‘What time was that?’
‘I don’t know. Too early.’
‘You didn’t see Mrs Howe’s daughter? She walked down to wait for the bus into town.’
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘What about later?’
‘I didn’t see anyone. I put on a video for Kirsty and went back to bed.’ She caught his eye and held it. ‘I was knackered, wasn’t I?’
‘Did Claire Irvine babysit for you on Friday night?’
‘Yes.’
‘So she will have met your friend Paul. When you got back.’
‘No. He waited in the car until she’d gone home.’
‘Tactful.’ Again the sarcasm was intended.
‘Yeah!’ she blazed back at him. ‘Tactful. If you must know he was really nice. We had breakfast together, him, me and Kirsty. He made a real fuss of her. He didn’t have to do that.’
‘Did you talk to Claire before you went out?’
‘A bit. While I was getting my things together, waiting for the taxi.’
‘How did she seem?’
‘Same as she always seems. About a hundred and fifty. And it’s not surprising, is it? Wiping kids’ bums all day and staring at the walls in that house all night. I’ve offered to take her out clubbing with me but she’ll not go.’
‘Did she mention Mrs Howe at all?’
Kim shook her head. ‘All she could talk about was the kiddies’ party and how good it would be.’
‘Did your daughter go to that?’ Hunter was surprised.
‘Oh yes! Kirsty and me had a royal invitation. Very honoured too. No one else on the Headland was asked.’
‘What was it like?’ He was intrigued.
‘It was all right. I mean, I only went because I thought Kirsty would like it and she’s friends with Owen at playgroup. But it was OK. Plenty of booze. Decent food. A proper buffet, not just stuff for the kids. And that Bernie Howe was good. I was surprised. You’d never think it to look at him. I mean, he could make it really big. He’s better than blokes I’ve seen on the telly. And though most of the mothers were stuck-up cows, the fellas were friendly enough once they’d had a few drinks. Yeah, it was a good party. Until mad Marilyn came knocking on the door, shouting that her mam was missing.’
Chapter Ten
On his way down the hill from the Coastguard House Ramsay saw Hunter leave Kim Houghton’s house. The sergeant paused for a moment outside number eight, leaning his notepad on the window sill to scribble a few notes, then he knocked at the door. It was opened immediately by a large elderly woman brandishing a mop like an offensive weapon. She seemed nervous about letting him in, stood, blocking the doorway, feet apart, but Hunter must have talked her around because when Ramsay looked again the door was shut and Cotter’s Row was quiet.
The whole Headland was quiet. There were no dog-walkers or pram-pushers. Even the washing lines along the backyards were empty. The only activity was in an area around the jetty. There a group of overalled officers were stooped, searching, but they were too far off for Ramsay to hear voices. The cloud had lifted and there was pale sunshine, a view down the coast as far as St Mary’s Island.
He was tempted for a moment to walk on down to the jetty to ask what had been found. He would have welcomed evidence that Kath Howe had been killed there, her body tipped immediately into the cut to be carried away and brought back on the next tide. It would have been something to work on. But it seemed a dreadful discourtesy to walk down Cotter’s Row without calling on the Howes and at number two he stopped. He stood on the pavement, preparing what he might say, especially to the girl.
In the house across the road a curtain was lifted then fell back into place. He tapped gently on the door. Sally Wedderburn answered it and let him in.
Sally was a redhead with a pale, freckled skin and brown eyes. Hunter thought Ramsay was grooming her for stardom, and perhaps he was. Perhaps he wanted to prove to Prue that he could take positive action to push a woman up the ladder, that he was doing what he could to support her cause. Recently he had recognized the danger of trying to please Prue and made an effort to be more clear-sighted. Sally was a good officer but she needed to learn patience. Which she would be doing sitting in this tiny house with nothing to do but listen.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked in a whisper. They were standing very close together in the narrow hall.
‘The women are in the living room. Mr Howe’s upstairs. He said he wanted to be on his own.’
‘Distressed?’
‘Not outwardly. He was all set to go to work this morning until I persuaded him it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. More puzzled. As if he can’t get his head around the idea that his wife’s dead.’
‘And the women?’
‘Shocked I suppose. No tears. Not while I’m there at least. They don’t talk. Not to each other or to me.’ She was disappointed. She had hoped to have something for him and felt she had failed.
‘Time enough for that.’ But he was disappointed, too.
‘Do you want to come through?’
‘I’ll see Mr Howe first. Don’t announce me. I’ll go on up.’
He found Bernard Howe in a room at the front of the house. Although it was clearly the biggest bedroom most of the space was taken by a high double bed, spread with a blue candlewick quilt. There was a wardrobe but no chest of drawers and clothes were piled untidily on shelves which covered one wall. The shelves also held books and the equipment for Uncle Bernie’s magic act. There were strings of brightly coloured ribbons, chiffon scarves, wooden boxes. A cup hook had been fixed to the highest shelf and hanging from it, by its neck, was a ventriloquist’s dummy. The latex head was egg shaped, bald at the top with long wispy strands of hair at the back and the sides. It looked remarkably like Mr Howe, a mirror image of the man who sat on the bed, playing with a pack of cards, shuffling and twisting them with supple fat fingers.
‘Practising?’ Ramsay asked.
Bernard Howe looked up, startled. He had not heard the footsteps on the stairs.
‘I find it very relaxing,’ he said. ‘ The doctor wanted to give me tranquillizers, but Kath wouldn’t have approved of that.’
‘Wouldn’t she?’
‘No. She was a strong woman. She didn’t like props of any sort.’ He set down the cards and gave both hands a little flick so the cuffs of the shirt and the cardigan he was wearing settled back over his wrists.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. It was a direct, childlike question which Ramsay found unnerving.
‘Stephen Ramsay. I’m a detective inspector. In charge of the case.’
‘There is a case then? She didn’t just fall? No one’s said. Not really. I mean perhaps Miss Wedderburn explained but I didn’t take it in.’
‘We weren’t sure until this morning. But she didn’t just fall. She was stabbed.’
‘Ah.’ All his reactions seemed very slow. Ramsay thought they would have made an odd couple: Kathleen with her principles, her tense and purposeful marching, and Bernard. He groped for a word to describe Bernard and came up with simple. Not in the sense of unintelligent because it was clear he held down a reasonable job, but uncomplicated, easily satisfied.
‘How long have you been married?’ Ramsay asked. He took a seat beside Bernard on the bed.
‘Nearly seventeen years.’ He had not had to think about it. ‘We both worked in the same office. Clerical officers with the Civil Service. And then we got married.’ He still seemed mildly surprised at that as if he had woken one morning to discover he had a wife. He turned to face Ramsay. ‘She took me on,’ he said.
‘And you’re still doing the same job?’
‘More or less. It’s not the same. It was all paper then. Now it’s computers. I quite liked computers once I got into them.’ And Ramsay could see that he would. He would enjoy the clear instructions, the simple rules. He would get lost in the patterns.