Murder in My Backyard Read online

  Chapter Twelve

  As Mary Raven drove from the Express office to her flat, the depression that she had kept at bay with alcohol and frantic activity since Saturday night returned. Persistent and awkward questions repeated themselves in her mind, and she was very tired. She saw the lights of a large supermarket that stayed open late in the evening and realised she was hungry and that there was no food in the house. She turned sharply into the carpark. The motorist behind her hit his horn and she mouthed obscenities to him in her mirror.

  She took a trolley and began to wander aimlessly down the aisles. The place was almost empty and the few shoppers she met intimidated her with their efficiency. They were well-dressed women on their way home from work with lists in their hands and a detailed map of the shop in their heads. They would have, she could tell, strong views on artificial additives, and she imagined that they looked at the contents of her trolley with disapproval. Defiantly she lifted pies, ready-cooked meals, and several tins of rice pudding from the shelves. What was the point in eating healthfully when you felt like dying? At the off-licence beyond the checkout she bought two bottles of wine and four cans of lager. Outside it was dark and the trolley had a wheel jammed. When she got into the car, she felt like crying.

  She saw Max’s car, empty, parked outside her flat when she arrived there and read the licence plate by the street light with disbelief. She had been dreaming about Max for two days and had thought she would never see him again. The sight of the car, solid and familiar, made her think she had been a fool to be frightened. After all, she knew Max. He was a doctor, caring and gentle. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Her fears had been caused by lack of sleep and an overactive imagination.

  One of the other tenants of the house had let him into the hall and he stood there by the ugly Victorian sideboard, clasping an armful of flowers. He looked worried and very serious and she thought he would put on a face like that when he was telling one of his patients that they had some dreadful illness.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked roughly. She would not allow herself to seem pleased to see him. She could not forget the days of anxiety.

  “I had to see you,” he said. “ Can’t you let me in?”

  She had a carrier bag in each hand and set them on the floor while she felt in her jacket pocket for her keys. A can of lager rolled out and he stopped it with his foot and picked it up. She opened the door and led him into her living room. It smelled damp and stale. He took both bags from her in one hand and carried them through to the kitchen while she lit the gas fire and drew the curtains. He still held the flowers carefully in the other hand.

  “What happened to your aunt?” she asked. She was standing with her back to the fire, but she felt very cold. “ I have to know.”

  He set the flowers carefully on the scratched wooden table.

  “You can’t think I had anything to do with that,” he said.

  She shrugged. “ I don’t know what to think. On Saturday night I thought it was all over. I’d come to terms with that, and now you’re here. What the hell am I supposed to think?”

  “That I can’t do without you. I need you.”

  “Don’t give me all that crap,” she said, but as the fire warmed her feet and fingers, she felt her resistance melting, too. She longed for the old elation and felt that after all it was still possible. Would it make any difference to her, she thought, if she found out he was a murderer? In her confusion and her pleasure in his company, she came to no conclusion.

  “What about your wife?” she asked. “ Can you do without her?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s not only that. I have responsibilities. There are the children, my work. And now there’s the problem of Alice.”

  “So you’ve still not made a choice,” she said. “ You’re here, but you’ve still not decided.”

  “How can I decide,” he cried. “I care for you both.”

  “That’s impossible,” she said. “Really. It’s impossible.”

  He moved away from the kitchen door and walked towards her. She knew she should be strong and tell him to go back to his bloody wife and his bloody kids, but she said nothing. He stood very close to her.

  “I need more time,” he said quietly. “ You don’t understand. Things have changed. Someone saw you in the churchyard on Saturday night. It could be dangerous. If the police find out …”

  “I know someone saw me,” she said. “I recognised him. It was that man from the meeting, Charlie Elliot. But don’t worry. He was drunk. He won’t remember anything, and if he does the police won’t believe him.”

  “He saw you?” Max demanded. He was shocked. “ How could you let that happen?”

  “I didn’t know then,” she said, “that it would be so important.”

  “How can you say that?” he said, then seeing the surprise on her face, wanting to reassure her, he continued more reasonably: “No, of course not. How could you?”

  “You can’t think I had anything to do with your aunt’s murder?” she said. His reaction to learning she had been seen in the churchyard frightened her. “ I liked her. I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt her.”

  “No,” he said flatly. “ I know you had nothing to do with that.” He reached out and stroked her face and neck, just under her ear where he knew she liked it. She could not respond to the caress and turned away.

  “Look,” she said. “This business has made me feel really uptight. Why don’t we open some wine?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, tempted. “I don’t think I should stay. Judy will be expecting me home. She’s worried about the kids. Peter found the body …”

  “Oh, fine,” she said, suddenly angry. “You were feeling guilty because you put me in such a bloody awkward position on Saturday night, so you bring me flowers and think everything’s hunky-dory. Now you can go back to your wife and children and forget about me again.”

  “It’s not like that,” he said. “Really.”

  “It seemed like that on Saturday,” she said, “while I was waiting for you.”

  “I’ll phone you tonight,” he said, “ when Judy’s in bed. Will you be in?”

