Murder in My Backyard

Chapter Nine

In Brinkbonnie Ramsay drove past the police house, with the communications van parked outside, stopped on the green, and then walked to the post office. Outside of Tom Kerr’s garage there were half a dozen old and rather scruffy cars with hand-painted signs advertising them for sale, but the workshop was empty. From the street Ramsay could hear the waves on the beach beyond the row of cottages. It was almost high tide. He pushed at the post office door before he saw the sign in the window saying it was closed for lunch. He stood on the pavement for a moment rattling at the door, but no-one came to open it.

Fred Elliot’s living accommodation was behind the post office and above it. Ramsay walked through an arch in the terrace of houses into a flagged yard with the sand hills beyond. There was a door from the yard into the house and Ramsay knocked there. It was opened almost immediately by a tense, upright man in his early sixties. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and his hands were wet and soapy.

“Yes?” he said. “The post office is closed. We don’t open at dinnertime. Not until the summer.”

“I’m a policeman,” Ramsay said. “I’ve come about Alice Parry.”

“But someone was here last night,” Elliot said quickly. “I talked to him.”

“I know,” Ramsay said, “ but perhaps I could come in.”

Reluctantly Elliot stood aside and watched anxiously while he stamped snow and sand off his shoes. The door led straight into a kitchen, and the floor was spotlessly clean. There were painted wooden cupboards on the walls and a square table, covered in oilcloth, against one wall. A clotheshorse, held together at the corners with binder twine, was propped in front of a solid-fuel boiler and a pair of navy working overalls steamed. The small window was covered in condensation, so it was impossible to see out.

“I was washing up,” Elliot said, as if there was something to be ashamed of in the activity. “Since my wife died… you know.” He nodded to the chairs pushed under the leaf of the table. “ Sit down,” he told Ramsay. He was still holding the towel and scrubbed at his hands, although by now they were quite dry. From the other room came the sound of a television signature tune.

“Are you on your own?” Ramsay asked.

Elliot hesitated, though the noise of the television in the next room made it obvious that someone else was in the house. “ No,” he said. “ It’s my son, Charlie. He works next door at the garage and comes in for his dinner.”

“Perhaps I could speak to him, too,” Ramsay said.

Elliot looked unhappy. “I don’t know that he’ll want to speak to you,” he said. “He was in late and he’s just started his dinner.”

Ramsay looked at his watch. “That’s all right,” he said easily. “There’s no hurry. I can wait. I’ll have a few words with you first.”

There was a silence.

“You musn’t mind Charlie,” Elliot said. “ He had a bad time in the army. He doesn’t like the police.”

Ramsay said nothing. Elliot stood by the boiler, arms by his side, a veteran at a British Legion parade showing his grief by respect.

“I’ll miss Alice Parry,” he said. “She was a good woman.”

“Was she a friend?” Ramsay asked.

Elliot seemed surprised by the question. “Aye,” he said at last. “I suppose she was. We were different, of course. Her folks had a big estate up on the border and she went away to some smart school in the south, but I think she would have thought me her friend. I hope she would.”

There was another pause, then he continued: “She was very kind to me when my wife died. Charlie wasn’t here then and I was on my own. Mrs. Parry saw to everything. I couldn’t have managed without her. That’s why the business with Henshaw was so upsetting.”

“Did you believe her,” Ramsay asked, “when she said she’d sold the land to be used for a small development of starter homes?”

“Of course,” Elliot said angrily. “ Everyone who knew Mrs. Parry believed her. She was an honest woman.”

“What about your son?” Ramsay asked quietly. “ Did he believe her, too?”

Elliot stared at him. “ Why do you want to know?” he demanded. “What have people been telling you?”

Ramsay shrugged. “ That he was angry about the housing development,” he said, “and that he blamed Alice Parry for it.”

Elliot looked tired and confused. “ He hasn’t settled since he left the army,” he muttered. “ I was proud when he joined up, and perhaps it was a mistake. It changed him. Then when he came home there was trouble with a woman.”

“I know,” Ramsay said. “ I’ve spoken to Maggie Kerr.”

