Murder in My Backyard Read online

  While Ramsay finished the dregs from his mug, Hunter wandered to the window. It was snowing properly now, sharp, fine flakes against the grey sky. Hunter’s anxiety for action increased. He did not want to be stuck all night in this sand-blasted village where the only entertainment was a game of dominoes in the pub. When he turned back to the room, Ramsay was on his feet.

  “What are you waiting for?” Ramsay asked. “ We can’t spend all day in here. I’m going to Henshaw’s. You go to the post office and talk to the Elliots. Nothing heavy. Just find out where they were last night and what they were doing. Olive Kerr thinks Charlie, the son, might have sent that letter. I’ll follow it up tomorrow. Then you can go.”

  Hunter said nothing and followed him out into the snow. Ramsay waited while the sergeant drove off angrily, then walked, as Alice Parry must have done the night before, down the drive towards the Otterbridge Road.

  It was six o’clock and quite dark. As he reached the road the snow flurry ended and there was a thin, icy moon and a frost. Henshaw’s place was harder to find than he had expected, because out of the village there were no street lights and the houses were hidden behind hedges. He went through the first gate and walked unexpectedly into a farmyard. He disturbed a dog lying in an outhouse. It barked loudly and an outside light was switched on. A woman came to the door and shouted out to know who was there.

  Ramsay, embarrassed by his mistake and not wanting to frighten her further, waited until she returned into the house and went back to the road without being seen.

  The next drive led to Henshaw’s house. It curved pretentiously through borders of immature shrubs. There was a light outside the front door of the house and many of the windows were lit and uncurtained so Ramsay could see quite clearly how to approach. The bungalow was modern, the red brick unweathered, faced in places with local stone. In front there was a large, terraced garden, and set into one of the paved terraces was a swimming pool, empty, the blue tiles glazed with frost. In a typical Northumberland summer, Ramsay thought, it could hardly have been used. The garden must be exposed to the wind, cold even in sunshine. Attached to the house was a large garage built of the same violently coloured brick. The door was open and inside were two cars: a small Renault and a new and expensive Rover. Ramsay walked on, unnoticed, past the living-room window, the sound of his footsteps apparently muffled by the double-glazed panes. Inside a woman was setting bowls of nuts and crisps onto small tables. She was bent away from him to fill the bowls and Ramsay could not see her face, only her wide thighs covered by stretched blue silk. The Henshaws were expecting guests.

  When he rang the doorbell, there was a two-tone noise, the same pitch as an ambulance siren from inside. Beyond the tinted glass he was aware of a bustle, a hurried preparation. They thought, perhaps, that he was an early guest and they wanted everything right before they let him in. At last a man opened the door to him. Henshaw was tall, heavily built, with a profile of a kangaroo. Despite his bulk and his age—he was in late middle age—his movements were decisive and self-confident. He spoke first before Ramsay could explain why he was there.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. He wore an open-necked shirt and held a glass in his hand, but there was nothing relaxed about him.

  “Mr. Henshaw,” Ramsay said. “ I’m sorry to disturb you. Perhaps I could come in for a while?” He showed the man his identity card. Henshaw studied it carefully, then stood aside.

  “What do you want?” Henshaw said, not rudely, but making it clear he was not afraid of any policeman. “Someone came this morning to take a statement.”

  “A few questions,” Ramsay said easily, carefully wiping his shoes on a mat just inside the door. A strip of transparent plastic matting led up the long hall. Mrs. Henshaw was obviously a house-proud woman and it would not do to antagonise her.

  Without speaking, Henshaw led him through to the living room. Ramsay had expected Mrs. Henshaw to be there, but the room was empty. All of the large pieces of furniture had been pushed to the edge of the room against the walls, and the expanse of carpet, brightly patterned in swirling blues and greens, was broken only by several small coffee tables. At the time Ramsay thought the room had been arranged that way to accommodate the people the Henshaws were expecting, but when he visited again the room was just the same. It gave Ramsay the sense of a public building rather than a private home. It might have been the lounge of a smart, rather tasteless hotel.

