Ramsay 06 - The Baby-Snatcher (27 page)

‘I haven’t spoken to Mrs Coulthard.’ Ramsay took the other seat, Bernie’s seat, beside her.

‘I told her I wouldn’t be able to manage the three of them outside. She knows David’s a tinker. He hasn’t got any sense of danger. He’s always running off and he’d follow anyone.’

‘I think she probably blames herself more than you.’

‘Yeah, well. It’s my living, isn’t it? I might never work again if people get to hear about this.’

‘You haven’t asked if there’s any news of David.’

‘I’m not daft. You’d have told me if you’d found him.’ She turned for the first time to face him. ‘You haven’t found him?’

He shook his head. She stared back at the newspaper. ‘That’s it, then. Someone’s had him away. You’d have found him if he was still on the Headland.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Do you mind if Sally looks round? We’re searching all the houses is Cotter’s Row, in case he just wandered in through an open door. Is that the sort of thing he might do?’

‘He might,’ she conceded. She wiped a hand across her forehead. Her cheeks were flushed but still it didn’t occur to her to take her coat off. She paused for a moment. Ramsay nodded to Sally, who left the room.

‘A nanny’s not supposed to have favourites,’ Claire went on. ‘But he was the one I liked best though he wasn’t easy. He was always into mischief. Like I said, a real tinker.’

‘Tell me what happened today.’

‘I only agreed to go in as a favour. I don’t usually work weekends.’

‘Did Mrs Coulthard tell you why she needed you to work?’

‘A lunch appointment, she said. She was all tarted up.’

‘Was it usual for her to go out on a Saturday?’

‘No, if she’s going to meet her friends it’s usually during the week. Weekends most people spend with their families, don’t they?’

‘I suppose they do.’ Unless they’re policemen, he thought. ‘When did she ask you? Was it a last-minute arrangement?’

‘Not really. She fixed it up a couple of days ago.’ She wiped her forehead again. ‘So I got there and the kids were already wound up. Their dad had bought them kites and they wanted to go out to fly them.’

‘Did you go out straight away?’

‘No. I gave them dinner first. To be honest, I thought if we waited a bit the weather might change. Not even Mrs Coulthard could expect me to take them out in the rain.’

‘But it didn’t rain.’

‘No.’ Claire turned in her chair so she was facing him again. ‘So I thought I’d better get it over with. I put on their coats and I took them out. I had Helen in the pushchair and the boys carried the kites. David wanted to help though the kite was bigger than him. They played nicely enough for half an hour then I realized Helen needed changing, so I said “That’s it, boys. Time to go in now. You can play again with your dad tomorrow.”

‘But they weren’t having any of that, were they? David threw a tantrum. He’s that sort of age. If I’d had him on his own I’d have picked him up and carried him into the house. I don’t stand any nonsense. But I had Helen in the pushchair screaming and Owen with a face like thunder. He looks just like his mother when he’s in a mood and he’s stubborn as a mule. So I said, “ OK. You can stay for a bit longer, but you’ll have to keep an eye on David.” And I took Helen back to the house. Of course, Mrs Coulthard picked that minute to turn up.’

‘Did you see anyone else out in the Headland?’

She shrugged. ‘A couple of dog walkers. It was sunny. That sort of day.’

‘But no one you recognized?’

‘An old lady with a Jack Russell who lives at the end of the Row. The Laidler kids. They’re allowed to run wild.’ The gang who’d found Mrs Howe’s body, Ramsay thought.

‘Was there anyone who took a special interest in the children?’

‘Not that I noticed. I had my hands full.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course.’

There was a moment of silence.

‘Did you see a man on his own? Thirtyish. Unshaven.’

‘Oh him. Yes. But that was earlier, when I was on my way up to the Coulthards’. He was walking down the cliffs to the jetty.’

‘You didn’t see him when you were out with the children?’

She shook her head. ‘You don’t think I’d have left them if there’d been someone like that hanging around?’

Sally Wedderburn came back into the room.

‘Well?’ Claire asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Do you know where Bernie’s working this afternoon?’ Ramsay asked.

‘A private party in Gosforth. A doctor’s kid. Bernie went there last year too. That’s why he had to work out a different routine. You can’t do the same act twice.’

‘Where exactly in Gosforth?’

