Ramsay 06 - The Baby-Snatcher (2 page)

The road to the Headland ran parallel to the dene. There was a farm with a lot of empty out-buildings and a big sign which read: ‘
FOR SALE
,
BARN SUITABLE FOR CONVERSION
’. The paint on the sign had faded. It had been there since Ramsay had moved into Heppleburn. As it approached the coast the dene flattened into scrubby grassland. The stream ran into the cut to the sea.

When they came to the railway line they had to wait at the level crossing. The train moved very slowly and Ramsay sensed that Marilyn’s impatience was turning into hysteria. She tapped long fingers on the dashboard, muttered under her breath.

The last truck rattled past and the barrier lifted. The road became single track. It led first to the jetty where the coal boats had once been loaded, with the social club beside it, then to the houses. The Headland was a promontory which rose slightly at its tip. Beyond the houses and above them was the whitewashed building which Ramsay remembered as a Coastguard Station. It too apparently had been suitable for conversion because now it was a private house. The sky was quite dark but clear and there was a moon. There was something mythic about the view through the terraced houses to the white house on the hill beyond, with the full moon behind it.

‘Our place is on the left,’ Marilyn said. ‘At the end.’

‘Well, someone’s in.’ Ramsay was relieved. ‘There’s a light on. Or did you leave it like that when you came out?’

‘I can’t remember.’

When they got out of the car Ramsay could hear the sea on either side of them and a snatch of music from the club. Marilyn in her school uniform was shivering.

‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a key.’

The front door opened into a narrow hall. The light Ramsay had seen had come from there and shone through the small glass panes in the door. Steep stairs led to the first floor. The door into the living room was open. Ramsay had expected the house to be tidy. A full-time housewife surely would care about that. But it was small and cluttered. In the centre of the floor stood a large wooden spinning wheel and a box of uncarded sheep’s wool.

Ramsay expected Marilyn to call out for her mother but she walked quietly down the passage to a room at the back. It was as if she were afraid of disturbing someone. She opened the door and switched on the light. There was a dining table folded against one wall; a sofa with a crocheted rug thrown over; a standard lamp with a fringed shade; and a rocking chair. It reminded him very much of the back room of his parents’ house when he was a child. Before his mother started reading women’s magazines and bullying his dad into DIY. Nothing in it had been bought after 1960, though Marilyn’s parents would have been children themselves then, perhaps not even born.

In the rocking chair sat Marilyn’s mother. She was dressed as he had always seen her out walking, in a grey skirt and a faded pink anorak and little suede ankle boots lined with fur. Her skin was smooth, unlined as a girl’s and the hair, dusty brown, unfashionably long for a woman of her age, fell loose over her shoulders. At first he thought she was asleep. Then he saw that she was so astonished to see them, so shocked by the sudden light, that she could not speak.

‘Mummy!’ Now Marilyn did shout. ‘Where were you? I was worried.’

‘Who’s this?’ Mrs Howe asked. She stood up.

‘He’s a policeman. Don’t you realize? I was so worried I went to the police.’

The woman stood, blinking furiously. Ramsay wondered if she were ill. Depressed. Schizophrenic. She seemed lost in a world of her own. Then she seemed to regain awareness of her surroundings. She took a small, apologetic step towards her daughter.

‘Darling,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I must have fallen asleep and you startled me.’ She turned to Ramsay. ‘You know how that can disorientate when one wakes up suddenly …’

‘But where were you earlier?’ Marilyn demanded. ‘You never go out.’

‘Don’t exaggerate, darling. I went for a walk. I told you I might. For blackberries.’

‘But I came to look for you.’

‘Then we must have missed each other.’ The voice was firm. She would tolerate no further argument. She turned to Ramsay. ‘I’m so sorry to have troubled you, Constable.’ He did not correct her about his rank. ‘I’m afraid Marilyn panicked. Perhaps she’s come to rely on me too heavily.’

‘So long as everything’s all right now.’ He looked at them both. It was almost a question.

