The Moon Spun Round (51 page)

‘Claire’s right,’ says Naomi. ‘The idea was to leave it to the Goddess. I think we need to put all this emotional stuff back where it belongs.’

‘Another ritual?’ says Sally.

‘Yes, maybe. Something to balance the whole situation. I think we ought to do it at the pool this time.’

‘Then it will have to be soon,’ says Abbie. ‘Tomorrow, in fact. The film crew will be arriving on Wednesday.’

‘What? You’re going ahead with the documentary?’

‘Yes. Obviously I won’t let them come onto your land, Sally, but even so they’re bound to cause a disturbance in the atmosphere. And George will be giving off a few negative vibes of his own.’

‘Have you told him?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did he take it? Was he all right about it?’

‘No. Even worse than I expected.’

‘So, you don’t think he’ll come round to the idea?’

‘No.’

‘But you’re going to go ahead with it anyway?

‘Yes.’

‘Good for you.’

‘He’s here, sir. Do you want me to keep him waiting?’ Shaw hovers by Inspector Hobson’s office door.

‘No, he’ll be expecting that. Bring him straight in this time. Rankin’s had a look through the notes and he’ll join us after a few moments—enough time for Drayton to get comfortable. Just another thing to unsettle him. Now, you’ve got the drinks tray organized, have you? Right then, show him in.’

The man looks considerably worse than he did yesterday. As he walks past Shaw, the sergeant turns away, hand held to his nose. Apparently Drayton’s given up on personal hygiene altogether. Hobson comes forward to offer a handshake. He notices that Drayton’s hands have developed a slight tremor.

‘I thought this was all cleared up. You said yesterday the file was closed. Have you written to my insurance company yet?’

‘We will do, sir. Unfortunately these things do take time.’ Hobson waves a
hand towards a chair, seating himself on the opposite side of the desk. ‘However, the sergeant here will see that’s attended to sometime today, won’t you, Shaw? Can’t keep Mr Drayton on tenterhooks, can we?’

‘I shall do my very utmost, sir.’ Shaw takes up his accustomed position, next to the door and behind Ayden’s back.

‘Now then, I’m sorry to have to call you in again,’ says Hobson, ‘but I do need your help in order to tidy up a few more loose ends.’

‘I didn’t think there were any left to tidy.’

‘Well, you know how these things tend to arise. And it’s best to deal with them and get them out of the way, then we can all rest easy. It’s really your wife I’m interested in at the moment. Oh, would you like a drink? Some tea, perhaps?’

‘Yeah, I could do with a coffee.’

‘Shaw, see to it, would you? And, er, as no one’s looking I’m sure we can bend the rules this once.’ Hobson reaches for the now-clean ashtray and places it on the table in front of him. ‘Oh, do allow me, sir.’ He reaches into his pocket for his own cigarettes and lighter.

Ayden takes a deep breath and exhales a stream of smoke. ‘So what’s it about this time?’

‘Your wife, Mrs Drayton. Claire, isn’t it?’ He scans a sheet of paper among the many scattered on his desk. ‘Ah yes, Claire Drayton.’

‘That’s right, but I don’t see what she has to do with the situation.’

‘Quite a lot, don’t you think? She’s another claimant on the insurance, another interested party, so to speak.’

‘No, she wants nothing to do with the money.’

‘Really? A woman on her own with no apparent financial resources, recently going into business with a large financial commitment…’ Hobson observes the expression on Ayden’s face. ‘Didn’t you know about that, Mr Drayton? Have you not talked to your wife since she left you?’

There’s a sharp tap at the door. It opens immediately and a man enters. He’s tall and broad, his physical presence seeming to fill the room. ‘Ah, Rankin, do come and join us.’ Sergeant Shaw follows him in, bearing a tray of plastic cups that he hands around. Drayton is thankful for the interruption and gladly helps himself to packets of sugar and a plastic spoon. ‘You won’t mind if the inspector sits in on this? Rather interested in village life, aren’t you, Rankin?’

Rankin smiles and nods at Ayden, taking out a notepad which he places carefully on the table. He looks familiar. Ayden is sure he’s seen him before somewhere, but can’t think where. Certainly not the sort of man you’d forget. That large, square head with the streak of white hair.

‘Now, your wife,’ Hobson continues. ‘Apparently she was no longer residing in the house at the time of the fire. When did she move out?’

‘It was sometime after Christmas. Can’t remember the date exactly.’

‘Really? Your wife walked out on you, but you can’t remember when?’

‘No, well, I’ve been under a lot of pressure, what with the car accident.’ He glances at Rankin, who looks up from his notepad and gives him an encouraging smile. ‘And you know what it’s like with women, always making trouble over something.’ Yes, Rankin would understand that.

‘I see,’ says Hobson. ‘So your wife was causing you some stress before she moved out, was she?’

