‘Wouldn’t I?’ she said, enjoying his discomfort. ‘You’ll never know now, will you?’ She walked close to him again so their shoulders were almost touching. ‘ I need help,’ she said. ‘I need money myself.’
‘You bitch!’ he shouted, losing all control, almost hysterical in his temper. ‘ You think you can try the same trick as Medburn. Well you’ll never blackmail me. No one will believe you. They all know you’re a whore. You’re an evil little bitch!’
She only laughed at him, a cruel, humourless laugh, her head thrown back, her pointed chin high in the air.
They were so engrossed in the argument that neither of them had seen Jack Robson approaching on his way home from the bus stop. He looked different, suddenly elderly, his hands deep in his macintosh pockets, his head bent in thought. Even when he drew close to them they did not quite recognize him. But Wilcox’s shout made Robson look up quickly, so that they knew who it was, and the three of them stood in embarrassed silence, until Robson nodded his head in greeting and walked on. By then it was almost dark and quite cold. Wilcox shivered, called to the children and hurried away without speaking or looking at Angela again. She watched him until he disappeared into the dusk. His back was stooped over his daughter’s pushchair, so that from her perspective he seemed deformed. She pulled her coat tightly around her and walked past the menacing silhouette of the bonfire on her way home.
In Jack Robson’s house, on the door mat, there was a letter from Kitty. It was in a thin, pale blue envelope and written on prison notepaper with a number stamped on the top. His hand was shaking as he opened it. It might have been a first love letter. Then, with a kind of superstition, he decided it would be wrong to read it immediately. He left it on his dining room table, lit the fire and put on his slippers. He drew all the curtains and made himself tea. Then he sat by the fire and gave the letter his full attention.
It was an old-fashioned flowing script. It had a formality which distressed him. Why did she write as if he were a mere acquaintance? He could have been an employee. Did she feel she could not trust him? At the end he was not sure exactly what she meant to say. The letter was an anticlimax.
Dear Mr Robson, I would like to thank you for your kindness to me on the night of my husband’s murder. You must forgive my foolishness. You must not concern yourself about my welfare. Everyone here has been most considerate and I do not need anything.
Yours, Kathryn Medburn
As Jack read the letter for a second time he realized that it was a form of dismissal. He was angry and refused to accept it. He decided he would take Miss Hunt’s advice and he went to look for Ramsay.
Northumberland police’s B Division spread from the old pit villages of the south-east plain to the rural wildness of the inland hills. Its headquarters were in Otterbridge, in the middle of the region. Otterbridge was a stately county town with a ruined abbey, a wide, slow-flowing river and walls which had once protected it from Scottish brigands. The police station was in the middle of the town. It was an ugly red-brick building, extended into a modern block where the communications centre was housed. Ramsay’s office was at the top of the old building with a view of the sheep market and the moors. The surface of the desk was clear. Once he had kept a photograph of his wife there, but since Diana had left he preferred things uncluttered. He could hear Hunter’s voice above all the others in the large communal office at the other side of the glass door. The sergeant had just come in but already had the others listening to his stories, laughing at his jokes. Ramsay opened the glass door and the outer office fell silent.
‘Gordon,’ he said quietly, ‘could you spare a moment?’
Hunter sauntered in and leaned against the window sill, as if Ramsay was hardly worth his attention. Ramsay shut the door carefully behind him.
‘I think we can soon close the Medburn case,’ he said. ‘The pathologist’s report seems to tie it up.’
That’s good, Hunter thought. He might make that date with the nurse from the Freeman after all. But he pretended interest. He was ambitious in his own way. He wanted an inspector’s salary.
‘How’s that then?’ he asked.
‘Medburn was drugged before he was strangled with his own tie,’ Ramsay said. ‘The business with the noose was a charade. The pathologist found traces of Heminevrin in the body. It’s a medicine used in the control of alcohol addiction. It’s also taken by old people to help them sleep. As a district nurse Mrs Medburn worked a lot with elderly people in their own homes.’
‘Did she give them the Heminevrin herself?’ Hunter asked.