Elliot looked up. “Have you?” he said. “ I try to tell myself it wasn’t her fault, but I can’t help thinking she led him on. He came home thinking she would marry him, then she wouldn’t have him. It’s made him a bitter man. It affects everything he does. If he hadn’t blamed Mrs. Parry for upsetting him, it would have been someone else. He’s a good mechanic, but he doesn’t get on with his boss. Tom Kerr’s choirmaster up at the church and he’s well respected, but there’s something hard about him. He’s not as flexible as he might be! Charlie needs careful handling at the moment. He was well trained in the army and thinks he knows best.”

“I’m surprised Mr. Kerr took him on,” Ramsay said, “ in the circumstances.”

“Perhaps he thought he had a responsibility,” Elliot said sharply. “Charlie packed up the army because of that girl.”

“All the same…” Ramsay said.

“I told you,” Fred Elliot said. “Tom Kerr’s a good church man. He will have seen it as his duty. But he’ll never let Charlie forget that he’s done him a favor by taking him on.”

“Is Charlie happy living here?” Ramsay asked.

“He’s happy with nothing at the moment. He thinks he deserves better than living with me. He’d like his own house. I don’t recognise him anymore. He’s not the boy who went away.”

The words poured out in an incoherent stream, released by shock and sadness. He looked towards the door that led into the rest of the house and Ramsay realised he was frightened of his son.

“What’s he like in the house?” Ramsay asked. He spoke gently, but he had the man’s attention. His eyes moved away from the door.

“He’s angry,” Elliot said. “All the time.”

“Do you think he needs a doctor?”

“I don’t know what he needs.” The words were sharp and unhappy, then he reconsidered. “Perhaps he should see a doctor,” he said, “but I’d never persuade him to go.”

“Is he violent? I heard there was a fight with Tom Kerr.”

“No!” Elliot seemed frustrated because Ramsay could not understand immediately. “Tom Kerr started that business. He’s got a wicked temper. Charlie wouldn’t hurt anyone. Especially not Maggie Kerr. But he talks loud. He talks big. He doesn’t make the effort to be polite anymore.”

There was a silence. “He misses his mother,” he said. “ His mother understood him. I could never handle him. I never had the patience. I always lost my temper. My wife said we were too alike, but I never saw it myself.”

“Does he have any friends?” Ramsay asked.

“Not really,” Elliot said. “He goes to the Castle and buys drinks all round. They say he’s a grand lad then, but they’re laughing behind his back. They think he’s made a fool of himself over Maggie Kerr. Then Henshaw’s never been popular and they like it when Charlie’s rude about him. They haven’t the guts to say the things he says, but they cheer him on. They set him up.”

“Does he drink too much?”

“Aye,” Elliot said. “Probably.” He hesitated again, then went on in a rush. “ I talked to Mrs. Parry about him. I thought she might understand. She was a magistrate.”

“What did she say?” Ramsay asked.

“To give him time,” Elliot said. “And encouragement. She said he was bright. ‘He’s wasted at the garage,’ she said. ‘He should have a business of his own.’ I even thought of selling the post office to set him up. But then where would I live? It would have been different if Henshaw had decided to build the cheap houses. Mrs. Parry offered to talk to him, but when I told him he just laughed at me.”

From the other room there was a sudden, loud burst of music, then silence.

“Dad!” Charlie Elliot called. They heard his footsteps approaching the door. “What about some tea then?”

He pushed open the door and stood, just inside the kitchen, staring at Ramsay. His rudeness was deliberate and contrived, but it was the result, Ramsay thought, of insecurity. Throughout the interview the bravado hid considerable stress.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m a detective,” Ramsay said formally. “ I’m enquiring into the death of Alice Parry.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Charlie Elliot said. “ Someone’s been here already.” It was hard to tell that he had once been a soldier. He was overweight, unshaven. Ramsay was not surprised that Maggie found him unattractive.

“I know.”

“What are you doing here then?”

“Just a few more questions,” Ramsay said easily. “Routine.”

Fred Elliot had turned to the sink and was filling a kettle as his son had ordered. He clearly found the exchange embarrassing. Charlie sat on one of the chairs. “You’ll have to be quick,” he said. “I’ll have to be back at work soon. Tom Kerr’s a real slave driver.”

“Mrs. Parry received a threatening letter on the afternoon of her death,” Ramsay said. “ Did that have anything to do with you?”

