Prue said of course he must come and even to him she sounded delighted.
“Anna’s off for the day with some chums,” she said. “So we’ll have the place to ourselves.”
Anna was Prue’s teenage daughter. She was nice enough but she did tend to get in the way because she made Prue feel inhibited. As if, Prue told him, I was the teenager and she was my mother. And she definitely disapproved of Prue going out with a pig, even an enlightened pig like Ramsay. She would be off to university in the autumn and then things would be easier.
Prue was waiting for him and her inhibitions had disappeared with her daughter. He found her giggly and flirtations. She ran them both a bath so hot and deep that the old-fashioned bathroom, with its enormous enamelled tub and copper taps, was filled with steam. As usual her bedroom was a tip, with piles of clothes on the floor and an unmade bed, but there was a bottle of wine in a cooler and two glasses on the dressing table.
“Are you sure the phone’s not going to ring?” she said suspiciously as she straightened the bottom sheet and wiped away a few biscuit crumbs.
“Certain. No one knows I’m here.”
“What would your mother say?” She stretched across him to pour a glass of wine. “Sex and alcohol in the afternoon. And on a Sunday.”
“Stop talking,” he said.
They stayed there until it was dark and the orange street light came in through the half-closed curtains. He sat up and smiled at her.
“What, if it comes to that, will your daughter say?”
She pulled a pantomime face of horror. “Shit,” she said, ‘she’ll be back in ten minutes.”
Then there was a scramble of pulling on clothes and more giggling. When they heard Anna’s key in the door they were sitting at the kitchen table, sober and respectable adults, drinking coffee.
“I’m just going to start supper,” Prue said. “Do you want some?”
“No thanks. I’ve already eaten.” Anna ignored Ramsay and went off to her room. To work, she said. To express her disapproval, thought Prue.
“Your friend Maddy,” Ramsay said. “Do you think she’ll be in tonight?”
“Why?” She had her head stuck in the fridge, looking for inspiration for supper. “An omelette all right? And sauteed potatoes?”
“Fine,” he said. “Is there enough for Maddy?”
“Why?” she asked again. “You’ve never bothered much with my friends before.”
“You said she went on one of the weekend retreats organized by the Alternative Therapy Centre in Mittingford.”
“That’s right.” Now he had her full attention.
“We think Val McDougal, the teacher who was murdered on Monday, was there too.”
“And you want me to invite her round here so you can ask her questions about it? Not very professional that, is it?” In her present mood he could not tell whether her indignation was genuine so he decided to play safe.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Perhaps it’s a bad idea. I just thought it would save some time. And she might remember more if we talked informally.”
“Would I get to see the great detective at work? You wouldn’t send me upstairs with Anna?”
“Of course not.”
“I’ll phone her then.”
Maddy was younger than Prue with waxed, spiked hair. She worked as a solicitor and Ramsay had come across her occasionally in court defending delinquent teenagers with a passion, dedication and humour which made her unpopular with some of his colleagues. When she arrived she was out of breath, clutching a bottle of red wine and a handful of leaflets, eager to be involved. Ramsay was always surprised when other people thought his work exciting and glamorous.
“I’m not sure I can be much help,” she said. “I haven’t even seen the homoeopath lately.”
“I thought you swore by her,” Prue said.
“Yeah well, she did help at first. But she always seemed so glum and I thought: if it doesn’t even work for her what am I going to get out of it? I didn’t want to end up looking as miserable as Win Abbot.” She grinned. “Besides, I’ve passed through my natural therapy phase. It’s tap dancing and bungy jumping now.”
“But you did go to Juniper Hall?”
“Yeah, last autumn.” She pulled out a leaflet from the pile she’d brought. “This is the publicity material. I thought you’d be interested.”
Ramsay took it from her and read out loud: ‘“An opportunity for real movement on a personal level and substantial healing on a planetary level. At Juniper Hall we expect fun, affirmation, sharing, creativity. We can work together to heal the global issues closest to your heart.”
“Oh, Maddy,” Prue exclaimed. “You weren’t taken in by all that crap, were you?”
“Don’t knock it,” Maddy said seriously. “Not entirely. I’ve seen screwed-up, unhappy people change in a weekend, become more positive, somehow freed up, able to accept themselves.”
“And how does this miracle take place? Just by talking?”
“Talking, sharing, meditation.” Maddy opened the bottle of wine. “Magda Pocock was in charge. Have you ever met her?”
Ramsay nodded.
“She’s the one person who makes all those claims seem possible.”
“Was Val McDougal there?”
“Yes,” Maddy said. “I just knew her as Val. When I saw her pictures in the paper earlier this week I thought she was familiar. I couldn’t place her then but I definitely met her at Juniper.”
“Did she tell you why she was there? Talk about her husband, her family?”
“She might have done,” Maddy said. “But after all this time I can’t really remember.” She paused. “Something happened, you see, which cast a shadow over the whole weekend. Nothing else seemed so important after that.”
“What was it?”
“There was a fatal accident. Juniper Hall is a big old house. It’s got a swimming pool. A young girl went swimming by herself late at night and drowned.”
“I don’t suppose you remember the girl’s name?”
“Yes,” Maddy said. “It was Faye Cooper.”
Chapter Eighteen
The anonymous letter arrived the next day. It was sent to the incident room at Mittingford police station and addressed to Ramsay personally. It was typed and literate, though brief.
“Sir, I suggest you find out what happened to Faye Cooper. She was the first.” There was no signature, not even ‘friend’ or ‘well wisher’.
“The first what?” said Hunter, who was reading the letter over Ramsay’s shoulder.
The room was quiet. It had the untidy peace of a classroom when the children have gone out to play. Half Ramsay’s team were trying to trace the people who’d been at Magda Pocock’s Voice Dialogue workshop with Val McDougal. It wasn’t easy. Magda’s records were scanty. She usually made a note of group members’ names but not their addresses. She had said it wasn’t worth it -some only turned up once then decided the group wasn’t for them. The rest of the team were at the college in Otterbridge, talking to Val’s colleagues, trying to find someone who remembered seeing the Abbots during the acupuncture lecture. Sunlight slanted over the desk and made Hunter wish he was outside too.
“Well?” he said. “The first what?”
“The first death,” Ramsay replied quietly. “I
think that’s what it must mean.” He slipped the letter into a clear plastic folder. “Faye Cooper went on one of those weekend courses held by the Abbots for their patients and other like-minded groupies. It took place in a big house just over the border into Cumbria near Hadrian’s Wall. They call it Juniper Hall. For most of the year the place runs adventure courses for stressed executives: mock battles in the woods, how to survive on the hills with a sheet of plastic and a scout knife. You know the sort of thing.”
Hunter nodded. The force ran similar courses. He’d been half tempted to apply for one himself but he knew he’d miss his beer.