Ramsay was listening impassively. “ Tell me your theory,” he said.
Robson paused and poured out more tea.
“Most protest groups have one or two activists who do all the work,” he said. “ The rest turn up at the meetings-if the weather’s not too bad and there’s nothing good on the telly. It’s the same in any political organisation, and in most places you find the same people running everything-they’re school governors, on the parish council, even running the WI. If Henshaw managed to threaten, bribe, or blackmail the activists in each group, there would be no real opposition left. The organisation would fall apart. Then the Department of the Environment inspector would think that no-one cared sufficiently about the development to make a fuss and he would let it go through.”
“But to prevent your activists from being effective, Henshaw would have to have detailed information on people all over Northumberland. It hardly seems likely.”
“He’s got a lot of contacts,” Robson said. “A lot of people owe him favours. And we know he’s used dirty tactics in the past. Besides, he wouldn’t have to do it in every case. Only when it seemed likely that other methods wouldn’t work.”
Ramsay had been standing throughout the conversation and moved to the window to look down the dene. His mind was working very quickly and he felt suddenly light-headed. For the first time he had a plausible motive for Alice Parry’s murder. She had the confidence of everyone in the village. If Henshaw had chosen leading members of the Save Brinkbonnie group as victims of his persuasion, it was quite possible that Alice would have heard about it. Perhaps, when she went to see Henshaw in an attempt to buy back the land, she had tried some gentle blackmail of her own. Ramsay imagined her standing up to the developer: “ Sell me the land or I’ll tell everyone what methods you’ve used to get your own way. My nephew’s a newspaper editor. He’ll be glad of the story.”
Rosemary Henshaw had said that Alice was angry when she came to the house. Nothing could be more daunting, Ramsay thought, than a middle-class lady spurred on by righteous indignation. But perhaps Henshaw had called her bluff. Perhaps he had pointed out to her that the people most likely to suffer from exposure were the people whose indiscretions had made them potential victims of blackmail. That would explain her distress in the pub after she had left him. Then perhaps he had decided that her knowledge was too dangerous, and he had followed her and murdered her before she reached home. There was a lot of conjecture in the theory, but it fitted the facts. Ramsay was attracted to it, too, because it made Henshaw the most likely suspect. If he were convicted of murder, Ramsay’s view would be safe.
“Well?” Robson demanded, breaking in on his thoughts.
“What do you think?”
Ramsay turned back slowly to face the room. “ It’s very interesting,” he said noncommittally. “ I’m grateful for all your help.”
“I don’t want your gratitude, man. I want to know if you think I’m right.”
“I think it might be worth following up,” Ramsay said.
Jack was thrilled. “ What do you want me to do? I’m a well-known man in this county. I could speak to a few people.”
“No,” Ramsay said. The last thing he wanted was Jack Robson frightening off Henshaw before they had proof. “We have to be discreet, you know, and it’s a police matter now. But you can help all the same.”
“How?” Robson asked. “Just tell me, man. I’ll do anything I can.”
“I’ll need a list of names,” Ramsay said. “ Members of residents’ associations or community groups living in areas where Henshaw’s recently won a planning appeal. The activists you were talking about. The people who do all the work. Can you do that?”
Robson was disappointed. He had expected something more exciting. He wanted a challenge.
“Aye,” he said. “ I can do that for you. I can think of someone now who led the group in Wytham before those houses went up. Her name’s Jane Massie. She’s involved in everything that goes on in Wytham. I’ll write down the address for you. She lives in that big house opposite the new estate. You can have a longer list later if you need it.”
Ramsay nodded gravely. He stood on the front step and watched Robson walk quickly down the road on his way to work in the school.
In the kitchen Ramsay emptied the teapot and rinsed the mugs. He preferred to have things tidy to return home to. He was determined in his new home not to descend into bachelor squalor. As he tidied the room, he was testing Robson’s theory against the facts. It might work, he thought. It might just work. But who would Henshaw have approached in Brinkbonnie to influence the opposition? Charlie Elliot? Fred Elliot? Tom Kerr? All were prominent members of the Save Brinkbonnie group and possible candidates. He felt he needed to spend more time in Brinkbonnie, listening to the gossip, getting a feel for the place, before he could make a sensible judgement.
But that would have to wait. The most immediate concern was to talk to Max Laidlaw. Ramsay thought that the doctor would be less able to stand up to questioning than Mary Raven. He was weak and indecisive. Besides, the police had the illegal prescription given to Stella, and faced with that evidence he might be persuaded to admit his relationship with Mary. An affair with one of the practise’s patients would provide another motive for murder, Ramsay thought, if Alice Parry had found out about it, and as he was always telling Hunter, it was important to keep his options open.
Ramsay drove to the Health Centre in Otterbridge, thinking that it might be more tactful to talk to the doctor there than at home. He waited patiently behind an old woman whose joints were swollen with arthritis while she collected a repeat prescription, then asked to see Dr. Laidlaw.
“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, hardly looking up. Dr. Laidlaw’s taken a few days off for his aunt’s funeral.”
When the inspector arrived at the Laidlaws’ house, he thought at first that no-one was there. It was a sunny, breezy day and he had expected children in the garden, washing on the line, but the house was quiet and in shadow. He was about to give up and turn away when Judy Laidlaw came to the door.
“Inspector!” she said. His presence frightened her. “ What is it? Come in.”
“I was looking for your husband,” Ramsay said. Then, in an attempt to put her at ease: “It’s very quiet here today. Has he taken the children out?”
“No,” she said. “ The children are with a friend for the morning. Max is out, I’m afraid.”
She led him automatically down the bare wooden stairs to the basement kitchen.
“Could you tell me when he’ll be back?” Ramsay asked. “It’s quite important.”
She hesitated, turning away from him so he could not see her face. “ No,” she said quietly. “I don’t know where he is. We had an argument yesterday at lunchtime and I’ve not seen him since.”
Then she turned back to face him and he saw she was crying, her body heaving with frightened, silent sobs. “I’m so worried about him,” she said. “ I think something dreadful has happened to him. It’s not like him to stay out all night without telling me.”
Ramsay stood awkwardly, not sure what to do, how to comfort her. He would have liked to put his arm around her but was frightened the gesture would be misinterpreted. She seemed so desperate for affection.
“Shall I make some tea?” he said. “Then you can tell me all about it. Or perhaps you’d prefer me to leave you alone. I could come back later with a policewoman.”
“No,” she said. Her eyes were raw from crying and he realised she must have been sobbing all night. “ Don’t go! Don’t leave me alone! I’ll make the tea.”
“There’ve been no accidents, you know,” he said, trying to reassure her. “ Nothing serious. I would have heard about anything like that.”