Ramsay 06 - The Baby-Snatcher by Ann Cleeves Page A

five-year-old – and Coulthard continued. ‘I was glad to get out of the house again.’
    ‘Where did you go? Back to work?’
    ‘To the club. I’d arranged to meet a friend there.’
    ‘Mr Taverner?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘Did you drive?’
    ‘Walked. I knew I’d have a few drinks. I’m not sure of the time. Claire Irvine, the nanny, walked down with me. She’d probably know. I think she’d had enough of the madhouse, too. She usually stays for lunch with Emma, but that day she’d obviously decided she needed a break.’
    ‘She walked with you to the club?’ Ramsay was deliberately obtuse.
    ‘No. Just as far as Cotter’s Row, then I walked on down by myself.’
    ‘Did she let herself into the house or knock on the door?’
    ‘I think she had a key.’
    ‘Was Mr Taverner in the club when you arrived?’
    ‘No. I had to wait for him. He said he’d probably be late.’
    And that would fit, Ramsay thought, because Marilyn had seen Claire when she was on her way back to the Coastguard House, her hood up, head bent against the sleet.
    ‘Tell me about Mr. Taverner. Is he an old friend of yours?’
    It was a polite question, not emotionally loaded, yet Brian found himself talking, rambling even, as he might in the rugby club after far too much beer to someone who wasn’t really listening.
    ‘We met at university. Durham. He was doing theology and I was doing applied maths. In the first year we had rooms on the same corridor, and we’ve been friends since then. Surprisingly, because we’re quite different characters. Mark comes from the south. Worcester. He was the first southerner I’d really known. His father was a clergyman, something high up in the Cathedral. Mine was shop steward in a bakery…’ He stopped abruptly, seeming to expect another question. Ramsay said nothing and he continued.
    ‘Mark’s the only one of the Durham gang I’ve kept in touch with. I was always into computers. I got a job with an electronics company straight out of university and stayed with them until I set up on my own. That’s where I met Emma. She worked for personnel.’ He paused again, remembering. ‘We all thought Mark would be a priest, follow in his father’s footsteps and I think that’s what he intended until he met Sheena. His poet. That’s what he called her. But Sheena wouldn’t have made a vicar’s wife. You couldn’t see her running the Brownie pack or organizing the flower rota. That wouldn’t be nearly poetic enough for her. Even if she was a Christian, which I don’t believe she was. So he went into teaching.’
    ‘You didn’t like her?’ Ramsay’s voice was uncritical but surprised.
    ‘It didn’t matter what I thought of her. Mark loved her. That was enough for me. That’s why I got involved when she was ill. Not because I fancied her, which is what some people thought.’ He must have decided then to answer Ramsay’s question because he added, ‘No, I didn’t like her. She was too wrapped up in herself. She treated Mark like shit.’
    ‘What do you mean – you got involved when she was ill?’
    ‘I suppose I hustled on their behalf. I tried to persuade them not to give in. When she was diagnosed as having breast cancer they both seemed to regard it as a death sentence. It was ridiculous. It can be a treatable disease. But neither of them would fight it. They wouldn’t ask questions, press for different therapies. They just let it happen. I know I was interfering but I wanted to keep her alive for him.’ He shrugged. ‘ I failed, didn’t I? Made a fool of myself for nothing.’ Suddenly he seemed embarrassed by the conversation. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I should go back. They’ll be sending out search parties.’
    Ramsay nodded and watched him hurry away, his little feet skipping across the damp grass.
    In the office Brian phoned Mark but could not speak to him. He had forgotten how early a teacher takes his lunch hour. Mark was already in the classroom for the afternoon