Ramsay 06 - The Baby-Snatcher (7 page)

‘Yes?’ she said briskly. She tended to become officious when she was nervous.

‘Mrs Coulthard?’

‘Yes.’

‘My name’s Ramsay. I’m a detective inspector with Northumbria Police.’ He paused. ‘It’s about Mrs Howe.’

Ramsay was a man who wouldn’t be easily fooled. Emma saw that at once. Before the babies she’d headed up the Human Resources Department of an electronics firm which had moved to Wallsend and she’d worked with men of authority. She’d admired them. Not the bullies, the pushy, lippy little men – they almost always
were
men – who blustered and posed and did sod all work if they could help it. But the one or two decent managers who meant what they said. Always.

He was not particularly impressive to look at. About her age. Possibly a bit older. Tall, bony and angular with long limbs like a marionette. Dark hair which could do with a cut. She was too nervous to focus on his face but she saw dark eyebrows almost meeting in the middle which left the impression of a continual frown. He was wearing a raincoat. It was too big for him and hung over the shoulders, dragged out of shape by the weight of the material so it looked like a cavalry officer’s cape.

‘Claire’s not here today,’ Emma said quickly. ‘I don’t expect she could face it.’

‘She hasn’t been in touch?’

‘They haven’t got a phone. She’d know I’d understand.’

‘Of course.’ Ramsay paused so long that Emma wondered if that was it, if now he would turn away and walk down the hill to Cotter’s Row.

‘It was really you I wanted to talk to,’ he said at last. ‘ You or your husband. Perhaps I could come in. If it’s convenient.’

‘The children are here.’

‘Oh, I won’t need to disturb them.’

‘But they might disturb us. That’s what I’m saying.’

He smiled. ‘We won’t mind that, will we?’

So she had no alternative then but to stand aside and let him into the house. He thought it was a place where he could have lived. There was a lot of polished wood and white paint. It was not so tidy that it was intimidating. They sat in the kitchen with the door open so Emma could keep an eye on the boys playing in the other room. The floor was covered with toys. He knew nothing about children but it seemed to him that so many could only confuse. It was very different from the houses where his work usually took him.

‘It was David’s birthday at the weekend,’ Emma said. ‘ He had loads of new things. It should keep them quiet for a bit.’

But almost as she finished speaking there was a scream of rage from the other room. The smaller boy had been fixing together pieces of wood to form a railway track. The blocks making a bridge had fallen apart. He picked up the painted train and hurled it away from him, then lay on his back, pounding his feet on the floor. Emma went in to him. When she tried to comfort him he pushed her away, punching at her with his fists. At last the sobs subsided and he fell limp in her arms. She set him gently on the floor and returned to the kitchen.

‘Just a temper tantrum,’ she said. ‘Now he’s past the terrible twos perhaps they’ll stop.’ Then, as if she felt some explanation was necessary, ‘David’s speech is very poor for his age. They say there’s nothing really wrong. Boys are often slow developers. But he gets frustrated when he can’t communicate.’ She caught her bottom lip with her teeth and he had the impression of a real anxiety.

‘I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ he said. He felt she needed reassurance.

‘I hope so. My husband says I’m making a fuss about nothing, but he doesn’t speak at all.’

Through the open door they watched the boy return to his game.

‘You have two children?’

‘Three. The baby’s asleep. Coffee?’

‘Please.’

She ground beans, fiddled with a percolator. There was a jar of instant on the work top and he wondered why she didn’t use that. Was she trying to impress or did she need time to collect her thoughts? She poured coffee into pottery mugs.

‘This is a murder investigation,’ he said. ‘ Mrs Howe didn’t die by accident.’ He waited for some response. ‘You’re not surprised?’

‘There’s been talk. The men that helped pull her out of the water thought … You know what the gossip’s like in a place like this.’

‘I shouldn’t have thought you’d get involved in that. Not living up here.’

‘Brian – my husband – goes to the club.’

‘Ah.’ They’d used the club as a base the day before. It was somewhere the pathologist could get out of the rain. Of course there’d be talk.

‘We believe Mrs Howe was killed on Saturday,’ Ramsay said. ‘We need to eliminate anyone who was on the Headland then. I understand you held a party. We’ll need a list of all the guests and an address or a phone number for each one.’