But it seemed to Ramsay that things in the little house were far from fine. He could see through a door to the back kitchen, to the formica-covered units and the white enamel sink. There was a door with a lift-up latch which would lead to the back yard and the outhouse where once the lavatory had been. Where perhaps it still was. On one unit, quite out of place, stood a microwave oven. But there were no blackberries.

Emma saw her pregnancy as an act of rudeness. How inappropriate, how impolite to be blossoming at this time of grief! Brian had invited Mark Taverner to stay with them for a few days after the death of his wife and whenever she saw him she felt herself blushing. But then Mark had always possessed the knack of making her feel awkward.

Emma had come to motherhood relatively late and took to it with a passion and energy which surprised her colleagues. They’d expected her back in harness straight after maternity leave. Not for the money. Husband Brian more than provided. But because they couldn’t imagine the Human Resources Department without her.

She didn’t return to work. She had two boys in quick succession and now she was pregnant again.
Hoping
for a girl, of course, she confided to her new mumsy friends, but happy to take what came. And then Sheena Taverner had died sooner than they had expected, and the pregnancy seemed some sort of dreadful social gaff.

Emma had suggested to Brian that she might stay away from the funeral but he had insisted that she should be there. He said Mark would want it. Brian and Mark had been friends at university and had stayed close since, which was odd, Emma thought, because they had nothing in common. So she went. At least it was cold for September and she could wear a loose woollen coat which hid the eight-month bump. From a distance you wouldn’t have been able to tell she was expecting. And Mark did seem pleased to see her. Outside the church he hugged her, held on to her with a desperation she had not expected. She pulled away from the embrace feeling quite shaky, with a surge of emotion which had little to do with missing Sheena. Hormones, she told herself. And wondered if the friend who was looking after the boys would remember about Owen’s allergy to oranges.

After the funeral they went back to the house in Otterbridge where Mark and Sheena had lived for ten years. It wasn’t a grand house a narrow three-storey terrace in one of the back streets behind the market, with only a couple of steps to separate the front door from the pavement. It was not at all the sort of house, Emma thought, where you could bring up children. But Sheena had never wanted that even before the illness. She had wanted a quiet place to work, her books and her pictures. Emma had always supposed that was what Mark had wanted too.

People expected the Taverners to live somewhere grand because Sheena had been a writer. But although her novels had been well reviewed they were hardly best-sellers. Certainly they weren’t Emma’s idea of a good read. She had ploughed through one or two but preferred something with a story. A thriller, even a historical romance. Secretly she thought Sheena should have gone out more, even found herself a job, mixed with people other than the arty friends who seemed very similar to her. Then she would have had something to write about. Towards the end, of course, that would have been impossible.

After the funeral there was quite a crowd in the little house. Teachers from the High School where Mark worked. Friends of Sheena, many of whom Emma thought were unsuitably dressed for the occasion. Mark introduced her perfunctorily to some of them: ‘This is Margaret from the Flambard Press, this is Chaz, this is Prue.’ He must have hired caterers because trays of rather unappetizing food stood on a table. If Emma had not been pregnant she would have taken charge of the proceedings – handed out plates, offered drinks. As it was she kept out of the way, not because she didn’t feel up to it but because of the same embarrassment which made her uneasy in Mark’s company. Eventually her legs began to ache so she settled herself in a chair by the window with a glass of orange juice and a cardboard vol-au-vent.

From her corner she watched Mark move restlessly from one chatting group to another. He was attractive in an intense, rather humourless way and the women turned towards him as he approached. His face was strained and it was obviously an effort to be polite. Brian must have realized that too because he went up to Mark and put an arm round his shoulder. There was nothing to say.

Emma thought that perhaps there had never been much to say, not even when Sheena was first diagnosed. Nothing that did any good, though Brian had railed at length about the mastectomy and the chemotherapy and the radiotherapy. He had been angry and uncomprehending on Mark’s behalf. Mark himself had said little.

Brian peeled away from the group and stood beside her. He was big and dark, given to sentimentality and outbursts of temper, but only when he’d been drinking. At work he was cool and quite determined, willing to take risks if the odds had been properly weighed.

