The Baby-Snatcher

Chapter Sixteen

Emma Coulthard had become obsessed with her inability to sleep. She thought of little else even during the day. She could have understood it if the baby had been keeping her awake but Helen had slept right through from the age of six weeks and was no trouble at all. The boys had been terrors as babies. They’d hardly seemed to know the difference between night and day but Emma had staggered cheerfully out of bed to feed and change them, then returned to fall immediately and deeply asleep.

This was different. She could not rest. Even if she put up her feet during the afternoon while Claire had the children she could not relax. At night she lay tense and still listening to Brian’s breathing. The bedroom curtains were thin and sometimes moonlight shone through so she could see him. His skin was very white and the layer of fat just beneath it reminded her of the goose he had once persuaded her to cook at Christmas. As the night wore on she became more startlingly awake. She watched the red flashing numbers on her bedside alarm clock mark the hours. Sometimes at four or five in the morning she would fall into a troubled doze. Sometimes she stayed awake to see the sky lighten over the sea.

Eventually Brian noticed her drawn face, the rings round her eyes, her short temper.

‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ he demanded. Then, in a panic when she didn’t reply, ‘ You’re not ill, are you?’ She knew he was thinking of Sheena. His concern did not stretch, however, to ironing his own shirts.

At his insistence she had gone to the doctor, a fatherly Scot, who knew Brian from the rugby club.

‘I’m not sure what you can do,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’

‘How long’s this been going on for?’

‘Oh,’ she replied. ‘A couple of weeks.’ Though she could time it exactly back to David’s birthday. She had not slept on the night before that.

‘Anything troubling you?’

Well, she thought, you could say that.

‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Everything’s fine.’

‘You were a close friend of Sheena Taverner, weren’t you? Perhaps that’s it. Bereavement can take a long time to have an effect.’ Then, a sort of joke: ‘You’re not worried, are you, that the police still haven’t caught this murderer?’

‘No!’ she said, smiling to show that she would not be so foolish. And that, at least, was true.

‘I’ll prescribe you some sleeping pills. They’re very mild. Don’t use them every night or they won’t work. But don’t worry. You’re not the sort to get hooked!’

He had known her during her time as a career woman, seen her through the trouble-free pregnancies and thought she was entirely sensible.

So now she had the pills; which were a secret from Brian. She took them when she was desperate. They did knock her out but they left her feeling doped up and befuddled the next day, so she still could not think clearly about what she should do.

Brian phoned at a quarter past four to say he would be late again.

‘You said you’d be back before the boys went to bed.’

‘I’m sorry, pet. Really. There’s a chap I’ve got to meet. He can’t make it earlier. I’ll definitely be home for supper at eight. Look. I’ll bring a bottle of wine. Something decent. We’ll have a quiet night together like the old times.’

She said that would be very nice though there was scarcely an evening when he didn’t open a bottle of wine and drink most of it himself before the end of the News at Ten. She felt a sudden urge to be out of the house.

Claire finished work at five thirty and she had become much more punctilious about leaving on time since Kath Howe’s death. Emma thought it sweet that she was taking her role as surrogate mother so seriously but sometimes, as now, it was inconvenient. Emma had suggested that Marilyn could come to the Coastguard House straight from school if she wanted the company. That would save Claire having to hurry away. Claire had thanked her but refused. She said Marilyn was going through a difficult time and needed her family.

Emma shouted up to the playroom where Claire was sitting with the children, watching cartoons.

‘I’m going out for a walk. I just need some fresh air. I’ll be back before you have to leave.’

She waited for a reply. None came, and she read in the silence criticism.

She put on a thick coat but outside it was surprisingly warm. The wind was south-westerly and later it would probably rain. At the jetty she sat in the last of the sun watching the tide ebb from the cut.

Stephen Ramsay, too, had felt the need for fresh air. Apart from his discussion with Mark Taverner in the park he had spent the day in his office. The drive to the Headland in the late afternoon sunshine made him feel like a boy sagging off school. He left his car at the club and walked up the peninsula, avoiding Cotter’s Row, following the coast to the highest point where the cliffs fell in rocky steps to the sea. From there he had an uninterrupted view to the railway line and beyond. He saw Kim Houghton’s little girl playing with her doll’s pram in the street and Emma Coulthard leave the Coastguard House for her walk to the jetty. And they could have seen him if they’d turned to look.

So how, in such a small area, had Kathleen Howe disappeared without trace? The visibility had been bad on the day of the murder but surely not so dreadful that an attacker would have taken the risk of stabbing her in daylight. From his vantage point at the top of the Headland he saw clearly for the first time that there was nowhere to hide.

What did that mean? That she had been killed after dark? The pathologist’s evidence was still inconclusive on time of death – it was possible perhaps, as Bernard had said, that she had been collecting lichens for dyeing. Then where had she spent the day? He knew she had taken off without warning once before, when Marilyn had arrived at his house asking for help. Perhaps Kathleen Howe had met her killer as she walked back to the Headland in the evening. She would have passed the jetty. Had she been killed there, close to where her body had been found?