‘I don’t know the address. It’s one of those big houses that look out over the Town Moor. I’d have fancied going if Mrs Coulthard hadn’t asked me to work. Like I said, I only agreed to do her a favour.’

‘Would you mind if we looked out the back?’ Ramsay asked. ‘A team’s searching all the yards in the street but it’ll save you being disturbed later if we do it now.’

‘Do what you like,’ Claire said, but she didn’t move.

‘I’ll open the back door for you,’ Marilyn said. She had been in the room all the time, sat up to the table listening.

They trooped through the kitchen after her. Claire stayed where she was. Even with just the three of them the yard seemed crowded. They had to duck to avoid the washing on the line. A row of large vests and elephantine underpants billowed gently.

God, Sally thought, it was enough to put you off marriage for life. Her boyfriend was slim and fit but perhaps Bernie Howe had once been like that.

Ramsay stood in front of the shed. It was red brick, like the house. There was one small window, which was so covered in coal dust and cobwebs that it was impossible to see in. He tried to pull the padlock open but it was locked.

‘Where’s the key?’

‘In the kitchen,’ Marilyn said. ‘But there’s nothing inside. Claire bought the padlock. She’s trying to persuade Dad to keep his bike in there but he never remembers.’

‘All the same,’ Ramsay said. ‘I think we’ll check.’

‘OK.’

He watched her return to the kitchen and take a key from a shelf just inside the back door. Like the padlock it was shiny and solid.

The key turned smoothly but the paving stones in the yard were so uneven that at first he could only pull the door open a fraction.

‘There’s a knack,’ Marilyn said. ‘You have to lift it.’ She stepped forward. ‘I’ll do it if you like.’

‘No,’ Ramsay replied quickly. ‘That’s all right.’

Because even with the door open just a few inches, the late afternoon sun slanting over the back wall into the yard lit up a patch of the concrete floor. The floor wasn’t dusty, which is what he would have expected, but there was a dark stain as if oil had been spilled there. Ramsay hoped that it was oil.

Ramsay hesitated. He heard gull cries, the distant sound of a train. Inside the house Claire must have switched on the television because there was a short blast of music followed by excited speech. From the shed, silence. He turned back to Marilyn.

‘I’ll tell you what you could do,’ he said. ‘Put the kettle on. I’d love a cup of tea.’

‘All right.’

She returned to the house. Ramsay shut the kitchen door firmly behind her and gave the shed his full attention. He gripped the door close to the hook through which the padlock had been fastened and lifted it, pulling it towards him at the same time. Sunlight flooded in. Now the stain on the floor, rusty coloured, looked more like blood than oil. The corners were still in shadow.

The shed was split into two compartments. One, presumably, had housed the privy. In the other coal was stored. The spaces were separated by a chest-high brick wall and looked like animal stalls. There were no tools – Bernard Howe obviously had no interest in DIY – except a small trowel which had been newly purchased, Ramsay thought, to plant up the tub in the yard. A defunct vacuum cleaner lay on its side. In one corner was a pile of threadbare clothes destined for a charity shop. A plastic sack with
AGE CONCERN
written on it had been folded over the partition wall. And on top of the pile of clothes lay a small child. His head was thrown back uncomfortably. His arms, palms upwards, were outstretched.

The boy was alive but sleeping. His face was dirty and stained with tears. He opened his eyes and began to whimper.

Sally crouched beside him, making reassuring noises, but she seemed afraid to touch him and it was Ramsay in the end who picked him up. He was still half asleep and he didn’t struggle. He’d wet his pants and Ramsay felt the damp seep through David’s quilted trousers and on to his shirt. He was holding the boy so close that he could feel his heart beating.

‘Give Grace a call,’ he said. ‘Tell her to put the Coulthards out of their misery. But tell her not to give any details. Just that he’s alive and well. She can come and fetch him. I don’t want the Coulthard’s turning up on the doorstep. We’ll have discretion all round. I want no lynch mobs here.’

‘How did Claire hope to get away with it?’ Sally demanded. ‘She didn’t even stop us coming out here to look.’

‘I don’t think there was any intention of getting away with it. It was a gesture.’

If it was Claire, he thought, still unsettled by the coincidence of Mark Taverner’s failure to keep his appointment with Emma. Remembering the padlock key lying on a shelf close to the kitchen door which was always kept open. So obvious. Brass like the padlock and shiny. Hunter would tell him that he was making things too complicated and that for once in his life he should accept that the obvious answer was probably the true one.

