‘So you think she might have seen something. She was killed to keep her quiet.’
‘It’s a possibility, though there are obvious problems with the theory. If she’d seen something obviously suspicious why didn’t she get in touch with us immediately? She was a magistrate, concerned, responsible.’
There was a pause and then Wood answered slowly. ‘She was all those things, Inspector. But she was also a woman who enjoyed power. If she had come across information which she could put to her advantage she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.’
Ramsay was surprised by his honesty and detachment. Bereavement usually made people sentimental. Wood sensed the surprise.
‘We had a successful marriage, Inspector. We understood each other’s needs. There was respect and admiration. But not what you could call romantic love and that’s what clouds one’s judgement.’
‘Did you discuss the Gabriella Paston murder yesterday evening?’ Ramsay asked.
‘Only briefly. Amelia didn’t know about it when she came in. I’d seen a short report on the local news and passed on the details. I knew she’d be interested because of her connection with the Centre.’
‘Had she ever met the girl?’
‘I don’t think so. She would have told me last night if she’d known her personally.’
‘Do you know what she was doing at the Arts Centre yesterday?’
‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I haven’t a clue. As I’ve explained, we led very separate lives.’
‘She’d arranged a meeting with a Mr Lynch, the director,’ Ramsay persisted. ‘She didn’t mention it? The name doesn’t mean anything to you?’
‘Oh, yes, I recognize the name. I’ve had business dealings with Lynch but Amelia wasn’t connected in any way.’
‘Could you tell me what sort of business dealings?’
‘He bought a flat from me.’ Wood stood up and stretched. The colour had returned to his face. The shock and the hangover were beginning to wear off. ‘In Chandler’s Court just off Hallowgate Fish Quay. I’m an architect and my firm bought the building and converted it. It was rather a successful venture for us and we hope to do more of it in the future.’
‘Was there anything unusual about your negotiations with Mr Lynch?’
‘Not really. At first he haggled about the price. He tried to bring Amelia into it, said that he’d taken a massive drop in salary to come to work at the Grace Darling and he thought I should make a gesture by reducing the asking price.’
‘What did you say?’
‘That his dealing with Amelia was quite separate from his business with me and that if he didn’t want the flat there were lots of people who did.’
‘And he managed to find the asking price?’
Wood shrugged. ‘Of course.’
‘When did he move into Chandler’s Court?’
‘Two and a half years ago.’
‘Where was he living before that?’
‘I don’t think I ever knew. He’d been renting somewhere since he moved up from London but I sent all the correspondence about the sale to the Arts Centre.’ The architect returned to his chair.
They sat for a moment in silence. Outside there was the sound of cars pulling up in the street, doors banging, voices, as the team who would search the hill were directed through the garden to the back gate.
‘Have you ever been to the Holly Tree restaurant?’ Ramsay asked.
Wood was surprised by the question but answered easily. ‘Yes. It’s a convenient place to entertain. I often take business clients there and Amelia and I went quite regularly, perhaps once a month, for dinner or Sunday lunch.’
‘Is it possible, do you think, that Mrs Wood booked a table there on Monday lunch time?’
It seemed unlikely, Ramsay thought, though the question had to be asked. Why would Amelia want to buy Gabriella Paston an expensive lunch? And why not use her own name? As a regular customer it would guarantee her a better table. It could not be because she wanted to keep the trip to the restaurant a secret-she would be recognized as soon as she arrived.
‘Quite possible,’ Wood said. ‘ She went there sometimes with her friends.’
‘She didn’t mention it to you?’
‘No. But she wouldn’t have done. She would have written it in her appointments diary though. Everything went in there. I’ll find it for you.’
He stood up and left the room, glad it seemed of the excuse for movement. As Ramsay waited for his return a minibus pulled up in the street, and a pile of men in navy anoraks trampled over the gravel and across the grass to the back of the house. Wood came back almost immediately with a thick desk diary which Ramsay opened at November 30th. A string of appointments was listed in small neat handwriting. Amelia’s day had started with a Cancer Research coffee morning, there was a meeting of the planning subcommittee at 2.00, tea with D.Y at four and a meeting of the governors of Hallowgate Sixth-Form College at 6.30.
‘D.Y?’ Ramsay asked.
‘Deidre Yeoman. Another Tory councillor. They met occasionally for moral support and to discuss strategy.’
Ramsay considered the appointments. They would check of course if Amelia had kept them all. She must have gone straight to the Grace Darling after the governor’s meeting. It was just possible that she could have fitted in an early lunch at the Holly Tree and still be at the council meeting at two but unlikely surely that she would have made the arrangement. The mysterious Abigail Keene who had booked the table must be someone altogether different.
His thoughts were interrupted by Hunter, who tapped on the door and stood just inside the room, scarcely able to suppress his excitement.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ he said, obviously not sorry at all. ‘ If I could have a word.’
Ramsay followed him into the hall and shut the door.
‘We’ve found something,’ Hunter said. ‘Something really interesting.’ He paused for dramatic effect and then continued. ‘A sports bag. The sort all the kids use to carry their gear in, full of books and files. It belonged to Gabriella Paston.’
‘So,’ Ramsay said. ‘She did come to Martin’s Dene on the day of her death. Where exactly did you find it?’
Hunter paused again, like a child wanting to savour a moment of triumph. ‘ Well,’ he said. ‘That’s the most interesting thing of all. We found it here. In this garden. In the middle of the shrubbery next to the wall. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?’
Chapter Eleven
At midday Ramsay left St Martin’s Close and drove back to Hallowgate to report to the chief superintendent. The Close was filled with police vehicles and he made a mental note that when the case was over he should write to all the residents to thank them for their forbearance.
In his office the superintendent listened carefully to what Ramsay had to tell him. On the wall above his head was a watercolour of St Mary’s Island which he had painted himself. From the window was a view of the mouth of the river.
‘Not a coincidence then,’ he said, ‘if the girl’s things were found in the Woods’ garden.’
‘Definitely not a coincidence,’ Ramsay said, ‘ but nothing to connect the women yet either, except the Grace Darling Centre.’
‘You think Gabriella Paston was murdered in Martin’s Dene too?’
‘That seems the most obvious explanation. She’d told her friends she was going there. Her bag was found at the end of the garden. It could have been thrown over the wall from the common.’ Ramsay paused. ‘I think the focus of the investigation will have to shift to Martin’s Dene,’ he said. ‘ We’ll need to make that point clearly at the press conference. Presumably Gabby Paston got there by public transport. Someone must have seen her. And she was quite a striking figure. We’ll need a house-to-house in the village. I’m having photos printed now. ‘ Then we’ll need everyone who was out on the hill yesterday evening to come forward.’