  “Yes,” she said. “ Of course I’ll be in. Where the hell am I likely to go?”

  But she allowed him to put his arms around her and kiss her, and it was only after he had gone and she was arranging the flowers haphazardly in water that she felt she had been deceived.

  When James arrived home he found Stella calmer, returned almost to her normal self, though he could tell by her restlessness that she was still under considerable stress. She seemed to find it impossible to sit still. She had lit a fire in the living room and made him stand in front of it to thaw out, while she brought him whisky and slippers.

  “You’re losing all the heat into the garden,” he said, nodding towards the window. “Why don’t you draw the curtains?”

  But she refused. The ice in the moonlight was so beautiful, she said, and lasted such a short time. They should make the most of it.

  “Where’s Carolyn?” he asked.

  “In her bedroom, watching television.”

  “You should be more careful what you say in front of her,” he said. “You hurt her at lunchtime.”

  “Nonsense,” Stella said. “ She didn’t say anything. She’s a tough little lady.”

  “No,” he said. “ She’s not as tough as she makes out. She keeps all her feelings bottled up and that’s dangerous. We expect too much of her.”

  He was genuinely worried about Carolyn. Since the weekend she had not mentioned Alice and he found her silence unhealthy, even if it was easier for him than tears or difficult questions. He wondered if he had gone too far in talking about the girl. Stella usually reacted to any implied criticism of her ability as a mother with tears. But now she seemed strong enough to cope with anything.

  “I expect you’re right,” she said. “ She’s so grown up now. I forget sometimes how young she is.”

  Ramsa
y went to speak to the Laidlaws that night without any clear idea of what he hoped to achieve. He had nothing to ask them that would not wait until the following day. He was grasping for some shred of evidence that would move the investigation forward. From his car he contacted the communications centre. There was still no news of Charlie Elliot. He admitted to himself later that he also went because he had been so affected by the warmth of Max and Judy’s home. He needed evidence that marriage was not always as happy as theirs seemed to be, that he was not really missing out on anything of value. Perhaps he hoped to find that evidence in the elegant house in Otterbridge. There was also an element of needing to propitiate James Laidlaw, of what Hunter would call “sucking up to the press.”

  When he first entered the tall Georgian house behind the abbey, it seemed to Ramsay that he would be disappointed. He was met with an image of domestic contentment. Stella was curled up in a large armchair in front of the fire reading a book and the little girl was playing with a jigsaw on the floor. James opened the door to him and showed Ramsay into the room, taking obvious pleasure in his family. Yet throughout the conversation Ramsay felt uneasy. Stella talked too much and too quickly, and this was odd in comparison with her silence of the previous day. James watched her protectively. He answered Ramsay’s questions quickly, before Stella could come in, as if he were afraid of her making a fool of herself. More disturbing to Ramsay was the child, who watched him with an intense and unblinking stare, motivated, he thought, either by hatred or fear.

  “Will you have a drink, Inspector?” Stella asked. “ It’s so cold. You must have a drink.”

  Ramsay said he would have a small one to keep out the cold. Stella returned to her chair with a drink for herself, and as she talked she twisted the stem of her glass between her fingers.

  “This is all so upsetting,” she said. “ You can’t imagine how upset we are.”

  Ramsay made no reply.

  “How can we help you, Inspector?” James said.

  “Just a few questions,” Ramsay said. “And I wanted to keep you in touch with what’s been going on. I’ve just come from your brother’s house.”

  He paused, expecting some questions about how Max and Judy were, but James said nothing.

  “They seem upset, too,” Ramsay said. “ I understand Judy and Mrs. Parry were very close. They shared a lot of interests.”

  But again, if he hoped to provoke a response from the Laidlaws, he was disappointed. Stella seemed about to speak, but James looked at her and she remained silent.

  “I’ve been trying to get in touch with Mary Raven, your reporter,” Ramsay said. “She wasn’t at home yesterday. Do you know where she is? I phoned the paper earlier, but no-one had seen her.”

  “She was working in the magistrates court this morning,” James said. “I usually cover it, but Alice’s death made me forget all about it. She’ll be in the office tomorrow, I expect, if you want to talk to her, though I’m not sure if she’ll be able to help you.”

  That came as something of a relief to Ramsay. One disappearing witness was quite enough.

  “We have a little more information about Mrs. Parry,” he said. “She left Henshaw’s quite safely and arrived home at midnight.”

  “We were both in bed by midnight,” Stella said quickly. “Weren’t we, darling? I was fast asleep. I always sleep so much better at Brinkbonnie than I do here.”

  “I was certainly in bed,” James said, “though I was probably still reading then.”

  “You didn’t hear anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Where was your room?”

  “In the northwest corner of the Tower.”

  “So you would have had a view of the churchyard and the drive?”

  “I suppose so. Yes. But I didn’t look out.”

  “What about you, Mrs. Laidlaw? Did you see anyone around the Tower or in the churchyard?”

  She smiled a wide, feline smile. “No,” she said. “I didn’t see anything.” She almost purred with satisfaction, stretched, and settled again into the chair.

