“Where did this come from?” Ramsay turned on Hunter, aware as he spoke that his anger was unfair. It wasn’t Hunter’s fault. “I thought they’d searched the garden.”
Hunter shrugged. He was thinking of the delights of the Bigg Market: the teenage girls dressed in tiny skirts, the disco music spilling onto the streets through open pub doors. Policing was only a job to him. The pleasures of his time off were more important to him. Ramsay’s anger did not concern him. He had a date with a student nurse and he regretted that more.
“It’s very blowy,” he said. “ It could have been dropped anywhere in the village.”
“Quite a coincidence,” Ramsay said. “ Talk to them. See if there’s anywhere they might have missed.”
Hunter nodded, handed the twins back to their mother, and walked away without a word. The cars moved off down the drive. Ramsay stood outside for a moment watching them disappear through the trees. It was almost dark and Ramsay thought there would be more snow.
In the kitchen the forensic team were just finishing.
“Anything?” Ramsay asked.
The officer shook his head. “ Sorry,” he said. “It’s spotless. That doesn’t mean that the sink wasn’t used, but there’s no evidence. Nothing on the floor either.”
Ramsay shrugged. It was the worst sort of information. It didn’t eliminate or identify anyone. He was no further forward. He filled a kettle to make coffee.
“Did you look at the knives?” he asked.
“Yes. We’ll take one or two of the more likely ones back to the lab to check, but I don’t think your murder weapon’s among them.”
“That’ll please them,” Ramsay said. “They’ll have to continue the search outside.”
“You’re a hard man,” the officer said. “ It’s practically dark out there and it’s freezing.”
It was cold even in the kitchen. The family must have switched off the heating. Ramsay shivered and made instant coffee in a mug. The forensic team left. He heard them calling to each other outside and the sound of their cars going up the drive.
When Hunter came in, he was wearing only denim jeans, a sweater, and a thin leather jacket. He never seemed to feel the cold.
“They say that card couldn’t have been in the garden,” he said. “They searched everywhere. They wouldn’t have missed it. Is that tea?”
Ramsay shook his head. “You’ve drunk enough tea to sink a battleship. What do you think of all this?”
Hunter shrugged. “Attempted robbery?” he said. “If she was late coming back from Henshaw’s, she might have surprised someone who saw the house in darkness. The back door hadn’t been locked, so there’d be no sign of a break-in even if he managed to get inside. I can’t see any of the family knocking her off for her money, and no-one’s going to commit murder for the sake of a few houses.”
Ramsay thought of the view from his cottage window. I might, he thought, if there was no other way. But only if I believed it would stop the houses being built. “Alice Parry’s death makes no difference to the development,” he said. “Henshaw owns the land anyway and can do what he likes with it. If someone in the village killed her, it was out of envy or hatred. It served no practical purpose.”
“What about Henshaw?” Hunter asked. “ Mrs. Parry could have made things awkward for him. Especially if she persuaded her nephew to make a fuss in his paper.”
“Yes,” Ramsay said. “ I want to talk to Henshaw. But he’ll be used to opposition to planning applications. I’ll go and see him when I’m finished here. He was the last person to see her alive.”
“Do we know that she reached him last night?”
“Yes,” Ramsay said. “I sent someone to take a statement this morning. He claims they had a friendly discussion and she left about eleven. We’ll have a house-to-house to see if anyone saw Mrs. Parry on her way home. The pub would have been emptying then. There should have been a few people about.”
Hunter stood throughout the conversation. He was restless. The inspector had made a fuss about him drinking tea, but he sat now, his hands clasped around the mug of coffee, uncertain, it seemed, what to do next. Ramsay had been promoted beyond his competence, Hunter thought. The words sounded good and he repeated them in his mind. The Heppleburn fiasco had almost finished him off. In Heppleburn Ramsay had arrested a women who had committed suicide in custody. The press had complained about police brutality and, on top of his divorce, the lads had all thought Ramsay’s career was over. Yet here he was, still in charge, when there were younger officers to take his place.
While Ramsay finished the dregs from his mug, Hunter wandered to the window. It was snowing properly now, sharp, fine flakes against the grey sky. Hunter’s anxiety for action increased. He did not want to be stuck all night in this sand-blasted village where the only entertainment was a game of dominoes in the pub. When he turned back to the room, Ramsay was on his feet.
“What are you waiting for?” Ramsay asked. “ We can’t spend all day in here. I’m going to Henshaw’s. You go to the post office and talk to the Elliots. Nothing heavy. Just find out where they were last night and what they were doing. Olive Kerr thinks Charlie, the son, might have sent that letter. I’ll follow it up tomorrow. Then you can go.”
Hunter said nothing and followed him out into the snow. Ramsay waited while the sergeant drove off angrily, then walked, as Alice Parry must have done the night before, down the drive towards the Otterbridge Road.
It was six o’clock and quite dark. As he reached the road the snow flurry ended and there was a thin, icy moon and a frost. Henshaw’s place was harder to find than he had expected, because out of the village there were no street lights and the houses were hidden behind hedges. He went through the first gate and walked unexpectedly into a farmyard. He disturbed a dog lying in an outhouse. It barked loudly and an outside light was switched on. A woman came to the door and shouted out to know who was there.
Ramsay, embarrassed by his mistake and not wanting to frighten her further, waited until she returned into the house and went back to the road without being seen.
The next drive led to Henshaw’s house. It curved pretentiously through borders of immature shrubs. There was a light outside the front door of the house and many of the windows were lit and uncurtained so Ramsay could see quite clearly how to approach. The bungalow was modern, the red brick unweathered, faced in places with local stone. In front there was a large, terraced garden, and set into one of the paved terraces was a swimming pool, empty, the blue tiles glazed with frost. In a typical Northumberland summer, Ramsay thought, it could hardly have been used. The garden must be exposed to the wind, cold even in sunshine. Attached to the house was a large garage built of the same violently coloured brick. The door was open and inside were two cars: a small Renault and a new and expensive Rover. Ramsay walked on, unnoticed, past the living-room window, the sound of his footsteps apparently muffled by the double-glazed panes. Inside a woman was setting bowls of nuts and crisps onto small tables. She was bent away from him to fill the bowls and Ramsay could not see her face, only her wide thighs covered by stretched blue silk. The Henshaws were expecting guests.
When he rang the doorbell, there was a two-tone noise, the same pitch as an ambulance siren from inside. Beyond the tinted glass he was aware of a bustle, a hurried preparation. They thought, perhaps, that he was an early guest and they wanted everything right before they let him in. At last a man opened the door to him. Henshaw was tall, heavily built, with a profile of a kangaroo. Despite his bulk and his age-he was in late middle age-his movements were decisive and self-confident. He spoke first before Ramsay could explain why he was there.