  The whole house was very hot. Along the wall was a stone fireplace and there was a gas fire, which simulated real flames. On the walls were several prints, chosen, it seemed, because their subjects were blue and green rather than because the Henshaws found them attractive. It was the sort of room Diana would have hated.

  Again Ramsay was aware that he would have to conduct the interview with care. The fact that Henshaw owned the land behind his cottage coloured his attitude to the man. It was hard to remain objective.

  “It’s my wife’s birthday,” Henshaw said suddenly. “We’re expecting guests. I’m going to have another drink. Would you like one?”

  Ramsay shook his head. “This won’t take long,” he said. “The policeman who came this morning told you that Alice Parry was murdered last light.”

  “Aye,” Henshaw said, then added reluctantly, “They’ll miss her in the village.”

  He might have said more, but they were interrupted by Mrs. Henshaw, who stood for a moment in the doorway to be admired. Ramsay guessed she must have disappeared when she heard the doorbell to put on makeup, because her face had a waxy, coloured glow. She wore a suit in blue silk with a bow at the neck and frills at the sleeves, and her fat, fleshy feet were squeezed into high-heeled blue shoes. She smiled kindly and walked forward, arms outstretched.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think we’ve met. You must be one of Colin’s friends.”

  She had been told, Ramsay thought, to be on her best behaviour.

  “No, no, woman,” Henshaw said impatiently. “ He’s a policeman. He’s here to talk about Mrs. Parry. Though God knows what it’s got to do with us.”

  To Ramsay’s surprise Rosemary Henshaw’s eyes filled with tears. Her emotion contrasted sharply with Henshaw’s apparent indifference, and he wondered what significance that might have. She would be the sort, he thought, to cry easily.

  “Poor soul,” she said. “ Such a shock to her family.” And she seemed genuinely concerned by her neighbour’s death.

  “Did you know her well, Mrs. Henshaw?” Ramsay asked. Perhaps the women had been close friends and the awkwardness of the building dispute with her husband had come between them.

  “No,” she said. “Not well. But she was kind. When we first came to the village, she made us welcome. She took me to the WI. Not all the old families were so friendly. It’s hard to settle in a new place, especially if you have no children.”

  “Yes,” he said. “ It must be.”

  Yet her sentimentality made him uneasy, and throughout the interview he treated her carefully, afraid of upsetting her again.

  “Mrs. Parry came to see you last night,” Ramsay said. “You were the last people we know of who saw her alive.”

  He looked at them, expecting some response, but there was none.

  “She sold you some land,” Ramsay said. “ She came to see you to offer to buy it back.”

  “Yes,” Henshaw said. “ She sold me some land.”

  “Did you accept her offer to buy back the land?”

  “No,” he said. “ Of course not.”

  “Did you argue about it?”

  “I never argue,” Henshaw said. “I explained to her the facts of business. I’ve already got prospective buyers for some of the houses. I’ve spent thousands drawing up the plans and putting them before the council. I couldn’t sell it now.”

  “Is it true that Mrs. Parry only sold the land to you on the understanding that the houses you built would be small and inexpensive and available to local families?”

  “No
,” Henshaw said firmly. “That was a misunderstanding. I never gave any such commitment. Even Mrs. Parry accepted she’d been mistaken by the end of the evening.”

  “Are you sure?” Ramsay asked. “ There was a protest meeting in the village yesterday afternoon and Mrs. Parry was very angry.”

  “She was angry when she got here,” Rosemary Henshaw said. “She was quite rude. I didn’t want to let her in.”

  Ramsay looked directly at Henshaw. “What did you say to persuade her that she’d been mistaken about the houses?” he asked.

  “There was nothing in writing,” Henshaw said. “She was an old lady. Old ladies get muddled. Besides, it suited her purpose, didn’t it, to let the village think I’d cheated her. Let me be the bad guy. I’m used to it. That way she’d get her money and they’d all still love her.”

  “Can you prove that’s the way it happened?”

