Ramsay knew he should provide positive leadership. He had seen it done. A charismatic officer could pull together a team in minutes, make them believe in themselves again, send them away with renewed enthusiasm. But that had never been his style. He wasn’t up to it.
He looked out at them. They sprawled across desks or in chairs tilted back against the wall. Hunter was perched on a windowsill with his feet on a filing cabinet and stared out towards the children’s playground. In the last few days there had been none of the sarcasm, the deliberate attempts to undermine Ramsay’s authority, which usually marked their relationship. Ramsay supposed he should be grateful but Hunter’s disengagement from the enquiry was beginning to worry him. It was another problem which would have to be sorted out by the end of the day.
He stood to speak. Sally Wedderburn flashed him a smile, not of encouragement but of pity.
He began by giving them the details of James’s death in a flat, matter-of-fact voice.
“The boy was strangled between four-thirty and five. At four o’clock he was seen by a school crossing patrol in the road leading to the cemetery. Neither his father nor his school friends knew that he was planning to visit the cemetery that day, so we must assume that neither did his murderer. The implications of that are obvious…”
He paused and looked into blank, gum-chewing faces. The room was wreathed in cigarette smoke and dust. There was no response so he continued.
“James must have been followed from his house. Either on foot or by car. The kids were just coming out of Otterbridge Primary School. Parents were waiting for them. That means there were lots of witnesses. It gives us something to work on. Sally, I want you outside the school at home time today. Talk to the mums. Take a photo of James. Was there a car travelling particularly slowly? A pedestrian nobody recognized?”
She nodded.
“James was strangled several metres from where he was found. He’d been sitting on a bench. The ground was dusty and the footprints of his trainers were quite distinctive. Then he was dragged to Faye Cooper’s grave and left to lie there. Any ideas why?”
There was a silence. A hand was raised at the back of the room. It was Newell, an ex-public schoolboy and graduate entrant whom no one could quite take to. He had an Army haircut and a Home Counties accent. The general opinion was that he was a pompous prat. It didn’t help that he came from the south and knew nothing about football. Ramsay felt some sympathy for Newell but knew that to intervene would only make matters worse.
“To make a point, sir.”
“What sort of a point?”
“Well, sir, if the murders are motivated by revenge for Faye’s death there would be more satisfaction in making a show of it. There’s always an element of ritual in revenge, isn’t there?”
He might be an arrogant young sod, Ramsay thought, but he was brighter than most of them.
“That’s certainly possible,” he said. “Any other explanations for moving the body?”
“Someone’s trying to piss us about.” It was Hunter, contemptuous. “Like that anonymous letter. All the evidence is that the girl’s death was accidental. It’s an attempt to distract us and waste our time.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“To lead us up the bloody garden path.”
“I think it might have been to divert us from the real motive,” Ramsay said. “But we can’t ignore Faye. Even if the letter and the moving of James’s body is some sort of elaborate game, it’s significant. The murderer must have known her, known that there was some uncertainty about her drowning, so we’d waste time investigating it.”
“Are you saying that the murderer was at Juniper Hall?” Hunter said abruptly.
“Either that or he was close to someone who was there. It narrows the field, doesn’t it?” He paused, turned back to Hunter. “Didn’t you say you had more information on Faye Cooper?”
“It’s not much,” Hunter said reluctantly. “A hint, that’s all. Lily Jackman suggested that I talk to young Rebecca, the lass who does the clerical work in the Alternative Therapy Centre. I thought I’d catch her at dinner time. Apparently she usually goes home…”
Ramsay nodded his agreement.
“We need the Abbots’ alibis checked again. Properly checked. Talk to the McDougals’ neighbours. Was Mrs. Abbot’s car really there as long as she claims? And what about another strange car? If James was followed to the cemetery the murderer must have been hanging around somewhere. It was a fine day. People will have been in their gardens. It’s an area full of retired people and housewives There will have been folks about.”
He sensed that the mood in the room was changing slightly. It wasn’t quite optimistic. But they started to realize there might be a way forward.
“I’ll talk to Magda Pocock,” Ramsay said. He knew Magda was important. He saw her as a big spider who had attracted them all into her web. Trapped them and controlled them.
“Above all we need publicity,” he said. “The murderer didn’t get to Laverock Farm and the McDougal house on a magic carpet. Someone must have seen him, seen his vehicle. We’ll prepare a request for information and try and get it on the television tonight.”
They began to file out of the room. Not enthusiastically. But at least with a sense of purpose.
Rebecca Booth clip-clopped up the hill in a pair of platform sandals which she’d bought with last week’s wages. Hunter, sitting in a car outside her parents’ house, watched her. When he was young he’d made stilts from cans and pieces of string, and he thought she looked as if she were balancing on those. Otherwise she was smartly dressed in a sleeveless black pinafore dress and a white blouse. It could have been a school uniform. She looked that young.
The house was a small detached bungalow with big plate-glass windows and wood cladding on the gable, which had been built in the sixties. There was a steep terraced garden with little stone walls separating immaculate lawns. She let herself into the bungalow, opening the door with a key. Hunter hoped that meant both her parents were out. If he knew anything about young girls she’d say nothing in front of them.
He rang the bell. She opened it nervously, just a crack. She’d been well brought up. Told not to talk to strangers.
“Oh,” she said, relieved. “It’s you. You’re the policeman.”
She opened the door wide to let him in and he saw that she was barefoot and there were plasters on her heels.
“Are your mum and dad in?” he asked.
“No. Dad’s working. He’s the postmaster.” She was proud. “Mum’s a community nurse. She usually works evenings but she’s gone into Newcastle shopping. For my sister’s wedding.” She blushed. “You don’t want to hear all this…”
“Do you always come home for your dinner?” he asked. It wasn’t far. A ten-minute walk up the hill but this was her first job, you’d think she’d want a bit of independence.
“Yes,” she said. “Mum gets a bit lonely on her own all day…” It sounded lame, like an excuse.
“Is that the only reason?” he asked.
He’d followed her into the kitchen. Her mother had left her a tray. A plate of sandwiches covered with cling film a packet of crisps, a slice of homemade cake.
She blushed again and did not answer. “Do you mind if I get on with this? I don’t have long…” She made him a mug of instant coffee, offered him a sandwich, hoped perhaps that he’d forgotten the question.
“Well?” he said, quite gently. “Is that the only reason?”
She shook her head and he saw that there were tears in her eyes. “I don’t like it at the Centre when there are no patients,” she said. “It’s nice to get away.”