“No,” Charlie Elliot said. “ I had my say at the meeting. What was in the letter?” He grinned unpleasantly and spread his stockinged feet towards the fire.

“It threatened to kill her.”

“She got what was coming to her then, didn’t she?”

“Charles!” Fred Elliot turned on his son. He was white-faced with anger. “I’ll not have that talk in my house. It’s indecent.”

The outburst shocked Charlie. He was unused to contradiction. He seemed confused and offended, like a spoilt child reprimanded in front of strangers.

“Where were you on Saturday evening?” Ramsay asked.

“I’ve already told that Hunter.”

“Tell me.”

“I was in the pub,” Charlie said. “ I always go to the pub on Saturday night. There was a darts match.”

“What time did you leave?”

“I don’t know. About quarter to eleven.”

“Wasn’t that unusual?” Ramsay asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you usually wait until Maggie had finished work?”

Charlie looked at Ramsay with deep hostility. “That’s none of your business.”

“I’m sorry,” Ramsay said. “ I’m afraid it is. Usually you waited until Maggie finished work and followed her home. What made that night different?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie muttered. “Perhaps I realised she wasn’t worth it. I’d had a lot to drink.”

Ramsay said nothing, waiting for Charlie to expand his explanation.

“Look!” Charlie cried. “Perhaps I’d come to my senses, realised I couldn’t carry on like that. I’d decided to leave the village. I’m going to look for work in the south.”

Ramsay nodded his understanding but gave no indication of whether he believed Charlie. He continued impassively: “ What time did you get home?”

“About eleven o’clock, I suppose.”

Ramsay turned to Elliot, who was stirring tea in the pot. “Is that right?”

Elliot hesitated, then nodded. “Aye,” he said. “ I always wait up for him. I know it’s daft.”

Ramsay returned his attention to Charlie. “ Did you see Mrs. Parry on your way home?”

“No.” Charlie had recovered some of his composure and was showing off. “I didn’t see her, but then I’d had eight pints of Scotch. I might not have noticed.”

Ramsay stared out of the misted window. “ So you can’t remember what you did,” he said. “You were drunk.”

“I can remember fine.”

“Did you stop on the way?”

“No,” Charlie said. “Why should I stop? It was cold.”

“Did you meet anyone in the street?” He spoke in a flat, courteous civil-servant’s voice.

“No.” Charlie was sneering. “Most of Brinkbonnie’s in bed by ten o’clock. It was dead quiet.”

Then his triumph at remembering despite the alcoholic haze overcame his resentment of the policeman. For the first time he contributed freely to the conversation. “ There was a girl! In the churchyard. I saw her when I came out of the Castle.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t recognise her. She was all right. Young, you know.”

Ramsay gave no sign that the information was of any importance to him. He turned back to the window. “Did you speak to her?” he asked.

“I might have shouted to her,” Charlie said. “ Something about it being a cold night.”

“Did she answer?”

“No, snooty cow. She walked through the gravestones towards the Tower. She looked like a bloody ghost.”

“Did she go through the gate into the Tower garden?”

“I didn’t see. I wanted to get home. I needed to piss.”

“What did the woman look like?”

Charlie shrugged. “It was hard to tell in that light,” he said. “Small, dark. I think she had long hair.”

“And what was she wearing?”

“How should I know? She was on the other side of the wall. I couldn’t see much more than her head.”

“You are sure,” Ramsay said slowly, “that there was a woman? This isn’t a game to annoy the police.”

“Oh,” said Charlie. “Think what you like.” He swore under his breath.

Ramsay ignored him. “ Did you notice a car near the green?” he asked. “ One not usually parked there?”

“No,” Charlie said. “ I didn’t notice anything.” But he spoke too quickly to have considered the matter and it seemed that the childish resentment had returned. “ Look!” he said. “How much longer are you going to keep me here? I’ll lose my job.”

“You’re free to go at any time,” Ramsay said. “We know where to find you.”

He rubbed a clear patch in the condensation on the window and looked out into the yard. Charlie Elliot went to a cupboard in the corner and pulled out a jacket. They watched while he laced shoes and fastened buttons and then Ramsay saw him go out into the yard. Fred Elliot was standing helplessly in the middle of the room with a teapot in his hand. “ I’ve made this now,” he said. “Do you want some?”