  “No,” Henshaw said. “ I told you, there was nothing in writing.”

  “I see.” Ramsay stood up and walked towards the window. The room was so stuffy that he felt he would fall asleep. He did not know what to make of the builder who stood before the gas fire with such confident certainty. “What time did Mrs. Parry leave here?”

  “Quarter to eleven,” Henshaw said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I looked at the clock,” Henshaw said. “ I knew it was late. I offered to drive her home, but she said she’d rather walk.”

  “Did you go out after she went?”

  “No,” Henshaw said shortly. “ I’ve told you. It was late. We went to bed.”

  There was a silence. Ramsay felt he was getting nowhere with the builder. Henshaw would have an answer whatever question was asked. Ramsay felt tired and incompetent. Hunter, he thought, would have bullied something out of him.

  Rosemary Henshaw let Ramsay out of the house. Her husband, unmoved, stayed in the living room and barely looked up to say goodbye. In contrast she was too friendly to the policeman, almost gushing: “ Do let us know if there’s anything we can do to help. Call at any time.”

  Then he was gone. She watched him walk down the drive until the only sign of him was the sound of his shoes on the frosty gravel. She realised how cold she was and shut the door.

  She was a plump woman, always had been. Built like a dairymaid, Colin had said when they first met. He was a city boy from the west end of Newcastle and he liked to think of her as a country girl, though there was nothing romantic about her childhood.

  “We’ll live in the country one day,” he had said when they first moved into their flat in town. He had talked a lot about what he wanted in those days and she had thought he was just dreaming. Now, wanting things had become a habit and he seemed unable to stop.

  After seeing Ramsay out, Rosemary Henshaw paused in the hall before an ornate gilt-framed mirror and absent-mindedly studied her reflection. She wanted to confront Colin about the policeman’s visit, but she had left the important things to him for so long that she did not know how to begin. He would accuse her of making a scene, as he did sometimes when she asked tentatively where he had been when he stayed out all night. She knew he had other women and had stopped asking. She did not want to cause a scene. She wanted to offer Colin her help, but even that seemed an impudent thing to do because he was so far above her in intelligence and understanding. She wanted, above all things, to know what was going on.

  She looked with more purpose into the mirror, hoping to find there the confidence to persuade herself to face her husband. She was good-looking, she thought, for fifty. Her hair, carefully tinted and curled, suited her. She was a little overweight, of course, but Colin liked his women big. She still had the soft, round dairymaid’s face.

  When she returned to the living room, he was sitting on the sofa with a fresh glass of whisky, staring at the fire.

  “Colin,” she said, sitting carefully beside him. “ What was that all about?”

  “You heard what the man said.” Henshaw looked at her as if she were a complete fool, and when he continued, he emphasized every syllable. “Alice Parry was murdered. We were the last people to see her alive.”

  “I know that.” She spoke calmly, trying to be patient, telling herself that he was very upset. “But what does it mean for us?”

  “Nothing,” he shouted. “It means nothing.”

  “I don’t understand why the policeman asked all those questions.”

  “I don’t know,” he cried. “He’d heard we’d had a row over that land.”

  “But that was all sorted out,” Rosemary said. “You told me last week that you’d sorted that out. We’d hear no more about it, you said.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “ So it was.”

  He took a drink from his glass.

  “Colin,” she said. “Where were you last night?”

  He looked at her sharply. “ What do you mean?” he asked. “I was here. You know I was here with you.”

  “No,” she said. “ When Mrs. Parry left, I went to bed and watched the telly. But I heard the car go out. I stayed awake until I heard you come back. It was very late. Where did you go? Whatever it is, I don’t mind. But I must know. I can’t help you if I don’t know.”

  He looked at her angrily. She thought for a moment that he was going to hit her. He had knocked her around a bit when they were first married, when he had not got on as quickly as he had wanted and he had taken it out on her. More recently, he had controlled his temper and there had been less to be angry about.

  “Don’t!” she said quietly. “Don’t forget the guests will be here soon.”

