She told herself she should be pleased by Anna’s new confidence. Hadn’t she spent the past ten years wishing she would be more assertive? Yet as the evening wore on her anxiety increased and she remained in the front bedroom despite the cold, with the curtains slightly open so she could look down into the street below and watch for headlights coming up the hill.
Because of that she saw the car quite clearly, registered that it was new, a bright red Polo. She was surprised when it slowed down and stopped outside the house. Policemen could not be so badly paid, she thought, if they could afford to let their offspring run around in a thing like that, but she felt no real envy. She was just ridiculously relieved to have her daughter safely home. She shut the curtains quickly before Anna could say she’d been prying. Would she invite him in for coffee? Would they kiss? It was not, she supposed, any of her business. When Anna came into the kitchen immediately afterwards she found her mother apparently engrossed in a book.
‘Did you have a good time?’ Prue asked, stretching as if she had been in the chair for hours.
‘Very good, thank you,’ Anna replied politely and before Prue could express any further interest in her evening she said she was very tired and would go straight to bed.
Chapter Thirteen
Hunter sat in Ramsay’s cottage in Heppleburn, looked at his watch, and thought that by the time he got back to Otterbridge the pubs would be closed. He would have liked half an hour in his local to unwind, a couple of pints, a flirt with the barmaid, a quick game of darts.
‘What do you make of it all, then?’ Ramsay asked.
It was one of those open questions again, Hunter thought, which were designed to catch you out or make you look foolish. It was bad enough sitting here after a long day’s work, drinking the boss’s Scotch and pretending they were great chums. What was the man playing at?
Ramsay might have said that he was playing at man management, building a team-he had been sent on all the right courses and knew the jargon-but it was more simple than that. The day had been frantic and he needed time to think, to share his ideas, to test them. Hunter’s scepticism, even his prejudice, made him a useful sounding board. Ramsay could sense his sergeant’s suspicion but could think of no way of putting him at his ease without appearing patronizing, so he repeated: ‘Well, what do you make of it?’
‘I don’t know, sir. Too many bloody complications.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like Gabriella’s bag being found in Amelia Wood’s garden. Like the reservation at the Holly Tree being made in the name of the character Gabby Paston was acting. It’s as if someone’s playing games. I’d like to know what it all means.’
‘I suppose it means,’ Ramsay said, ‘that a certain amount of calculation has gone into the affair. Someone’s trying to cover their tracks. Or send us in the wrong direction. Perhaps there was an attempt to implicate Amelia Wood in the Paston murder by planting Gabby’s bag in her garden.’
‘Why kill her then? She’s not much use as a decoy suspect dead.’
‘No,’ Ramsay said. ‘Quite.’ He stood up and prodded the fire with a poker, letting air under the coal, watching the flame with satisfaction. He had lit the fire when they got in and it was only just starting to release some warmth. The curtains at the back of the house were still open and they could see a thin, hazy moon. A tawny owl called very close to the window and made Hunter start. He was glad he didn’t have to live out here in the sticks.
Ramsay returned to his seat. ‘I know it’s unlikely,’ he said, ‘ but I suppose it’s just possible that Amelia Wood killed the girl.’
‘Then why the second murder?’ Hunter thought it was all in the realms of fantasy. Ramsay was taking the idea of considering all the options to extremes.
‘I don’t know,’ Ramsay said. ‘Revenge?’
‘Hardly. No one cared enough about the girl to bother.’
‘Her family?’
‘Those two old biddies. You must be joking.’
‘I suppose so.’ But the thought of Alma and Ellen disturbed him. He could believe Alma Paston capable of anything. ‘I’d still like to know why Gabriella first left home,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we could make some enquiries on the estate.’
‘We could try.’ Hunter was dubious. ‘But that place is like a tinderbox. It’d only need someone to take offence and you’d have a full-scale riot. They’re not known for their co-operation with the police.’
‘Gabriella was one of them,’ Ramsay said. ‘ They’d surely want her killer found.’
‘Was she one of them? She left, didn’t she? They wouldn’t like that.’
Hunter tried to shuffle his chair closer to the fire.
‘I’ve still not found out who gave her the money to start the savings account,’ Ramsay said. ‘All the payments were made in cash so the building society can’t help. Ellen claims to know nothing about it.’
‘Perhaps it was a present from some other relative,’ Hunter said. ‘Someone on her mother’s side. And she didn’t tell her gran in case she expected a cut.’
‘Yes, perhaps.’ But it was unlikely, Ramsay thought, that her mother’s family would get in touch after all this time. They would have to be traced just the same. Through the Spanish police.
Hunter emptied his glass and set it on the window sill, hoping that Ramsay would offer a refill but the inspector seemed lost in his own thoughts and did not notice.
‘I still think the boy’s hiding something,’ the sergeant said at last.
‘John Powell?’
He nodded.
‘I hope he’s not involved,’ Ramsay said, ‘for Evan’s sake. It would be very difficult, very unpleasant. He was there of course last night in Martin’s Dene at the Holly Tree but he was with his family all the time. I checked with Evan today. And the timing’s all wrong. They didn’t arrive at the restaurant until nine. Amelia Wood left court before five and told the usher she was going straight home. Allowing for the drive, a shower, tea, she would have been out on the hill by six thirty at the latest. We haven’t had a time of death from the pathologist yet but I’d be surprised if it was much later than that.’
‘He could have killed her beforehand then,’ Hunter said stubbornly. ‘According to his statement he arrived home at seven. He left me at the school in the early afternoon. He’d have had plenty of time to get to Martin’s Dene.’
‘But not to get home after committing the murder,’ Ramsay said. ‘He doesn’t have a car and it would be pushing it on foot or using public transport. Besides, what motive could he have?’
Hunter shrugged. ‘As I see it,’ he said. ‘None of them have got a motive.’ He looked wistfully at his empty glass. This time Ramsay took the hint and poured him a drink.
‘I was with Lynch between five thirty and six,’ Hunter said. ‘His car’s still with forensic so he’d hardly be able to make it to Martin’s Dene in time to kill Mrs Wood. Unless he had an accomplice who drove him and that’s not very likely.’
‘No,’ Ramsay said. ‘Perhaps not. But I don’t think we can rule anyone out at this stage.’
He stood up and moved restlessly to the window. The cold penetrated the glass and he shivered.
‘You’re quite right,’ he said, ‘about our lacking a motive. I’m certain that the killings weren’t random or opportunistic. As you said it’s all too complicated and well planned for that. We need a motive that connects the two women. The only link we have at the moment is the Grace Darling Centre so we should start there.’ He paused. ‘ I was interested in something Dennis Wood said. About Lynch. Apparently Wood developed the flats at Chandler’s Court. He told me that when Lynch was first interested in buying a flat he had difficulty getting together the finance. Then, miraculously, he found the money. I’d like to know where it came from. He won’t be making much as director of the Arts Centre. The local authority’s not known for its generosity.’