‘Mattie came to supper,’ she said. ‘I meant to clear up, then I started reading this play. Have you eaten?’
‘Not much.’ A dubious canteen pie.
‘There’s some salad. Nice cheese.’
She was distracted. He could tell she was still thinking about the play.
‘That’ll be great.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’
She shut the book she’d been reading and gave him her full attention.
‘Don’t be daft. I mean I was half hoping you’d turn up. But I knew you were busy. You will stay?’
He hadn’t intended to. ‘Of course.’
She poured him some wine, fetched a bowl of leftover salad and a lump of Stilton from the fridge.
‘You went to Sheena Taverner’s funeral, didn’t you?’ he asked.
‘So that’s why you’re here!’ It was said with resignation, even humour, not resentment. She was determined not to make demands on him. It helped that she was an actress.
‘No.’ But his acting skills were non-existent.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Did you recognize most of the mourners?’
‘Hardly any of them. The ones I’d come across through Northern Arts. Other writers who’d done stuff for me in Hallowgate. That was all. I suppose the rest were relatives, friends of Mark’s from the high school.’
‘Anyone called Paul?’
She shook her head. ‘Not that I remember.’
He drank the wine, spread butter thickly on French bread, cut a lump of cheese.
‘Were there any rumours about Sheena?’
‘What sort of rumours?’
‘About a lover.’
She smiled. ‘Never.’
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Well, Sheena. If you’d met her you’d understand. Nothing mattered to her but her writing. There wouldn’t have been time for another man.’
She poured more wine into her own glass.
‘And Mark?’ Ramsay asked. ‘What about him?’
‘Oh, I could understand if he’d had an affair,’ Prue said. ‘I’m not saying that he did have, but I wouldn’t have blamed him.’
‘You told me once that he doted on her.’
‘He did, but he didn’t get much from the marriage. He was an admirer. That was his only role. There wasn’t any warmth there. If another woman showed him affection I can imagine him falling for it. Head over heels. He’d be desperately guilt-ridden, of course. But it wouldn’t surprise me in the least.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Mrs Patricia Howe lived in a gloomy 1930s villa in a street close to the massive office where Bernard worked. The houses were generally small, squashed-together semis. There were shared drives and makeshift garages in back gardens. It was a street of elderly people and first-time buyers.
Mrs Howe’s was the only detached house. It was double-fronted, set back from the road. It had its own garage, rather grand, with a crenellated wall above green wooden doors. The garden had been tidied at some time in the autumn but had received little care since. The paint on the bay window frames had peeled away to the bare wood.
The door was opened by a short muscular woman in a green overall. Her hair was tightly permed, chestnut, a colour which had come, unevenly, from a bottle.
‘Mrs Howe?’ She was just old enough to be Bernard’s mother, though she was not at all what he had been expecting. He could see behind her into a hall lined with dark, stained-wood panels. There was a musty smell of unaired rooms.
‘Is she expecting you?’ The woman seemed surprised.
‘No.’
‘She doesn’t talk to salesmen.’
‘I’m not a salesman.’ He was about to explain who he was, when she added, ‘Or politicians.’
There was a pile of canvassing material on the hall table for a by-election. Prue would be amused that he had been mistaken for a candidate.
‘I’m a police officer. A detective.’
‘Oh.’ She opened the door a little wider. ‘ I suppose you’ve got proof.’
‘Of course.’
He held out his warrant card. She took it and studied it carefully.
‘You didn’t mind,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to be careful these days.’
‘Very sensible.’ He could see that she was a very sensible woman. ‘And you are?’
‘Olive. Olive Thomson. Mrs Howe’s home help.’
‘I need to talk to her, ask her a few questions. Will that be possible?’
‘She’s not gaga if that’s what you mean. Not lost the use of her limbs either. I’m not from Social Services. She pays me to do her housework, has done for years. She thinks it’s beneath her dignity to clean the lav.’
‘So I could rely on what she told me?’
‘Oh aye. She’s not one of my easiest ladies but she’s got all her marbles.’ She looked into a gilt-framed mirror on the wall, fluffed her hair, turned back to him. ‘ That’s probably why she stirs up trouble. Just for the excitement. I don’t rise to the bait. I know her too well. If she tries to offend you take no notice.’
‘Right,’ Ramsay said. ‘ I’ll remember that.’
Olive reached behind her back to untie her apron. ‘I was on my way out but I’ll show you through first. She likes things done properly. You’ll have to speak up. She’s deaf and too proud to use a hearing aid.’
Patricia Howe was sitting in a high-backed chair by a French window. She was reading a large-print library book. In the armchair beside her was sprawled an enormous, long-haired tabby cat. It was clear that she had not heard his knock on the door or the conversation with the home help and he stood for a moment watching her read. She was a large woman, with a fleshy chin and wispy white hair pinned back from her face with a tortoiseshell comb. The resemblance to Bernard was obvious. She was heavily made-up and a fine dusting of face powder had fallen on to her grey blouse.
‘Mrs Howe, pet, there’s someone to see you.’
She turned, saw him then for the first time, then demanded sharply, ‘Who is this?’ Her voice was hoarse and rasping.
‘It’s a detective,’ Olive said. ‘Mr Ramsay. I’ve checked his card.’
‘What do you want?’
Without taking her eyes off Ramsay’s face the old woman flapped her hand at Olive to send her away. Olive went.
‘I said, what do you want?’
‘A few questions. If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘It’s about Kathleen, I suppose. I’m surprised you’ve not been before.’
‘Why’s that, Mrs Howe?’
‘Well, I knew her, didn’t I? As well as anyone. She lived in my house for long enough.’ There was a careful emphasis on the word ‘my’. ‘ Oh yes, I knew her.’
‘You didn’t like her?’
‘I didn’t kill her if that’s what you mean.’
It was supposed to be a joke. She stretched thin lips around uneven, discoloured teeth and cackled. The cackle turned into a violent, racking cough.
‘But you didn’t like her?’
‘No.’ The lips clamped shut.
‘Why not?’ He tried to speak gently but she did not hear.
‘What’s that?’
‘Why didn’t you like her?’
‘She didn’t look after him properly. Men need looking after.’
‘Did he look after her?’ He regretted the question as soon as it was asked, realized that it was Prue speaking.
‘Of course he did. He brought in the money that kept her.’ For the first time she set aside her library book, let it fall with a crash on to the floor. The cat raised its head, then settled back to sleep. ‘Are you married, Mr Ramsay?’
‘Divorced.’
‘I was always telling Bernard that he should divorce Kathleen. He knew there was a place for him here if he wanted one.’
So, Ramsay thought, if he wanted rid of her he didn’t have to kill her. Not on your account. That’s what you’re trying to tell me.