It would depend on the tide. If the cut had been nearly empty as it was now there would hardly have been sufficient water to cover the body, certainly not enough to carry it away and sweep it back in on the following day’s high water. The scene of crimes officer had commented at the time. He had been a fool not to give her report more attention.

When Emma returned to the Coastguard House Claire was waiting sulkily in the kitchen, already dressed in her coat and her outdoor shoes. Emma looked pointedly at the kitchen clock which said five twenty.

‘I don’t think it’s quite time for you to go,’ she said in the snooty, stuck-up voice which Claire hadn’t heard for a while. Recently Emma had been much more apologetic and obliging. ‘But as you’re ready, I suppose you might as well.’

‘Right,’ Claire said. ‘ Thank you.’ Inside she was fuming but it was all she could think of to say on the spur of the moment.

Out of the house her resentment grew. She let it simmer. It was just what she needed.

The cow, she thought. What right did Emma Coulthard have to speak to her like that? Any decent employer would have made sure she got home safely. It was dark, wasn’t it? Nearly dark, anyway. And as far as Emma bloody Coulthard knew there was a murderer on the Headland waiting to strike again. She spoke out loud to herself. ‘It’s about time you told someone.’ She’d only kept quiet out of loyalty and loyalty should work both ways, shouldn’t it?

At Cotter’s Row she paused for a moment outside number two. The house was dark, the curtains undrawn. Marilyn must be home from school by now but she’d be in the back bedroom doing her homework. Bernie would still be on his way from work. Kath had always fretted about Bernie on his bike when it was windy, and she felt a moment of sympathetic concern. Then she walked on down the street and knocked on the door of number six.

She knew that Kim was in because she could hear the television. When Kim opened the door she kept her eyes on the screen. Neighbours. Kim knew it was for kids really but she’d become addicted. She couldn’t bear to miss an episode. She always arranged to give Kirsty her tea when Neighbours was on. She loved her food and it was the only time you could be sure she wouldn’t make a noise. Through the half-open door Claire could see the little girl sitting on a stool up to the breakfast bar, eating fish fingers and chips.

‘Claire!’ Kim sounded very friendly. ‘How are you? Hey, I’ve missed having you around.’

What she meant, Claire thought, was that she missed having a regular babysitter. It was hard to ask favours of someone who’d just lost her sister.

‘I’m all right,’ Claire said in a wan, little girl’s voice. Grief-stricken but trying to be brave.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ From the corner of her eye Kim watched a handsome Australian hunk take a bronzed teenage girl into his arms.

‘Well, I wondered if you fancied going out tonight. If you’d like me to sit. I haven’t wanted to leave Bernie and Marilyn before but I could really do with a change of scene. It’s not much fun in that house. Well, you’ll understand.’

‘Of course.’ Kim was all sympathy but she could hardly contain a smile. For the first time Claire had her full attention. ‘What time?’

‘Give me an hour to give Bernie and Marilyn their tea and clear up. Say seven. That all right?’

‘Sure,’ Kim said. ‘That would be fine.’ She was already planning what she would wear.

‘Look, would you mind if I used your phone? Only a local call. I don’t like to ask but I don’t fancy walking down to the phone box with this maniac about.’

Kim could hardly refuse after that.

‘I’ll do it upstairs then, shall I? So So I’ll not disturb your programme.’

Before Kim could answer she was in the house and up the stairs. She knew where to find Kim’s bedroom, had heard the Cotter’s Row gossip about what went on there. And they didn’t know the half of it! It had flouncy curtains and a frilly valance, much more to Claire’s taste than the stuff in the Coastguard House. The carpet was deep pink. The phone was by the bed and she sat there, leaning back against the pillows and the padded head-board, sticking her feet out to the side so the mud on her shoes wouldn’t stain the quilt.

First she dialled directory enquiries to get the number of Otterbridge Police Station: 999 seemed a bit over the top. When she was connected she asked for the murder incident room. Ramsay wasn’t there so she spoke to DS Hunter. She knew who he was. He’d been asking all the questions in Cotter’s Row. He was the good-looking one with the dark hair and the tan.

‘This is Claire Irvine,’ she said. ‘ Kath Howe’s sister. I need to talk to you. I’ll be at six Cotter’s Row tonight at eight o’clock. You’ve got that, have you? Number six not number two. I don’t want Bernie or Marilyn bothered.’

Hunter tried to get her to tell him what it was all about. She could tell he was excited. But she wouldn’t. Let him wait.

Downstairs she heard the Neighbours theme so she slid off the bed.

‘Got a boyfriend at last, have you?’ Kim Houghton asked kindly. ‘Lovey-dovey phone calls now, is it?’

Claire smiled politely but she did not answer.