‘Did you talk to her?’ he asked. He needed proof and at present this was the most he had.
‘Sorry, sir. I called at her house but there was no reply. A neighbour said she’d gone away for the weekend to stay with her daughter in the Lakes. She’ll not be back until Monday. Do you want me to try and get a phone number for her?’
‘No,’ he said. Some old people disliked the phone, felt flustered by it. ‘Wait until tomorrow then. Talk to her in her own home. She’ll be more relaxed there.’
In a sense he welcomed the delay. It put off the time when he would have to commit himself, have to say: ‘I believe this person is a murderer.’ It gave him time to collect his ideas.
At lunch time Hunter called at the cottage in Heppleburn. He stood on the doorstep, his hands thrust deep in his jacket pockets.
‘I thought you might fancy a drink,’ he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to be there. ‘It’s all very well the boss saying to take a break but I can’t settle to anything while this is still up in the air.’
Ramsay knew that this was no social call. It had never happened before and Hunter had dozens of drinking companions he would choose before the Inspector. They walked slowly through the quiet village to the Northumberland Arms and found a seat in a corner. The pub was busy, full of men enjoying a pint before their Sunday lunch. Hunter got in the first round and Ramsay realized he must want something.
It soon became clear that he was there to lobby for support. He wanted the Pastons’ house searched. ‘I’ve been through the records of every lad in North Tyneside convicted of an auto-crime in the last three years,’ he said. ‘I’m sure that at least six of the boys who went into that house on Thursday have been done for taking without consent. I’ve the list of names here.’
‘If you took a random sample of kids you bumped into on the street in the Starling Farm you’d probably come up with the same result,’ Ramsay said mildly.
‘But you will support me?’ Hunter demanded. ‘There’s been no real bother on the estate this weekend.’
Ramsay shrugged and went to the bar for another drink. He supposed it would do no harm. He had to keep his options open.
‘Well?’ Hunter said.
‘I think it would be useful to know what’s going on there,’ Ramsay said cautiously.
That was good enough for Hunter. Having got what he came for he bolted his pint and left, saying his mam would be keeping his dinner for him. Ramsay remained in the pub on his own until closing time. The afternoon stretched ahead of him, empty and uninviting.
He went to bed early and was woken from a deep sleep by the telephone. It had been ringing too in his dream and he was only half awake as he picked up the receiver.
‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘Ramsay.’ The dream had been pleasant, mildly erotic, and he struggled to capture some memory of it.
‘Stephen,’ a woman said. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I didn’t know what to do.’
It was Prue Bennett.
‘How did you get my number?’ he asked foolishly. It was the first thing to come into his head. He was ex-directory and he had been certain that it would be a work call.
‘I phoned your mother,’ she said. ‘ Not now. Earlier this evening. It’s taken me a couple of hours to find the nerve to phone you. I didn’t know what else to do. I was frantic and the police station wouldn’t give it to me.’
Ramsay looked at the clock by his bed. It was two o’clock.
‘What is this all about?’ he asked impatiently.
‘It’s Anna,’ she said. ‘She’s missing. She hasn’t come home.’
‘Have you reported her missing to your local police station?’
‘Of course,’ she cried. ‘Hours ago. But when they found out how old she was they weren’t interested. She’s an adult, apparently. If she wants to stay out all night with her boyfriend it’s up to her. There’s nothing they can do.’
‘Is she with John Powell?’ His voice sharpened. For the first time he seemed properly awake.
‘I don’t know,’ she said helplessly. ‘I think so.’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘do you want me to come over? I’m not sure what good it’ll do but I’ll come if you like.’
‘Yes,’ she said relieved and he realized that was what she had wanted from the start. ‘Please come. As soon as you can.’
When he arrived at the house in Otterbridge he caught a glimpse of her face pale in the street light, peering between the curtains in the living room. Had she been looking out for him? Or was she still keeping a vigil for her daughter? Perhaps she had been disappointed to see him emerge from the car instead of Anna. But when she opened the door to him there was only relief.
‘Oh, Stephen!’ she said. ‘It’s so good of you to come.’ She put her arms around him. He held her for a moment, astonished that it felt so natural. Her hair smelled as it always had and memories of their summer together came flooding back.
