She seemed worried by the news and he wondered if she had some inside knowledge. Perhaps Theresa had confided in her and she felt unable to pass on the information.
‘He hasn’t been here,’ she said.
‘I don’t think he will come back,’ he said. ‘He was talking about leaving.’
‘Poor Theresa. It was bound to happen some time, but he might have waited.’
She turned back to the room where Theresa sat, quite still, and waited for him to follow her.
The room was stiflingly hot and airless. He looked at the poster of mountains and sea and thought that if he were Joss Corkhill he would run away too. Unable to breathe he opened a window. The estate was silent, empty. Usually at this time on a sunny evening it would have been at its most lively with children on bikes, adults on their way out, but even the ice-cream vans had deserted the place for the centre of town. The Ridgeway Community Association was entering its first float and though no one thought it had a chance of winning they all wanted to be there to cheer it on. He turned back to the room.
Theresa Stringer stared at him, bewildered. He was not even sure if she remembered who he was.
‘I’m sorry about Clive,’ he said.
She shook her head as if she were unable to take it in.
‘You took Joss away,’ she said. ‘What have you done with him?’
Would it be kinder, Ramsay thought, to lie, to tell her that Joss was still in custody? He could not do it.
‘We let him go,’ Ramsay said. ‘We haven’t charged him.’
‘Oh,’ she said and he thought she was relieved though it was hard to tell. ‘I expect he’s at the fair then. Or the pub. He’ll be back later, when they throw him out.’
And she gave a little smile, as if that had been an attempt at a joke.
‘Yes,’ Ramsay said. ‘Perhaps.’ He looked at Hilary Masters, hoping that she might explain that Corkhill was unlikely to return, but she seemed preoccupied and he thought again she might be keeping something from him. He was afraid of being, in her eyes, the heavy-handed policeman and he did not pry.
‘Where’s my baby?’ Theresa cried suddenly, like a child waking up in the middle of a nightmare. ‘I want my baby.’
Hilary Masters sat beside her again on the sofa and took her hand.
‘Ssh,’ she said. ‘Ssh. Beverley’s quite safe. You know that. She’s with her foster mother. I’ll take you to see her tomorrow.’
Her voice was low, caressing. Ramsay was very moved.
‘No!’ Theresa cried. ‘No!’ But the outburst passed and quite suddenly she returned to her state of blank incomprehension.
‘Tell me about Clive,’ Ramsay said gently. ‘Do you know who killed him?’
She stared at him, obviously terrified. ‘I don’t know anything,’ she whispered. ‘ You ask Joss. He’ll tell you how I don’t know anything.’
‘Do you think Joss killed Clive?’ he asked. Her reaction surprised him. He had expected grief, confusion, but not this fear.
‘I don’t know anything,’ she repeated, clinging to Hilary’s arm for support.
‘It’s no good,’ Hilary said. ‘I really don’t think she can help you.’ The women stared at him together, so he felt cruel, heartless in persisting.
‘I’d like to see Clive’s bedroom,’ he said, knowing he was only putting off the unpleasant task until later: he would have to talk to Theresa that night. However confused she was there were still questions which had to be answered. Surely Hilary would understand that. He hoped he might find in Clive’s room something which would provide a focus for the questions, something to start them off. Besides it would give him a break from this stuffy room and the accusing eyes of the women.
Hilary turned to Theresa. ‘ Is that all right?’ she said. ‘You don’t mind?’
Theresa shook her head and he left the room and climbed the stairs. Clive’s bedroom was small, square and surprisingly tidy. It was at the back of the house. The bed was made and the faded greyish sheet was folded back over a threadbare blanket made of different coloured knitted squares. Built into an alcove there was a wardrobe which obviously came as a standard fitting to the council house, and a kitchen chair beside the bed but no other furniture. Ramsay opened the wardrobe door. Most of the clothes were piled on shelves at the bottom. He took the garments out one at a time. Occasionally he came across something new which had obviously been a present from Dorothea – there was a brown T-shirt with an Oxfam logo and a bright hand-knitted sweater – but the rest had the limp, shapeless look of old jumble.
Inside the wardrobe door was stuck a photograph of Dorothea and Clive together, standing formally outside the vicarage. Clive was upright and proud and grinning broadly. Was it tact, Ramsay wondered, which had caused him to hide the photo away? Did he think his mother would be hurt by his affection for the vicar’s wife?
Ramsay looked under the bed and found a pile of comics and a lot of dust. On the chair by the bed was a plastic mug of water and Clive’s watch. That too, Ramsay remembered, had been a present from Dorothea. Clive had been wearing it the day before when he waited for her to come out of Mrs Bowman’s flat in Armstrong House. I never asked the old lady about that, he thought. I never followed up the discrepancies in their stories. He could not see why it would be important but the thought of the watch troubled him, niggled throughout the rest of his conversation with Theresa. Before going downstairs he paused and looked out of the boy’s window and wished again that he could be in Heppleburn.
In the living room it seemed that the women had hardly moved. He found that he had no patience with either of them.
‘Coffee!’ he said briskly. ‘ I think we could all do with some coffee. Perhaps you could make some for us, Miss Masters?’
The social worker looked surprised but she went into the kitchen. Theresa watched her go with terror.
‘Theresa,’ he said. He tried to sound kind but realised that the effect was patronising. Fatherly concern did not suit him. ‘I’m sorry to intrude like this but I need to ask you some more questions…’
She nodded.
‘You didn’t tell me what Dorothea talked about when she came here late yesterday afternoon,’ he said. ‘ It would be helpful if we knew what her plans for the rest of the evening were. Has anything come back to you?’
She was more alert now, and very tense. ‘It was nothing important. She just came to see how I was feeling.’
‘Tell me about Clive, then,’ he said, keeping his voice calm. ‘When he left here today where did you think he was going?’
‘Back to work,’ she said. ‘You were here, weren’t you? You heard what he said.’
‘Was it usual for him to come home for his lunch? It’s a long way.’
‘It depended what he felt like,’ she said. ‘They weren’t paying him.’
‘But he was there to do Community Service,’ Ramsay said. ‘He wouldn’t have been allowed just to wander about.’
Hilary Masters came in then, carrying mugs of coffee, holding them awkwardly by the handles, all in one hand.
‘It wasn’t really Community Service,’ she said. ‘Not in the legal sense. He was a juvenile. He was placed on a supervision order and the arrangement to work at the old people’s home was made informally between Dorothea and the warden.’
‘So he never worked set hours?’ Ramsay asked.
‘He was supposed to,’ she said, ‘but it was hard to keep him to a timetable. He was easily distracted.’
Ramsay remembered that the same thing had been said about Dorothea. He wondered if the boy’s inability to stick to anything had been a factor in his death. Had his attention been caught by something the murderer wanted kept secret? Had he, in his vacant, bumbling, innocent way, become involved in Dorothea’s murder?
‘He might have gone to the fair,’ Theresa said suddenly. ‘He always liked the fair.’