A Day in the Death of Dorothea Cassidy

Chapter Twenty

He sat with her in the interview room. There was a woman constable sitting in a corner her knees primly together, her hands on her lap, but they took no notice of her. They were like lovers in a crowded street, so caught up with each other that they can see no one else.

‘She can’t understand,’ Hilary said. ‘I only did it for her.’

‘Theresa?’ he said. ‘ You’re talking about Theresa?’

She nodded. She wanted to explain.

‘It didn’t seem fair,’ she said, ‘to rake it up after all this time.’

‘To rake what up?’ he asked, though he had guessed.

‘The baby,’ she said. ‘Nicola.’

‘It wasn’t a cot death?’

She shook her head. ‘Theresa smothered her.’

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘The baby was in her cot. She was a difficult child and Theresa didn’t have the patience to cope with her. She put a pillow over her head and smothered her. Then she phoned me. When I got there she was sitting on the stairs, weeping. The baby wouldn’t stop crying, she said. She had to make it stop crying.’

Hilary spoke flatly, with the same detachment as she had in her office.

‘You didn’t tell the police?’

She shook her head. ‘I was young,’ she said. ‘ Not very experienced. I thought I’d get the blame. And I didn’t want Theresa to endure the court case, the publicity. Even if they didn’t send her to prison I didn’t want her to have to go through all that. And it was my fault. I should have seen how desperate she was. She’d asked me to visit the day before and I’d been too busy to go. I felt responsible.’

‘So you covered it up?’

She shrugged. ‘I didn’t mean to cover it up. I didn’t want to be the one to give her away, but I thought there would be a post mortem. I thought they would discover then that it wasn’t a natural death, but apparently it isn’t that easy to detect.’

‘Weren’t you worried that Theresa might turn on Beverley in the same way?’

‘No!’ she said sharply. It was as if he were questioning her professional judgement. ‘ Really I wasn’t. Theresa had matured a lot in that time. Clive was grown up and she could give all her attention to the baby. And I gave the case to Mike Peacock. He’s young but he’s a very competent social worker. Then, as soon as there was a hint that the child was being abused, I took her into care.’

So, Ramsay thought, that explained the speed with which the child was removed from the family. And the haste had made Dorothea suspicious and had led to her death.

‘When did Dorothea find out about Nicola?’ he asked.

‘Yesterday afternoon. You knew she went back to the Stringers’ in the afternoon?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘ I think we have Dorothea’s movements for the afternoon worked out quite precisely now, thank you.’

It was as if she were still a colleague and they were working together to get at the truth.

‘Theresa was upset,’ Hilary said. ‘She’d come to terms with the fact that if she wanted Beverley back she’d have to give up any idea of going away with Joss Corkhill. That made her depressed. And then Dorothea was suspicious. “ I can’t quite understand why Miss Masters is so keen to take Beverley away from you Theresa. I think there must be something you haven’t told me. How can I help you if you won’t tell me the truth?’”

‘So Theresa told her,’ Ramsay said.

‘How could she help it? I’ve explained that she was already depressed, feeling sorry for herself. You don’t know what Dorothea was like.’

I think I do, Ramsay answered silently. I feel as if I’ve spent all day with her.

‘How did you find out that Theresa had confessed to Dorothea?’ he asked.

‘Theresa phoned me from a call box on the Ridgeway. She was hysterical. At first I couldn’t work out what had happened. It was like the time she phoned me after Nicola died.’

‘Did you look for Dorothea?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I waited for her to come to me. I knew she would be in touch.’ She looked at him. ‘ I didn’t have any plan. It wasn’t in any way premeditated.’

‘How did Dorothea get in touch with you?’

‘She turned up at my flat. The waiting was awful. I had expected her earlier. She said there had been something urgent she’d had to attend to. Some family business.’

She had been in the vicarage, Ramsay thought, with Patrick Cassidy, trying to persuade him, perhaps, that he did not love her, trying to fend off his teenage passion.

‘What time did she come to the flat?’

‘I’m not sure. At about seven.’

‘She had an appointment to speak to the Armstrong House Residents’ Association at half past. Didn’t that bother her?’

‘She tried to phone them to cancel it,’ Hilary said, ‘but she couldn’t get through. She thought the phone was out of order.’ She paused. ‘I’d disconnected it. I had no plan to kill her then – it wasn’t that I was covering my tracks – but I was afraid she might phone someone else, tell them about Nicola. I wasn’t thinking very clearly.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I made her tea,’ she said. ‘ We talked.’

‘About the baby?’

She nodded. ‘She spoke as if we’d meant to kill Nicola. She went all religious on me. She even began to cry.’

‘Did you know,’ he said, ‘that she’d never been able to have children of her own?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t realise. But I’ve never had the chance of children either. It didn’t give her the right to preach.’ She paused. ‘ I had the feeling that she wanted something from me. Some show of remorse. Repentance I suppose she would have called it. I couldn’t give it. I knew that next time, in a similar situation, I would probably do exactly the same again.’

