The Healers

Chapter Thirty-one

As expected there were plenty of calls from cranks and exhibitionists. People with a grudge wanting revenge. People with an axe to grind. The link made by the press of the murders to the Old Chapel gave the venom a particular flavour. Supporters of the Natural Therapy Centre claimed the police investigation had been an establishment plot to discredit complementary medicine. Religious bigots made accusations about New Age ideology: satanic ritual and paganism.

But there were genuine callers, hesitant and embarrassed, who stumbled over their explanations: “I don’t suppose it’s important but…”

When Ramsay returned to the incident room the phones were still ringing. There had been a quiet period after eight o’clock but the appeal for information had been broadcast again at nine-thirty and there was renewed activity.

Rob Newell was sitting at the desk nearest the door. He looked quite incongruous, dressed in a Young Conservative’s idea of casual clothes twill trousers, a shirt in Boy Scout khaki and a tweedy tie.

“Well?” Ramsay asked. “Any pattern emerging?”

“Several people have phoned about a car parked in Ferndale Avenue that Monday evening,” Newell said. “It was parked outside the McDougals’ house for a couple of hours, though no one seems to have seen the driver.”

“Description of the vehicle?”

“Small red hatchback. Nova or Fiesta. We’ll send people out with photos tomorrow and try to narrow it down.”

“What about the day James McDougal died? Was the same car seen then?”

Newell shook his head.

“We’ve had a disappointing response on that,” he said, ‘though a neighbour confirms that Mrs. Abbot was there. Saw her from an upstairs window. Apparently there were residents at home but none of them had any reason to go out into the street. It was early afternoon. Kids were still at school. The people who did venture out only got as far as their back gardens to sit in the sun.”

Ramsay allowed his impatience to show. He raised his voice so the whole room could hear. He wanted them to know how important it was. “Are you telling me that Ferndale Avenue was empty all afternoon?” he demanded. “Because I don’t believe you. What about tradesmen? What about bin men? Window cleaners? Find out what time the post box in Ferndale Avenue is emptied and talk to the postman. Find out if any charity envelopes or advertising junk was delivered in the area that afternoon. Do any of the elderly residents have home helps? You get the idea. Use a bit of no use and imagination.”

The impatience was real. He knew what he was looking for. He knew who had committed the murders and how it was done. He only had to prove it.

Newell was impressed by the list of instructions, almost happy. He was always more comfortable obeying orders than working under his own initiative.

“Right,” he said. “I’ll start checking at once.”

“Sir!” Sal Wedderburn called from the other side of the room, her hand over the telephone receiver. “Another witness has called about the red car parked in Ferndale Avenue on Monday 10th. He’s convinced it was a Fiesta. M reg. Do you want to talk to him?”

The caller was a computer freak with his own consultancy business. He’d just landed a contract with a chain of travel agents and, he told Ramsay, he was feeling pretty good that night driving home. That’s why he remembered the date so well. The next morning there’d been police all over the place though no one had asked him any questions. He’d left before the house-to-house enquiries started. He was never there really. He worked all the hours God sent.

“Why did you notice the red car?” Ramsay asked.

“Because I’d never seen it before. That time it’s mostly neigh hours vehicles on the street’

“What makes you so sure it was a Fiesta?”

“I was thinking of getting one for the wife.

She’s always nagging about a car of her own. It’s her fortieth birthday next month. I checked it out, thought it was a smart little motor.”

By the time he had replaced the receiver Ramsay remembered where he had recently seen a new Fiesta. He called to Hunter.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re going visiting.”

“Where are we going, then?” Hunter asked when they were outside. He looked at his watch. It was only ten o’clock but the town was deserted. Like a bloody morgue, he thought. He’d treat himself to a Friday night in town when this was all over, in one of the pubs where the barmaids went topless. That was probably all he needed to sort himself out: a few beers and a bit of smut.

“Long Edge Farm,” Ramsay said. “Mrs. Richardson drives a car that matches the one in Ferndale Avenue.”

