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  It didn’t sound a barrel-load of fun, Hunter thought.

  “You get close to people very quickly,” she said. “I suppose it makes you vulnerable … And you learn you’ve got to move on.”

  Hunter wanted to say something intelligent but the words wouldn’t come. At least with the Jesus freaks you could just slam the door.

  They realized then that one of the boys had fallen and was crying. Lily went reluctantly to pick him up and dust the shavings from him.

  “I’ll have to go back,” she said. “Get them some tea.”

  “Where’s their mam?”

  “She’s gone into Otterbridge to see James McDougal.”

  “What would she do that for?” His voice was suddenly sharp.

  “Nothing suspicious.” She was laughing at him. “A gesture of sympathy, that’s all. I’m not expecting her to be long.”

  She bundled the boys roughly into the buggy and fastened the straps.

  “Do you want a hand up the hill with that?” Hunter said, imagining the jibes of his mates when he returned to the incident room if she agreed. “Never had you down as a family man, Gordon,” they’d say. Sniggering.

  “No,” she said easily. “I can manage.”

  He walked with her to the edge of the park. There, their ways would separate.

  “We’re not just cranks, you know,” she said.

  “No,” he said, unconvinced.

  “Look,” she said, ‘talk to Rebecca in the Alternative Therapy Centre. That might give you some idea what happened to Faye.” She walked on quickly and though he called after her asking what she meant, she did not turn back.

  Gloom had settled once more on the incident room. Ramsay was back and had reported in a clipped detached voice on the interview with Wes and Lorna. Hunter came in just in time and glowered silently for the rest of the day. The frustration was more than any of them could bear. They’d all had Sean Slater down as the murderer the midnight wanderings, that crappy alibi, a feeling that he was really weird. Weirder than that crowd at the Old Chapel. Whatever you might think of them at least they made a decent living. And Hunter was feeling ratty.

  The phone went. A uniformed WPC took the call. She grinned at her friends and shouted to Hunter.

  “I think you should take this one, Sarge.”

  “Why? What is it?”

  “A witness. It might be important.”

  “Put it through then,” he said grudgingly.

  He listened for a few minutes, grunted, then replaced the receiver.

  “Very funny, constable,” he said.

  “Who was it, Sarge?” They sensed a wind-up and they needed cheering up.

  “A lunatic,” he said. “Some poor bugger who’s spent too long up here in the hills. He says he’s just seen the ghost of Ernie Bowles in Mittingford High Street.”

  They all laughed and Hunter stomped out.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Hunter drove from the incident room to the Abbots’ house. When Lily opened the door he was surprised but pleased to find her still there.

  “Oh, it’s you again,” she said. The confiding mood had gone and she was prickly, bad-tempered. “What do you want now?”

  “A few words,” he said.

  “I’ve nothing more to say to you …” But she stood aside to let him in. “I’ve been giving the kids their tea. I expected Win back by now.”

  In the kitchen there was food on the floor and a smell of charred toast. A piece of mashed banana stuck to his shoe.

  “I want to talk to Rebecca,” he said, ‘like you said. But I need her address. Unless you want me to bother her at work.” He knew it was an excuse. Really he wanted to talk to her.

  “No,” she said quickly. “Don’t do that. She lives with her parents in one of those modern bungalows up on the hill. I’m not sure of the number. It’s got a blue gate. You’ll find it easily enough.”

  “What’s her surname?”

  “Booth.” She paused. “Look, perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything. You mustn’t blame me if this is all a waste of time.”

  They stood, awkwardly. The children were suddenly quiet.

  “It would be a lot simpler if you told me what’s going on,” he said.

  She shook her head.

  “I’d best go and talk to Rebecca then,” he said sharply. “She will be home by now?”

  They looked at the hall clock. It was five-fifteen.

  “I think she finishes at five, so she’ll be back in the next few minutes.”

  When she saw him to the door he hesitated, but inside one of the children was crying and she slammed the door shut without a word.

  In the car he swore out loud and wondered how he could have come to make such a bloody fool of himself. He’d go and see the girl anyway, he thought. See if he could salvage something from the afternoon. But a call came on to the radio summoning him back and he did not get to see Rebecca Booth that night.

  James McDougal left school early again. At lunchtime he wandered down the drive with a gang of sixth-formers who were going to the chip shop and just didn’t bother going back. That afternoon was double English which he usually enjoyed but he knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on The Waste Land. He had other things to think of.

  He walked home along quiet suburban streets dappled with sunshine, lost in thought. In the house he drank a can of Coke and played some music but he could not settle. On impulse he picked up the telephone and dialled the number he had found in the local paper. A voice on the other end of the line said, “Mittingford incident room.” He hesitated for a moment then replaced the receiver. He could have asked to speak to Ramsay but what would he say? That his mother had become disillusioned with alternative medicine? So what?

  A little later he left the house and began the walk to the cemetery to visit Faye, only because he could think of nothing else to do. He stopped, as usual, to buy flowers at the garage. He walked with his head bent and he did not look round. There was a big red-brick primary school on the main road which he had never really noticed before, because he’d always come at weekends, when it was quiet. Now it was home time and the pavement was crowded with parents. There were cars parked all the way back to the garage and on as far as the cemetery wall. A lollipop lady was shepherding children across the road. The girls wore red and white gingham dresses newly bought for the summer. They chased past James to find their mothers. Still he did not look behind him.

  There was no sign of the flower seller at the cemetery gate. Her trestle table was still set up as normal but it was empty except for an upturned bucket. James missed the confrontation with her and imagined her at home. She would live in a council house with a Rottweiler in the garden and a brutish lover who drove a truck and had tattoos. He smiled briefly at the cartoon picture. What would his mother have thought of his prejudice? Then he walked in between the massive wrought-iron gates.

  He had never known the cemetery so quiet. There was bird song but it seemed to come from the surrounding gardens. There were no joggers, no dog walkers, no other mourners. It was the hottest day of the year so far, and after the walk he felt drained of energy. He came to a bench which had been donated by an Alderman of Otterbridge Town Council in 1961. He sat there and began to doze. A peacock butterfly settled on the wooden plank beside him. It was the last thing James saw.

  James’s body was found on the grass next to Faye’s grave at five o’clock. The old man who had almost stumbled over it was quite sure of the time when Ramsay questioned him later. Five o’clock exactly. He was a retired railway man and knew the importance of precision. He said he came to the cemetery every afternoon for a constitutional before his tea. Not to visit one of the graves. His parents were buried in Newcastle and his wife was still alive, thank God. They’d celebrated their golden wedding in February. No, he liked the cemetery because it was a quiet and pleasant place to walk. Better than the main road with all those diesel fumes at any rate, and he wasn’t one to be bothered by the thoug
ht of dead bodies. He’d been a stretcher bearer in the war.

  “Did you touch the body?” Ramsay asked gently. They were standing by the cemetery gate. The whole area had been cordoned off. It was evening by now, and the place was in shadow.

  “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.

  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?”