Murder in My Backyard Page 8

  “I see.” He smiled to reassure her. “Was it usual for Mrs. Parry to come in that late at night?”

  “No,” she said. “ Not that late. She was quite a regular customer. I think she got lonely on her own in the Tower and she came in here for the company. She didn’t drink much.”

  “But last night she had a drink?”

  “Yes,” Maggie Kerr said. “She had two. She said she needed them. She seemed upset.”

  “Upset?” he asked. “ Or angry?”

  “Upset,” she said. “She looked as if she’d been crying.”

  So, Ramsay thought, Henshaw hadn’t been telling the truth. There hadn’t been a reasonable exchange of views during Alice’s visit. Something had happened to disturb her.

  “Did she tell you what it was all about?” he asked.

  Maggie shook her head. “ There was a darts match in here last night. It was very busy. There wasn’t time to talk.”

  One of the old men looked up from his dominoes and glared at the landlord. “ If someone got up off his backside,” he said, “ and stood behind that bar occasionally, we wouldn’t have to wait so long for our drinks when it’s crowded in here.”

  Again Frank gave no acknowledgement that he had heard the comment. The red-faced man by the window stood up suddenly and brought his glass to the bar to be filled. While Maggie was pouring the beer, Ramsay turned round and addressed his next questions to the customers.

  “Did she talk to anyone else last night?” he asked.

  “No!” the old man said. “And that wasn’t like her. She might live in that big house, but she’s not one for sticking her nose in the air.” He turned towards the red-faced man, who had returned to his seat and his magazine. “ Not like some of the women in this village. Mrs. Parry usually brings her Guinness down here and has a chat with us. Last night she sat up at the bar and didn’t say a word to anyone. She was white as a ghost.”

  “Which locals were in?” Ramsay asked. “ Colin Henshaw? Charlie Elliot?”

  “Colin Henshaw doesn’t come in here often,” the barmaid said. “Charlie Elliot’s on the darts team, but he went just before Mrs. Parry arrived.”

  “And that doesn’t happen very often, does it?” one of the darts players shouted. “ It’s not often that Charlie leaves before you do, is it, Maggie? Doesn’t he usually wait to walk you home?”

  She looked suddenly angry and embarrassed, and Ramsay thought how difficult it was for an outsider to settle into a village like Brinkbonnie or Heppleburn. There was obviously some attachment or tension between Maggie and Charlie Elliot, and if he reacted wrongly, he would break the mood of the whole conversation. He decided to ignore the comment and continue with his questions. If the relationship between Charlie Elliot and Maggie was relevant to his investigation, it could be explored later.

  “I was relieved Charlie went early,” Maggie said.

  “I bet you were,” the darts player shouted again. “Been making a bit of a nuisance of himself lately, hasn’t he? You should tell the inspector about it. Perhaps he’d be able to arrange police protection, or perhaps you enjoy it, really.”

  Again she ignored him. “I was relieved Charlie went early,” Maggie said, “because I was afraid he might make a scene. After the way he treated Mrs. Parry at the meeting.”

  “Were you at the meeting in the hall yesterday afternoon?”

  “No,” she said. “I couldn’t get there. But I heard what happened.”

  Of course, Ramsay thought, the whole of Brinkbonnie would have heard about Charlie Elliot’s rudeness to Alice Parry.

  “Did Mrs. Parry walk back to the Tower on her own?”

  She looked at the old men. “Did anyone go up the hill with Alice?”

  “Aye.” It was the old man with the almost unintelligible accent who regarded the landlord with such venom. “I took her home.”

  “But that’s out of your way, Joe,” the barmaid said.

  “All the same,” he said. “I think I’m enough of a gentleman to know what’s right. I took her home.”

  “All the way?” Ramsay asked.

  “To her drive.”

  “Did you see anyone else on the way?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t see Charlie Elliot?”

  “I’ve told you. We didn’t see a soul. Besides, Charlie would have been long home by then.”

