Murder in My Backyard (2 page)

“No,” Ramsay said. “ I’d presumed it belonged to the farm in the lane.”

“Him!” The old man almost spat his disapproval. “He’s nothing but an asset stripper.”

“Who did he sell it to?”

“A man called Henshaw,” the man said. “A builder from up the coast. He specialises in executive developments in rural situations. That’s what his adverts say. I’ve heard them on the local radio.”

“The council wouldn’t allow building there,” Ramsay said. “It’s green belt. I checked before I bought the house.”

“It’ll not be up to the council, lad. Not anymore. And I don’t think that bunch in Westminster know what green belt means.”

They finished their drinks in silence and then the old man left.

At the time Ramsay considered the conversation as doom-laden scaremongering. The dene was a local beauty spot and it was inconceivable that development would be allowed there. Later he saw it as almost prophetic. It set the tone for his work over the next few weeks, and when he met Henshaw, he felt that his judgement had been corrupted.

Ramsay woke the next morning to a fresh southeasterly breeze that rattled the bedroom window and swept through the trees beyond the burn on the other side of the dene. He made a pot of real coffee and felt pleased with himself because he found mugs in the first packing case he tried, until it came to him that fresh coffee was a taste he had acquired from Diana. Diana had been on his mind more often this winter because she had sent him a Christmas card. It was the first approach she had made to him since the divorce came through. He saw her occasionally in Otterbridge, striding down the centre of Front Street as if she owned the place. Her confidence still gave him a thrill of admiration and excitement, but he was too proud to let her see him watching. He wondered if the card meant she was already bored with her new husband, but the notion gave him no pleasure. He would like to think she was happy.

He took his coffee to the living room and sat on the windowsill, watching the clouds blow across the sky from the sea. He felt unusually content.

The sound of the phone shocked him and he answered it automatically without thinking who might be there. He should have known it would be work. Who else was there to phone him at home?

“Sorry to disturb you,” the voice said, and he realised he must have sounded as if he had just woken up.

“That’s all right,” he said. It was Gordon Hunter, excited, breathless, urgent. But as Ramsay listened to the voice of the other policeman, he was still staring out of the window at the racing clouds. When he replaced the receiver, it took him longer than it usually did to prepare to leave.

Further north, along the coast, the east wind pushed hard grey waves into Brinkbonnie Bay, blew strands of dry seaweed around the legs of cattle grazing on the dunes and sand into the road in drifts. It was March 1 but still as cold as winter. The small boats kept on the beach for fishing in the summer were still upturned in the carpark next to the shop that sold ice-creams to day-trippers when the weather was good. In the cottages that were so close to the beach that the washing lines stretched out into the sand hills, people listened to the wind and were glad that the tides were low that week.

The bay spread for seven miles in an unbroken sweep of beach and dunes, and Brinkbonnie at the southern point was the only village. It was a straggling, ill-defined place. There was the row of cottages along the water’s edge with the post office and the ice-cream shop as part of the terrace and Tom Kerr’s garage. Inland was green, muddy and bare from a winter of children’s games, overlooked by the Castle Hotel, some pleasant grey-stone houses, and the village hall. Then the road continued west towards Otterbridge, and along it were farms and an occasional monstrous surburban villa.

The Tower was to the north of the village on a rise in the land backed by an old deciduous wood. It was older and more impressive than the church that had been placed beside it. The Tower had been built by a settlement of border reivers who irritated the clansmen of Scotland by stealing their cattle and burning their houses. It stood, facing east, to withstand raiders from the sea. More recently it had been restored, almost rebuilt by an affluent Victorian, and turned into a comfortable house with views over the flat green fields and pools behind the dunes.

