Healers Page 12

  “And the Abbots?”

  “Win’s OK. A bit heavy sometimes, a bit intense. And too wrapped up with her kids. But she’s kind. She gives us meals. If it wasn’t for Daniel I think she’d have had us to stay …”

  “You don’t get on with Mr. Abbot?”

  “I don’t not get on with him. We’re just not very close.”

  “What about Mrs. Pocock, Magda? Does she get on with him?”

  Lily shrugged. “Not ‘specially. But it’s not an easy relationship, is it, being a mother-in-law?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never been one.”

  She grinned despite herself.

  “There must be more to it than that,” he went on. “If she’s such a special person she wouldn’t have taken against him for no reason.”

  “Oh,” Lily said, “I think she had a reason.”

  “What reason? Was Daniel playing away?”

  Lily nodded.

  “And his wife never found out that he was seeing other women?”

  “I think she knew. She just didn’t want to admit it’

  “Can you give me the names of some of these women?”

  But Lily remembered her conversation with Magda the evening before and shook her head. Hunter didn’t push it. He could make his own enquiries and he wanted Lily on his side.

  “Do you know Peter Richardson?” he asked.

  “I’ve seen him about,” she answered, cautiously.

  “I was chatting to him last night,” Hunter said. “He seemed to think that any offer he made on the Laverock land would be accepted. But Mrs. Pocock didn’t know anything about it.”

  She looked awkward.

  “That might be Sean, she said. “Jumping the gun a bit. I know he was chatting to Mr. Richardson when he came down to see to the animals.”

  “Nothing to do with him though, is it?”

  “We’d want to be involved,” she said. “I told you, we’ve been promised a place if it goes ahead.”

  “What’s the deal then?” Hunter asked. “Richardson slips your laddie a few quid if he can persuade the Abbots to sell him the land without going to auction?”

  “No,” she said. “Sean wouldn’t be involved in something like that.” But her voice was uncertain.

  If Sean and Richardson were working together now, Hunter thought, perhaps they were working together before. Perhaps they were both behind the murder of Ernie Bowles. It was the closest he’d come to a motive for Sean and he felt quite cheerful.

  “Have a pudding,” he said. “Some of that carrot cake.”

  She looked at her watch. “No, I’d better go. I only get half an hour for lunch. Thanks anyway.”

  “No problem,” he said.

  He watched her walk back across the stone flags, her hips swaying, her thin jacket slung over one shoulder like a matador’s cape.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Win wished they had invited guests for lunch as usual. She and Daniel seldom communicated now unless they had an audience. This seemed not to trouble Daniel but Win always felt tense and wretched when they were alone together in the house. She wondered how long she could carry on. Magda hadn’t said anything directly but Win could tell she thought the marriage was a mistake. It was all right for her, Win thought bitterly and irrationally. She’d lost her husband before it had had a chance to go wrong.

  It had occurred to her recently that she should leave Daniel but she knew she lacked the courage to be that decisive. She kept hoping things would get better. There were the two children to consider. Then there was the project at Laverock Farm. That would be a challenge, something they could work on together. She tried to convince herself that it would bring them close again.

  When the telephone rang summoning Daniel away it was a relief. One of his patients had gone into labour. She had fought for home delivery. She had found a sympathetic midwife and she wanted him there to help with pain relief. He went out cheerfully. He especially liked being present at births. It made him feel important and the patients were always very grateful. He said that Win shouldn’t wait up for him. The contractions had only just started and he might be up all night.

  In her paranoia she wondered if the patient in labour was an excuse and really he had arranged to spend the night with another woman. The idea started as an idle fancy but after an hour of worrying she became convinced by it. When the children were settled in the kitchen for their tea, she went to his desk and checked his diary. There was a woman he had supervised through pregnancy who had reached full term so she supposed she would have to believe him.

  As she was returning the diary to the desk a photograph fell out. It had been slipped between the leaves at the back of the book. She had seen it before, might even have taken it. It was of the boys, playing in the garden last summer. They were splashing in a round, inflatable paddling pool and beside them, stretched out on a striped towel, was Faye Cooper. She was turned towards the children, shouting at them perhaps to take care. Win told herself that there was nothing suspicious about the photo. Daniel had kept it because it was a good one of the boys. All the same she took it back with her into the kitchen. There she cut it up into very tiny pieces and threw it into the bin.

