“Look,” she said, ‘there’s Inspector Ramsay on the television.” She giggled. “Doesn’t he look dishy!” She still used words like that. “Dishy’ and ‘smashing’ and jolly good show’. It was as if she were stuck as a schoolgirl in the early sixties. Nothing could shake her enthusiasm, not even her husband’s indifference. She turned to her son who had been eating, steadily and silently. “You never did tell me what he wanted the other day, Peter.”
“You’ve never been here to ask,” he said.
“I have been busy,” she said complacently, knowing that it was only her effort which was keeping the farm together.
Stan Richardson pushed his plate away from him. His attention was still on the television. He watched the young reporter ask her questions about Faye Cooper, saw Ramsay’s awkwardness, the noncommittal reply.
“Didn’t you know a lass called Faye a while back?” he asked his son.
“So what?” Peter said defiantly.
“Nothing. I just wondered if it was the same girl, that’s all.”
“Why should I care? I moved on from that ages ago.”
He slammed his plate on the draining board.
“Can I borrow your car tonight?” he asked his mother.
“Of course, pet,” she said, absentmindedly finishing the last of her meal.
“It’s about time you got a car of your own!” Stan shouted after him as he left the room. “I pay you enough. It’s about time you stood on your own two feet!”
Magda Pocock did not possess a television so she did not see Ramsay’s appeal for information. The inspector saw her, silhouetted against the lighted, sloping window of her flat when he went back to the pub to phone Prue. He would be working for most of the night and he needed a break. From Hunter, as much as anything, who was still self-absorbed and short-tempered. Even a successful interview with Daniel Abbot had failed to cheer him up, though he described it with a gloomy satisfaction.
“I had him snivelling like a bairn,” Hunter said. “He blamed it all on the lass, of course. Said she overreacted to a simple gesture of friendship.
But we’ll have no trouble from him again.”
Magda moved her head, her hands, her feet in slow, fluid movements. Ramsay stood in the street and watched her. She could not see him because it was almost dark. Besides, her concentration was complete. Tai Chi, he thought. Weren’t Chinese parks fun of elderly men at dawn, performing the same sort of actions? What could they hope to get out of it?
There must be something positive. Even the cynical Hunter was wondering if he was missing out.
Ramsay walked on up the street and when he turned back to look at the Old Chapel Magda was sitting perfectly still, in some form of meditation. Perhaps he should give it a go, he thought. Because he had the feeling that he now had all the information he needed to draw the enquiry to a conclusion, and if he was sufficiently focused and concentrated he could come to an answer.
Prue answered the phone immediately so he thought she’d probably had an early night. Often she worked in bed. He could imagine her there, surrounded by books and scripts, a bottle of wine on the bedside table, a packet of chocolate biscuits.
“Saw you on the telly tonight,” she said. “Very impressive.”
“Did you think so?” He was rather flattered.
“Very. You got over what you wanted from the public and gave them no information at all.”
“Oh.”
“When am I going to get you back then?” she said. “I don’t much like being a single woman again.”
“Soon,” he said. “Very soon. I think it’ll all be over tomorrow.”
When he went back to the incident room Magda was still sitting by the uncurtained window, her legs crossed, her eyes shut.
Chapter Thirty-one
As expected there were plenty of calls from cranks and exhibitionists. People with a grudge wanting revenge. People with an axe to grind. The link made by the press of the murders to the Old Chapel gave the venom a particular flavour. Supporters of the Natural Therapy Centre claimed the police investigation had been an establishment plot to discredit complementary medicine. Religious bigots made accusations about New Age ideology: satanic ritual and paganism.
But there were genuine callers, hesitant and embarrassed, who stumbled over their explanations: “I don’t suppose it’s important but…”
When Ramsay returned to the incident room the phones were still ringing. There had been a quiet period after eight o’clock but the appeal for information had been broadcast again at nine-thirty and there was renewed activity.
Rob Newell was sitting at the desk nearest the door. He looked quite incongruous, dressed in a Young Conservative’s idea of casual clothes twill trousers, a shirt in Boy Scout khaki and a tweedy tie.
“Well?” Ramsay asked. “Any pattern emerging?”
“Several people have phoned about a car parked in Ferndale Avenue that Monday evening,” Newell said. “It was parked outside the McDougals’ house for a couple of hours, though no one seems to have seen the driver.”
“Description of the vehicle?”
“Small red hatchback. Nova or Fiesta. We’ll send people out with photos tomorrow and try to narrow it down.”
“What about the day James McDougal died? Was the same car seen then?”
Newell shook his head.
“We’ve had a disappointing response on that,” he said, ‘though a neighbour confirms that Mrs. Abbot was there. Saw her from an upstairs window. Apparently there were residents at home but none of them had any reason to go out into the street. It was early afternoon. Kids were still at school. The people who did venture out only got as far as their back gardens to sit in the sun.”
Ramsay allowed his impatience to show. He raised his voice so the whole room could hear. He wanted them to know how important it was. “Are you telling me that Ferndale Avenue was empty all afternoon?” he demanded. “Because I don’t believe you. What about tradesmen? What about bin men? Window cleaners? Find out what time the post box in Ferndale Avenue is emptied and talk to the postman. Find out if any charity envelopes or advertising junk was delivered in the area that afternoon. Do any of the elderly residents have home helps? You get the idea. Use a bit of no use and imagination.”
The impatience was real. He knew what he was looking for. He knew who had committed the murders and how it was done. He only had to prove it.
Newell was impressed by the list of instructions, almost happy. He was always more comfortable obeying orders than working under his own initiative.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll start checking at once.”
“Sir!” Sal Wedderburn called from the other side of the room, her hand over the telephone receiver. “Another witness has called about the red car parked in Ferndale Avenue on Monday 10th. He’s convinced it was a Fiesta. M reg. Do you want to talk to him?”
The caller was a computer freak with his own consultancy business. He’d just landed a contract with a chain of travel agents and, he told Ramsay, he was feeling pretty good that night driving home. That’s why he remembered the date so well. The next morning there’d been police all over the place though no one had asked him any questions. He’d left before the house-to-house enquiries started. He was never there really. He worked all the hours God sent.
“Why did you notice the red car?” Ramsay asked.
“Because I’d never seen it before. That time it’s mostly neigh hours vehicles on the street’
“What makes you so sure it was a Fiesta?”
“I was thinking of getting one for the wife.
She’s always nagging about a car of her own. It’s her fortieth birthday next month. I checked it out, thought it was a smart little motor.”