Ramsay 06 - The Baby-Snatcher (18 page)

It stood on a corner. Once the façade had been painted pink but the salt wind had blasted most of the colour away. A barrel-chested bouncer in a gleaming white shirt, only just held together by straining buttons stood outside the door and a sign said:
OVER
21
S ONLY
. He didn’t have to turn anyone away. The high school kids walked straight past. They wouldn’t have been seen dead in there. When Hunter pushed through the swing door he could see why.

The music was loud but not ear-shattering and Abba’s greatest hits seemed to be on a continual loop. The Manhattan’s decor must have been devised originally to go with the name. There were high, tubular steel stools by the bar and a neon cocktail glass, tipped on one side, flashed on one wall. The effect had been spoilt by an attempt to turn the rest of the room into a Mediterranean taverna. A fishing net hung from the ceiling and there was a scattering of rustic tables and chairs. Most of the space was left clear to fit in as many drinkers as possible.

Hunter did not notice the clash in design styles. He slouched at the bar and asked for a bottle of Holsten, then swivelled to take in the other customers, who were lit intermittently by the flashing cocktail glass and strobe lights over the dance floor.

There were a few couples in early middle age trying to recapture their youth and some single men intent on serious drinking standing beside him at the bar. None of them fitted the description of the Mazda driver. The rest of the customers were women. One large party had pulled most of the chairs into a tight circle. An elderly woman seemed to be in charge of bags and coats. The others – aged from sixteen to sixty – got up from time to time to dance. For some this seemed a new experience. They were already very drunk. A works do, Hunter decided. They’d been at the Lambrusco surreptitiously all afternoon, into the bogs to change, then out on the town. Noticing that a tall, dark woman was the butt of all the jokes, he thought it was probably a hen party. When she was too paralytic to stand they’d wrap her in toilet paper and push her up the street in a pram.

He didn’t see the hen party as regulars. When Abba reached the end of ‘Super Trooper’ again, and the dancers collapsed giggling, he wandered across the dance floor and pulled up a chair on the outside of the circle. They giggled some more, but pretended not to see him.

‘Ladies,’ he said, ‘ I wonder if you can help me.’

They couldn’t help him though they would have liked to. They worked in Otterbridge Town Hall collecting the council tax. They’d hired a mini bus to bring them to Whitley so they could give Maggie a good party before she lost her freedom. It was the first time most of them had been out socially for ages apart from the pictures or the pub. They did have an office trip out just before Christmas but that was always to Newcastle, for a Chinese banquet in Stowell Street. The music started again and Maggie was pulled to her feet. Hunter returned to the bar.

There were three bar staff, all men. They wore white shirts, bow ties and matching waistcoats. They were busy. Not rushed off their feet, that would come later, but too busy to stop work while they talked.

Hunter identified himself. They weren’t impressed.

‘I’m looking for a chap who was in here Friday night, three weeks ago.’ Hunter leant across the bar and shouted so they could all hear him.

‘What’s he supposed to have done, like?’

‘Nothing. But he might be a witness to that murder on the Headland.’

That got their attention.

‘He says his name’s Paul. He could be a regular. Hanging out on his own looking for company.’

‘Aye well. There are plenty of those. But late on a Friday night I could serve my sister and not notice. They shout the order, you pull the pint, you take their money. You look at their hands not their faces.’

‘He left the place with Kim Houghton. Do you know her?’

‘Kim the blonde?’

Hunter nodded. ‘You looked at
her
face then?’

The barman allowed himself a smile. ‘ We all need a treat once in a while, don’t we?’

‘Are any of her friends in?’

The man scanned the faces lit by the coloured lights to show willing but he knew they wouldn’t be there.

‘Na,’ he said. ‘If they do come in it won’t be until later. They have a few drinks somewhere cheaper before they come here.’

‘Give me a shout, then, if you see them.’

He bought another bottle of lager and settled on his bar stool to survey the dance floor. Of the hen party only the bride-to-be was worth watching. She had straight black hair and white skin made smooth by make-up. When the light caught her full on the face she had the hint of a moustache but from the back you couldn’t fault her.

