Ramsay 06 - The Baby-Snatcher (26 page)

When she got there Emma Coulthard hardly seemed to recognize her. The woman was sitting on a stool in the kitchen. She was very upright and her face had a hard, sculpted look caused by all the muscles tensing through an effort of will. Sally realized she was afraid that if she relaxed for a minute she’d break down. She had the other children to think of. Sally admired that.

‘Is there any news?’ Her voice was controlled too.

Sally shook her head. ‘Not yet. They’ve put a road block down by the level crossing. They’re stopping all the cars.’

‘It’s too late. He’d been gone twenty minutes when I phoned you.’

‘Not necessarily. There’s been a convoy of trains to the power station this afternoon. The crossing’s been down for a lot of that time. Besides, it’s not certain yet that David’s been abducted, is it? You said he was the sort to run away. We’ve a team searching the shore. There are plenty of places he could be playing. And the roadblock’s there as much to ask for witnesses as anything else. People visiting the Headland might have seen him.’

‘Yes.’ The logic of the reply seemed to reassure her. ‘Yes, I see.’

‘Where’s your nanny? We’ll need to talk to her.’

‘I sent her home. I know it’s not really her fault but I was afraid I’d have a go at her. Say something I might regret later. We need someone to blame, don’t we, at a time like this? Besides ourselves, of course.’

Then she did seem about to break down, but the door opened and Brian Coulthard came in. He ran across the floor towards his wife. His black shoes were very shiny and Sally thought he moved like one of the ballroom dancers who take part in Latin American competitions on the television late at night. He took Emma up in his arms, and held her while she sobbed out the story.

Sally mumbled something about having to call the office and wandered through to the living room where a small body sat forlornly on the floor. She let him press the buttons on her radio and talk for a moment to Inspector Ramsay, who was waiting for news at the police station.

Hunter stopped at the roadblock on his way through to the Headland. It didn’t hurt to give the lads a bit of support, and whenever he saw his mates in uniform doing a routine task like that it made him feel good he still wasn’t one of them.

A blue estate was coming down the road from the direction of the club and he pulled his car into the verge and got out to watch a PC flag it down.

The driver was dark, unshaven. He looked like Hunter felt after twelve pints of lager and a couple of hours’ kip on a strange sofa.

‘Could you give us your name please, sir?’

‘Hooper. Paul Hooper.’

‘Any identification to confirm that, sir?’

He pulled out a wallet and handed over a credit card.

‘Are you the registered keeper of this vehicle?’

‘No. It belongs to the company I work for. Otterbridge Motors.’

‘That’s the one with the big showroom at the retail park off the bypass.’

‘Aye.’

Later Hunter was to have nightmares about that scene. He ran it over and over in his head. Because he almost stood aside and let the man drive away. He watched the PC look in the boot and ask his questions about a small lad wandering the Headland on his own and he almost failed to make the connection. But not quite. At the last moment he stepped forward, almost shoving the constable out of the way as he stuck his head through the driver’s window.

‘Mr Hooper,’ he said. ‘What was your business on the Headland?’

Then, when there was no immediate reply.

‘Been to visit Kim Houghton again, have you?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

He wouldn’t be a bad-looking chap, Hunter thought, if he had a shower and a shave. He knew how to dress. The leather jacket was folded up on the seat next to him.

‘Kim Houghton’s got a friend named Paul. A guy just like you. And he was on the Headland the night before a woman was murdered. We’ve been asking him to come forward, but he never did. Strange that, isn’t it? In a case when an innocent woman’s been killed you’d think he’d be only too pleased to help the police. And now a little boy’s gone missing too. So tell me, Mr Paul Hooper, what is it exactly that you’ve got to hide?’

The man leant forward so his head touched the steering wheel. Then, to Hunter’s disgust, he began to cry.

They wasted no time in interviewing Hooper. The boy was still missing. Ramsay was aware throughout of the clock on the wall, the minutes ticking away.

‘Where is he, Paul? Where’s David?’ The question, like a refrain, punctuating the other questions.

At first it was impossible to work out what was going on. It wasn’t that he was unco-operative. He seemed only too eager to answer their questions. Except the important one, which he seemed not to hear.

‘Where is he? Where’s David?’

He said he wanted to explain. He needed help. So did Marie, though she’d never admit it. That’s why he’d spent the night on the Headland. Because he wanted to think. At first Ramsay left the questions to Hunter, who found it hard to get a word in.

