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  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.”

  “Why don’t you like it? They all seem very pleasant.”

  “Mrs. Pocock’s all right,” she said. “She’s kind. But she’s not always there.”

  “What’s happened?” he asked.

  “It’s Mr. Abbot,” she said, in a rush. “At first I thought he was just being friendly, making me feel welcome. You know.”

  “But it wasn’t just that?”

  She shook her head. “It’s the way he looks at me,” she said. “And he always tries to be on his own with me.” She turned away. “He touches me. Wandering hands, you know.”

  The phrase was strangely prim and he was moved. “Couldn’t you tell anyone?” Hunter said. “That’s sexual harassment.” Listen to me, he thought. I never believed anyone’d catch me saying that. “Couldn’t you tell Mrs. Pocock?”

  “I was frightened I’d lose my job,” she said. “I was so pleased to get it.” She hesitated. She was desperate to explain. “My sister’s training to be a nurse,” she said. “She was always brighter than me. Took A Levels. I was never much good at school. Mum and Dad wanted me to stay on into the sixth form. I did the first year but I couldn’t face exams. I’ve never stood up for myself much, but I stuck out for getting a job. In the end they said if I found one I could leave. When I got taken on at the Old Chapel at Easter I was over the moon. I was determined to make a go of it.”

  “What about your parents?” Hunter said. “Couldn’t you explain to them?”

  “It would have been like admitting I was wrong,” she said. “It’s not that they’d be horrid about it. They’re dead nice. But that’s part of the problem. I’d feel that I was letting them down.”

  “Of course,” Hunter said.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “You did talk to someone about this, didn’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “Lily,” she said. “The girl who works in the health food shop. I met her in the cafe and she asked me how I was getting on, if I was enjoying it. She seemed almost to have guessed that there was a problem so it was easier to tell her.”

  “And what did Li
ly say?”

  “That I should tell someone. She asked if I wanted her to tell Mrs. Pocock. I made her promise not to. What would Mrs. Pocock think? Mrs. Abbot’s her daughter.” She hesitated. “She might think I’d been leading him on.”

  “What else did Lily say?”

  “That I mustn’t take it personally. It had happened before. He just fancied young girls.”

  “When did it happen before?” Hunter asked.

  “They had a girl working for them in the house. Her name was Faye. Lily said you could tell Mr. Abbot was let ching after her all the time she was working there, though Faye never noticed. She was too innocent, Lily said. Too naive. He didn’t try anything on then because she had a boyfriend. Peter Richardson. He went to school with my sister. Do you know him?”

  Hunter nodded.

  “Lily said Mr. Abbot was frightened of Peter. He knew he’d not stand him mucking about with Faye. He’s known for his temper. He had a scrap with Ernie Bowles once. But then she stopped going out with him and Lily said Mr. Abbot was all over her.”

  “Lily saw that?”

  Rebecca nodded. “They went away together. All of them. On some sort of course. Apparently it happened then.” She shivered again slightly. “They’re planning another course,” she said. “Mr. Abbot wants me to go …”

  “Of course you won’t go,” Hunter said. “And you must speak to someone. If it’s happened before there’s proof that you’re not making it up.”

  “No’ she cried, and he realized at last just why she was so frightened. “Don’t you see, there’s no proof! Faye’s dead. They said it was an accident but I can’t help wondering … Perhaps she threatened to tell someone … I’m worried that the same thing will happen to me.”

  Ramsay had spent the morning trying to pin down Magda Pocock. She was at work and she spoke to him eventually on the telephone but she seemed reluctant to see him.

  “I have patients all morning,” she said. “Actually, you’ve interrupted me now.”

  “I’ll come at lunchtime then,” he said.

  “No. There’s someone I have to meet for lunch.”

  There was a brief silence, and she seemed to reach a conclusion. “I’ll come to you,” she said. “In the incident room. Fourish? Would that be convenient?”

  And he had to leave it at that.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “The way I see it,” Hunter told Ramsay, ‘that gives us a motive.”

  They were sitting in the back room of the pub. It was three o’clock and even the public bar was quiet. They were on their own. If they wanted a drink they had to call through to the landlord, who shuffled in with poor grace to serve them.

  “Daniel Abbot tried it on with Faye at Juniper Hall. Perhaps it wasn’t a serious assault, but nasty, unwanted. She trusted him and if he’d called her into his room she’d have gone without question. Or if he’d suggested a walk by the pool or a midnight swim. She strikes me as having more fight in her than Rebecca, who’s a smashing lass but a timid little thing. I can see Faye throwing a wobbler, threatening to tell his wife or Mrs. Pocock. Even the press. They’d be on to the story like a ton of bricks. Wasn’t there all that fuss a while back about a doctor who took advantage of his female patients when they were under hypnosis? They’d have a field day with an acupuncturist and nubile young girls. She wasn’t a strong swimmer. We know that from the report, don’t we? She panicked if she got out of her depth. So he just pushed her in the deep end and waited for her to die. There would be no way of proving it was anything but an accidental death.”

  He set his glass on the table triumphantly.

  “It’s certainly plausible,” Ramsay said, slowly. “But I don’t quite see how that provides a motive for the recent murders. It might explain the attack on Val McDougal. She was at Juniper Hall. She knew Faye well and might have guessed what was going on. But Ernie and James weren’t even there. And why after all this time?”