  She was more concerned about his own position than for what he might do to her. He breathed deeply and leaned back in his chair.

  “You shouldn’t spy on me,” he said.

  “I wasn’t,” she said. “I was worried.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” he said. “There was no need.”

  “That’s all right then,” she said, like a mother forgiving the misdemeanour of a naughty boy even though she does not quite believe him.

  “I do it all for you,” he said suddenly. “All this.” He looked around at the expensive carpet, the furniture, the real gas-flame fire. She moved closer to him on the sofa and put her arm around him, pulling his head onto her shoulder.

  “I know,” she said. “I know.”

  The front doorbell rang and the guests began to arrive.

  Chapter Seven

  Ramsay walked quickly down the hill towards the village. The interview with Henshaw had left him frustrated and undecided. He sensed that the builder was hiding something, but his prejudice against the man made him unsure of his own judgement. It was colder than ever and the air caught at the back of his throat. He passed the drive into the farmyard where earlier he had disturbed the dogs and was surprised by the incongruous sound of pop music coming from an upstairs window. At the entrance to the Tower drive he hesitated but continued down the hill, past the church and the green to the Castle Hotel. It was time to meet a wider section of Brinkbonnie’s inhabitants.

  At the pub the lights were on and a couple of cars were parked in the yard at the back. He went inside and pushed open the door that had “lounge” written on it in plastic letters. The room was separated into two by a step. On the raised section, tables were laid with cutlery and cruets and there, at lunchtime, microwaved meals were served. The lower section was carpeted, the furniture dark, imitation antique. There were beams and horse brasses, and the place was empty. Regulars obviously used the public bar.

  In the bar the jukebox was playing an old Rolling Stones number, which brought back painful memories of his youth. The floor was stone and the place seemed to be unheated. There were a couple of high-backed settles; the wood was dark and splintered where three old men were playing dominoes. Two teenagers were playing darts. In a corner by the window a squat, red-faced man with huge hands was reading a farming magazine and drinking steadily. On a stool by the bar a fat man, who turned out to be the landlo
rd, seemed to be asleep. He woke up occasionally to drink brandy from a huge balloon glass. A pretty young woman in her late twenties was drying glasses behind the bar.

  “Come on, Frank,” one of the dart players said. “What about lighting a fire? It’s bloody freezing in here.”

  The fat man stirred and stared at the boy with a cold, reptilian eye.

  “The central heating’s on,” he said, speaking slowly, as if he needed to conserve all his energy. “It’ll warm through soon.”

  “Mean bastard,” one of the old men said, quite audibly. Frank took no notice and settled back on his stool, the hooded lids covering his eyes once again.

  The woman behind the bar looked expectantly at Ramsay, waiting for him to order.

  “Whisky,” he said. Then, recognising a similarity of the features, “Aren’t you Olive Kerr’s daughter?”

  She nodded, surprised, and he added, “My name’s Ramsay. I’m a detective investigating Mrs. Parry’s murder. I spoke to your mother this morning.”

  The darts game continued, the men muffled in scarves and coats still stared miserably at their hands of dominoes, and Frank sat in his stupor, but Ramsay was aware that the whole room was listening.

  “Poor old Mrs. Parry,” the barmaid was saying. “You’d never expect a thing like that to happen in Brinkbonnie. Mam loved going up to the Tower to work.” She paused as she took the money he offered. “You know,” she said. “ I could tell something was wrong when she was in last night.”

  “Alice Parry was in here last night?” Ramsay was surprised, but his voice was smooth and unemotional. “ What time would that have been, then?”

  She was about to answer when Frank’s left eyelid gave an almost imperceptible flicker of warning. She paused awkwardly.

  “If you’re worried about closing time,” Ramsay said, “ there won’t be any trouble. I can promise that.”

  She continued, relieved. “ She came in at about eleven. We always draw the curtains at eleven so you can’t see the lights from the road.” She blushed and went on. “ Then the people inside can finish their drinks. Without having to hurry.”