Free Murder in My Backyard by Ann Cleeves Page B

this?”
    Hunter shrugged. “Attempted robbery?” he said. “If she was late coming back from Henshaw’s, she might have surprised someone who saw the house in darkness. The back door hadn’t been locked, so there’d be no sign of a break-in even if he managed to get inside. I can’t see any of the family knocking her off for her money, and no-one’s going to commit murder for the sake of a few houses.”
    Ramsay thought of the view from his cottage window. I might, he thought, if there was no other way. But only if I believed it would stop the houses being built. “Alice Parry’s death makes no difference to the development,” he said. “Henshaw owns the land anyway and can do what he likes with it. If someone in the village killed her, it was out of envy or hatred. It served no practical purpose.”
    “What about Henshaw?” Hunter asked. “ Mrs. Parry could have made things awkward for him. Especially if she persuaded her nephew to make a fuss in his paper.”
    “Yes,” Ramsay said. “ I want to talk to Henshaw. But he’ll be used to opposition to planning applications. I’ll go and see him when I’m finished here. He was the last person to see her alive.”
    “Do we know that she reached him last night?”
    “Yes,” Ramsay said. “I sent someone to take a statement this morning. He claims they had a friendly discussion and she left about eleven. We’ll have a house-to-house to see if anyone saw Mrs. Parry on her way home. The pub would have been emptying then. There should have been a few people about.”
    Hunter stood throughout the conversation. He was restless. The inspector had made a fuss about him drinking tea, but he sat now, his hands clasped around the mug of coffee, uncertain, it seemed, what to do next. Ramsay had been promoted beyond his competence, Hunter thought. The words sounded good and he repeated them in his mind. The Heppleburn fiasco had almost finished him off. In Heppleburn Ramsay had arrested a women who had committed suicide in custody. The press had complained about police brutality and, on top of his divorce, the lads had all thought Ramsay’s career was over. Yet here he was, still in charge, when there were younger officers to take his place.
    While Ramsay finished the dregs from his mug, Hunter wandered to the window. It was snowing properly now, sharp, fine flakes against the grey sky. Hunter’s anxiety for action increased. He did not want to be stuck all night in this sand-blasted village where the only entertainment was a game of dominoes in the pub. When he turned back to the room, Ramsay was on his feet.
    “What are you waiting for?” Ramsay asked. “ We can’t spend all day in here. I’m going to Henshaw’s. You go to the post office and talk to the Elliots. Nothing heavy. Just find out where they were last night and what they were doing. Olive Kerr thinks Charlie, the son, might have sent that letter. I’ll follow it up tomorrow. Then you can go.”
    Hunter said nothing and followed him out into the snow. Ramsay waited while the sergeant drove off angrily, then walked, as Alice Parry must have done the night before, down the drive towards the Otterbridge Road.
    It was six o’clock and quite dark. As he reached the road the snow flurry ended and there was a thin, icy moon and a frost. Henshaw’s place was harder to find than he had expected, because out of the village there were no street lights and the houses were hidden behind hedges. He went through the first gate and walked unexpectedly into a farmyard. He disturbed a dog lying in an outhouse. It barked loudly and an outside light was switched on. A woman came to the door and shouted out to know who was there.
    Ramsay, embarrassed by his mistake and not wanting to frighten her further, waited until she returned into the house and went back to the road without being seen.
    The next drive led to Henshaw’s house. It curved pretentiously through borders of immature shrubs. There was a light outside