Ramsay replaced the receiver slowly. He hoped to God she was safe.
In the neat terraced house on Martin’s Dene Front Street Hilda Wilkinson made tea for the pleasant policewoman who had come to talk to her. Hilda Wilkinson was a widow, spry, independent, energetic. She had just returned from her daughter’s and was full of the trip. She had enjoyed her weekend in the Lakes, she said, despite the weather. She still managed a good tramp across the fells.
‘It’s about the car you saw last Monday,’ the young detective said. ‘Can you tell us anything more about it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Wilkinson said. It was only mid-afternoon but the windows of the cottage were small and the light was already beginning to fade. The lights were on and she had just lit a fire in the grate. ‘It was about two o’clock, I know that, and it’s unusual to see cars parked there during the week. At weekends it’s different of course. But there was nothing really to catch my interest.’
She poured tea into pretty china cups and handed one to her visitor.
‘Did you see anyone out on the hill while you were walking your dog?’
‘Not the young girl who was killed,’ Mrs Wilkinson said. ‘I saw a photo of her in the paper and a description of her clothes. I’ve rather a good memory, you know, almost photographic despite my age, and if I’d seen her I’d remember.’
‘But was there anyone else?’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Wilkinson sat very still. She wanted to test her memory. She was quite confident in her own ability.
‘It was very foggy,’ she said. ‘In the morning it had been sunny but by lunch time the mist started to come in from the sea. I didn’t go very far. I’m not a nervous person but it wasn’t pleasant there…’ She paused. ‘ There was a young mother,’ she said, ‘ with a child in a pushchair. I almost bumped into her, the fog was so thick. The baby wasn’t wearing gloves and I thought it was so irresponsible. His hands must have been freezing. I almost said something but she hurried away.’
‘Anyone else?’ The policewoman looked out of the window. She supposed the inspector must know what he was doing but this seemed a waste of time. She nibbled a piece of shortbread, stretched her hand towards the fire, and thought she might as well make the most of the rest. It had been a busy weekend.
‘There was Eleanor Darcy,’ the old woman said, ‘but I don’t suppose you’ll be interested in her. She walks on the hill every afternoon. She’ll not have remembered anything. She’s rather confused, poor dear. Still on the committee of the WI but not really up to it, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ll take her address,’ the policewoman said. ‘Just in case.’ She jotted the information in her notebook and stood to go.
‘Wait a minute!’ Mrs Wilkinson said. She was suddenly excited. ‘There was someone else. Not actually on the hill but on the road close to where the car was parked. Now, let me think…’ She shut her eyes and then began a detailed description which tallied almost exactly with that given to the policewoman by Stephen Ramsay the day before.
Chapter Eighteen
By early evening the news of the Pastons’ arrest had spread over the Starling Farm estate. Neighbours who hadn’t seen Alma Paston in the open air for years described her departure in the police car.
‘Man, you’d have thought she was the Queen, waving and bowing. Ellen held an umbrella over her so she’d not get wet. And the size of her! They tried to squeeze her into the back of the car but she wouldn’t fit and in the end she had to go in the front beside the driver.’
It started as good-natured gossip. There was little resentment. Most of the people in the street had guessed what the Pastons had been up to and thought they had been lucky to get away with it for so long. They’d had a good run for their money, the neighbours said. You couldn’t blame the police for doing their job. Alma Paston had never been popular. They were too frightened of her.
It got nasty later. When the trouble was over they blamed Connor for that. He’d always been a hot-head, a firebrand. They’d never taken him seriously but he had too much influence over the kids. They could only guess at his motive for stirring up resentment. Perhaps it was political. He was always talking about the revolution. Perhaps he believed it would finally start on the Starling Farm estate. Or perhaps he had his own personal reason for wanting to cause trouble for the police-he had always been close to Alma Paston and had supported himself for years by supplying her with stolen goods. Whatever his motive, everyone agreed that without Connor the evening would have ended quietly. It was a cold and wet Monday evening-not the night for taking to the streets. It took Connor’s rhetoric to start the kids off.
He got the news in the Community Centre on the Starling Farm in the afternoon. A boy who had bunked off school to play pool passed on the information almost casually, as if it were a joke.
‘Old Ma Paston’s been arrested!’ he said. ‘ The cops took her away at dinner time.’
It was Connor who called the arrest harassment. He made the unemployed teenagers switch off the music and stood in the middle of the Games Room lecturing them.
What right did the police have, he said, to take the two ladies from their home? What harm could they be doing? How would they feel, he demanded of his audience, if the police came and dragged their grans into the police station for questioning? It was a vendetta against the Paston family, he said earnestly. Robbie was dead, Gabby was dead, and now Ellen and Alma were in custody. He was so eloquent that the boys almost believed that the police were responsible for Gabriella Paston’s death.
‘It’s Evan Powell,’ he said at the end. ‘He’s behind it. He’s never liked the Pastons or the Starling Farm estate.’
‘What are we going to do about it then, Connor?’ one of the lads asked.
‘We’ll show them,’ he said, ‘who’s in charge here.’
At the police station Alma Paston was remarkably frank despite the tape-recorder and the policewoman sat in the corner. Ellen seemed so confused and frightened that she was almost incoherent and Hunter soon gave up on her. He’d never been known for his patience. But Alma told them everything they wanted to know. Ramsay sat in on the interview and watched her dominate the conversation.
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I can give you names. It was John Powell, hinnie. He brought in most of the stuff and he was behind the ram raids too.’ She repeated the boy’s name at every opportunity like a talisman or a chant, looking at the machine on the table as she spoke to make sure it was recording.
Later Ramsay sought out Evan Powell to tell him of the allegations made against his son.
‘I tried to phone you yesterday,’ he said at first. ‘You must have been away.’
‘Yes,’ Evan said. ‘ Jackie’s been off-colour lately. I thought we could do with a weekend on our own. I took her to a place we know in the dales.’
So the house had been free for John and Anna, Ramsay thought, but he said nothing. The boy’s illicit night of love-making with a girlfriend hardly compared with the other things Evan would have to accept. Evan looked tired and drawn and Ramsay thought that the weekend could not have lived up to expectations. He had expected a romantic second honeymoon and had been disappointed.
‘How can I help you?’ Evan said. He spoke warily but without hostility. Perhaps he thought Ramsay was there to apologize for the bad feeling between them on Friday night.
‘Hunter arrested Alma and Ellen Paston this morning. Their house is full of stolen goods. Apparently they’ve been dealing for years.’
‘Why are you telling me?’ Evan said, though he must have guessed what it was all about.
‘Their statement implicates John.’