By the time he had replaced the receiver Ramsay remembered where he had recently seen a new Fiesta. He called to Hunter.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re going visiting.”
“Where are we going, then?” Hunter asked when they were outside. He looked at his watch. It was only ten o’clock but the town was deserted. Like a bloody morgue, he thought. He’d treat himself to a Friday night in town when this was all over, in one of the pubs where the barmaids went topless. That was probably all he needed to sort himself out: a few beers and a bit of smut.
“Long Edge Farm,” Ramsay said. “Mrs. Richardson drives a car that matches the one in Ferndale Avenue.”
“You don’t have her down as the murderer?” Hunter said. “I can’t see it myself. Not that I’ve met the woman, like. And wasn’t it a bit daft to park right outside the victim’s house for all those hours? You’d think she’d have moved it up the street a couple of hundred yards. Unless it wasn’t premeditated, of course. But she was hardly just there for a chat ‘
Ramsay cut through the rambling. “The lad, Peter, drives his mother’s car,” he said. “And he is a bit daft. But let’s see what he has to say for himself.”
There was no Fiesta standing outside the farmhouse. A full moon had come up over the hills and they could see quite clearly. The living-room curtains were drawn and there was the sound of the television, rather loud, a burst of canned laughter. Ramsay led Hunter round to the back door.
Through the uncurtained kitchen window they saw Mrs. Richardson. She was dressed in a fluffy pink dressing gown and her hair was wrapped up in a towel. She was sitting at the table, obviously working on the farm’s accounts. There was a calculator on the table beside her and she pressed at the buttons quickly and efficiently. She was wearing pink-rimmed spectacles. Ramsay watched her through the window when Hunter knocked at the door. She remained seated and still concentrating on the figures in front of her called: “Come in!” She sounded a little surprised to be disturbed so late at night, but not anxious. Perhaps she was used to the guests from the cottages turning up at all hours, but Ramsay thought there was more to her calm response than that. Owning land gave people confidence. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to be frightened.
He pushed open the door and walked in ahead of Hunter.
“Inspector,” she said, and frowned. “What is it? It’s not Peter, is it? There’s not been an accident?” Still she remained quite composed.
“No,” he said. “Nothing like that.”
“Can’t it wait until the morning, Inspector? It’s been a very long day.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You’d better sit down then.” She set the papers with their rows of figures aside and suddenly became more of her old self. “Would you like a drink? Tea? Coffee? Or could I tempt you to a whisky?”
He shook his head.
“Did you know Val McDougal?” he asked.
“The teacher who was killed in Otterbridge? No, I don’t think so.”
“She was about your age,” Ramsay persisted. “Perhaps you met her before you married. Her maiden name was Brown. Or perhaps you came across her at Otterbridge College where she worked. They run courses for people setting up in the holiday business. I’ve checked.”
“I haven’t been on any courses, Inspector,” she said, good-naturedly. “I never found the time. I’ve had to pick it all up as I went along.”
“Can you explain what your car was doing outside Mrs. McDougal’s house then, on the day she died?” It was Hunter, blunt and impersonal. She looked at him in surprise. People she invited into her kitchen didn’t usually speak to her like that.
“Of course not,” she said. “Because it wasn’t.”
“Where is your car tonight?” Ramsay asked, politely.
“Peter asked to borrow it.”
There was a pause while the implication of the words sunk in.
“Did he borrow it on the night of Monday May 10th?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, uncertainly. “That’s more than a week ago, isn’t it? I’d have to check my diary. See what I was doing that night.”
“Perhaps you would do that for us, Mrs. Richardson.”
“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”
She was fumbling in her handbag for the diary when they heard a car come too fast down the drive, the squeal of brakes, the crunch of gravel.
“I’d not let that lad drive any car of mine,” Hunter muttered.
“There’s Peter,” she said gratefully. “You’ll be able to ask him yourself.”
The door opened and Peter stood, blinking and a little unsteady, just inside the room. Ramsay thought it unlikely that he would pass a breath test but that was hardly his concern now.
“Peter,” he said, “I’d like to talk to you.”
“Well I don’t want to talk to you!” The boy was full of beer and mock bravado. “I’m off to my bed.” He swayed slightly forward. “Unless you’re planning on arresting me.”
His mother gave a nervous little giggle.
“I’ll do that too if I think it’s necessary,” Ramsay said calmly. “Sit down.”
Peter sat.
“Did you know James McDougal?” Ramsay asked. “He was Faye’s boyfriend, before you.”
“No.” Peter was dismissive. “She told me about him. He was only a kid, wasn’t he?”
“And Mrs. McDougal? She taught at Otterbridge College ‘
He shook his head, yawned in a parody of disinterest.
“Do you often borrow your mother’s car?”
“Yeah,” he said. “She doesn’t mind.”
“Did you borrow it on the evening of May 10th?”
“I don’t know. I might have done. Why?”
Ramsay slammed his hand flat on the table. “Because that’s the evening when Mrs. McDougal was killed and a car like your mother’s was parked in the road outside her house.”
“It’s a common car that. Thousands of them about. It could have been anyone’s.”
“But I don’t think it was anyone’s. I think it was yours. Where were you on that Monday night?”
“I don’t know.” The aggression had gone but he was sullen and determined not to co-operate.
“He was with us, Inspector.” Mrs. Richardson had retrieved her diary and was peering at it through her spectacles. “Don’t you remember, pet? It was the FWAG do at the agricultural college.”
“What’s a FWAG when it’s at home?” Hunter asked.
“The Farming and Wildlife Advisory Group,”
Sue Richardson said. “Stan’s not very keen on it, but I thought we ought to belong. It looks good on the publicity we put out for the holiday cottages. And you can get some useful information. On set-aside, how to create a pond or maintain woodland. You know the sort of thing.” Her tone was determinedly cheerful.
“And there was a FWAG meeting on the 10th?” Ramsay asked sceptic ally He couldn’t imagine Peter Richardson going along to a talk on the rise and fall of the corn bunting.
“Not a meeting,” she said. She gave another of her little giggles. “You’d not get Stan along to a meeting. No, it was the annual dinner. The college put on quite a good spread, didn’t they, pet? And there was a bar. It was just a good opportunity to meet old friends.”
“Were the three of you there all evening?”
“Of course,” she said. “It went on longer than I expected. It was gone midnight when we got home.”
“Which car did you go in?”
“Not the Fiesta,” she said quickly. “The Volvo.”
“You left the Fiesta parked outside the farmhouse?”
“Of course.”
“Was the car locked?” Ramsay asked.
She laughed. “I don’t expect so. We’re rather naughty about security out here, Inspector.”
“Did you notice if the car had been tampered with? If there was extra mileage on the clock?”
“No,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“You wouldn’t have left the keys in the ignition?”
“Of course not, Inspector. I’m not a fool.”