  “Was there anyone in the churchyard?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” the old man said. “I didn’t look.”

  “Did you see Mrs. Parry into the house?” Ramsay asked.

  “Nah! You can’t see the house for the trees. I’d seen her to her gate. I thought I’d done my duty.” He glared at the landlord. “ I’d spent an evening in here,” he said. “I was perishing cold.”

  “Yes,” Ramsay said. “I see.”

  He finished his drink, then went out into the street. He was almost at the church when he heard the sound of footsteps rattling on the frosty pavement. When he turned round, he saw Maggie running towards him, the tails of her scarf flying out behind her. When she reached him, she was breathless and her eyes were streaming with the cold.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” she said, “ about Charlie Elliot.”

  He felt a moment of satisfaction when he realised that his approach in the pub had been the right one. If he had started asking questions in front of the customers, she would have said nothing.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’ll walk back to my car. It’ll be a bit warmer in there. Then I can drive you home.”

  “You’ll be asking questions in the village,” she said. “I know you have to do that. You’ll hear about it anyway. You might as well have the truth. It’s nothing to do with Alice Parry’s death.”

  He said nothing. It was impossible to know what was relevant to the investigation at this stage.

  “They said that I led him on,” she cried suddenly, “ that he lost his career in the army because of me. But it’s not true. When I told him I was leaving David, I didn’t expect him to be so silly.”

  Why do they talk to me like this? Ramsay thought. I have no real right to know.

  “David was your husband?” he asked.

  “Yes, and when I left him, I had to come back here. There was nowhere else to go. I couldn’t stay in the house. David’s a keeper on the Rutherford estate and it was a tied cottage.”

  “I don’t quite understand,” he said, “where Charlie Elliot comes in.”

  They turned into the churchyard, and the long grass was stiff with frost.

  “Charlie and I grew up together,” she said. “We were in the same class at school, got the bus together everyday. I liked him. He was a good friend. Then, when we were sixteen, he started taking me out. Into Otterbridge to the pictures, to youth-club dances. I thought it was just a bit of fun. Other girls had boyfriends. I had Charlie.”

  “But he took it more seriously?”

  “Yes,” she said. “ On my eighteenth birthday when we were both still in school, he asked me to marry him.”

  They had come to the wrought-iron gate into the Tower garden. Ramsay lifted the latch and pulled it open to allow her to walk through. But she stood facing him, wanting him to understand.

  “I was young,” she said. “I was flattered. I liked him. I didn’t think it would do any harm. When I agreed to get engaged, I never really thought it would end up in marriage. It was an excuse for a party, for being the centre of attention for a while. You know what young girls are like. It made me special.”

  Ramsay thought that he did not know at all what young girls were like and shut the gate behind her. He was not wearing gloves and the cold metal of the catch stung his hands as he struggled to fasten it.

  “You changed your mind,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “I changed my mind. Charlie became so serious and intense. He wanted me to spend all my time with him. He was only taking one A-level and some re-sits, but I was doing three A-levels. I wanted to go into nursing. He seeme
d to think that wasn’t important. Not compared with spending time with him.”

  “How long did the engagement last?” he asked.

  “Three months,” she said. “Then one evening we had a furious argument and I broke it off. He left school and went to join the army.” She paused. “I was quite proud of that,” she said bitterly. “It seemed very romantic.”

  They reached the car. Ramsay opened the passenger door for her, then got in and started the engine so that he could switch on the heater. All of the windows were covered in ice.

  “What did you do?” he asked.

  “I passed my exams and started training to be a nurse,” she said. “I saw Charlie sometimes when he was home on leave. He was always polite but very distant. I thought he’d made his gesture and the whole thing was over. I met David at a young farmers’ dance and started going out with him, I got pregnant and we got married.” She shrugged. “ That time I thought I’d better see the thing through. On the day before the wedding I had a letter from Charlie saying I was making a terrible mistake and I’d never be happy.”