Alice Parry looked out of one of the upstairs Tower windows and briefly hoped that the rain would stay off until the family arrived that evening. Rain, she thought then, was the least of her troubles. She absorbed other people’s problems and cared about them as if they were her own. She thought about Charlie Elliot, who had left the army and was such a worry to his father. She thought about Olive Kerr, who helped with the housework at the Tower and who had seemed so strained and nervous since her separated daughter had come to live with her. It was a compliment, she supposed, that they confided in her, and she wished she had answers for them. Then she thought of the proposed development in the village and her responsibility for it and decided that at least she could do something about that. She fetched her coat and outdoor shoes and then set off for the village, leaving the kitchen door unlocked, as she always did, until last thing at night. She walked quickly, ignoring a twinge of arthritis, which seemed to have got worse since her husband died.

The main entrance to the Tower was from the Otterbridge Road, but Alice took the footpath through the churchyard that brought her out by the village hall. She looked at her watch as she came out into the street and saw that it was already two o’clock but thought that it would not matter. Village meetings never started on time.

She was surprised by the number of cars parked in the street. She knew the controversy of the new houses had stirred up feelings in Brinkbonnie, but she had not expected people from the outlying farms to be so concerned. As she walked up the road she saw a few other latecomers enter the hall, but when she reached it the door was shut again. She stood outside for a moment to catch her breath and looked in through the smeared glass pane in the door. The hall was packed with people sitting on uncomfortable wooden chairs. Behind a table on the stage sat Fred Elliot, postmaster and chairman of the parish council.

As she watched he stood up and began to speak. Even from outside she could sense his nervousness. He was used to meetings but would never have spoken in front of so many people before. Mrs. Parry felt awkward now about pushing open the door into the hall in case the interruption should put him off his stride. Before she could decide whether to go in and listen or go away, the door was suddenly opened from inside and she stumbled into the room. There was the sudden smell of damp, the gas fires they used to try to dry the place, and mice.

“What’s this then?” said the big man who had opened the door. It was Charlie Elliot, the mechanic from Tom Kerr’s garage, Fred Elliot’s son. “ It’s a spy from the opposition.”

There was a little embarrassed laughter and, encouraged, he went on.

“Come to gloat, have you, Mrs. Parry? Come to see how much money you’re going to make?”

He looked round for admiration, like a child showing off.

Everyone in the hall was staring at her. She felt hot and angry.

“No,” she said. “Not at all. I wanted to explain. I’m on your side.”

But he would not listen.

“A development in the heart of the village, home for a couple of dozen yuppies. I suppose you think that’s just fine.”

“You don’t understand,” she said. “I’m on your side.”

He seemed to hear her for the first time.

“How’s that then, Mrs. Parry?” he said, still playing to the audience. “ You’re the one that sold the field behind the Tower to Henshaw. He couldn’t build all those fancy houses on it without you.”

“Away man, Charlie!” Fred Elliot called from the stage. “ This is no way to run a meeting. Give Mrs. Parry a chance.”

“Go on then,” Charlie said sulkily, nodding towards the stage. “You wanted to explain. Go up there and tell us all about it.”

She walked to the front of the hall, her sense of outrage at the position Henshaw had put her in getting her through the awkwardness. She stood on the stage beside Fred. As she spoke she was acutely aware of her southern, middle-class accent. It’s not my fault, she wanted to say. I was born in Northumberland, too. I didn’t ask to be sent away to school.

“It’s true that I sold the land to Henshaw,” she said. “But he misled me about the sort of development he was planning for the Tower field. I suppose I was foolish to trust him, but he showed me professionally drawn-up plans. He said there would be twenty small, reasonably priced houses for local families and six retirement bungalows. I talked to members of the parish council and they approved of the idea …”

She faltered. A strand of white hair had become unpinned from her untidy roll at the back of her head. She felt old and self-conscious.

“That’s a bloody big field for twenty-six little houses,” Charlie shouted from the back of the hall. “What did he tell you he was going to do with the rest of the land?”

Mrs. Parry blushed. “I know it sounds naïve,” she said, “but he told me he was planning a children’s play area and football field. I believed him.” She looked round the hall. “ I sold the land for well below the market price,” she said helplessly, “ because I wanted to do something to help the village. I’ve been so happy here. I’m sorry. Really. I’m sorry.”

