Then Ramsay began to share Hunter’s impatience. This talk wasn’t getting them anywhere, just leading them round in circles. He should have trusted his original instinct and concentrated on getting Mary Raven to talk to them. He knew that if he could persuade her to tell them why she was in the churchyard, at least some of the confusion would disappear. So they left the Kerrs in a hurry, almost rudely, refusing offers of tea and food, and they drove to Otterbridge. But when they arrived at Mary Raven’s flat, it was dark and empty and the other tenants claimed not to have seen her all day. The policemen waited in the car for hours, with Hunter ranting about search warrants and, if that was impossible to arrange, breaking down the door and feigning a burglary. By midnight Ramsay was so desperate that he thought he might give in to this folly and knew it was time to go home.
Chapter Seventeen
On Wednesday morning Stella Laidlaw had still not seen Max. She had expected him to arrive the day before and had been prepared for him from early morning, as expectant and smartly dressed as a lover. She imagined that every car that approached the drive belonged to him, and by late afternoon she was in a frenzy of anxiety in case James came home from work before Max arrived. At four o’clock she phoned the surgery, but the receptionist said Dr. Laidlaw was out on an urgent call. Stella did not believe her and shouted and made a scene. Then she phoned Max at home, but Judy answered and Stella put the phone down without saying anything. There was a temptation to spite Max by telling Judy all she suspected, but secrecy, Stella knew, was her greatest source of power.
When James came in from work on Tuesday night, he found Stella more tense than he could remember. She was sobbing and shaking. She wished she was dead, she said. She wished it was all over for her, too. James tried to comfort her. He felt exhausted himself, but he put her to bed like a child and sat with her until she finally slept. In the morning the crisis seemed to be over and her confidence restored. She woke quite normally. He tried to insist on staying with her, or on fetching the doctor to be with her, but she sent him to work. She was at her most charming, apologising for making so much fuss the night before. She was so much trouble to him, she said. She did not know how he put up with her.
Carolyn watched her mother’s performance with a new, dull detachment. In the past, scenes like these would have upset her dreadfully. She would have hidden in her bedroom, her head under the blankets, trying to persuade herself that nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Now the hysteria hardly touched her. She wondered why she had ever considered her mother’s moods of such importance.
She watched the weeping woman with curiosity, as if her mother were a strange child throwing a tantrum in the street. James and Stella were so wrapped up in each other that they did not notice the change in Carolyn. They did not realise that she had hardly slept for nights and that she had eaten little. When she made her way to school, she stumbled with tiredness.
James was relieved to leave the house, but all day he was thinking about Stella, remembering how she had been before Carolyn was born, wondering if she would ever be like that again. Wednesday was the day before publication, the busiest time for the Express, but he could not forget her.
When Ramsay came to the office in Otterbridge, it was late morning and James Laidlaw was holding an editorial meeting. His door was open on to the large, open-plan office to allow the cigarette smoke to escape and he was working through the list of news lines supplied by his reporters to decide which items should go on the front page.
“It’ll be the Charlie Elliot murder, will it?” A large, elderly reporter with a peculiar crew-cut sat on the opposite side of the desk. He was looking at black and white photographs of the Tower, Charlie Elliot in army uniform, and Brinkbonnie village, squinting at them, trying to judge which picture had the most impact. “We’ll need to cover the Alice Parry story, too. It’s obviously related. I know the Journal’s done that in detail over several days, but we can run our own angle.”
“Yes,” James Laidlaw said. Worry about Stella made him preoccupied, rather aloof. Even his aunt’s death could not touch him. “What have we got so far?”
“A look at the facts as we know them, with details of Charlie Elliot’s last movements and a map of the area. An interview with the father, Fred Elliot. You know the idea: ‘ I was convinced my son was never capable of murder.’ I thought we might include a background piece on the planning issue. Something about the high feelings raised by new developments in small communities.”
James looked up. “ I’m not sure that would be relevant anymore,” he said. “ Not after Charlie Elliot’s death. It looks more like the work of a lunatic now.”
“We’ll hold the planning piece for another week then,” the reporter said. “We’ll concentrate on the murders.”
“What have we got from the police?” James asked. “ Not much. They’re giving nothing away.”
“There’s nothing here from Mary Raven. What’s she been doing this week?”
The reporter shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. He had little time for Mary. He thought she was unreliable and disrespectful. “She said she was working on a special feature. I assumed she had your approval. She was in last night, but I’ve not seen her since.”
“No,” James said slowly. “She hasn’t talked to me about any feature.” There was a pause. “When she comes in again, tell her I want to speak to her.”
He looked through the open door and across the large office and saw Ramsay standing at reception.
“Well,” he said to the reporters. “We’re organised now. That’s all then.”
Ramsay had climbed the narrow stairs and was standing with the receptionist.
“I was hoping to speak to Miss Raven,” he said. “ Is she here?”
Before the receptionist could answer, James Laidlaw had crossed the large office.
“Inspector!” he said. “ Did you want to talk to me? Is there any news?”
“No,” Ramsay said. “ No news. Is Miss Raven here?”
“I’m afraid not,” James said. “It seems that she’s not been at work this morning. Perhaps she’s ill. Have you heard from her, Marjory?”
“Yes,” Marjory looked awkward. “ She did phone in.”
“Well,” James said. “ What’s the matter with her?”
“I don’t know,” Marjory said. “Not exactly. I think she’s going through some emotional problems. She didn’t sound well. She told me she’d given up men and was going to throw herself into work. It was an important story. Something about a bankrupt businessman. The biggest story of her career, she said.”
“That wouldn’t be difficult,” James said shortly.
“I need to talk to her,” Ramsay said. “It’s rather urgent. If she comes into the office today, will you ask her to get in touch with me at the Incident Room.”
“I can’t help you, I’m afraid,” the receptionist said. “I’m taking the afternoon off. It’s my grandson’s birthday and I’m having the children to tea. I was just going home.”
She took a coat from the peg behind the door and tied a silk scarf round her hair, and picked up a large wicker basket. James Laidlaw listened to the exchange between Marjory and Ramsay without reaction. He nodded briefly and walked back to his office, apparently preoccupied with his own thoughts.
“You stay here,” Ramsay said to Hunter. “Talk to Mary Raven’s colleagues. See if you can find out what she’s up to and where she might be.”
He followed the receptionist, who was already halfway down the stairs.
“Can I give you a lift somewhere?” he called after her.
He held open the door to let her out and they stood together on the pavement. It was market day and in Front Street stalls were still set out with rails of cheap clothing and trays of vegetables. Now, at lunchtime, the stall-holders were shouting their special offers to clear the goods that would not keep for another day and the pavement was littered with old cabbage leaves.