  “And were you?”

  “Oh,” she said. “ For a while.”

  “When did you leave your husband?”

  “About a year ago,” she said. “ Charlie was home on leave and I bumped into him in the Castle. It was good to have someone to talk to, flattering, I suppose, to have him so attentive. Towards the end of the marriage David had hardly noticed me. I told Charlie that I’d left David and that the boys and I were staying at Mum and Dad’s. But that’s all. I didn’t give him any encouragement. He walked me home and gave me a good-night kiss, but I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just pleased we were friends again.”

  The heater was beginning to clear the ice from the windscreen and they could see the bulk of the Tower in the moonlight.

  “What happened then?”

  “Charlie left the army,” she said. “ It was awful. Like a nightmare. He wrote to his father to tell him and Fred Elliot turned up at our house accusing me of leading him on. “You’ve broken his heart once,” he said. “Now you’re meaning to do it again.” His wife had recently died and everything seemed to upset him. I didn’t know what to say or do. I wrote to Charlie telling him there was no point coming home, that I hadn’t changed my mind, but it didn’t do any good.”

  “Did you persuade your father to give him a job?” Ramsay asked.

  “No,” she said quickly. “ I didn’t want to have anything to do with him. My father thought that if he offered Charlie a job, there would be a reconciliation between the families. You don’t understand what it’s like in a place like this. The village was split in two, with half supporting me and half supporting Charlie. My father’s idea was to bring everyone together again.”

  “But it didn’t work?”

  “It would have done,” she said, “if Charlie hadn’t been such a bloody fool.” She began to cry. “ He’s worn me out. I don’t know if I can stand it any longer. I think he’s mad.”

  “What does he do?” Ramsay asked.

  “It started with presents – flowers and chocolates and bottles of wine. At first I took them back to him. But that only made him angry. He’s got a terrible temper. So now I keep them and take them into the old Cottage Hospital in Otterbridge. Then he tried phoning me at home, sometimes dozens of times in an evening, begging me to see him and talk to him. More recently, he’s taken to following me around the village. When I wake up he’s out on the street looking up at me, and he waits outside the pub at closing time and follows me home. I don’t know what to do. It’s frightening. He’s not normal now. He’s completely obsessed.” She paused. “It’s affecting the whole family,” she said. “ My dad tried to talk to Charlie about it one night after work. There was a fight. Can you imagine it? My father brawling in the street. He must have caught Charlie off balance because Charlie hit his head on the pavement and knocked himself out. Then, of course, Dad felt guilty and that made things worse.”

  “But Charlie’s still working at the garage. Even after the fight?”

  “Yes,” she said bitterly. “ Dad’s a great one for martyrdom. He wants to show the village he knows what’s right even if he finds it hell.”

  “Have you talked to the police about this?”

  “No,” she said. “ How could I? Dad assaulted Charlie. They might charge him. The village think it’s all my fault that Charlie’s in that state. How would it look if I reported him to the police, too? Besides, I’d started to hope that soon it would all be over. He’d become obsessed with the housing development on the Tower meadow. I thought if he became involved with that, he might forget about me. And it seemed to be working. The night Mrs. Parry died was the first evening for a month when he wasn’t there to follow me home after work.”

  Ramsay looked at her sharply, wondering if the words were malicious, if she was accusing Elliot of having played a part in Mrs. Parry’s murder. But she spoke quite innocently. She was simply relieved that she had been allowed to walk home alone.

  “Have you seen Charlie today?” he asked.

  “He was outside the house at lunchtime when I went to work,” she said. “But I’ve not seen him this evening. Do you think it might all be coming to an end?”

  “I don’t know,” Ramsay said. “But I’d better take you home. Your parents will be wondering where you are.”