‘I know she was daft about babies. But did she really think she could keep him here, like some sort of doll?’

Sally had worked herself into a rage. Just because she didn’t fancy motherhood herself didn’t mean she couldn’t get upset when kids were ill treated. The thought of the kid locked in the dark shed, scared out of his wits, made her want to vomit.

The kitchen door had a glass panel and through it Ramsay could see that the room was empty. The kettle had switched itself off but there was no sign of Marilyn. He supposed she’d wandered through to chat to Claire and had her attention caught by something on the television. Unless she’d been watching from the kitchen, had seen them retrieve the little boy and had gone to warn Claire.

‘Go in,’ he said sharply to Sally. ‘Don’t tell them anything. Just make sure neither of them do a runner.’

Then he stood in the yard, still holding the silent three-year-old, waiting for Grace to arrive to take him away. He hoped the high walls would protect him from the prying eyes of neighbours. He supposed, considering it for the first time, that Prue would think herself too old to have another child.

Grace turned up in the back alley, driving Emma’s car with the baby seat in the back. David allowed himself to be strapped in without any fuss.

‘You’ll arrange for medical checks,’ Ramsay said.

‘The GP’s a friend of the family. He’s already on his way.’ She leant back against the car. ‘What do I tell the family?’

‘Nothing. Say you don’t know how he came to be found.’

‘That’s true enough, isn’t it?’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know much myself yet. Tell them I’ll be up later this evening. I’ll talk to them then.’

She drove away. After the disruption of the search in the Row, Ramsay had expected the car to draw attention. A nosy neighbour in an upstairs window seeing the child would be enough to start a crowd. But the street was unnaturally quiet. Then he realized there was a Cup game. A five o’clock start to suit the television. The first time Newcastle had reached the semi-finals for years. They’d all be in their front rooms, draped in their black and white scarves.

In the back room the women were sitting in silence. Marilyn was reading a book.
Lord of the Flies.

‘I’m sorry about the tea,’ she said. ‘ I started reading when the kettle was boiling. And I got engrossed. I’m doing if for my GCSE wider reading course.’

Absent-minded, he thought. Like her father.

‘When do you expect Bernard home?’ he asked.

‘Marilyn looked up from her book to the clock which stood on the mantelpiece. ‘Any time now.’

Claire stirred. ‘Have you finished? Are you going to leave us in peace? I’ve a meal to cook.’

‘I thought you’d like to know,’ Ramsay said. ‘David Coulthard’s been found.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Oh, brilliant.’ But her attention was held by the television. ‘I thought I’d go down in the records as the nanny from hell.’

She didn’t ask where he’d been discovered. ‘I suppose he did wander away, get hidden somewhere?’

‘Something like that,’ Ramsay said. Then: ‘I wonder if you’d both mind going to the station with Sally to make a statement. For our records. To clear the matter up. I’ll be along later.’

‘Now?’ Claire said. ‘ Bernie’ll be in any minute wanting his tea.’

‘If you wouldn’t mind. We’ll drop you back later.’

He could see that Sally was working up a head of steam, imagined her exploding with, ‘What sort of games do you think you’re playing, lady? I suppose you want us to believe that the kid shut
himself
in your shed.’

‘If I could just have a word, Constable, please.’

Shocked by the formality she followed him into the hall. There he said, ‘Take her through her statement again. Don’t give anything away. Hang on to her until I get back. And while you’re there get someone to trace the taxi driver who dropped Bernie Howe in Gosforth. I want the exact time he was picked up. And find out where Mark Taverner’s hiding.

‘What about the girl?’

‘Take a statement from her too. I don’t want her here on her own when her dad gets back.’

When they had all gone and he had the place to himself he went to the kitchen, switched the kettle back on and made himself a mug of instant coffee. Newcastle must just have scored because through the wall he heard a concerto of yells and cheers. He took his mug into the back yard and knelt to look at the stain on the shed floor. He was quite certain it was blood. But it was not, as he had feared, the child’s blood. David had not received even a scratch. Ramsay knew the rules. If he suspected that this was a scene of crime he should seal it off, call in the experts, make every effort to reduce contamination of the forensic evidence.