‘Yes, well, they do, don’t they? Women. Always something, eh?’ Ayden takes a last draw on the cigarette and grinds it into the ashtray.

‘There were ongoing problems in the marriage. And what happened to make her leave?’

‘I reckon it was those women she’d got mixed up with, you see, putting ideas in her head.’

‘And which women would they be?’

‘Well, that Naomi Walker, for one. Claire’s moved in with her. I’m sure it was her that started it. But they’re all the same—all in it together, you know.’

‘Are they indeed? All in what together?’

While Hobson is doing the questioning, Rankin seems to be writing it all down. At least someone’s taking it seriously. There’s something solid about Rankin: a man’s man. He’d understand what women are like.

‘Yeah, well it started when she got in with the vicar’s wife. I should never have let her work at that shop.’

‘Are you talking about the village store?’

‘No, it was the so-called charity shop. That’s where she met the Walker woman.’ He takes another cigarette from the offered packet.

Hobson flicks the lighter for him. ‘You don’t think much of this Miss Walker, then?’

‘Everyone knows about her. Her and her witchcraft. Bloody dyke, that’s what she is.’

‘Really? And what about your wife’s other friends?’ asks Hobson. ‘Mrs Clifton, for instance?’

‘Ruth Clifton?’ Rankin raises his eyebrows. ‘Now wasn’t she the woman who was murdered recently?’

‘No, I don’t know anything about the Clifton woman.’ Ayden gulps down his coffee, drops of it splattering onto his shirt. ‘No, it’s that Naomi Walker who’s responsible. She’s at the bottom of it all.’

‘All what, Mr Drayton? The bottom of what?’ The voice comes from behind him. He had forgotten about Shaw.

‘The car crash. And the fire. All that muddle with the insurance payments. That’s when it all started, when she went off with Naomi Walker. But the others are involved with it too—they’re all in it together.’

‘Are you saying a group of women were responsible for your car accident?’ Hobson leans forward, elbows on the desk. ‘Did they interfere with the vehicle in some way?’

‘Yes. Well, no, not exactly. Not in any way you could see.’ He looks to Rankin for help. He’d understand how women work. Rankin continues to write on his notepad. He moves the pen slowly, meticulously forming each letter.

‘You know what it’s like when women get together.’ Ayden flicks ash and drains his coffee cup, crushing it in his fist. ‘Her and her friends, bloody witches, all of them. They make things happen. The vicar understands; he’s onto them. He knows about the sort of stuff they get up to. I reckon his wife’s one of them. God alone knows what else they’ve set up against me. My whole life falling apart and all my wife can do is stand there and laugh. Needs teaching a lesson. If I could get my hands on her—’

‘Could we get back to the night of the fire, for a moment.’ Hobson clears his throat. ‘What exactly were you doing outside Miss Walker’s flat…’

Eventually, they let him go. He and Shaw are halfway down the corridor when Ayden remembers where he’d seen Rankin. The funeral. He was at Ruth Clifton’s funeral. A surge of cold fear runs through him. It’s all he can do to push his way through the glass doors. He can feel Shaw watching his back, grinning as he stumbles to his van. He leans against the driver’s door, fumbling for the keys. Beads of sweat break out on his face and he drags a grubby handkerchief from his pocket.

‘Well, what do you think?’ Hobson opens the window. The room is thick with the smell of smoke and stale sweat. He looks down into the street where Drayton is leaning against his van, wiping his face.

‘What do I think?’ Rankin finishes writing and closes the pad, screwing the top back on his pen. He stands and walks around the table to where the suspect had been sitting. They haven’t actually informed him yet that he
is
a suspect,
that will come all in good time. Rankin looks down at the crumpled plastic cup and the ashtray, now full of Ayden’s stubbed-out filter-tips. Using the end of his pen, he gently nudges the side of the cup. Then, looking steadily at Hobson and tapping the edge of the ashtray, he says, ‘I think we ought to bag this lot up and get it over to forensics.’

C
AT IS IN THE GARDEN
, waiting for the women to emerge from the house. She knows they’ll come soon, but why do they always take so long about everything? Always such complicated preparations, and talking, always talking. Ah, well, she should be used to their ways by now. She has learned to be patient, and the waiting gives her time to observe the night. Dark clouds banked high above the horizon patch-out vast areas of sky and obliterate most of the stars. The shadows are thick and the ground beneath the women’s feet will appear as black as tar to them. Being human, they have limited eyesight; it’s as well she’s here to look out for them.

At last the house door opens and she watches them fumble their way into the garden. There’s a crescent moon overhead, but waning fast, barely a sliver of white. They each glance up, as if to seek Her blessing before beginning their journey across the lawn. They have brought light of their own. Each carries a candle, the flame dancing in a glass jar. Naomi first, Fran, Abbie, then Claire. Sally,
her
lady, brings up the rear of the procession. Cat gives a small chirrup before stepping out to lead the way.