  He drove slowly down the drive towards the Otterbridge Road. At the junction he had to brake sharply, then skidded because a man stepped out suddenly into his headlights. The man stood for a moment in the road, shielding his eyes from the glare of the lamps with his hands, shocked, it seemed, to see a car coming down the Tower drive. It was only when he turned without apology and walked on up the road that Ramsay recognised him as the red-faced man from the pub.

  “Who the hell is that?” he asked. “What on earth does he think he’s playing at?”

  “It’s Robert Grey,” Maggie said. “ He farms the land behind the village. He lives just up the road, next door to the Henshaws’.”

  “Does he get as drunk as that every evening?”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t know what was wrong with him tonight. He came in at opening time and must have just finished now.”

  At the house behind the garage the lights were still on and Ramsay imagined her father there, waiting anxiously. There was no sign of Charlie Elliot. She ran in without a word.

  It was midnight when he arrived back at the cottage at Heppleburn. He assumed that the envelope stuck in his letter box would be a circular. It was Sunday and there was no post. Before looking at it, he lit the gas fire and made coffee. Only then did he see that it was a card, expensive and hand-delivered, from Diana welcoming him to his new home. He studied it, as if hoping for a clue in the pressed flowers and bland printed message to her motivation. But he did not find one, and when he got in to bed he still was not sure whether he was pleased or sorry to have missed her.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day, Monday, the murder enquiry moved on like an unwieldy, poorly organised military exercise. At dawn the special patrol group began their search of the beech wood behind the house. Dressed in boots and anoraks, they moved in a single line through the trees, hindered by the frost and snow that covered the dead leaves, swearing about the cold. Some were sent to the churchyard. At first there was no communications equipment and they kept in touch by shouting. They complained, as they always did, of their superiors’ inefficiency. They set up their base in the small police house on the edge of the village but found nothing there to help them. The only equipment provided was a wartime pamphlet showing the identification of German planes and a bucket of sand in case of fire. There had been little crime in Brinkbonnie.

  They found the knife quite by chance soon after the search was started. The youngest member tripped on the edge of a flat gravestone and fell, facedown in the snow, accompanied by laughter and jeers. As he stumbled he knocked over a vase of dead daffodils that had been stand
ing on the grave and the knife emerged with the rotting stalks of the flowers.

  “You lucky bastard,” someone shouted. “I suppose you’ll take the credit for finding it now.”

  But they were all pleased that the murder weapon had been found. It encouraged them that they might find something else of significance.

  Ramsay was told about the discovery of the knife in Otterbridge. He was at the police station, supervising the setting up of the Incident Room, the arrival of computer terminals, extra phone lines, and piles of paper. Still no-one had found the screens to block off the corner of the Tower garden where the body had been found, and he, too, muttered about inefficiency. His superintendent was giving all his attention to the press and on every news broadcast there was a shot of him pleading earnestly for information about any unfamiliar cars seen in Brinkbonnie on Saturday night.

  A group of detectives from Newcastle had been drafted to help and they milled around the Incident Room until Ramsay sent them off to Brinkbonnie to begin the house-to-house enquiry.

  Hunter arrived at work elated and energetic after his night in Newcastle, wanting action, immediate results.

  “Did you see the Elliots last night?” Ramsay asked.

  Hunter nodded.

  “Anything?”

  “Not much. They weren’t very communicative.” I bet you weren’t either, Ramsay thought. You’d want to get the interview finished as soon as possible so you’d be in Newcastle before your date walked out on you.

  “Did Charlie Elliot tell you he’d been to the pub?” Ramsay asked.

  “Yes.” If Hunter was impressed by Ramsay’s knowledge, he did not show it.

  “What time was he home?”

  “About eleven. His father confirmed it.”

  “How did he strike you?” Ramsay asked. “Apparently he’s been making a nuisance of himself with Maggie Kerr, the barmaid in the Castle. They were engaged when they were teenagers and he never got over it. Did he seem unbalanced to you?”

  “Not unbalanced,” Hunter said. “Moody perhaps.”