“You don’t have her down as the murderer?” Hunter said. “I can’t see it myself. Not that I’ve met the woman, like. And wasn’t it a bit daft to park right outside the victim’s house for all those hours? You’d think she’d have moved it up the street a couple of hundred yards. Unless it wasn’t premeditated, of course. But she was hardly just there for a chat ‘

Ramsay cut through the rambling. “The lad, Peter, drives his mother’s car,” he said. “And he is a bit daft. But let’s see what he has to say for himself.”

There was no Fiesta standing outside the farmhouse. A full moon had come up over the hills and they could see quite clearly. The living-room curtains were drawn and there was the sound of the television, rather loud, a burst of canned laughter. Ramsay led Hunter round to the back door.

Through the uncurtained kitchen window they saw Mrs. Richardson. She was dressed in a fluffy pink dressing gown and her hair was wrapped up in a towel. She was sitting at the table, obviously working on the farm’s accounts. There was a calculator on the table beside her and she pressed at the buttons quickly and efficiently. She was wearing pink-rimmed spectacles. Ramsay watched her through the window when Hunter knocked at the door. She remained seated and still concentrating on the figures in front of her called: “Come in!” She sounded a little surprised to be disturbed so late at night, but not anxious. Perhaps she was used to the guests from the cottages turning up at all hours, but Ramsay thought there was more to her calm response than that. Owning land gave people confidence. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to be frightened.

He pushed open the door and walked in ahead of Hunter.

“Inspector,” she said, and frowned. “What is it? It’s not Peter, is it? There’s not been an accident?” Still she remained quite composed.

“No,” he said. “Nothing like that.”

“Can’t it wait until the morning, Inspector? It’s been a very long day.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“You’d better sit down then.” She set the papers with their rows of figures aside and suddenly became more of her old self. “Would you like a drink? Tea? Coffee? Or could I tempt you to a whisky?”

He shook his head.

“Did you know Val McDougal?” he asked.

“The teacher who was killed in Otterbridge? No, I don’t think so.”

“She was about your age,” Ramsay persisted. “Perhaps you met her before you married. Her maiden name was Brown. Or perhaps you came across her at Otterbridge College where she worked. They run courses for people setting up in the holiday business. I’ve checked.”

“I haven’t been on any courses, Inspector,” she said, good-naturedly. “I never found the time. I’ve had to pick it all up as I went along.”

“Can you explain what your car was doing outside Mrs. McDougal’s house then, on the day she died?” It was Hunter, blunt and impersonal. She looked at him in surprise. People she invited into her kitchen didn’t usually speak to her like that.

“Of course not,” she said. “Because it wasn’t.”

“Where is your car tonight?” Ramsay asked, politely.

“Peter asked to borrow it.”

There was a pause while the implication of the words sunk in.

“Did he borrow it on the night of Monday May 10th?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, uncertainly. “That’s more than a week ago, isn’t it? I’d have to check my diary. See what I was doing that night.”

“Perhaps you would do that for us, Mrs. Richardson.”

“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

She was fumbling in her handbag for the diary when they heard a car come too fast down the drive, the squeal of brakes, the crunch of gravel.

“I’d not let that lad drive any car of mine,” Hunter muttered.

“There’s Peter,” she said gratefully. “You’ll be able to ask him yourself.”

The door opened and Peter stood, blinking and a little unsteady, just inside the room. Ramsay thought it unlikely that he would pass a breath test but that was hardly his concern now.

“Peter,” he said, “I’d like to talk to you.”

“Well I don’t want to talk to you!” The boy was full of beer and mock bravado. “I’m off to my bed.” He swayed slightly forward. “Unless you’re planning on arresting me.”

His mother gave a nervous little giggle.

“I’ll do that too if I think it’s necessary,” Ramsay said calmly. “Sit down.”

Peter sat.

“Did you know James McDougal?” Ramsay asked. “He was Faye’s boyfriend, before you.”

“No.” Peter was dismissive. “She told me about him. He was only a kid, wasn’t he?”

“And Mrs. McDougal? She taught at Otterbridge College ‘

He shook his head, yawned in a parody of disinterest.

“Do you often borrow your mother’s car?”

