She looked with more purpose into the mirror, hoping to find there the confidence to persuade herself to face her husband. She was good-looking, she thought, for fifty. Her hair, carefully tinted and curled, suited her. She was a little overweight, of course, but Colin liked his women big. She still had the soft, round dairymaid’s face.
When she returned to the living room, he was sitting on the sofa with a fresh glass of whisky, staring at the fire.
“Colin,” she said, sitting carefully beside him. “ What was that all about?”
“You heard what the man said.” Henshaw looked at her as if she were a complete fool, and when he continued, he emphasized every syllable. “Alice Parry was murdered. We were the last people to see her alive.”
“I know that.” She spoke calmly, trying to be patient, telling herself that he was very upset. “But what does it mean for us?”
“Nothing,” he shouted. “It means nothing.”
“I don’t understand why the policeman asked all those questions.”
“I don’t know,” he cried. “He’d heard we’d had a row over that land.”
“But that was all sorted out,” Rosemary said. “You told me last week that you’d sorted that out. We’d hear no more about it, you said.”
“That’s right,” he said. “ So it was.”
He took a drink from his glass.
“Colin,” she said. “Where were you last night?”
He looked at her sharply. “ What do you mean?” he asked. “I was here. You know I was here with you.”
“No,” she said. “ When Mrs. Parry left, I went to bed and watched the telly. But I heard the car go out. I stayed awake until I heard you come back. It was very late. Where did you go? Whatever it is, I don’t mind. But I must know. I can’t help you if I don’t know.”
He looked at her angrily. She thought for a moment that he was going to hit her. He had knocked her around a bit when they were first married, when he had not got on as quickly as he had wanted and he had taken it out on her. More recently, he had controlled his temper and there had been less to be angry about.
“Don’t!” she said quietly. “Don’t forget the guests will be here soon.”
She was more concerned about his own position than for what he might do to her. He breathed deeply and leaned back in his chair.
“You shouldn’t spy on me,” he said.
“I wasn’t,” she said. “I was worried.”
“I didn’t kill her,” he said. “There was no need.”
“That’s all right then,” she said, like a mother forgiving the misdemeanour of a naughty boy even though she does not quite believe him.
“I do it all for you,” he said suddenly. “All this.” He looked around at the expensive carpet, the furniture, the real gas-flame fire. She moved closer to him on the sofa and put her arm around him, pulling his head onto her shoulder.
“I know,” she said. “I know.”
The front doorbell rang and the guests began to arrive.
Chapter Seven
Ramsay walked quickly down the hill towards the village. The interview with Henshaw had left him frustrated and undecided. He sensed that the builder was hiding something, but his prejudice against the man made him unsure of his own judgement. It was colder than ever and the air caught at the back of his throat. He passed the drive into the farmyard where earlier he had disturbed the dogs and was surprised by the incongruous sound of pop music coming from an upstairs window. At the entrance to the Tower drive he hesitated but continued down the hill, past the church and the green to the Castle Hotel. It was time to meet a wider section of Brinkbonnie’s inhabitants.
At the pub the lights were on and a couple of cars were parked in the yard at the back. He went inside and pushed open the door that had “lounge” written on it in plastic letters. The room was separated into two by a step. On the raised section, tables were laid with cutlery and cruets and there, at lunchtime, microwaved meals were served. The lower section was carpeted, the furniture dark, imitation antique. There were beams and horse brasses, and the place was empty. Regulars obviously used the public bar.
In the bar the jukebox was playing an old Rolling Stones number, which brought back painful memories of his youth. The floor was stone and the place seemed to be unheated. There were a couple of high-backed settles; the wood was dark and splintered where three old men were playing dominoes. Two teenagers were playing darts. In a corner by the window a squat, red-faced man with huge hands was reading a farming magazine and drinking steadily. On a stool by the bar a fat man, who turned out to be the landlord, seemed to be asleep. He woke up occasionally to drink brandy from a huge balloon glass. A pretty young woman in her late twenties was drying glasses behind the bar.
“Come on, Frank,” one of the dart players said. “What about lighting a fire? It’s bloody freezing in here.”
The fat man stirred and stared at the boy with a cold, reptilian eye.
“The central heating’s on,” he said, speaking slowly, as if he needed to conserve all his energy. “It’ll warm through soon.”
“Mean bastard,” one of the old men said, quite audibly. Frank took no notice and settled back on his stool, the hooded lids covering his eyes once again.
The woman behind the bar looked expectantly at Ramsay, waiting for him to order.
“Whisky,” he said. Then, recognising a similarity of the features, “Aren’t you Olive Kerr’s daughter?”
She nodded, surprised, and he added, “My name’s Ramsay. I’m a detective investigating Mrs. Parry’s murder. I spoke to your mother this morning.”
The darts game continued, the men muffled in scarves and coats still stared miserably at their hands of dominoes, and Frank sat in his stupor, but Ramsay was aware that the whole room was listening.
“Poor old Mrs. Parry,” the barmaid was saying. “You’d never expect a thing like that to happen in Brinkbonnie. Mam loved going up to the Tower to work.” She paused as she took the money he offered. “You know,” she said. “ I could tell something was wrong when she was in last night.”
“Alice Parry was in here last night?” Ramsay was surprised, but his voice was smooth and unemotional. “ What time would that have been, then?”
She was about to answer when Frank’s left eyelid gave an almost imperceptible flicker of warning. She paused awkwardly.
“If you’re worried about closing time,” Ramsay said, “ there won’t be any trouble. I can promise that.”
She continued, relieved. “ She came in at about eleven. We always draw the curtains at eleven so you can’t see the lights from the road.” She blushed and went on. “ Then the people inside can finish their drinks. Without having to hurry.”
“I see.” He smiled to reassure her. “Was it usual for Mrs. Parry to come in that late at night?”
“No,” she said. “ Not that late. She was quite a regular customer. I think she got lonely on her own in the Tower and she came in here for the company. She didn’t drink much.”
“But last night she had a drink?”
“Yes,” Maggie Kerr said. “She had two. She said she needed them. She seemed upset.”
“Upset?” he asked. “ Or angry?”
“Upset,” she said. “She looked as if she’d been crying.”
So, Ramsay thought, Henshaw hadn’t been telling the truth. There hadn’t been a reasonable exchange of views during Alice’s visit. Something had happened to disturb her.