‘Not officially. She wouldn’t have had access to it directly. It’s a controlled drug only available on doctor’s prescription, but she often went to the chemist’s to collect her patients’ medicines. Apparently it would only have taken three teaspoons to knock out Medburn. He took it on an empty stomach and that would have made it work more quickly. Mrs Medburn could easily have taken that much from a bottle of syrup without her patient noticing. All we need is the information that one of her regular patients has been prescribed the drug recently.’ He looked at Hunter. ‘You can do that,’ he said. ‘ It’ll not take long.’
‘Won’t it wait until tomorrow?’
‘Let’s get it wrapped up tonight,’ Ramsay said. ‘I thought you needed the overtime.’
‘Slave-driver,’ Hunter said, only half joking. As he left the office the phone was ringing.
At first Ramsay did not recognize Jack Robson’s name. He had thought of the old man only as Patty Atkins’s father.
‘I need to talk to you,’ Robson said. ‘When can I see you?’
Ramsay looked at his watch.
‘I could come to Heppleburn now,’ he said, ‘if it’s urgent.’
‘Aye,’ Robson said. ‘It’s urgent all right.’
‘Will I come to your home?’
‘Where else? I don’t live with my daughter, you know, I’m a grown man.’
When Ramsay arrived at the house in the quiet, ordered street Jack was waiting for him, the fire made up, the room tidy. Ramsay was determined not to antagonize Robson. He sat where he was told.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘How can you help me?’
‘I don’t know that I can,’ Jack said. Now that Ramsay was in his house he felt awkward and the embarrassment came out as hostility. ‘Not yet. I need information. How did Medburn die?’
Ramsay considered. Jack thought he would refuse to tell him and prepared to be angry.
‘I’ll tell you,’ Ramsay said at last. ‘There’ll be a press statement tomorrow anyway. He was drugged with a medicine called Heminevrin which is used to treat old people.’ He paused, then continued a little apologetically: ‘It’s just the evidence we needed to convict Mrs Medburn. She would have had access to the drug through her patients. We’ll probably be closing the case tomorrow.’
‘Why tomorrow?’ Robson demanded. ‘ If you’re so certain, why haven’t you closed it already?’
‘We need to confirm that one of Mrs Medburn’s patients was taking the drug.’
‘If you’ve not done that yet, there’s no proof,’ Robson exclaimed. ‘You’re being a bit hasty, man. What about all the other folk who could get hold of it? This estate is full of old people. The bathrooms are full of pills and potions and no one would notice if a bottle was missing. And what about Angela Brayshaw? She’s always in and out of her mother’s nursing home. I expect they use that medicine there.’
He stopped abruptly, realizing how desperate he sounded.
‘We’ll check, of course,’ Ramsay said, ‘but I think you should prepare yourself to accept the fact that Kitty Medburn killed her husband.’
Robson did not answer. Ramsay felt he had been misled. The old man had brought him all the way to Heppleburn under false pretences. He had no useful information at all. He was an infatuated old fool who could not believe that a childhood sweetheart was capable of murder. Well, he would have no part in his games. When he spoke again it was with brisk formality.
‘Heminevrin has a very unpleasant taste,’ he said. ‘You can’t think how Medburn was persuaded to drink the stuff? Even in coffee it must have been very bitter.’
‘Medburn didn’t have much of a sense of taste,’ Jack said, despite himself. ‘He had a lot of sinus trouble.’ Then he added quickly: ‘Everyone who came to the school knew that. He was always complaining about it. It doesn’t mean Kitty killed him.’
‘Why did you ask to talk to me?’ Ramsay said, his patience suddenly at an end. ‘Have you any new information or is this all a waste of time? If you know anything it’s your duty to pass it on.’
‘My duty is to the people I represent,’ Robson cried. ‘I’ve nothing to tell you. Not yet. Unless I find proof you’ll never let Kitty go. You’re only interested in getting a result.’
‘No,’ Ramsay said quietly. ‘That’s not true. I’m not that sort of policeman.’
Robson wanted to believe him. There was a great temptation to share the responsibility, to tell Ramsay that Wilcox was frightened of Medburn, that Miss Hunt was a blackmail victim, that he had seen Wilcox and Angela Brayshaw together in the park. It was only stubbornness and an habitual distrust of the police which kept him silent. He was confused and did not know how best Kitty could be helped.