“Yeah,” he said. “She doesn’t mind.”

“Did you borrow it on the evening of May 10th?”

“I don’t know. I might have done. Why?”

Ramsay slammed his hand flat on the table. “Because that’s the evening when Mrs. McDougal was killed and a car like your mother’s was parked in the road outside her house.”

“It’s a common car that. Thousands of them about. It could have been anyone’s.”

“But I don’t think it was anyone’s. I think it was yours. Where were you on that Monday night?”

“I don’t know.” The aggression had gone but he was sullen and determined not to co-operate.

“He was with us, Inspector.” Mrs. Richardson had retrieved her diary and was peering at it through her spectacles. “Don’t you remember, pet? It was the FWAG do at the agricultural college.”

“What’s a FWAG when it’s at home?” Hunter asked.

“The Farming and Wildlife Advisory Group,”

Sue Richardson said. “Stan’s not very keen on it, but I thought we ought to belong. It looks good on the publicity we put out for the holiday cottages. And you can get some useful information. On set-aside, how to create a pond or maintain woodland. You know the sort of thing.” Her tone was determinedly cheerful.

“And there was a FWAG meeting on the 10th?” Ramsay asked sceptic ally He couldn’t imagine Peter Richardson going along to a talk on the rise and fall of the corn bunting.

“Not a meeting,” she said. She gave another of her little giggles. “You’d not get Stan along to a meeting. No, it was the annual dinner. The college put on quite a good spread, didn’t they, pet? And there was a bar. It was just a good opportunity to meet old friends.”

“Were the three of you there all evening?”

“Of course,” she said. “It went on longer than I expected. It was gone midnight when we got home.”

“Which car did you go in?”

“Not the Fiesta,” she said quickly. “The Volvo.”

“You left the Fiesta parked outside the farmhouse?”

“Of course.”

“Was the car locked?” Ramsay asked.

She laughed. “I don’t expect so. We’re rather naughty about security out here, Inspector.”

“Did you notice if the car had been tampered with? If there was extra mileage on the clock?”

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“You wouldn’t have left the keys in the ignition?”

“Of course not, Inspector. I’m not a fool.”

“Did you keep a spare set in the house?”

“Yes,” she said. “On the hook over there.” A row of mugs hung on hooks from the dresser.

“And I don’t suppose you always bother locking your back door?” Ramsay said.

“No, Inspector. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“So someone could have stolen your car, and replaced it without your noticing?”

“What a ridiculous idea, Inspector! Why would anyone want to do that?”

They sat for a moment in the car, looking out over the moonlit valley. Hunter shivered. All that space made him uneasy.

“What was that about?” he demanded.

Ramsay spoke slowly. “The problem was always how he covered the distance,” he said. “How he got all the way to Otterbridge without transport. At least now we’ve got a possible explanation.”

“Who are you talking about, man?” Hunter said impatiently.

“Slater,” Ramsay said. “I think it was Slater.”

“So it was that bastard all the time.” Hunter was ecstatic. “Mind you, he couldn’t have nicked Mrs. Richardson’s car on the afternoon James was killed. It was broad daylight and there’d have been folks in and out of the house all the time.

It’d be too risky, that.”

“He didn’t need to steal a car then,” Ramsay said.

“What do you mean?”

“Think, man! Can’t you work it out?”

Hunter thought and only looked nonplussed.

“You took a phone call, didn’t you, on the afternoon of James’s death, from a drunken farmer who said he’d seen Ernie Bowles’s ghost in Mittingford. What exactly do you think he’d seen?”

“A bloody hallucination.”

“No,” Ramsay said. “Not a hallucination. Ernie Bowles’s Land-Rover. If he’d seen it from a distance he’d have recognized the vehicle there aren’t that many farmers let their cars get in that sort of state but not the driver.”

“And by then Slater had moved into the house at Laverock Farm and he’d found the Land-Rover keys!”

“Quite.”

“What about motive though, sir? I can see why he would have wanted Bowles out of the way, but not the McDougals. And what about his alibi?”

“I’ve got an idea about that,” Ramsay said.