  “I was wondering,” Hunter said tentatively, ‘about blackmail.” He was enjoying this talk. It was like the old days, just the two of them working together. He had his complaints about Ramsay’s methods but that didn’t mean he wanted Sal Wedderburn and Rob Newell brown-nosing in and taking his place.

  Ramsay said nothing. He waited for Hunter to explain.

  “Ernie Bowles seems to me a classic blackmailer,” he said. “Always prying. You can imagine him listening at keyholes, reading other people’s mail. Lily Jackman said he was always hanging round the caravan at one time. She certainly knew that Abbot fancied Faye she told Rebecca as much. He could have overheard her discussing it with Slater, even speculating about murder. We know the farm was going down the tube. He was even considering holding a New Age festival to make some money. Perhaps he thought it would be easier to blackmail Daniel Abbot instead.”

  “It certainly fits in with his character.” Ramsay’s voice was bland. Hunter was slightly disappointed that he wasn’t more enthusiastic. “What about Val McDougal and James? I’d hardly put them down as blackmailers.”

  “Of course not,” Hunter said crossly, ‘but she was there, wasn’t she? She might have stumbled across them, worked out what was going on. After Abbot killed Bowles perhaps he wanted to make certain that no one could try it on again.”

  “Perhaps,” Ramsay said. “And James?”

  “As I see it,” Hunter said, ‘by this time Abbot’s in a state of complete panic. He’s not thinking properly

  Ramsay pictured his last interview with the sleek and charming Abbot and thought that he’d hardly seemed panic-stricken. He said nothing.

  “He hears that we’ve received an anonymous letter linking Faye’s death with the murders. Who could have sent it? If Val was the only person who saw him with Faye at Juniper Hall it must have been James. Everyone knew how close they were. Val would have told James everything. To be absolutely certain that his secret was safe he’d have to kill James.”

  He drained the last Vaux Bitter from his glass. “Well?” he demanded. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s the best theory we’ve got so far,” Ramsay said.

  Well, Hunter thought, talk about damning with faint praise.

  “What do you think we should do next?” Ramsay asked.

  “Pull in Daniel Abbot and see what he’s got to say for himself

  “I’m not sure,” Ramsay said slowly, ‘that would be wise at this stage. It’s all speculation just now. We’ve no proof. We need something to fix Daniel at the murder scene. His car. A witness. He’s a clever bastard. Smooth. We’d never get him to confess. And even if we did, these days that wouldn’t be a lot of use in court without corroboration.”

  “What then?”

  “Mrs. Abbot has given him an alibi for the night of the attack on Val McDougal. They were supposed to be at a lecture together in Otterbridge College. If we could persuade her to admit that he slipped away for a while it would be a start

  “Do you want me to see her?” Hunter was on his feet, ready to go.

  Ramsay hesitated, tried to be tactful.

  “Do you think we should leave it to Sal? She took the original statement and Mrs. Abbot’s nervy. We don’t want her hysterical.”

  “Job for a woman then, you think?” He sank back into his chair.

  Ramsay nodded. “I would like you to talk to Lily Jackman again. Though she obviously feels a certain loyalty to the Abbots. She’s kept quiet all this time, after all. But the fact that she sent you off to Rebecca Booth must mean that she’s not happy with Abbot’s behaviour. You might be able to persuade her to talk to you.”

  Hunter never walked anywhere unless he could help it. Walking was for the wooden tops and he’d left that behind long ago. But now, when he came out of the pub, he decided to walk to the Old Chapel where he presumed Lily Jackman would be working.

  He tried to drag all his prejudices to the top of his mind. He thought of the New Age travellers who’d stoned the police keeping them from Stonehenge. They were al
l the same, he thought. They smoked dope, lived like animals crapping where the fancy took them. Hunter, who had been known to drive forty miles out of his way to find a public convenience rather than piss behind a tree, shuddered at the thought.

  He walked through the restaurant to the health food shop. The heavy smell of spices and yeast and garlic turned his stomach. He told himself he couldn’t live with that all day. The restaurant was empty. The staff recognized him and nodded, not in an unfriendly way, but ironically, as if they could never allow their relationships with the police to be straightforward. At the door he paused and looked for Lily. He felt suddenly nervous. He thought she must be some sort of witch. No one else had ever affected him like this. Still flustered, he went into the shop.

  The anaemic boy with the shaved head was on duty. He too recognized Hunter, but he did not let on.

  “Yes?” he said carelessly.

  “I’m looking for Miss Jackman,” Hunter said.

  “She’s not here,” the boy said. He had on a long bleached apron tied at the back and reminded Hunter of a mortuary assistant.

  “Where is she?”

  “How would I sodding know? It’s her day off.”

  So Hunter walked back to the police station, picked up one of the pool cars and drove to Laverock Farm. He parked in the yard beside Ernie Bowles’s old Land-Rover. He opened the car door and swivelled in his seat to pull on the Wellingtons he’d had the sense to bring with him.

  Lily was hanging washing on a line in the farmhouse back garden. He stood for a moment, looking at her, before she realized he was there.

  “Making yourself at home,” he said sarcastically.

  “We’ve had permission to stay in the house,” she said quickly.

  “Where’s lover boy?”

  “I thought they taught you manners these days,” she snapped.

  “Sorry.” He walked towards her. “Sorry …”

  “Sean’s gone up to Long Edge Farm to talk to Stan Richardson.”

  “What for?”