‘What did you do then?’ he asked.

‘She said she was hungry. She would take me out for a meal. Her treat. It seemed bizarre. We’d been arguing for more than an hour and she wanted to share a meal with me. I asked her about the appointment at Armstrong House, but she said it didn’t matter. This was more important. We left her car outside my flat and walked through the fairground to that Italian place in Newgate Street.’

‘You were seen,’ he said, ‘ in the fairground. Joss Corkhill saw you. But when he described you I thought he was talking about someone else. It never occurred to me that he wouldn’t recognise you. Then I realised that senior social workers don’t often work directly with clients. That’s how I knew.’

There was a silence. The policewoman moved slightly on her chair in the comer. She gave no indication that she was listening to the conversation and stared out at the shiny cream walls with blank boredom.

Then Hilary continued, although he had not asked a direct question.

‘The restaurant was packed,’ she said, ‘and very noisy. It took us ages to get served. Dorothea ordered spaghetti and ate it very neatly, twisting it between her fork and her spoon. She seemed ravenous. She insisted that I had a meal too, though I wasn’t hungry. I had expected another lecture but still she didn’t mention Nicola once. She talked, I remember, about friendship. When we left the place it was almost ten.’

‘Did you walk back through the fair?’

‘No. We went the long way round, down the end of Newgate Street. When we got to the flat I expected her to get into the car and drive away. It hadn’t even crossed my mind then that I might kill her. She had been a social worker and I didn’t think that she could really let loose all that publicity. She would know what would be likely to happen: the tabloid press, the MPs screaming for my blood, the witch hunt that would affect everyone working for social services. I thought I could make her understand.

‘Then at the car she began to start again. She made me get into the passenger seat. “I can’t let you go,” she said, “until I’ve got some sort of commitment.”’

‘What did she want?’ he asked.

‘My resignation,’ she said. ‘ I think, in the end, that’s what she wanted.’

‘Where did you kill her?’ he asked in the same tone of mild interest.

‘In the car,’ she said. ‘She was going on and on, not shouting you know. She never shouted. But somehow relentless. I wanted to stop her talking. I put my hands around her neck, just to show her how strongly I felt about it. As soon as she went quiet I stopped. But then I realised it was too late. She was dead. Theresa must have felt exactly the same when she killed the baby.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I panicked. I ran out into the street. I wanted to get right away from the body while I worked out what to do. If I’d run into a policeman I’d have told him everything. But instead I ran into Clive Stringer. He’d been to the fair, spent all his money and was hanging around on the corner of Newgate and Front Street, hoping, I think, for trouble.’

‘You got him to move the body for you?’

She nodded. ‘I told him that Theresa had killed Dorothea, because she had wanted to stop her going away with Joss Corkhill.’

So he had been asked to choose, Ramsay thought, between Dorothea and his mother, and he had chosen, then at least, to protect Theresa.

‘Was it hard to persuade him?’ he asked.

‘Not very hard. He was quite excited, you know, at the prospect of driving the car.’

‘Did you tell him where to put the body?’

She shook her head. ‘I told him to put it somewhere quiet, where it wouldn’t be found until morning.’

‘And presumably it was his idea to park the car in Walter Tanner’s drive?’

She nodded. ‘I didn’t know anything about that until today. Apparently the old man didn’t like him. It was Clive’s way of paying him back.’

‘Did you go with Clive to the park?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I just wanted him to get rid of Dorothea. I suppose I wanted to pretend that I wasn’t involved. I took Dorothea’s diary and handbag – I thought she might have made some record of her conversation with Theresa – then I left Clive to it. He must have driven to the little entrance of the park and carried her from there to the path by the river. He was quite remarkably strong. Then presumably he put the car on Tanner’s drive.’

‘He must have driven around a bit first,’ Ramsay said. ‘He didn’t go down Armstrong Street until later.’

‘He was always into cars,’ she said. ‘It must have been a temptation to go joy-riding.’

‘Why did you kill him?’ Ramsay asked.

‘He was nervous, stupid. I thought in the end he would tell someone. He was already feeling guilty. He loved Dorothea.’

‘You had a spare key to Tanner’s house,’ Ramsay said, ‘because the home-help service is organised from your office and Walter’s mother had a home-help. What happened to all the old keys? Were they labelled and left for collection?’

She nodded. ‘In the general office. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss. I thought if Clive were found in Tanner’s house you’d be bound to suspect the old man.’

‘How did you know Tanner wouldn’t come in and surprise you?’

‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘I took the risk. By then I was past caring. When I’d dropped you off at the police station I drove towards Armstrong House. Clive had said he was on his way to work. I picked him up and offered him a lift.’

‘How did you get him into Tanner’s house?’

