Ramsay imagined them, banned from their homes by the men who wanted to watch Grandstand in peace, hovering round the gate of the Coastguard House, attracted by the noise and the flash cars. Being a nuisance. Getting in the way. If they were noticed at all.
‘So you didn’t see anything unusual?’
But by then they’d lost interest and they were already swaggering away, back to the jetty, to swing on the blue and white tape and shout insults at the constable on duty.
Ramsay walked up the hill to the Coastguard House.
Chapter Eight
Claire didn’t turn up for work at the Coastguard House on Monday morning. Emma hadn’t really been expecting her to. She’d heard about Kathleen Howe’s death from Brian who’d gone down to the club for a pint after his Sunday lunch and found the jetty cordoned off, the place crawling with coastguards and police.
‘What a terrible accident!’ Emma had said, meaning it at first and only thinking of the implication later. Then there was a feeling which was not so much relief as gratitude.
‘Not an accident.’ Brian’s words were slightly slurred. The club might have been shut but he’d had a few cans at home and most of a bottle of Rioja with his roast beef. ‘That’s what the talk is. The lass spoke to the blokes who fished her out.’
She hadn’t replied. Couldn’t. She would have expected Brian to go on about the tragedy all afternoon, making sick jokes, even phoning his friends to tell them. Luckily he never mentioned it again.
When the doorbell rang late on Monday morning Emma hoped that it would be Claire, deciding that she would be happier at work after all. Claire would know what was going on.
But Claire would have gone round to the back and let herself in. Instead there was a man who waited patiently while Emma unlocked the door and tugged at it. It always warped in the damp.
‘Yes?’ she said briskly. She tended to become officious when she was nervous.
‘Mrs Coulthard?’
‘Yes.’
‘My name’s Ramsay. I’m a detective inspector with Northumbria Police.’ He paused. ‘It’s about Mrs Howe.’
Ramsay was a man who wouldn’t be easily fooled. Emma saw that at once. Before the babies she’d headed up the Human Resources Department of an electronics firm which had moved to Wallsend and she’d worked with men of authority. She’d admired them. Not the bullies, the pushy, lippy little men – they almost always were men – who blustered and posed and did sod all work if they could help it. But the one or two decent managers who meant what they said. Always.
He was not particularly impressive to look at. About her age. Possibly a bit older. Tall, bony and angular with long limbs like a marionette. Dark hair which could do with a cut. She was too nervous to focus on his face but she saw dark eyebrows almost meeting in the middle which left the impression of a continual frown. He was wearing a raincoat. It was too big for him and hung over the shoulders, dragged out of shape by the weight of the material so it looked like a cavalry officer’s cape.
‘Claire’s not here today,’ Emma said quickly. ‘I don’t expect she could face it.’
‘She hasn’t been in touch?’
‘They haven’t got a phone. She’d know I’d understand.’
‘Of course.’ Ramsay paused so long that Emma wondered if that was it, if now he would turn away and walk down the hill to Cotter’s Row.
‘It was really you I wanted to talk to,’ he said at last. ‘ You or your husband. Perhaps I could come in. If it’s convenient.’
‘The children are here.’
‘Oh, I won’t need to disturb them.’
‘But they might disturb us. That’s what I’m saying.’
He smiled. ‘We won’t mind that, will we?’
So she had no alternative then but to stand aside and let him into the house. He thought it was a place where he could have lived. There was a lot of polished wood and white paint. It was not so tidy that it was intimidating. They sat in the kitchen with the door open so Emma could keep an eye on the boys playing in the other room. The floor was covered with toys. He knew nothing about children but it seemed to him that so many could only confuse. It was very different from the houses where his work usually took him.
‘It was David’s birthday at the weekend,’ Emma said. ‘ He had loads of new things. It should keep them quiet for a bit.’
But almost as she finished speaking there was a scream of rage from the other room. The smaller boy had been fixing together pieces of wood to form a railway track. The blocks making a bridge had fallen apart. He picked up the painted train and hurled it away from him, then lay on his back, pounding his feet on the floor. Emma went in to him. When she tried to comfort him he pushed her away, punching at her with his fists. At last the sobs subsided and he fell limp in her arms. She set him gently on the floor and returned to the kitchen.
‘Just a temper tantrum,’ she said. ‘Now he’s past the terrible twos perhaps they’ll stop.’ Then, as if she felt some explanation was necessary, ‘David’s speech is very poor for his age. They say there’s nothing really wrong. Boys are often slow developers. But he gets frustrated when he can’t communicate.’ She caught her bottom lip with her teeth and he had the impression of a real anxiety.
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ he said. He felt she needed reassurance.
‘I hope so. My husband says I’m making a fuss about nothing, but he doesn’t speak at all.’
Through the open door they watched the boy return to his game.
‘You have two children?’
‘Three. The baby’s asleep. Coffee?’
‘Please.’
She ground beans, fiddled with a percolator. There was a jar of instant on the work top and he wondered why she didn’t use that. Was she trying to impress or did she need time to collect her thoughts? She poured coffee into pottery mugs.
‘This is a murder investigation,’ he said. ‘ Mrs Howe didn’t die by accident.’ He waited for some response. ‘You’re not surprised?’
‘There’s been talk. The men that helped pull her out of the water thought… You know what the gossip’s like in a place like this.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought you’d get involved in that. Not living up here.’
‘Brian – my husband – goes to the club.’
‘Ah.’ They’d used the club as a base the day before. It was somewhere the pathologist could get out of the rain. Of course there’d be talk.
‘We believe Mrs Howe was killed on Saturday,’ Ramsay said. ‘We need to eliminate anyone who was on the Headland then. I understand you held a party. We’ll need a list of all the guests and an address or a phone number for each one.’
‘Of course.’ She looked up from her coffee. ‘But no one who came here knew Mrs Howe. What reason would they have to kill her?’
‘As I said, it’s a question of elimination. And of finding witnesses.’
‘Yes.’ She seemed reassured. ‘I see.’
‘Besides,’ he went on gently, ‘it’s not exactly true, is it, that none of the visitors to the Coastguard House knew Mrs Howe? Both her daughter and her husband were here on Saturday afternoon. And her sister is your nanny.’
‘I didn’t mean…’ She blushed. ‘I wasn’t trying to hide anything. I meant the guests. They wouldn’t have known the Howes.’
‘They didn’t mix in the same social circles?’
‘No, well, I suppose not.’
‘But you will be able to give me a guest list?’
‘Of course. I put a list of names and addresses on the computer before I sent out the invitations. I’ll print you a copy.’
She returned with a sheet of paper and a baby. The baby was round faced with downy hair and curls damp and flattened where she’d been lying in the cot. She was still sleepy. It was the closest Ramsay had ever been to a child so young. He wondered if some comment was expected about her prettiness, a question about her age, but he just took the list of names and scanned it quickly. There was no one he recognized.