‘I didn’t mean them any harm,’ Hooper said. He leant right across the table. It seemed he was going to grab Hunter by the shoulder to make him understand. ‘You do believe me about that, don’t you? I wouldn’t have hurt them for the world.’

‘Who are we talking about here?’ Hunter demanded. ‘Mrs Howe or the little laddie? And what, exactly, did you do with the little laddie, Paul?’

‘I put him back!’ Hooper sat back. He was surprised, indignant. ‘I put them all back. You know I did. I bought them sweets, played with them, and then I put them back. On a busy street with lots of people so I knew they’d be safe.’

‘Who did you put back, Paul?’

‘You know! Stop playing games!’ He hit the table with the palm of his hand. Mad as a snake, Hunter thought. He hated interviewing loonies. You never knew where you were with them. Hooper continued, counting on his fingers as he listed the names.

‘The first was William Samms. The second was called Toby. I never knew his other name. That was in Newcastle outside the post office in Eldon Square. The third was Ricky Elton. I took him from the McDonald’s on the estate where I work. The fourth was Tom Bingham. He came to me. I was looking through the nursery window and he came running out. He thought I was his dad. I pretended I was. It was our secret. Four boys. I never took a girl. I thought a girl might get upset more easily and cry. I would have liked to take a girl but I couldn’t risk it. Not unless it was someone who’d met me before.’ He paused, then blurted out guiltily, ‘Kim Houghton’s got a girl. Kirsty. As pretty as a picture.’

‘And that’s why you went back to the Headland, wasn’t it, Paul? Not to see Kim, but to see Kirsty. That’s why you were looking for Kim in Whitley last night. Because Kirsty wouldn’t have got frightened and upset, would she, Paul? You wouldn’t have been a stranger to Kirsty.’

It was Ramsay, speaking for the first time. Hooper was startled, as if he’d forgotten the inspector was there, but he nodded fiercely in agreement.

‘So why didn’t you do it?’ Ramsay asked. ‘ Why didn’t you just knock at the door and ask if you could take Kirsty out? Kim wouldn’t have minded.’

Hooper mumbled something.

‘Or wouldn’t that have been as much fun? Not as much fun as snatching a child when no one was looking. Is that why you took David instead? Where is he, Paul? His mum wants him back.’

Hooper looked up.

‘Who’s David?’ he asked.

‘Why did you do it, Paul?’

‘Marie and I have been trying for a baby for ages,’ he said conversationally, as if he were talking to a mate in a pub, not answering a question. ‘We went for all the tests. We put our name down for treatment but we couldn’t afford to go private and there’s such a queue. It’s more common than you think, you know, infertility.

‘Then while we were still on the waiting list Marie fell pregnant. We couldn’t believe it. She had a little boy. Jordan. As round as a barrel and bouncing with health. That’s what everyone said. He died. Cot death last autumn. No one knows why. He’d be three if he’d lived … So it was back to the beginning of the queue, wasn’t it? And money in the NHS tighter and the waiting list even longer. We put down our names to adopt. Or foster. But they wouldn’t have us. They said we were too emotional after the baby died Unstable.’

He broke off abruptly, began chewing his fingernails.

‘Where’s David?’ Hunter said. ‘David Coulthard. The little boy you took from the Headland this afternoon.’

‘I didn’t take anyone from the Headland,’ he repeated automatically. Then, in a more animated voice, he went on. ‘It was like you said. I went to Whitley last night, looking for Kim. I’d been really low. I thought I could have a few beers, go back to Kim’s house, play with Kirsty in the morning. I told Marie I was working away.’

‘Didn’t you realize we’d been looking for you?’ Hunter demanded. ‘If you’d met up with Kim she’d have phoned us straight away.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think.’ And they realized that was probably true. He was too wrapped up in himself, in his own need for comfort. ‘Kim wasn’t there. So I drove out to the Headland. I looked in the club because I thought she might be in there, having a drink with her friends. Then I waited outside the house. Kim wouldn’t have recognized the car. We take different ones from the garage. It depends what’s been sold. I didn’t knock at the door. There might have been a babysitter. I wouldn’t have known what to say.’

‘What did you hang around there for?’ Hunter asked.