‘I told him to come with me,’ she said. ‘And he came. He was used to doing as he was told, and he was used to not understanding what was going on.’

‘Clive Stringer’s death was premeditated,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose it was.’

There was a silence.

‘You took off his watch when you cut his wrists, and you put it back in his room, didn’t you, when you went to look after Theresa? It was a mistake. I didn’t remember until later that Clive never took off the watch because it was a present from Dorothea. It was obvious then that either you or Theresa had killed him – how else could the watch have been returned to his room? And I didn’t think it would be Theresa.’

‘She tried to kill me at the fair,’ Hilary said.

‘Are you surprised?’ he cried. ‘You killed her son.’

For the first time the pretence that they were equals on some impersonal quest for facts was broken. She stared at him.

‘I did it for her,’ she said. ‘I did it to protect her.’

He wanted to contradict her, to tell her that she was deluding herself and that it had been her own reputation and safety she was concerned about, but he thought better of it. If she were to survive the court case and the prison sentence she would need to believe that her motives, at least, were unselfish. He returned to the facts.

‘When did Theresa realise?’ he said.

‘When we got to the fair. She’d been too drugged before then to think clearly. She wanted to look for Joss, but when we got there she seemed distracted. There were two kids messing about on the Big Wheel. It must have given her the idea. She asked if we could have a ride. She seemed so keen that I agreed. Then she tried to push me out.’

‘We would have arrested you anyway. Even if she hadn’t caused the scene.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I see that now.’

She seemed suddenly very tired. She lay her head on her arms like a child at its desk. He stood up quietly and walked out.

When Patrick Cassidy and Imogen returned to the vicarage, Edward was already there. They could see him in the bright, harsh light of the study through the uncurtained window, and hesitated on the gravel drive before going in to face him. For the first time it was cool and quiet. There was a breeze from the river. They had walked down the drive in silence, but now Patrick whispered: ‘I’m sorry about tonight. I don’t know what came over me.’

She did not know what to say. She was so tired, so light-headed, that she felt nothing, not even relief that he seemed to be himself again. She took his hand and they went into the house. Edward must have heard the kitchen door being opened and he rushed to meet them.

‘Patrick!’ he said. ‘ Thank God. Imogen, my dear child, you must phone your parents. They’re worried sick. They’ve even been to the police. Sit down. You both look exhausted. Have you left the car in town? How sensible! We’ll fetch it tomorrow. Let me make some tea.’

He bustled about, his pleasure at seeing them shining through his grief. The phone rang.

‘I expect that will be your parents to see if there’s any news,’ he said. Then, as Imogen stood up to answer it, ‘ No, no, you stay there. You look worn out. You mustn’t move.

I’ll tell them you can stay the night in the spare room and you can go home tomorrow.’

He hurried from the room. The kettle began to hum. Imogen stood up, rinsed old tea bags from the pot, found new ones in a rusty tin caddy. After the evening of frantic activity Patrick was drained, but calmer, almost relaxed.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I was so angry. I needed to do something. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’

Before she could reply Edward Cassidy came in. He was serious, rather dignified.

‘That was Ramsay,’ he said. ‘The detective inspector. They’ve caught Dorothea’s murderer. He wanted to tell me, he said, before I heard through the press. Apparently it was a social worker, some woman Dorothea had worked quite closely with. He didn’t give me many details but she’s admitted everything. It’s a relief, isn’t it, it’s over?’

Imogen looked at Patrick. He showed no reaction, seemed to feel no need for apology. You thought it might be me, she wanted to say. That’s what all that was about tonight. You wanted to see if you could make me confess. But she said nothing. There had been enough drama for one day.

‘I think I’ll phone my parents,’ she said, ‘ask them to come and fetch me. I’d rather be at home.’

‘Can I see you tomorrow?’ Patrick asked, but she did not answer. She needed time to think.

When Hunter and Ramsay left the police station it was beginning to get light. They could see the silhouette of the abbey ruins against the grey sky. A lorry towing a large caravan rumbled out of the fairground and many of the rides had already been demolished. They must have worked all night at it. The men did not speak. Ramsay had shown Hunter a copy of Hilary Masters’s statement but there was none of the jubilation that usually followed an arrest.

Poor bastard, Hunter thought. He really fancied her. He really fancied the Snow Queen.

In the car park they hesitated awkwardly, each standing by his car, unwilling to move away first.

‘Look,’ Hunter said suddenly, ‘why don’t you come back with me? Have some breakfast. My mam’s a great cook.’

He did not for one moment think Ramsay would accept. They had nothing in common and had been rivals since Hunter had joined the team. Ramsay was too stuck up, he thought. He was used to grander things. But the inspector smiled.

‘Thank you,’ he said, knowing that Hunter had only asked because he felt sorry for him, but grateful all the same. He was not ready yet to face the empty cottage in Heppleburn. ‘If it wouldn’t put your mother out too much I’d like that very much.’