Ramsay was irritated by Robson’s determined silence, but he would not allow himself to be roused to anger. Why had he given up valuable time to talk to the old man? He had gained nothing but the information that Harold Medburn had suffered from a blocked nose. Robson’s obsession with Kitty Medburn’s innocence was foolish. It was time for the police to get out of Heppleburn and leave the matter to the courts. But as he left the council house and drove back to Otterbridge he felt a sudden unease. Robson’s certainty had undermined his own judgement. He hoped Hunter had found the evidence to link Kitty Medburn to the drug which had made her husband unconscious. And he wished he had persuaded Robson to talk to him.
All the village was at the bonfire. Mothers carried babies as fat as Eskimos with extra clothes and even the old men from the Miners’ Welfare cottages stood in the comfort of the cricket pavilion to watch the fireworks. When Ramsey drove back through the village towards Otterbridge, the streets were deserted and the Northumberland Arms was empty.
Matthew Carpenter had been asked to supervise the event and he left his flat early. In the chemist shop below the lights were still on, though the door was locked. The pharmacist was checking medicines against a list on a clipboard and looked up to wave at him. Although Matthew arrived at the bonfire half an hour before it was scheduled to start groups of older boys were there before him, prodding the bonfire and annoying each other. When they saw Matthew approaching they fell silent. They treated him with respect, not because he was a teacher at the little school, but because he had been in the school on the night of the murder. They were fascinated by the macabre and melodramatic manner of Harold Medburn’s death. The murder was a vast video nasty, performed in the village for their entertainment. They talked about it in giggled whispers, creating grotesque fantasies, then accused each other of being scared.
As soon as he arrived on the field Matthew sensed that some mischief was being planned. He was an inexperienced teacher but the furtive conversations and nervous bravado brought back memories of his own boyhood.
‘I won’t have any messing about with fireworks,’ he said firmly.
‘It’s dangerous and there’ll be too many people here tonight. We don’t want accidents.’
He was surprised by the authority in his voice and the boys’ easy agreement. He spoke to a group of three, uniform shapes in his torchlight. He did not know their names.
‘We’ve not got fireworks of our own,’ one said. ‘ It’s not allowed. There’s a display.’
‘That’s all right then.’
It was seven o’clock. A huge moon was rising above the silhouettes of the trees. It lit the bonfire and the faces of the boys.
‘Aren’t you having a guy?’ Matthew asked. ‘When I was a kid we always had a guy.’
The boys sniggered and did not reply. Matthew reminded himself that they were only young – perhaps no older than eleven or twelve – unsure of themselves as newcomers in the comprehensive school.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘Aye sir. We made one earlier.’ The one who spoke was braver than the rest and the others collapsed again in giggles.
‘Well,’ Matthew said again. ‘Where is it?’
They looked at each other. This obviously had not been part of the plan. The silence of their hesitation was broken by the sound of people walking down the footpath from the village, of laughter and children’s voices.
‘Come on!’ Matthew said, becoming increasingly impatient. ‘People are coming. We want the guy on the top of the bonfire before everyone gets here.’ But he realized that he was already too late for that. Family parties were starting to congregate on the edge of the field. The organizers were beginning to set out their stalls for hot dogs and drinks. In a roped-off corner of the field rockets were being set into bottles.
The boys, looking sheepish, realized that the game was over. They disappeared and returned some minutes later pushing a pram with a guy propped inside. The head and body were made in the conventional way – a pillowcase was stuffed with newspaper and old stockings and tied with string to make the neck – but it was dressed in a black pointed hat made of cardboard and wrapped around with a long black cloak. One of the boys’ mothers had obviously been to the school’s Hallowe’en party.
‘What’s the meaning of the costume?’ Matthew demanded. He felt embarrassed. A crowd was already gathering around them. He knew the point the boys were trying to make, but to recognize it would give the idea some credibility. It would be to admit that he too thought Kitty Medburn was a witch.
‘It’s a witch,’ the smallest boy said;
‘I can see that.’
‘They used to burn witches,’ another said.
‘Not on bonfire night.’
‘After what was in the paper,’ the same boy said. He was more cocky and articulate than the others. ‘We thought it would be …’ he hesitated to find the right word ‘… topical.’