His mam had videoed it and showed it to all her friends.
‘Eeh,’ they said. ‘ Your Gordon on the telly. He’d charm the birds out of the trees, that one.’
But Gordon Hunter’s charm hadn’t been enough to persuade the driver of the red Mazda to come forward. Hunter knew there could be many explanations for this. He had a wife or a permanent girlfriend. He had told his boss he was working at the other end of the country and claimed expenses. He just didn’t want the hassle. Or there might be a more sinister reason for his keeping quiet.
Hunter had decided that his next move would be to spend Friday and Saturday night in the clubs in Whitley Bay. The bar staff might recognize the description of the man. If he were a regular, one of Kim’s friends might have an address for him.
Of course if Claire Irvine had real information the jaunt might not turn out to be necessary. Hunter considered that possibility with a little regret. He enjoyed clubbing, had already picked out a pretty little DC to be his partner. He wouldn’t mind an expenses-paid night out.
Ramsay broke in on his thoughts. ‘Give Sal Wedderburn a shout before you fill me in on this phone call. She’s spent longer with Claire Irvine than anyone. We could use her opinion.’
Ramsay was grateful for Claire’s intervention because he was coming under pressure to use the media more directly. A weeping daughter and a grief-stricken husband might stir the conscience of a friend or relative shielding the killer. So far he had resisted the pressure. He hated the glamorized voyeurism which resulted from filmed emotional outbursts. Anyway, he didn’t think it would work. Kath Howe’s relatives hadn’t shed many tears for her. They might have been shocked by the manner of her death but they would manage very well without her.
Hunter came back to the office with Sal Wedderburn. He let her have the only vacant chair and lounged against the filing cabinet, sulking because Ramsay hadn’t thought his opinion sufficient.
‘Well?’ Ramsay asked. ‘How should we play it?’
‘I don’t think we should go mob-handed,’ Sally cut in before Hunter had a chance to open his mouth. ‘If she’s decided to speak after all this time we wouldn’t want to put her off. So I’d say play it casual, understated. As if responding to her call is just part of the general routine.’
‘I think,’ Ramsay said slowly, ‘she’s too bright to be taken in by that sort of approach. She didn’t phone us just to give information. Not entirely. She phoned because she wants someone to make a fuss of her. That’s how I see it.’
‘You think she’s after the attention? And that’s all?’
‘Not necessarily. But the attention might be the pay off. She’d need a pay off. She’s not a woman who’d give anything away for nothing.’
‘How often have you met her?’ Hunter was incredulous. He’d known psychiatrists who wouldn’t commit themselves to a statement like that after seeing a patient for years.
‘Once,’ Ramsay said calmly. ‘Only once. But that was the impression I got. And her history bears it out, doesn’t it? I’ve spoken to a social worker, Jean Douglas, who supervised Claire’s family after her mother died.’
He shuffled through papers on his desk and pulled out a sheet of handwritten notes. He read from them.
‘Claire was a late baby. Kathleen was seventeen when she was born. The mother died in a road traffic accident when the girl was two. At about the same time Kathleen left home to marry Bernie. So then there was just Claire and her dad. Social Services monitored the situation but there were never any suspicions that Claire was neglected, no cause for concern at all except for some bed-wetting and nightmares which went on a bit longer than normal. According to everyone she was a very mature little girl, very close to her dad. Not that he spoilt her. If anything she looked after him.’
Sally interrupted. ‘But Kath would have helped, wouldn’t she, sir? It’s not as if she and Bernie lived a million miles away. She would have taken some responsibility for bringing up her sister.’
‘Apparently not. Mrs Douglas wasn’t very complimentary about Kath Howe. When Claire was fifteen the father had a heart attack at work and died. Social Services approached the Howes to discuss Claire’s future. It was Bernie who offered her a home. Mrs Douglas definitely had the impression that Kathleen wasn’t too keen, but felt that living with relatives was better than foster care with strangers.’
‘Did she visit the Howes while Claire was living there?’
‘Once. Claire seemed settled, said she was happy. But according to Mrs Douglas she wasn’t the sort to complain. She sensed some antagonism between Kath and her sister, and asked Claire about it. Claire said it was nothing and she could look after herself.’
‘Antagonism as in anger?’ Sal asked. ‘As in murder?’
Ramsay smiled. ‘Sibling rivalry pushed to extremes? I should have thought that was a little far-fetched.’
‘Anyway,’ Hunter said. ‘Claire can’t be the murderer. She was at the Coastguard House all day. Unless you think she stabbed Kath Howe in her half-hour lunch break. With Bernie sitting in the room upstairs.’
‘Ah,’ Ramsay said. ‘I’ve had a thought about that.’ He explained about his visit to the Coastguard headquarters, his theory that Mrs Howe might have died in the evening. Then he returned to his notes, determined to make his point.
‘Even if the Howes tried to do their best for Claire, to make her feel at home, it wouldn’t have been easy for her. Kath was devoted to her daughter and Bernie seems to have been wrapped up in himself and his magic. I can’t imagine either of them giving much time to the girl. That’s what I meant when I said she might welcome our attention.’
Hunter wasn’t convinced. It sounded very plausible but he’d always been suspicious of social workers.
‘So what do you suggest? How should we handle it?’
‘I think you and I should go to talk to her. I’m sorry, Sal. I know you’d like to be involved, but so far as we know she hasn’t got a boyfriend, has never had one, and I think she’d be flattered by the attention of two men. Even two men like us. I think we might work it best.’
Hunter grinned. He thought that occasionally his boss showed considerable insight. And if that sounded like a sodding social worker’s report too, he didn’t care.
Chapter Eighteen
Claire had already brought small but significant changes to life at two Cotter’s Row.
She’d cleared away some of Kath’s things. Not the personal stuff like clothes. Bernie could see to that. But she’d got rid of the monstrous spinning wheel from the front room. At first Bernie has been reluctant to let it go.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it a bit soon?’
‘You don’t want to keep it?’
‘No,’ he said uncertainly, then, without any hesitation, ‘No, you do what you think best.’
Mrs Coulthard had a friend who was into arts and crafts and she’d given Claire fifty quid for the wheel. Claire hadn’t kept the money. It wasn’t as if she needed if for herself. She handed it over to Bernie.
‘Put it away for Marilyn,’ she said. ‘For the next time there’s a school trip. Kath would have liked that.’
With the wheel out of the way the front room looked really grubby so she’d given it a good clean. She scrubbed the paintwork and shampooed the carpet. There was a nasty stain in front of the grate which she’d never noticed before, but it came up as good as new. She opened the windows for the first time ever, washed the curtains, bought a bunch of daffs on her weekly trip to the supermarket and stuck them in a milk jug on the coffee table.