered the moon. He knew there was a front door with a storm porch, on the side of the house that faced the garden, and decided to make for that. When he reached the orchard he stood up. He was round the corner of the house and out of Slater’s line of view. But he knew he had to be quick. Slater might notice at any time that he was no longer in the car. He pushed his way past the washing and through a tangle of overgrown shrubs.

The door of the storm porch was unlocked. It was stiff, as if it had warped and was seldom used, but it gave way at last to Hunter’s tugging. The inner door had panes of bubbled glass and it was impossible to see inside. Hunter stood still for a moment, trying to hear if the conversation between Ramsay and Slater was going on, but

Ramsay had lowered his voice so much that he could not tell. Perhaps Slater had come downstairs and was waiting on the other side of the door, with the shotgun in his hand. He turned the handle and pushed. The door was locked.

Swearing under his breath he looked about him for a hiding place for a spare key. The front of the house was in shadow, and though his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom he could make out nothing in detail. He felt along the window ledge. His fingers found nothing but a thick layer of dust. There was a filthy doormat on the floor of the porch but no key underneath it. He retreated into the garden.

On each side of the porch was a large terra cotta pot, which in Cissie Bowles’s day might have held a flowering plant. Now each contained soil and a few dried up weeds. Hunter lifted each pot and felt underneath. Nothing. He scrabbled around in the dry soil and in the first pot he tried there was a large key. He cleaned off the muck and returned to the path. The key was rusty but it fitted.

“Open, you bugger,” he muttered, thinking that all he needed now was for the door to be bolted on the inside.

The key turned remarkably easily. He put his shoulder against the door, turned the handle and pushed it slowly open.