‘Of course.’ She looked up from her coffee. ‘But no one who came here knew Mrs Howe. What reason would they have to kill her?’

‘As I said, it’s a question of elimination. And of finding witnesses.’

‘Yes.’ She seemed reassured. ‘I see.’

‘Besides,’ he went on gently, ‘it’s not exactly true, is it, that none of the visitors to the Coastguard House knew Mrs Howe? Both her daughter and her husband were here on Saturday afternoon. And her sister is your nanny.’

‘I didn’t mean…’ She blushed. ‘I wasn’t trying to hide anything. I meant the guests. They wouldn’t have known the Howes.’

‘They didn’t mix in the same social circles?’

‘No, well, I suppose not.’

‘But you will be able to give me a guest list?’

‘Of course. I put a list of names and addresses on the computer before I sent out the invitations. I’ll print you a copy.’

She returned with a sheet of paper and a baby. The baby was round faced with downy hair and curls damp and flattened where she’d been lying in the cot. She was still sleepy. It was the closest Ramsay had ever been to a child so young. He wondered if some comment was expected about her prettiness, a question about her age, but he just took the list of names and scanned it quickly. There was no one he recognized.

‘And this is it?’ he asked. ‘There was no one else?’

She paused for a moment and shifted the baby into a more comfortable position against her shoulder. ‘ There was one extra. Mark Taverner. He’s a friend of my husband.’

‘Taverner?’ The name was familiar then he remembered where he had heard it in connection with the case. ‘ Is he a teacher at Otterbridge High School?’

‘That’s right. RE and music. Why?’

Ramsay shook his head, smiled. ‘Nothing sinister. It ties in with information from another witness.’

Marilyn Howe had said she’d been given a lift back from the choir rehearsal by Mr Taverner. He’d told her he was coming to the Headland anyway.

‘I’ll give you his address,’ Emma said. ‘I don’t know why Brian invited him. It wasn’t really his thing. We try to include him in family events because he lost his wife recently. He must get lonely.’

I lost my wife, Ramsay thought, but to a BBC news reporter with a blond moustache and a red sports car. And no doubt he’s lost her now, too.

‘Tell me about Mrs Howe,’ he said. ‘Did you have any dealings with her?’

‘What do you mean, dealings?’ The reply was sharp. It was as if he had suggested something improper. And he thought, for the first time, that he heard anxiety in her tone, perhaps panic.

‘I employed her
once
,’ Emma said reluctantly. He had the very strong impression that she would have preferred to keep this to herself but realized it was impossible. ‘It was just after Christmas. The house was a tip and I was expecting Brian’s family to stay for New Year. He was rushed off his feet at work. Never here.’ She smiled. ‘Not that he’d do much if he was. Claire has her hands full with the kids. I can’t expect her to do much cleaning.’

‘So you employed Kath Howe as a cleaner?’

She nodded. ‘For a two-day blitz. To do the house from top to bottom. I asked Claire if she knew anyone who’d want the work and she suggested Kath.’

‘Was she satisfactory?’

‘Not really.’

‘What was the problem?’

Emma gave a brief smile. ‘I don’t think her heart was in the job.’

He waited.

‘She considered cleaning was beneath her. And she definitely didn’t like being told what to do.’

‘Why did she take the job then?’

‘I suppose she needed the money. Teenagers don’t come cheap, do they?’

‘Probably not.’ But he didn’t see Marilyn as the demanding sort. He couldn’t imagine her wheedling for smart clothes or nights out with her friends. There were violin lessons, though. They didn’t come free these days even if they were arranged through school. Exam fees. The instrument itself.

‘You weren’t tempted to employ her again then? Not even before this recent party?’

‘No, even if she’d been any good. Brian wouldn’t have approved. He thinks I sit around all day drinking coffee.’ She paused. ‘He never knew I took her on that first time.’

‘What was she
like
?’ he asked. ‘As a woman, I mean, not just as a worker.’

The question surprised her, but he could tell she was interested by it.

‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘She wasn’t very chatty. That’s one thing at least she and Claire have in common. I mean, even then I thought she was Claire’s mother. I didn’t realize they were sisters.’

‘But you must have formed some impression?’ It seemed she was just giving herself time to collect her thoughts. She would reply in the end.

‘I used to work as a personnel officer,’ she said. ‘ I’d assess candidates’ suitability for employment every day.’