  Ramsay took the afternoon off. He needed time away from the case. He went first to his cottage in

  Heppleburn. It seemed as cold and unlived in as if he had been away for a month and behind the door there was a pile of junk mail and free newspapers. From there he phoned Prue. He was tempted to turn up at her house to surprise her but he thought she should be given the opportunity to make an excuse if she did not want to see him. He still lacked the confidence to take that for granted.

  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.

  “Once a year in early autumn the Abbots hire the place for the weekend and invite visiting lecturers. This is a brochure of the last one, when Faye died.”

  “Where did you get this then?”

  Ramsay paused for a moment. “A friend of Prue’s was on the course.” He waited for Hunter to make some comment about the arty farty theatre crowd but none came.

  “One of the attractions of Juniper Hall is its swimming pool,” the inspector went on. “It’s not used much, except I suppose by macho executives who want to show how tough they are. It’s outside. But the September of the Abbots’ course was unusually warm, an Indian summer and some of the more hardy souls did venture in. It provided a focal point in the evenings, an attractive place to sit. Faye Cooper was drowned in the pool. No one saw the accident happen. She’d been talking, apparently, about how good it would be to swim by moonlight. She must have come down when everyone else was in bed. Her body wasn’t found until the next morning. The local police investigated but were satisfied in the end that it was an accidental death.”

  “You seem to know a lot, like.” Hunter was suspicious. He thought Ramsay was following his own line of investigation again. They were supposed to be a team, a partnership. It made him look a fool if Ramsay refused to confide in him.

  “No,” Ramsay said, ‘not very much. I only found out about Faye Cooper last night. I got the Cumbria force to fax me the details this morning. It seemed a coincidence another death connected with the Alternative Therapy Centre.” Not, he thought, that I have to justify my actions to you.

  “What did you find out then?”

  Ramsay sat back in his chair, his eyes squinted shut against the bright sunshine. He did not need to look in his notes.

  “Faye Cooper was just eighteen when she died. Left school at sixteen and left home at the same time. Set up in a bed sit in Otterbridge. She was a student at Otterbridge FE college taking a secretarial course.”

  Before Hunter could interrupt he added quickly, “I’ve checked if she was ever taught by Val McDougal but apparently not. She was quite a bright girl and never needed a remedial teacher.”

  “Why did she leave home?” Hunter asked. “It’s canny young for a lass to be living on her own.”

  “I’m not sure,” Ramsay said. “We’ll have to check. I don’t think the investigating officer was too impressed with he
r parents. He was certainly thorough he talked to her college friends and checked her background besides taking statements from everyone staying at Juniper Hall when she died. Reading between the lines I’d say he suspected suicide, though no evidence of that was brought before the Coroner’s Court. I’d like to talk to him but it seems he’s left the force.”

  “Why did he think she killed herself?” Hunter wasn’t prepared to accept the judgement of some rural wooden top without question.

  Ramsay shrugged. “He thought she was mixed up, lonely. There’d been a row with her parents. Her mam had remarried and she hadn’t ever got on with her stepfather apparently. The college staff said she was a bit wild, especially when she first started there. She didn’tjoin in the social life of the other students. Most of them said they only saw her in class. I suppose he just thought that suicide wouldn’t have been out of character.”

  “Boyfriends?” Hunter asked. “Some teenage romance which went wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Ramsay said. “The report doesn’t mention anything like that.”

  “How did she get mixed up with the bunch at the Old Chapel in the first place?” Hunter asked. “If she was living in Otterbridge and had no transport she’d not come across them socially. It’s not the sort of thing that would attract a young girl anyway. And how did she afford the weekend away?” He flipped through the brochure which still lay on Ramsay’s desk and whistled. “Do you see what it costs? You’d need a second mortgage.”

  Ramsay did not answer. He was preoccupied. Hunter’s question about boyfriends had triggered a memory. He was looking for the notes he had taken after his interview with James McDougal.

  “Here we are!” he said at last, triumphantly. “When I talked to Val McDougal’s son I asked how she’d got into alternative therapies. He said it was through him and he’d first become interested in New Age philosophy after travelling to festivals with his girlfriend. Whose name was Faye. That at least explains how she got to know the Abbots.”