In the car Patty sat for a few moments before driving away. She was shaking with relieved tension but satisfied with her achievement. Mrs Mount was terrified. She must know something about Angela and was obviously trying to protect her. Perhaps a quantity of the drug had disappeared after her daughter had been to visit. Perhaps Angela had confessed to the murder of Medburn. How pleased Ramsay would be with the information! Patty was convinced that Angela was the murderer. She had only to prove it.
As she drove back into the village she saw that the mist in the valley had thickened and when she arrived, breathless, in the playground to collect the children, it was almost dark.
Chapter Eleven
The fog rose in the valley like a tide. At the foot of the school wall it was as if it had reached high water, because above the school and the church the sky was clear and the stars were shining. In the valley it was grey, mixed with coal dust and smoke, and it smelled of sulphur. The cars moved slowly through the village and the orange street lamps gave off no light. Ramsay parked outside the Northumberland Arms and stood for a moment in the doorway of the pub, his back to the warmth and brightness. He had very little time. There had been calls from the press that he should be replaced on the case. He was only at work now because his superior was indecisive and weak, but Ramsay knew that soon he would be forced into action. He must have a successful result by then. He had never been a sociable policeman. The practical jokes with which his colleagues had relieved the stress of their work had never amused him. He had never been particularly liked. Now he knew they were watching his discomfort with the same childish glee as they had used to plan their infantile pranks.
Ramsay decided to walk to Matthew Carpenter’s flat. As he walked away from the Northumberland Arms he was surprised to see Jack Robson coming in the opposite direction, carrying a small suitcase. He supposed Patty had persuaded him to stay with her. He would have stopped to talk to him, but Jack turned quickly into the public house. Ramsay walked on. The more he thought about Medburn’s murder, the more he was convinced that Carpenter was the culprit. He had motive – he had been victimized by Medburn and threatened with dismissal. He had opportunity – he had a key to the school and could have bought the bandages for the noose from some busy chemist in the town days before.
It was true that the pharmacist who owned the flat swore that no Heminevrin was missing from his shop and was indignant at the suggestion that Matthew might have stolen it. His drug cabinet was always locked, he said, and Matthew had no key to that. Yet it seemed too much of a coincidence to Ramsay. Carpenter’s demeanour on the night of the murder pointed to some crisis. He had been drunk, unbalanced, obviously upset by something, and he had left the party early. Perhaps murder was an overreaction to Medburn’s unfairness, but he was young, alone, an outsider from the south. All that Ramsay needed was a confession.
The shop was in a terrace which faced the Morpeth road. Matthew’s flat was approached from the back by a flagged footpath which led to another similar row of houses. After leaving the Northumberland Arms Ramsay saw no one. The fog and two murders had kept people at home.
When Matthew opened the door he seemed flustered and nervous as if he had been startled from sleep. There was a narrow staircase which led over the shop to the flat. Ramsay went up first and walked into the living room. Matthew followed him and stood awkwardly in the middle. It was a very small flat. Through an open door Ramsay could see the kitchen and a mound of plates on the draining board. The room was furnished with shabby, elderly pieces donated perhaps by aunts or grandparents who wanted to contribute to his first home. It was warm, heated by an old-fashioned gas fire, which hissed and provided a comforting background for their words. A tabby kitten sat on the chair nearest to the fire. Matthew lifted it off carefully and held it. Like a child with a teddy bear, Ramsay thought derisively. Matthew moved away to offer the policeman the seat.
‘Would you like some tea?’ he asked, eager to please. ‘I was just going to make some.’ His head was bent over the kitten and he did not look at Ramsay.
‘No,’ Ramsay said briskly. ‘I’m too busy to drink tea.’ He had been drinking tea that afternoon, talking to his team in Otterbridge police station, but he wanted to intimidate Carpenter and show that he meant business. He was hoping that the teacher would lose his nerve. It had become clear to him that Carpenter dreaded the questions, hated the interviews. Ramsay thought that with sufficient gentle pressure he would be persuaded to confess.
‘Just a few more questions,’ Ramsay said easily. Matthew sat on the floor on the other side of the fire, his legs stretched before him, the kitten on his knee. Ramsay was disconcerted by the informality of the seating arrangement. He could only see the man’s forehead and his mop of curly hair. By choosing to sit on the floor Matthew seemed casual and relaxed. It indicated a greater confidence than Ramsay thought Carpenter possessed.
‘Do you own a car?’ he asked, though he knew the answer already.
‘No,’ Matthew said. ‘I can’t afford one yet. I’m saving up.’
‘But do you drive?’
‘Yes. I passed my test when I was eighteen before I went to college. It was a birthday present from my parents.’
‘Do you have access to a car?’
‘Only my mother’s when I go home.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Derbyshire.’
So, Ramsay thought, if Carpenter had murdered Wilcox he had followed him on foot or borrowed a car, or stolen one. He had decided to concentrate tonight on the Wilcox murder. It was more recent, less fraught with complication than that of Medburn, and the attempt to prove that Carpenter had stolen Heminevrin was getting nowhere. If he could find evidence that the teacher had been near to the old mill that day he would at least have grounds for bringing him in for interview. All day his men had been asking questions at the scattered farms and cottages along the lane from the old mill to the coast, but there had been no result.
‘What were you doing on Sunday?’ Ramsay asked, as if it were a casual question, of no real importance. He had asked the question before and Matthew seemed irritated by it.
‘I’ve already told you. I was here.’
‘You didn’t go out at all?’
Perhaps there was a slight hesitation, but without seeing Carpenter’s face it was hard to tell. ‘No,’ Carpenter said. ‘ Not at all.’
‘I remember now,’ Ramsay said. ‘ You spent the day with Miss Hunt.’ What was he doing with her? Ramsay thought. He’s young. Hasn’t he got a girlfriend? Someone he can talk to? Or perhaps he confided in the schoolmistress? He seemed to need someone to depend on.
‘Miss Hunt came to lunch,’ Matthew said defensively. ‘She’s been very kind to me since I started at the school. I would never have survived there without her. She lives on her own. I thought it would be a kind thing to do.’
He’s talking too much, Ramsay thought.
‘What time did she arrive?’ Wilcox had been murdered soon after mid-day. Matthew could have killed him and still be back for lunch-time.
Matthew shrugged and for the first time in the interview he looked directly at the policeman. He was slightly flushed. ‘I’m not sure. Late morning. I told her to come for coffee. It must have been about eleven thirty.’
‘And what time did she leave?’
‘Three thirty. We both had work to prepare for the next day.’
If Matthew had company for the whole of that time he could not possibly have been the murderer. Ramsay was still not convinced but changed the direction of the questions.
‘Have you got any walking boots?’
‘Yes.’ Matthew seemed shocked. ‘Why?’
‘There were prints in the mud near Paul Wilcox’s body. We want to compare them with the boots belonging to everyone involved in this case.’