The two women turned up at eleven, just as Hunter had decided he’d had enough. The music had turned smoochy. Burt Bacharach instead of Abba. The hen party had moved on and the place was filling up with couples. If you pulled a woman in one of the noisier pubs you brought her here to impress her and loosen her up. He couldn’t make up his mind whether he should find a club more to his taste to continue his search, or if he should go home. He was hungry and if his mother was still up she’d fix him something – bacon and eggs, a plate of chips. He still lived in the council house where he’d been brought up. He’d never felt the need to move out. It wasn’t as if she cramped his style. If he had a lass staying Mam would just bring up two cups of tea to his room in the morning.

The women stood by the bar, sharing a joke with one of the barmen. They might have been a bit tipsy – their faces were flushed and they were enjoying themselves – but they were quite in control. Hunter watched them with appreciation. The one with the perm must be at least as old as him, but they were both fit. Weekly aerobics and an occasional workout at the gym would have seen to that. He didn’t see them as joggers. That wouldn’t be sociable enough for them. They’d want a chat and a laugh to see them through the pain barrier.

The barman saw him looking and gave him a thumb’s up sign. Hunter moved in.

‘Can I buy you a drink, girls?’

‘We’re all right thanks.’

They turned back to their conversation. Both wore wedding rings.

‘You’re friends of Kim’s, aren’t you?’

‘So?’ They were immediately suspicious.

‘I just wanted a chat.’

The woman with the perm put an elbow on the bar and leant towards him.

‘Why don’t you just piss off?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not what you think. My name’s Gordon Hunter. I’m a detective with Northumbria Police.’ The music swelled: ‘Do You Know the Way to San José’. He wasn’t even sure they’d heard him. ‘Look,’ he shouted. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy a curry?’

They sat in the Taj Mahal, drinking lager. Hunter ordered a vindaloo. They picked at chicken tikka masalas. The blonde with the perm was called Shirley, the younger one was Christine. Their husbands were in business together. Fitted kitchens. That was how they’d met Ray and Kim. Ray had asked them to build a kitchen in a house he was doing up.

Shirley was apologetic. ‘Sorry about earlier. Blokes sometimes get the wrong idea, especially when they’ve seen us with Kim. She’s single, isn’t she? It’s different for her. We’re just out for a bit of fun. Friday nights we take it in turns. One week the lads go out for a few beers and a meal. The next they stay in to sit with the kids and it’s our turn.’ She smiled. ‘We’re happily married women.’

‘Not like Kim.’

‘Well, let’s put it this way. You’d never have got Kim’s Ray to stay in and mind his little girl.’

‘Were you in the Manhattan with Kim three weeks ago?’

They thought about it.

‘No,’ Christine said. ‘That would have been the boys’ night out.’

‘But if you were regulars in the Manhattan you might have met the man we’re trying to trace. His first name’s Paul. He’s in his early thirties, dark, drives a red Mazda.’

They looked at each other. They’d taken to Hunter and they wanted to help.

‘There was that guy who was in a while ago, talking about the funeral.’ Christine looked to her friend for confirmation. ‘Wasn’t he called Paul?’

‘I believe he was. And Kim certainly took a shine to him.’

‘What funeral?’ Hunter asked.

‘I don’t know any details. He was plastered. Said he’d been to a funeral that day. Someone special.’

‘When was this?’

‘A while ago.’ She paused. ‘ It must have been September. It was the week after we’d come back from Tenerife and we got a special deal because the schools had gone back.’

‘And you say Kim was with you then?’

‘That’s right. She didn’t go off with him though. He could hardly stand. She wouldn’t have wanted anyone in the house who might be sick on the carpet.’

‘Have you met him in the Manhattan since?’

‘I have. Once. He seemed really canny. Friendly, you know, asking all about our families, how old the kids were. I had the impression he had some of his own. Kim might have been there that time too.’

‘Did he tell you his second name? Give any clue about where he lives or works?’

The women shook their heads. They said he hadn’t talked much about himself, hadn’t had the chance probably with the three of them carrying on. No one could get a word in when they got together.

