‘They lived here together, you know, when they married.’
‘Bernard told me that.’
‘Did he?’ It seemed to please her. ‘ They should never have moved.’
‘I thought you didn’t get on with her.’
She shrugged her shoulders heavily, the gesture of a gracious grande dame.
‘Oh, I didn’t mind her funny ways.’
‘What funny ways?’
She sniffed. ‘She had views on everything. Opinions.’
‘Shouldn’t a woman have opinions?’
‘No.’
Except you, he thought. You wouldn’t be without them.
‘Did you enjoy having a child in the house?’ he asked. He couldn’t imagine Mrs Howe as doting grandmother, with a pocketful of sweeties, offering to babysit.
‘She wasn’t any trouble,’ Mrs Howe said. ‘It’s a big house.’
‘Was Kathleen a good mother?’
‘I suppose she was. I never interfered.’
Ramsay found that hard to believe. He said nothing. Mrs Howe continued.
‘I thought Kathleen was too serious. Too pushy. She was determined to turn Marilyn into a blue stocking. She was a pretty little thing. All that white hair. She should have had more fun.’
They sat without speaking. A grandfather clock ticked in the hall. Mrs Howe’s stomach rumbled and she belched gently into her handkerchief. The room was heated by large painted radiators and an open fire and was very warm. Ramsay felt drowsy and he wondered if Mrs Howe was falling asleep. Translucent pink lids covered her eyes.
‘Bernard and I always had fun,’ she said. ‘He never met his father, you know. There was only ever Bernard and I.’
Ramsay did not ask if the man was dead or if he had deserted them and Mrs Howe didn’t elaborate. Perhaps she had never married.
‘We had such good times, the two of us. Such wonderful times. Before he married Kathleen. We went to the cinema every week, then out to supper. We made an event of it. You could then. I wore gloves and a hat. Oh yes we turned a few heads. He was a good-looking man.’ She opened her eyes and made a theatrical sweep of the arm towards an upright piano which stood against one wall. ‘He played the piano like an angel. And even then he worked magic. He performed for me. He knew how it diverted me.’ She sighed. ‘We were such very good friends.’
‘You must have been disappointed when they moved to Cotter’s Row.’
She shrugged. ‘One must learn, mustn’t one, to let go.’ But her eyes were hard and bitter.
‘It must be a comfort that he visits so regularly.’
She brightened again. ‘Oh yes. Our Thursday evenings are very special times.’
‘What do you talk about on his visits?’
‘Everything. He has no secrets from me. His work, his plans for the future…’
Himself, Ramsay concluded silently. That’s why he comes. Not to keep you company. Certainly not to help with practical chores around the house. Not even because you cook cauliflower cheese for his supper. But for the pleasure of talking about himself.
‘Did he seem concerned or anxious in the weeks before Kathleen’s death?’
‘No. If anything he was happier. More the boy he used to be.’ She grinned horribly again. ‘I thought he’d got himself a mistress. Someone with style. I wouldn’t blame him.’
‘Did he bring Marilyn to see you?’
‘Hardly ever. Once in a blue moon. According to Kathleen I was a subversive influence.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘On my birthday. The end of January.’
‘That was a Thursday too?’
‘Of course. It’s always Thursday.’
‘There must be weeks when he can’t get to see you,’ Ramsay said. ‘When something turns up at work or at Marilyn’s school.’
‘No.’ She said firmly. ‘ He’s a good boy. He always puts his mother first. The last time he missed a Thursday night was more than a year ago and he only stopped at home then because he had flu.’
‘Are you sure of that? He never came on a different day instead?’
She turned her whole body so she was facing him.
‘What are you saying, Mr Ramsay? That I’m senile?’
And he thought that Bernard’s visits were so important to her that she would know.
She shut her eyes and waved her hand impatiently to indicate that he should go. On cue the cat raised itself and hissed. Her eyes remained firmly closed as he left the room.
Outside the weather had changed. A sea fret had moved in from the coast. Although it was only midday it was dark enough for the street lights to have come on. The fine drizzle looked like mist but water trickled in drops from bare branches and gutters.
As Ramsay bent to unlock his car, words of Mrs Howe’s which he had thought to be entirely malicious seeped back into his consciousness. He stood upright, transfixed. His keys clattered on the pavement.
‘Of course,’ he said out loud. ‘Of course.’
He turned back to the house and saw that Mrs Howe had raised herself. She was standing and staring out at him through the window. The cat, cradled in her arms, bared its fangs.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sally Wedderburn stood outside the impressive facade of Otterbridge High School. She’d spent all afternoon in the Shining Stars Nursery and the screaming kids had given her a headache. It had been a waste of time as she’d suspected it would be. No one had seen an overweight middle-aged man on the evening Tom Bingham was abducted. Nor a bicycle. Miss Frost’s recollection of the man waiting outside in the street was vague. Youngish, slimmish. She wasn’t even sure about hair colour. She’d only really seen a silhouette and street lamps gave such a peculiar light.
Sally was at the high school on Ramsay’s instruction. She was waiting for Marilyn. The wind carried flecks of ice and she pulled her coat around her as she paced backwards and forwards along the pavement to stop her feet from freezing. She was too nervous to stand still. After making such a hash of her interview with Emma Coulthard she was grateful that Ramsay was giving her a second chance. She was desperate not to screw up again.
An electric bell rang and children began to stream past her, pushing and jostling through the gates. She had to concentrate. It wouldn’t do to miss the girl. She had suggested seeing her during school time – that would have been easier – but Ramsay wouldn’t allow it. He said it wasn’t fair to drag her out of her class. She’d have to explain to her friends what it was about. How could they put her through that?
So Sally stood, watching the children in the identical navy uniforms until the stream turned to a trickle. Still there was no sign of Marilyn Howe. When the staff began to emerge, their arms full of books, she panicked and hurried inside.
The heat of the building dazed her. She was in a wide, wood-lined corridor. Behind a glassed-in reception desk three secretaries were discussing last night’s television programmes. A long brass plaque listed the names of old boys who had been killed in the Second World War. Rows of sporting trophies and faded photographs stood in a display case fixed to the wall. She was wondering if Ramsay’s instructions on discretion related to secretaries too when a middle-aged woman clattered down a flight of stone stairs behind her.
‘Can I help you?’ The teacher was on her way out and paused in mid-step, turning back to ask the question.
Before Sally could answer a crescendo of music came from further along the corridor.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I’m waiting for a pupil who’s in the orchestra.’
‘Go through,’ the woman said. ‘Wait in comfort. You might enjoy it. They’re rather good.’
And she was gone. The heavy doors swung together behind her.
The orchestra was rehearsing in a hall which still smelled of the midday meal. There was a stage but the players were sitting in the well of the theatre on moulded-plastic chairs behind a forest of music stands. A sandy-haired flamboyant man in a pink shirt was conducting. Sally was relieved to see Marilyn sitting in the front row, with the other violins. She leant against the back wall of the hall in the shadow. Only then did she recognize Mark Taverner amongst the group. He was playing clarinet, partly hidden by a line of full-grown, acne-covered boys.