There was a sympathetic silence, but Charlie shouted: “ It’s all very well being sorry, isn’t it, but that won’t stop Colin Henshaw from building eighty executive detached dwellings, each with a double garage.” He sneered as he quoted the exact wording on the planning application. “We’ll be outnumbered. There’ll be more incomers than there are of us. Of course, you’re an incomer, so maybe you’ll feel at home with them.”

“Charlie!” Fred Elliot said sharply. He turned apologetically to Alice Parry. “Go on, pet,” he said.

“The planning inspector has approved Henshaw’s plans,” she said, “ but the council still has time to appeal against the inspector’s decision. That’s why I’m here. We must persuade the council to fight the case in the high court. I want to support your campaign. I don’t want Brinkbonnie ruined any more than you do, and I’ll fight to protect it.”

She sat down to a spasmodic burst of applause and to more jeers and hisses from the back of the room.

Fred Elliot called for a vote on Alice Parry’s idea that they should put pressure on the council to fight the planning inspector’s decision. The motion was overwhelmingly carried and they settled down to form an action committee and to arrange a petition and letters to local councillors. When Alice left the hall to return to the Tower, it was four o’clock.

Outside the wind had strengthened and sand blew up from the street and stung her eyes. In the shelter of the high wall that surrounded the churchyard, she moved more quickly, almost running. She was glad to have attended the meeting—it was better, after all, than staying at home feeling guilty—but there would be a rush now to have everything ready before her visitors arrived and she felt overwhelmed by it all. Her nephews and their families always came to Brinkbonnie on St. David’s Day. It was a tradition that had begun when her husband was alive. He was a Welshman and had demanded that they celebrate the day. She was never sure how much the boys valued the effort she made but kept the tradition for her husband’s sake and because she knew the children enjoyed it. She especially enjoyed the company of the children, and as she grew older she thought she had more in common with them than she did with Max and James. She had never had a family.

She let herself in through the kitchen door at the back of the house and plugged in the kettle to make tea. Tea always had a calming effect. Then she began the preparations for dinner and was standing at the window, beating cream in a large glass bowl, when she saw a young woman walking down the drive. The woman, who was so young that to Alice she was a girl, had been in the village hall, though Alice did not recognise her as a local. As she approached the house she hesitated, uncertain which door to try. Alice opened the kitchen door.

“Yes,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“Mrs. Parry?” the woman said, though she must have known exactly who she was talking to. “ I’m sorry to disturb you. Could I speak to you for a few minutes?”

There was, Alice thought, something of the Gypsy about her. She had very dark hair and her clothes were untidy but exotic and very brightly coloured.

“I’m very busy,” Alice said, but something about the woman was familiar and she was curious. “ You’ll have to come into the kitchen.”

“My name’s Mary Raven,” the woman said. “ Could I talk to you? I’m a reporter with the
Otterbridge Express
.”

Olive Kerr heard of the outcome of the meeting in the village hall from her daughter, Maggie, who was a barmaid at the Castle Hotel and heard all the gossip. People who had left the meeting early arrived at the pub just before closing time and were eager to talk. Charlie Elliot figured largely in the stories. Maggie passed on a carefully edited version of the events to her mother, but Olive was still indignant.

“He was always a troublemaker, that Charlie Elliot,” she said. “I don’t know why your father had to take him on.” The words were like a refrain; she had spoken them so often before. “ He’s the last person you’d think Tom would want to work with.”

Maggie said nothing. She knew the criticism was directed as much at her as at Tom. The two women were in the kitchen at the back of the house. Although it was only mid-afternoon it was almost dark and the wind blew sand onto the window so that it sounded like hail. Maggie’s sons and her father were watching football on the television in another room.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “If I could find us somewhere to live, we’d move out. I’ll phone the council again on Monday.”

“You’re welcome here as long as you want,” Olive said, but she was tight-lipped and angry, and Maggie knew it was not only the overcrowding that made her so tense.

The older woman began to put on a coat, punching out the sleeves with her fists, tearing at the zip with furious fingers.