‘You look washed out,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you some tea.’
He saw that she was almost hysterical with anxiety. He led her like a child to the kitchen, sat her in the rocking chair, and put on the kettle. The room was still warm but she was shivering.
‘Your mother remembered me,’ she said. ‘After all this time!’
He did not know what to say. He wondered what his mother would have made of the call. She would be imagining romance, wedding bells, grandchildren. He poured out mugs of tea, handed one to her, and sat beside her.
‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘When did Anna leave?’
‘This afternoon at about half-past three.’ She looked at him over the rim of her mug with dark eyes. ‘It seems days ago. We had a late lunch together then we started talking about the play she’s in-The Adventures of Abigail Keene. There’s another rehearsal tomorrow-’ She looked at the kitchen clock and corrected herself. ‘Today. It all started off quite amicably. We discussed some details of her performance. I heard her lines. She’s taken over Gabriella Paston’s character and it’s a big part to learn in the few weeks before the show. Then it all got more abstract and high-flown. It was almost as if she was trying to pick a fight. She assumed I was critical, that I didn’t think she could be as good as Gabby. It was my fault, she said, that she couldn’t play the part. I’d been too protective. Her childhood had been too cosy. She didn’t have the experience.’
Prue paused and looked up at Ramsay.
‘I suppose in a way she was right. But I only did what I thought was best.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘ Did she walk out then?’
‘No. Not straight away. I said that it didn’t sound like her talking. It was more like Gabby. Or John Powell. That’s when she really flew off the handle. What was wrong with John Powell, she said. I’d made it quite clear that I disapproved of him. Didn’t I think she was mature enough to choose her own friends? That’s when she stormed out of the house.’
‘She didn’t give you any idea where she was going?’
Prue Bennett shook her head. ‘But I had the impression that the whole quarrel was manufactured and that she’d already planned to meet him. She wanted an excuse to go, an excuse to get back at me. But I wouldn’t have stopped her going out with John. I don’t particularly like him, but she’s old enough to make up her own mind. She didn’t have to go through all that. I don’t know what’s got into her.’
‘Perhaps she’s growing up,’ he said. ‘ Very quickly. After a slow start. Isn’t that how teenagers are supposed to be? Moody, confused, rebellious.’
‘I suppose so. I can never remember being like that.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘ Nor can I. Perhaps we were unusually sensible.’
She smiled for the first time, then her mood changed again suddenly.
‘I’m so frightened,’ she said. ‘Gabby was playing Abigail Keene and now she’s dead. What if the same has happened to Anna?’
She looked at him, desperate for reassurance.
‘I don’t see,’ he said carefully, ‘ how the play could have anything to do with it.’
‘Really?’ she said. ‘Really?’ He hoped he could live up to her trust.
‘Have you tried phoning the Powells’ house?’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘ I never knew John’s number. And they’re ex-directory too.’
‘I know the number. Do you want to ring them? Or would you like me to try?’
‘You do it,’ she said. ‘ I wouldn’t know what to say.’
He stood in the cold and dusty hall and dialled the number but though he let it ring and ring there was no reply.
‘Evan must be away,’ Ramsay said. ‘I know he’s got a weekend off work. If he were there he’d have answered it.’
‘That’s a good sign, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘ That John’s not there. It means they must be out together. A party, something like that. At least Anna’s not on her own. She’s not phoned because she wants to prove she’s independent.’
She was brighter. Since Ramsay’s arrival she had lost the desperate, haunted look. Now she seemed almost optimistic. Perhaps he was right and it would do Anna good to be rebellious for a change.
Ramsay was noncommittal.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I think you should get some sleep.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘ I couldn’t. What if Anna turns up? If she phones and needs a lift.’
‘I’ll be here,’ he said. ‘ I’ll wait until morning.’
At last she allowed herself to be persuaded and left him in the rocking chair, thinking. He tried to make sense of Anna’s disappearance. How did it fit in with the theory he had put together over the weekend? It was the last thing he would have expected. Then he saw there was a connection, a common motive at least, even if Hunter would never have recognized it. Now he could see how all the major players in the piece were driven.