‘A drink?’ he asked.

‘I could murder a cup of tea.’ The house had been empty for nearly a week and it was not very warm. ‘But I don’t know if that’s on offer.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘ I’ll fix it.’ And he went away into the kitchen glad to have something to do. She thought that was Brian all over. He was the fixer, the dealer, the person who made things happen. But not even Brian could fix it for Sheena to get better though he’d tried hard enough, yelling at consultants when appointments were cancelled, hunting out information about the best doctors, the best centres, pretending to be Mark over the phone so he’d be taken seriously. Now he had to admit defeat and it didn’t come easy.

He brought her tea on a little tray painted with blue and white flowers. When she’d drunk it she asked if he minded her going home. Suddenly she felt very tired.

‘I’ll get a taxi if you like,’ she said. ‘You can bring the car back later.’

He said he would come too. She knew the decision to leave early had little to do with concern for her. He’d never liked sharing Mark with other people. Except Sheena, of course. He’d never seemed to object to her.

It was half past three. The children were coming out of the Infants School on the corner of Mark’s street. Emma thought sadly that soon Owen would be starting school and that he had grown up too quickly.

It had been Brian’s idea to buy the Coastguard Station on the Headland and knock it through into one magnificent house. She hadn’t been very keen. Even then, five years ago, she’d been dreaming of babies and thought a modern house on a quiet estate would be nice. Somewhere with other middle-class mothers to invite in to coffee during the day, pavements for trikes and dolls’ prams. She had kept her misgivings about the Coastguard House to herself. Brian was so generous to her in other things and he was so enthusiastic about the venture that she encouraged him. She had even pretended to share his excitement.

The house was wonderful now. She had to admit that. There was so much space that they wouldn’t be cramped even if the latest baby turned out to be triplets. There were magnificent views out to sea on three sides. All the same if she were offered the chance to move she’d jump at it. She felt isolated on the Headland. She wouldn’t call herself snobbish but felt she had little in common with the residents of Cotter’s Row. She wouldn’t be happy for her children to play down there. Physically, too, the place made her uneasy. Although there was a high whitewashed wall right round the garden and the cliffs weren’t steep, more like rocky shelves down to the water and quite easy to scramble on, she worried that the children would fall. It was a secret nightmare and some nights she would wake up sweating to a picture of one of them limp and lifeless, battered by the waves at the foot of the cliff.

The car bumped across the level crossing, jolting her back to the present. She saw with relief that they were nearly home. Her friend had offered to give the boys their tea so she’d have time to put up her feet, perhaps watch the television news, before they arrived back.

‘Shit!’ They were driving between the rows of houses when Brian slammed on the brakes, hit the horn and shouted. A woman had run out into the street in front of them. He missed her by swerving on to the pavement. The woman stood for a moment like a rabbit caught in a headlamp’s glare, then she ran off. Her pink anorak, unzipped, flapped behind her.

‘Idiot!’ Brian said. ‘She could have been killed.’ But his fury had passed. The BMW, his pride and joy, was unharmed. ‘Do you know her?’

Emma shook her head and said nothing. She thought she recognized the woman but she had her own reasons for keeping quiet.

Brian got out to open the double gates into the yard, drove in, then went to shut them again. She struggled out of the car with difficulty. She enjoyed being pregnant but she would be glad when it was all over.

She was standing on the doorstep, rummaging in her bag for her keys, when her waters broke.

‘Oh God!’ Brian said with a trace of disgust, when she explained what had happened. Both thought with relief that at least it hadn’t happened when she was getting out of the car. Think of the leather upholstery.

The daughter was born at midnight. Brian was there during labour though he disappeared regularly during the early stages. There was a television in the Visitors’ Room and Newcastle United was playing in a Cup match. His howl of dismay when Arsenal scored rivalled the cries of the women giving birth. He was with Emma when she needed him, and afterwards he sat beside her on the bed and stroked the baby’s cheek with his little finger. For an awful moment she was afraid he’d suggest they called the baby Sheena but he said: ‘Helen, then? Like we decided?’