“Aye. It was still warm. But then it was in the sun.”
“Did you see anyone else in the cemetery? When you were out for your walk?”
The man thought.
“My eyesightls not what it was,” he said. “Not long distance.”
“But you think there might have been someone there?”
“I heard something,” the man said. “Footsteps running. But not in the cemetery. Along the pavement on the other side of the wall. Just before I found the lad.” He looked at Ramsay sadly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s not much help. It could have been a kid, anyone.”
“Did it sound like a child?” Ramsay asked.
“What do you mean?”
“A child would be lighter. Have smaller paces.”
The old man considered again.
“So it would,” he agreed. “No. You’re right. It was an adult. In a hurry. Someone fit and not very heavy.”
“It could have been a woman then?”
“Aye, I suppose it could.”
“Which way were they running? Back towards the town?”
This time he was certain immediately.
“No, the other direction. North towards the dual carriage way
“And the footsteps just faded away?”
“No,” he said carefully. “There was a car. The footsteps stopped and there was the sound of an engine starting.”
“Thanks,” Ramsay said. “I’m sorry to have kept you hanging around for so long.”
“I don’t mind.” He was a little, round-faced man, irrepressibly cheerful. “Beats mowing the lawn, which is what the wife would have had me doing. You did send someone round to explain where I was?”
“Of course.”
“That’s all right then. She’ll have had my tea ready for hours and I’m more scared of her than of any bloody corpse.”
Hunter ducked under the red and white tape to join Ramsay. He’d been quiet since he’d arrived. Usually murder brought out the worst in him, made him loud and facetious. Ramsay wondered if the squad’s teasing had got through to him.
“The lad wasn’t killed where he was discovered,” Hunter said. “They found his scuff marks in the grass where he was dragged to the Cooper girl’s grave. Not very far, but you wonder why anyone should bother. It was risky enough anyway attacking him in broad daylight.”
“Was he strangled?” Ramsay asked.
Hunter nodded. “With a thin nylon rope. Like his mother.” He paused. “Win Abbot was coming to see him this afternoon.”
“How do you know?”
Hunter paused again, embarrassed. “Lily Jackman told me. She was minding the Abbot bairns in the park. She gave me some information, not much, but a lead. She suggested we should talk to that young receptionist at the Centre. I went to the Abbot house later, hoping for more details, on the off-chance Jackman would still be there. She was pretty fed up because she’d been expecting Mrs. Abbot back sooner.”
“At least that puts Lily Jackman in the clear,” Ramsay said. “You must have been there around five?”
Hunter nodded. “Left at quarter past.” He had made the point he had intended. Lily could have played no part in James McDougal’s murder.
“She was babysitting when Val was killed too,” Ramsay said to himself. “I suppose that’s a coincidence…” He looked up. “What was Mrs. Abbot going to see the lad about?”
“Jackman said it was a gesture. Mrs. Abbot went to offer their sympathy.”
“And a homoeopathic remedy to put it all right again, I suppose,” Ramsay muttered under his breath.
“What was that, sir?”
“Nothing. This lot are starting to get on my nerves.” He looked at his watch. It was gone seven but still the day seemed unusually hot and airless.
“Track them all down,” he said. “The Abbots, Magda Pocock. I’ve no idea where she’s been all day. And someone had better see what Sean Slater’s been up to. We know he’s clear of the Bowles murder and he’s unlikely to be involved here because he’s got no transport, but we can’t rule him out. The sooner it’s done, the better.”
Hunter nodded gloomily and walked away.
But later, when the information was put together, it seemed that none of them had a satisfactory alibi. Except Lily, of course, who’d been seen by Hunter.
Mrs. Abbot was jumpy and tense. She admitted, in a voice so low that he could hardly hear, that she had gone into Otterbridge intending to see James McDougal.
“What happened?” Hunter demanded.
“When I got to the house no one was in. I waited for quite a long time, thinking he might be on his way back from school, held up, you know, but at five o’clock I gave up and drove home.”
“You sat outside the house for more than an hour?” Hunter was sceptical.
“I suppose I did,” she said. “Actually I quite enjoyed it. The peace, you know. There’s not a lot of that here.”
Daniel Abbot said he had spent the afternoon in a private home for the elderly in Otterbridge. It was run by an enlightened matron who believed that complementary medicine had a place in work with old people. It was a regular commitment. He went once a month.
He was very happy to give Hunter the name of the nursing home, but was vague about the time he had left. Late afternoon, he said. He couldn’t be more specific. He hadn’t noticed the time. He’d finished treating his patients at about three, but he liked to stay on to chat to the residents. The old dears didn’t see many new faces; some had no visitors at all. When pushed by Hunter he said he thought it was at least five when he left. The residents had been given tea. He was sure of that.
But when his story was checked with the matron of the nursing home she said that none of her staff had noticed Daniel after three-thirty. He could have been there, of course. It was a big building and he visited so often that he was almost part of the furniture, but no one could honestly remember seeing him.
Magda Pocock appeared to have disappeared into thin air. She was not in her flat and her car was missing. She had not been seen since early afternoon.
Ramsay decided to see Sean Slater himself. Hunter volunteered to visit Laverock Farm but Ramsay told him to take a break. It had been quite a day.
He found himself unusually moved by the death of the boy. He rarely knew the victims of the crimes he investigated. He could remember James alive, imagine the conversation they had had in his bedroom, and that made a difference.
Lily was sitting on the kitchen step of the farm, her hands cupped around a mug of tea. She greeted him with amusement. “I haven’t been able to get away from your lot today. What have I done now?”
“There’s been another murder,” he said.
She looked at him sharply. “Who?” There were no hysterics. She did not pretend to be shocked.
“James. James McDougal.”
“No,” she said quietly. “Not James.” She stood up and clutched her arms around her body as if she were cold.
“Where’s Sean?” he asked.
“He’s in the garden,” she said. “He’s been there all day. I’ll show you.”
Sean had taken off his shirt and his shoulders were pink from the sun. Lily led Ramsay through the gate in the wall so at first he only saw her.
“I was going to call it a day,” he said. “I’ll be in now.” There was a square of brown earth and a pile of weed and bramble. “Not much to show for a day’s work, is it? I’ll tell you one thing, I’m bloody unfit.”
Then he saw Ramsay and put his hand above his eyes because he was looking directly into the setting sun. “Inspector. How can I help you?”
“James McDougal’s been murdered,” Lily said.
He thrust his spade in the earth and walked over to her. He put his arms around her and stroked her hair while she cried on his shoulder.
Chapter Twenty-seven
In the morning Ramsay gathered his team together in the incident room. They looked washed out and lethargic. James’s death was like a personal insult. They knew that they’d been out-witted. They had no answers. The sun was shining again. There were no blinds at the windows and they squinted awkwardly against the light, waiting for the inspector to speak, not expecting too much.