‘I thought Kirsty might be on her own,’ he confessed. ‘Kim leaves her sometimes. She doesn’t deserve a kid, does she? But Kim was there. I saw her draw the bedroom curtains. I suppose I could have gone in but by then I couldn’t face her. All that chat. Having to be nice. You don’t have to do that with kids. So I drove down to the jetty and went to sleep in the car.’

‘Until two o’clock in the afternoon?’ Hunter asked, as if he didn’t believe a word of it.

‘Yeah. I mean I wasn’t asleep all that time. I went for a walk along the cliffs. To clear my head. Like I said, thinking. I knew it couldn’t go on. If you hadn’t picked me up at that roadblock I’d have given myself in anyway.’ He looked up at Hunter. ‘How did you know I was there?’

‘We didn’t.’ Hunter was quickly losing patience. ‘We were looking for David Coulthard, the little boy you abducted from the Headland. Now stop pissing about and tell us what you’ve done with him.’

‘I’ve already told you. I didn’t take a little boy. I would have liked to spend some time with Kirsty, but I didn’t see her either.’

Ramsay slipped silently from the room. Paul Hooper was biting his thumbnail again and looked very much like a little boy himself.

In Cotter’s Row Ramsay waited for Sal Wedderburn to join him before knocking at the door. He saw her walking briskly down the track, her hands in her jacket pockets. He knew she would be glad to have escaped the Coastguard House.

‘How are the Coulthards bearing up?’

She shrugged. ‘ It gets harder, the longer it is without news.’

‘You left someone with them?’

‘Grace Newton.’

Ramsay nodded. Grace was soft and plump, famous for her laziness. She was irritating to work with but she’d be unflappable, reassuring.

‘Do you know where Emma Coulthard went this lunch time?’ Sally said. ‘To meet Mark Taverner. She came right out with it in front of her husband. She said she’d explain to him later. He didn’t seem bothered. As if it hadn’t come as any surprise that they were meeting.’

‘How long did she spend with Mark?’

‘She didn’t. Apparently he arranged to meet her in a pub and he never turned up. That’s how she was back on the Headland earlier than she’d expected.’

‘Has he phoned the Coulthards since, with any explanation?’

‘Not so far as I know.’

Sally was impatient to knock on the Howes’ door and get on with the interview, but he stood on the pavement for a moment and considered what this could mean. Wild explanations occurred to him, a bizarre conspiracy theory in which Mark had phoned Emma to keep her off the Headland while her child was taken. Ramsay was distracted by the coincidence.

‘I suppose his car might have broken down,’ he muttered. ‘Something like that.’

‘Are we going in then?’ Sally demanded.

‘We’ll talk to Mr Taverner later. When we’ve finished here.’

Marilyn opened the door. She was wearing the same jeans, the same jumper.

‘Is there any news?’ she asked. ‘Claire told me what happened. You read about these things, don’t you? But you never dream they’ll happen here.’

Ramsay had the impression she was repeating a phrase she’d heard. Perhaps the neighbours had said the same thing about her mother’s death.

‘Where is Claire?’

‘In the backroom.’ She lowered her voice. ‘She’s ever so upset.’

‘Is your dad in?’

‘No. He’s working this afternoon. A private party. The taxi came a while ago. He needed a taxi to carry all the stuff he’s got. He’s trying a new act: ventriloquism and magic combined. So he had to take Charlie.’

‘Charlie?’

‘The ventriloquist’s dummy.’

Ramsay wondered what the men on the roadblock would make of that, then thought, with a constriction of the stomach, that they might not even stop the taxi. They were looking for a private car. They might just wave it through.

‘Where’s your dad working?’

‘I don’t know. Newcastle, I think. Somewhere smart. Jesmond. Gosforth.’

‘Does he keep an appointment diary?’

‘Yeah, but he’ll have it with him. Why?’

‘We’ll need to talk to him. He might have seen something.’

‘Are you joking? He was in his room, practising. You could have the Blyth Town Band marching in the street outside and he’d not notice.’

‘Can we go through, then, and talk to Claire?’

‘Sure.’

Although the fire wasn’t lit, Claire was sitting in her usual chair by the side of the grate. She was still wearing her outdoor shoes and her coat. There was a newspaper on her knee but Ramsay could tell she wasn’t reading it.

‘I suppose Mrs Coulthard told you it was my fault,’ she said, still staring at the paper.