‘But her books were published. They sold.’
‘Oh yes, she was published and she was well reviewed. I’m not sure what sort of living she made from them. I know she taught some adult education classes for the university though they wouldn’t have paid a fortune. I don’t think she could have survived without Mark’s income.’
‘She and Mark were happy?’
‘He doted on her. More than was good for her I thought. Apparently she was an only child. Spoilt rotten. He took over from her parents. I didn’t think it would last. You can’t be a doormat for ever. Then we found out she had breast cancer and she died very quickly.’ Prue looked up from her wine. ‘She was only thirty-six. Younger than me.’
Chapter Sixteen
Emma Coulthard had become obsessed with her inability to sleep. She thought of little else even during the day. She could have understood it if the baby had been keeping her awake but Helen had slept right through from the age of six weeks and was no trouble at all. The boys had been terrors as babies. They’d hardly seemed to know the difference between night and day but Emma had staggered cheerfully out of bed to feed and change them, then returned to fall immediately and deeply asleep.
This was different. She could not rest. Even if she put up her feet during the afternoon while Claire had the children she could not relax. At night she lay tense and still listening to Brian’s breathing. The bedroom curtains were thin and sometimes moonlight shone through so she could see him. His skin was very white and the layer of fat just beneath it reminded her of the goose he had once persuaded her to cook at Christmas. As the night wore on she became more startlingly awake. She watched the red flashing numbers on her bedside alarm clock mark the hours. Sometimes at four or five in the morning she would fall into a troubled doze. Sometimes she stayed awake to see the sky lighten over the sea.
Eventually Brian noticed her drawn face, the rings round her eyes, her short temper.
‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ he demanded. Then, in a panic when she didn’t reply, ‘ You’re not ill, are you?’ She knew he was thinking of Sheena. His concern did not stretch, however, to ironing his own shirts.
At his insistence she had gone to the doctor, a fatherly Scot, who knew Brian from the rugby club.
‘I’m not sure what you can do,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’
‘How long’s this been going on for?’
‘Oh,’ she replied. ‘A couple of weeks.’ Though she could time it exactly back to David’s birthday. She had not slept on the night before that.
‘Anything troubling you?’
Well, she thought, you could say that.
‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Everything’s fine.’
‘You were a close friend of Sheena Taverner, weren’t you? Perhaps that’s it. Bereavement can take a long time to have an effect.’ Then, a sort of joke: ‘You’re not worried, are you, that the police still haven’t caught this murderer?’
‘No!’ she said, smiling to show that she would not be so foolish. And that, at least, was true.
‘I’ll prescribe you some sleeping pills. They’re very mild. Don’t use them every night or they won’t work. But don’t worry. You’re not the sort to get hooked!’
He had known her during her time as a career woman, seen her through the trouble-free pregnancies and thought she was entirely sensible.
So now she had the pills; which were a secret from Brian. She took them when she was desperate. They did knock her out but they left her feeling doped up and befuddled the next day, so she still could not think clearly about what she should do.
Brian phoned at a quarter past four to say he would be late again.
‘You said you’d be back before the boys went to bed.’
‘I’m sorry, pet. Really. There’s a chap I’ve got to meet. He can’t make it earlier. I’ll definitely be home for supper at eight. Look. I’ll bring a bottle of wine. Something decent. We’ll have a quiet night together like the old times.’
She said that would be very nice though there was scarcely an evening when he didn’t open a bottle of wine and drink most of it himself before the end of the News at Ten. She felt a sudden urge to be out of the house.
Claire finished work at five thirty and she had become much more punctilious about leaving on time since Kath Howe’s death. Emma thought it sweet that she was taking her role as surrogate mother so seriously but sometimes, as now, it was inconvenient. Emma had suggested that Marilyn could come to the Coastguard House straight from school if she wanted the company. That would save Claire having to hurry away. Claire had thanked her but refused. She said Marilyn was going through a difficult time and needed her family.
Emma shouted up to the playroom where Claire was sitting with the children, watching cartoons.
‘I’m going out for a walk. I just need some fresh air. I’ll be back before you have to leave.’
She waited for a reply. None came, and she read in the silence criticism.
She put on a thick coat but outside it was surprisingly warm. The wind was south-westerly and later it would probably rain. At the jetty she sat in the last of the sun watching the tide ebb from the cut.
Stephen Ramsay, too, had felt the need for fresh air. Apart from his discussion with Mark Taverner in the park he had spent the day in his office. The drive to the Headland in the late afternoon sunshine made him feel like a boy sagging off school. He left his car at the club and walked up the peninsula, avoiding Cotter’s Row, following the coast to the highest point where the cliffs fell in rocky steps to the sea. From there he had an uninterrupted view to the railway line and beyond. He saw Kim Houghton’s little girl playing with her doll’s pram in the street and Emma Coulthard leave the Coastguard House for her walk to the jetty. And they could have seen him if they’d turned to look.
So how, in such a small area, had Kathleen Howe disappeared without trace? The visibility had been bad on the day of the murder but surely not so dreadful that an attacker would have taken the risk of stabbing her in daylight. From his vantage point at the top of the Headland he saw clearly for the first time that there was nowhere to hide.
What did that mean? That she had been killed after dark? The pathologist’s evidence was still inconclusive on time of death – it was possible perhaps, as Bernard had said, that she had been collecting lichens for dyeing. Then where had she spent the day? He knew she had taken off without warning once before, when Marilyn had arrived at his house asking for help. Perhaps Kathleen Howe had met her killer as she walked back to the Headland in the evening. She would have passed the jetty. Had she been killed there, close to where her body had been found?
It would depend on the tide. If the cut had been nearly empty as it was now there would hardly have been sufficient water to cover the body, certainly not enough to carry it away and sweep it back in on the following day’s high water. The scene of crimes officer had commented at the time. He had been a fool not to give her report more attention.
When Emma returned to the Coastguard House Claire was waiting sulkily in the kitchen, already dressed in her coat and her outdoor shoes. Emma looked pointedly at the kitchen clock which said five twenty.
‘I don’t think it’s quite time for you to go,’ she said in the snooty, stuck-up voice which Claire hadn’t heard for a while. Recently Emma had been much more apologetic and obliging. ‘But as you’re ready, I suppose you might as well.’