  “Surely the most important thing,” James said, brusque and businesslike, “is to find out who wrote that anonymous letter.”

  “Oh,” Ramsay said. “We know that. It was Charlie Elliot.”

  “He’s your man then.”

  “Perhaps. We need to talk to him certainly.”

  “You mean you’ve let him go!”

  Ramsay felt a familiar irritation. “It’s important, you know, to keep an open mind,” he said mildly.

  “All the same, there’ll be some serious questions about how this investigation’s been handled!”

  There was the sound then of a car pulling up on the drive outside the house and the front doorbell rang. James seemed frustrated to be disturbed in the middle of his indignation. He shut the door behind him as he went out, but from the sitting room they heard raised voices, angry words. For a moment the other voice was vaguely familiar to Ramsay, but it subsided almost immediately and the impression was lost. The front door was opened and slammed shut and then the car drove away.

  “Problems?” Ramsay asked when James returned to the room.

  “Not really,” James said. “We printed an uncomplimentary story about a local businessman who’d been prosecuted by the health and safety executive. He wanted to complain. Said we were biased. It’s all nonsense, of course.”

  “Do people often come to your house?”

  “No,” James said shortly. “ It’s not something I encourage. It won’t happen again.”

  They offered Ramsay another drink, but he refused and said he should go home. When he went outside, the air was milder and droplets of moisture hung in the air. All night there was the sound of melted snow dripping in the gutters, and in the morning the garden was green again and the sun was shining.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The car stolen by Charlie Elliot from Tom Kerr’s garage was found late on Monday evening in the car park of a Do-It-Yourself Superstore in the industrial estate just outside Otterbridge. No-one could remember how long it had been there. No-one had seen Charlie Elliot in the streets around the town, though a motorbike had been stolen from outside a house close to the estate and the police were working on the theory that he had taken it. His picture was on the front page of every local newspaper. The press had found an old army photograph with Charlie standing beside a friend, smiling, and because that did not look sufficiently sinister there was a police sketch, too, with staring eyes and stubble on his chin. It was evident from the pictures and from the tone of the newspapers’ reporting that Charlie Elliot was a murderer.

  Ramsay was under increasing pressure to limit the scope of his investigation to the arrest of Charlie Elliot. Early on Tuesday morning the superintendent had Ramsay in his office.

  “Look,” he said. “ Steve.”

  Ramsay winced.

  “I respect your integrity, but I think you’re being unnecessarily cautious here. We have motive. We have opportunity. The chap’s run away. That’s almost as good as a confession. We really can’t justify the time and cost of any wider investigation. It’s a matter of following up sightings until he’s caught. It’s all a question of publicity now. He’ll be miles away. You’re a good man. We must think about your career. After that unfortunate business at Heppleburn you should keep your head down for a while. Avoid controversy. Steve, I’m thinking of your future.”

  “I don’t think he did it,” Ramsay said. “ I believed him. There was a woman in the churchyard.”

  “Find me the woman and we might have a different situation.”

  “Look,” Ramsay said. “I’m investigating a different angle on the development. Henshaw’s got no record, but apparently he’s been known to use violence to get what he wants. He’s not the respectable builder he likes to be thought of. I want to follow that up, too. But I need time. And men.”

  “Steve. Leave it alone. I’m sorry. This is an order. It’s a matter of economics. If we had
unlimited resources …”

  “Two more days,” Ramsay said. “ Give me two more days. Me and Hunter.”

  “You think you can wrap it up in two days?”

  “I’ll have to,” Ramsay said. “Won’t I?”

  The superintendent nodded.

  In the Incident Room Hunter was on the telephone. Calls were coming in from all over the country. Elliot had been seen on a train between Cardiff and Swansea, hitching a lift down the M1, in a bus queue in south London.

  “Fantasies!” Ramsay said, when Hunter showed him the reports. “Nothing worth bothering about there.”

  He dialled Jack Robson’s home number, but though he let it ring there was no reply. The lack of response made him irrationally angry.

  “Come on,” he said to Hunter. “ You can’t stay in here drinking tea all day. There’s too much work to do. We’re going to talk to Mary Raven.”

  Mary Raven slept badly, and while it was still dark she got up and wandered about the flat drinking mug after mug of black coffee, trying to decide what she should do about Max. The sensible thing would be to stop the affair now. It had caused enough hurt. He had treated her abominably and had appeared at the flat the night before because he wanted reassurance and information. She was a fool to think he would leave his wife and his precious family for her. He did not care that much. Then the romantic excitement of his appearance at the flat, uninvited, shy, moved her almost to tears. She knew it was unreasonable to expect him to leave his wife, but she had never been one for logical thought.

  She had always been attracted to danger and extremes. When other girls at school had misbehaved, they had kept open an avenue of retreat, of apology. In arguments with parents they had been prepared to compromise. Mary Raven had been expelled from school, and at sixteen she had left home to live in a squat until the life there had become too uncomfortable and she had returned, still defiant, to her parents. She had never been reasonable.