“No,” Ramsay said. “ I expect you want to open the post office.”

“Yes,” Elliot said. He seemed miserable and lost. “I suppose I should.” He seemed afraid to be left on his own. “ There’s no hurry.”

“Is it just a post office or is it a shop, too?”

“Yes,” Elliot said. “ It’s a newsagent. We sell magazines, stationery, confectionery. The post office counter is at the back. It’s a canny little business. Especially in the summer.”

“Where do you keep the stock you don’t sell?”

“What do you mean?”

“There must be out-of-date newspapers, magazines. You can’t keep them on the shelves. What do you do with them?”

“I save them,” Elliot said proudly. “Then sell them to a wastepaper merchant. For charity. I give the money to the hospital where my wife died. I can show you it if you like.” He had no suspicion, it seemed, of Ramsay’s motive for asking. Still in his slippers, he led the policeman across the yard to a large, well-built shed in one corner.

The collection of wastepaper had become a hobby, it seemed, almost an obsession. “I collect the neighbours’ papers as well,” he said. “And the church helps. It’s surprising how it mounts up. You can make pounds.” He unbolted the shed door and switched on a light. Inside, against one wall, in neatly stacked and wrapped bundles, were piles of newspapers. Ramsay could imagine Elliot in there, escaping from his rude and unpredictable son, soothing his nerves by counting the papers and calculating their worth. In comparison to the general tidiness, the floor was a mess of paper scraps, as if a child had been playing at cutting out. There was a pair of round-ended scissors and a tube of glue. Elliot stood, betrayed and horrified, realising for the first time what the questions had been leading up to.

“I take it,” Ramsay said, “that these have nothing to do with you.”

Elliot shook his head.

“You do realise that we’ll have to take these pieces of newspaper to compare with the print on the anonymous letter to Mrs. Parry?”

“Yes,” Elliot said. He looked at Ramsay desperately. “ He might have sent the letter,” he pleaded, “but that doesn’t mean that he killed her.”

“No,” Ramsay said gently. “ It doesn’t mean that he killed her.”

“What will you do with him now?”

“I’ll talk to him,” Ramsay said. “Probably take him to the police station and ask him some questions. You mustn’t worry too much. He can see a solicitor.”

“He wouldn’t have killed her,” Elliot said, as if he were trying to convince himself. “He wouldn’t have killed her.”

Ramsay left him in the shed, surrounded by his beloved wastepaper, standing by the open door and looking out at the whirlwind of sand funnelled by the wind into the yard.

Out in the street little had changed. An old woman stood on the pavement patiently waiting for the post office to open. Two detective constables moved slowly along the terrace on the other side of the green, knocking on doors, asking questions. In the garage workshop Tom Kerr stood before the open bonnet of a car. Ramsay stood by the open door and looked in.

Kerr straightened slowly. “ Inspector Ramsay,” he said. “How can I help you? Olive’s in the house.” He looked slightly ridiculous in his boiler suit still wearing the heavy-framed glasses. He would be more at home, Ramsay thought, in his choirmaster’s cassock.

“I’d like to speak to Charlie Elliot,” Ramsay said.

“Aye,” Kerr said with a trace of anger. “You and me both.”

He wiped his hands on a cloth and moved to the front of the garage to meet Ramsay. “ He’s not here,” he said. “He came in from his dinner about half an hour ago. We had a car with a timing problem and he said he’d take it up the road to see what was wrong. He’s not back yet. It doesn’t take a ten-mile drive to check a timing problem.”

“Where do you think he’s gone?”

“I don’t know,” Kerr said. “He doesn’t talk to me. He’s very moody. This had made my mind up for me. I’ve been thinking of telling him to leave for a while.”

“He was talking of looking for work in the south,” Ramsay said.

“Was he?” Kerr seemed relieved. “He’s not said anything to me.”

“If Charlie comes back, will you tell him to get in touch? I’ll be up at the police house.”

But Ramsay knew that Charlie was unlikely to return and realised with a depressing certainty that he had allowed a major murder suspect to run away. In the street outside the garage a Radio Newcastle reporter stopped him and asked for an interview, but Ramsay said he had no comment to make and hurried up the hill to the police house. He sent cars up each of the roads out of Brinkbonnie, but by then it was too late. Charlie Elliot had disappeared.