Robson lived in a small estate in 1930s council houses. The move to smokeless fuel had not yet reached the village and clouds of smoke hung over the chimneys. There were neat paths through the snow cleared from the pavements to the front doors. Two elderly women in long coats and furry ankle boots gossiped on the corner. As he drove past they looked at him, wondering who he was. Whenever he came to this estate Ramsay had the impression of going back in time. It was preserved in an atmosphere of fifties’ boredom and decency.
Through the living-room window of Robson’s house Ramsay saw the old man sitting by the fire. He was eating an early lunch. His feet were straight ahead of him on the hearth; there was a book on his knee and a plate of bread and cheese on the arm of the chair.
When Robson opened the door to the policeman, he was brushing crumbs of bread from the front of his jersey.
“Inspector Ramsay!” he said. He seemed more pleased to see the policeman than he ever had in the earlier investigation. “Why, man, it’s good to see you. Come in, come in. I’ll put the kettle on. Or perhaps you’d rather have a beer.”
Ramsay was touched by the welcome. It was not that Robson was lonely and needed visitors whoever they were. He was a busy man.
“Sit here,” he said. “ By the fire.”
Ramsay allowed himself to be brought tea. He refused the offer of food.
“Now,” Robson said. “ What can I do for you? You’re not just here to say hello. Do you need any help with moving into the cottage?”
“No,” Ramsay said. “It’s not that. I’m here for information. Does the name Colin Henshaw mean anything to you?”
Robson looked at him carefully. “Aye,” he said. “ You know he owns that land behind you?”
“Yes,” Ramsay said. “ So I understand. But it’s not about that. Not directly. He lives in Brinkbonnie.”
“That’s where Alice Parry lived,” Robson said. “You’re working on that case?”
Ramsay nodded.
“I knew her,” Robson said. “Through the council, you know. She was a great one for charity projects. I liked her.”
“She sold some land to Henshaw,” Ramsay said, “on the understanding that it would be used for cheap starter homes for local people. When the plans were drawn up, she discovered that he meant to build bigger, more expensive houses there.”
“That sounds the sort of trick Henshaw would play,” Robson said.
“Alice Parry was leading the campaign against the development,” Ramsay said. “There was a protest meeting in the village on Saturday afternoon and on Saturday night she was killed.”
“Henshaw’s a powerful man,” Robson said doubtfully. “He can get his own way without violence. At least he can these days.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Robson said. “ You’ll have checked his record. I don’t know whether he was ever convicted, but when he first started out he had a bit of a reputation as a hard man.”
“No,” Ramsay said. “He was never convicted.”
“He must have been a clever bugger even then,” Robson said.
“As he’s not got a record,” Ramsay said, “ you’ll have to tell me what he got up to.”
“He always liked a fight,” Robson said. “So I understand. I never knew him then. He was still operating out of Newcastle. The story goes that he hired himself out to local businessmen who wanted to collect debts without the trouble of going through the courts. He was a big man. If he turned up on your doorstep, you’d soon pay up.”
“How did he start up in legitimate business?”
“He bought in to an existing building firm,” Robson said. “ George Saunders and he were partners for a while, but Henshaw was soon running the business single-handed. Saunders was too much of a gentleman to survive against him.”
“You say Henshaw’s a powerful man,” Ramsay said. “Has he any influence over the planning committee? I understand he has an unusual success rate with his applications.”
Robson did not answer immediately. He chose his words carefully. “I don’t know,” he said. “I wouldn’t have said so. I wouldn’t put it past most of them, and it is surprising how he’s managed to push his plans through the system, but in most of the cases the plans were rejected by the council and only approved on appeal by the inspector.”
“I suppose,” Ramsay said, “that the Department of the Environment inspector is incorruptible.”
“I don’t know about that,” Robson said, “but I wouldn’t have thought Henshaw would have had any influence there.”
There was a silence.
“So how does he do it?” Ramsay asked, frustrated. “ Is he just lucky?”
“Henshaw’s always made his own luck,” Robson said.
“I doubt whether he’s changed now. Do you want me to find out for you? I’ll talk to a few people. See what I can come up with. I’ll get in touch.”
Again Ramsay was touched by Robson’s eagerness to help.
“Yes,” he said. “ Do that.”
But he left with no hope that the conversation with Robson had achieved anything.
Chapter Nine
In Brinkbonnie Ramsay drove past the police house, with the communications van parked outside, stopped on the green, and then walked to the post office. Outside of Tom Kerr’s garage there were half a dozen old and rather scruffy cars with hand-painted signs advertising them for sale, but the workshop was empty. From the street Ramsay could hear the waves on the beach beyond the row of cottages. It was almost high tide. He pushed at the post office door before he saw the sign in the window saying it was closed for lunch. He stood on the pavement for a moment rattling at the door, but no-one came to open it.
Fred Elliot’s living accommodation was behind the post office and above it. Ramsay walked through an arch in the terrace of houses into a flagged yard with the sand hills beyond. There was a door from the yard into the house and Ramsay knocked there. It was opened almost immediately by a tense, upright man in his early sixties. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and his hands were wet and soapy.
“Yes?” he said. “The post office is closed. We don’t open at dinnertime. Not until the summer.”
“I’m a policeman,” Ramsay said. “I’ve come about Alice Parry.”
“But someone was here last night,” Elliot said quickly. “I talked to him.”
“I know,” Ramsay said, “ but perhaps I could come in.”
Reluctantly Elliot stood aside and watched anxiously while he stamped snow and sand off his shoes. The door led straight into a kitchen, and the floor was spotlessly clean. There were painted wooden cupboards on the walls and a square table, covered in oilcloth, against one wall. A clotheshorse, held together at the corners with binder twine, was propped in front of a solid-fuel boiler and a pair of navy working overalls steamed. The small window was covered in condensation, so it was impossible to see out.
“I was washing up,” Elliot said, as if there was something to be ashamed of in the activity. “Since my wife died… you know.” He nodded to the chairs pushed under the leaf of the table. “ Sit down,” he told Ramsay. He was still holding the towel and scrubbed at his hands, although by now they were quite dry. From the other room came the sound of a television signature tune.
“Are you on your own?” Ramsay asked.
Elliot hesitated, though the noise of the television in the next room made it obvious that someone else was in the house. “ No,” he said. “ It’s my son, Charlie. He works next door at the garage and comes in for his dinner.”
“Perhaps I could speak to him, too,” Ramsay said.