‘So, what did you make of Kath Howe?’

‘Let’s say I wouldn’t have given her a permanent job.’

‘Why?’

‘She’d never have made a team player. Too sure of herself. Arrogant almost. She was bright enough and in areas of dispute she’d probably be right but she’d offend all her colleagues by telling them so. A loner.’ She looked up at him. ‘Look, this probably isn’t fair. A first impression. I hardly knew the woman…’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘But it’s useful all the same. You say she was bright. Wasn’t she frustrated staying at home, not working?’

‘I can hardly comment on that, can I? It’s what I’ve chosen to do.’ Her words were reassured, calm. ‘
I
don’t regret it.’

‘Your situation isn’t quite the same. Your children are younger.’

She chose her words carefully. ‘I think Mrs Howe would have found it difficult to adjust to employment, for all the reasons I’ve explained. Perhaps she was glad of an excuse to stay at home. She could potter round the house. She had interests. And she could tell herself she was making a sacrifice for her daughter’s sake. I had the impression she was an ambitious woman, but for her daughter, not herself.’

It was probably an accurate impression, but Ramsay thought it of some significance that despite her previous career Emma Coulthard could come up with such a considered judgement of a woman she hardly knew.

He set down his coffee mug, stood up.

‘Was Claire happy living with Mr and Mrs Howe?’

‘I suppose so, I don’t expect she’d have told me if she were miserable. Claire’s a very private person.’

‘You never suggested that she live here?’

‘No. That never arose. We chose Claire as nanny because she lived locally.’

‘When did you last see Mrs Howe?’

‘I don’t know. Weeks ago probably. And then not to speak to. She was with Marilyn on the Heppleburn Road. Walking.’

Hunter, would have been happy to stay at number six Cotter’s Row all day. All night if it came to that. And he didn’t think Kim Houghton would object. She seemed a sociable sort of girl.

He’d knocked on the door of number six expecting another old granny with time on her hands but nothing useful to say. Instead there was Kim, wearing a little lacy top stretched to ripping point by a Wonderbra and jeans so tight it would take an hour to pull them off. If the situation ever arose, which it already had in Hunter’s imagination. She turned to let him in and he saw she was wearing a silver chain round her ankle. He’d tried to persuade successive girlfriends to wear an anklet but they’d all refused. They’d said it would make them feel dirty.

The ground floor had been knocked through to make one room and Hunter thought that someone had made a good job of it. The kitchen units were oak and there was nothing cheap or tacky about the furniture. So she was probably married, he decided with only a little regret, to someone who brought in a decent wage. There’d be a steady boyfriend at least.

‘Do you live on your own?’ he asked, speaking loudly because she’d offered him coffee and she was in the kitchen at the other end of the long narrow room. The kettle was humming. ‘Or is your old man at work?’

‘Na!’ she cried. ‘I’m not married. Not any more.’

She walked back to him across the shag pile carpet, carefully carrying a mug in each hand, her bum swaying. She’d kicked off her shoes in the kitchen. She sat on a deep easy chair with her feet tucked under her. She hadn’t asked what he was doing there. He’d introduced himself and she’d invited him in. Sociable.

He looked pointedly around the room. His eyes took in the television and the videos, and lingered over the marble fire surround which he’d been pricing out himself at the Northern Gas showroom over the weekend.

‘You work, then,’ he said. You didn’t live in this sort of style on the Social.

She looked at him over her coffee mug, teasing, ‘Oh, you know. Bits and pieces where I can. Nothing regular. I can’t, can I? Not with a little girl to take care of.’

‘You’ve got a daughter?’ That surprised him. There was nothing to show there was a child in the house. No toys or picture books. No mess. Then he saw a silver-framed photo on the mantelshelf. A blond-haired little girl in a pink sweater, with silver rings in her ears and a silver chain round her neck.

‘Kirsty.’ Kim explained. ‘ She’s at playgroup.’

Hunter thought perhaps the child explained the way she lived. The Child Support Agency had got its claws into a wealthy father. He wondered briefly what bits and pieces of work Kim Houghton had had a go at, but decided it was probably best not to dwell on it. He needed to concentrate.

Kim set her coffee mug on the glass-topped table. ‘ I suppose you’re here about Kathleen. Mrs Howe.’