While Hunter was preparing for a night in Whitley, Claire Irvine was in Cotter’s Row, wondering about driving lessons. It was too late for Bernard to take the plunge. She could see that. He’d never get to grips with driving a car. But someone in the family should be mobile, and she didn’t mind having a go. She certainly didn’t plan to work for the Coulthards for ever and even if she wanted to, that wouldn’t be possible. Soon Owen would start school and Emma might think she could manage the two youngest by herself. Then Claire would be looking for work. Most women wanted a woman who could drive – some even provided a car for running the kiddies around. And if ever she had a child herself it would be nice to be independent.

She thought too that if she could drive Bernard might be able to make more of his magic shows. He hated working in that office. These days it was all market testing and saving money. Although he’d never said, she had the feeling that everyone there made fun of him. He never mentioned any friends.

‘If you wanted to go out for a pint after work, you know I wouldn’t mind,’ she’d said recently.

Kath would never have thought of it, but Dad had gone to the pub with his mates every Friday. They’d played darts, made a night of it.

Bernie had shaken his head. He said he thought some of the chaps went out together but he wouldn’t feel right about asking to go along too.

‘Besides,’ he’d said. ‘I like getting home now. It’s so cosy.’

Then she’d felt a glow of pleasure and knew she’d done the right thing.

She didn’t mention the driving lessons to Bernard. It wouldn’t be tactful to make too many changes too soon. People would talk. She’d seen Sally Wedderburn staring at the television the last time she’d come to visit. As if renting a telly was some sort of crime.

She’d forgotten how soothing a night in front of the set could be. They all enjoyed it, though Marilyn wasn’t much interested in the programmes themselves. She still disappeared up to her bedroom with her books most nights. She did watch
Top of the Pops
but Claire thought that was just so she could talk about the groups with the other girls at school.

In the evenings Claire and Bernard had developed a routine. She would clear up the meal and wash the dishes, then the two of them would settle in front of the television. At nine o’clock he would make cocoa. They’d call Marilyn down from her room and drink it together. It was, as he’d said, very cosy.

Without a car Bernard had to rely on taxis to get him to the church halls and Scout huts, where he performed for the children. He took bookings for his shows at work and explained over the telephone that he would have to charge travelling expenses on top of his modest fee. Sometimes that put people off. Not people who’d actually seen him perform, though. They thought he was worth every penny.

She could see he was nervous about the Sunday school anniversary party. It was the first show he’d done since Kath’s death. He was worried he’d find it hard to concentrate sufficiently to make the tricks work. In magic, concentration was everything.

He’d asked Marilyn if she’d like to go with him, be his assistant.

‘We could find you a costume,’ he’d said enthusiastically. He would have liked her standing beside him in a sequinned leotard and shimmering tights.

But she’d refused absolutely. She’d told him that she’d arranged to meet a friend in Otterbridge. This was unheard of and Claire thought it was probably an excuse. Perhaps Marilyn was worried that some of the girls would find out. It probably wasn’t considered cool to be a magician’s assistant.

Claire would have gone with him for support, but she’d already agreed to work for the Coulthards. Emma and Brian had planned a Saturday afternoon out on their own. Another unheard-of occasion.

In the event Bernard needn’t have worried about his performance. It was as confident and fluid as ever. Indeed, in the beginning everything seemed to work like clockwork. The taxi turned up on time. He was met outside the church by a pleasant, motherly woman, in a flowery print dress.

‘Mr Howe,’ she said. ‘How kind of you to come.’ He could tell she meant it.

The hall had been built very recently. It had a polished-wood floor, a real stage and spotlights. The helpers had set aside a little room for him to get ready for his act. They brought a pot of tea and a plate of home-made cakes. In the hall he heard them shouting to the children to settle down. They were
very
lucky that Uncle Bernie had agreed to visit them. It all made him feel important.

When he stood up to perform there was immediate silence. The faces turned towards him were attentive, scrubbed clean. The girls wore frilly frocks and patent-leather sandals. He would have liked to dress Marilyn in prettier things when she was little but Kath had never cared much what her daughter looked like. The admiration of the children made him feel even better than the fussing women. He knew he would do well.