by Ann Cleeves
Ramsay followed a WRVS van delivering meals on wheels into Seaton Crescent. The spry white-haired woman who carried trays to the doors was herself of pensionable age. He wondered, uncomfortably, what he would find to do in retirement. No meals were delivered to the Pastons’ house. Ellen, presumably, catered for her mother.
It was Ellen who came to the door. She must have recognized him but she did not ask him in.
‘Yes?’ she said cautiously.
‘It’s Inspector Ramsay,’ he said. ‘We met last night at the Grace Darling Centre. Perhaps I could come in.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Mam’s having her dinner. She doesn’t like being disturbed.’
‘Ellen!’ said a deep, unctuous voice from inside. ‘Who is it, hinnie?’ And Alma Paston appeared behind her daughter. She was a huge woman, medically obese, with thick shapeless legs and blotched, flabby arms. Ramsay felt in his pocket for his warrant card, but he did not need to explain who he was. Alma Paston could smell a policeman from the other side of the Tyne.
‘Eh, hinnie,’ Alma said. ‘What are we thinking of? Stand aside, pet, and let the officer in. We’ll stick w’ dinners in the microwave when he’s gone.’
She led Ramsay into a front parlour. Ellen was left in the hall to shut the door. The room was very warm and dark. A fire burned in the tiled grate. There was a thick red carpet on the floor and red-and-gold patterned wallpaper. The table was covered with red-plush cloth. Alma waddled across the room, stood poised before a large armchair, then dropped into it. For a horrifying moment Ramsay glimpsed long grey knickers. Ellen stood, feet slightly apart, just inside the door.
‘Now, hinnie,’ Alma said. ‘ Sit down and tell me what all this is about.’
She peered at him, her small eyes almost hidden in folds of flesh. It was an affectation. She must know very well why he was there.
‘It’s about Gabriella,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ Alma said. ‘The poor bonny lass.’ She sighed theatrically. Then: ‘She wasn’t living here, you know. You mustn’t think that we can help you. She found herself lodgings with some folks in Otterbridge.’
As with Ellen, Ramsay was surprised by the lack of feeling. It was almost as if she had disowned the girl. Did they regard Gabby as her mother’s daughter, hardly related to them at all?
‘But you kept in touch? You must have seen her?’ He was trying to get some angle on the relationship.
‘Not for months,’ Alma said quickly, then, realizing that she had been too abrupt, she added in explanation: ‘ I can’t get out, you see, hinnie. I’d never make it to the end of the street. And she always said she was too busy to come to see her poor Gran. I had news of her, of course, through Ellen.’
‘Why did she leave?’ Ramsay asked. ‘Was there a row?’ It was hard to imagine a lively teenager in this house but something, surely must have provoked her into leaving. And if she had left amicably wouldn’t she have made some effort to keep in touch with her grandmother?
‘No,’ Alma said. ‘No row. Nothing like that. You know what bairns are like these days. They think they’re so grown up.’ But as she spoke she shot a warning glance at Ellen and Ramsay did not quite believe her.
‘Did she take her stuff with her when she went?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps I could see her room.’
‘She took everything,’ Alma said. ‘There’d be no point.’
There was a pause. Ramsay felt the questions were getting nowhere. He had come across unresponsive witnesses before but had known no one as impenetrable as the Pastons. Alma sat beaming at him, unruffled and in control. By the door Ellen stirred impatiently.
‘Is that it, then?’ she demanded. ‘ Can we have w’ dinner now?’
Alma shook her head indulgently as if Ellen were a naughty child.
‘You mustn’t mind Ellen, Mr Ramsay,’ she said. ‘She’s never liked the police. Not since her brother died. They were twins you know, as close as can be. She’s never got over it.’ And although Ellen was watching she tapped her head significantly to suggest mental derangement.
‘I don’t understand,’ Ramsay said, ‘how the police were to blame.’ He realized later how cleverly Alma had changed the conversation and how defensive he had suddenly become.
‘It was harassment,’ Alma said. ‘They covered it up at the inquest but everyone knew.’
‘Everyone knew what?’ It was an Alice in Wonderland conversation with a strange logic of its own.
‘That Mr Powell wouldn’t rest until he got our Robbie.’
‘Evan Powell?’ he said, shocked, giving away more than he had intended.
Alma Paston smiled, pleased by the response.
‘He was still in uniform then,’ she said. ‘Based on the Starling Farm. We all thought he was such a nice man, didn’t we, Ellen? At first. He went into the schools and talked to the bairns, visited the old folks. A community policeman, I suppose they’d call him now. It was a new idea then. He was supposed to solve all our problems.’
Ramsay said nothing. He could have defended Evan Powell but he waited, encouraging Alma Paston to continue. He suspected that a police operation twelve years before could have little relevance to the murder of Gabriella Paston, knew that in listening without comment he was condoning the spread of damaging and malicious rumour, but he needed all the information the spiteful woman could give.
‘Our Robbie wasn’t a saint, Mr Ramsay,’ she said. ‘No one could call him a saint. Not even Ellen. He worked hard but he drank too much, stood up for himself if there was any bother. He had a house on the other side of the estate with Isabella and Gabby. Isabella was Spanish, temperamental. Sometimes they had rows. She wasn’t one for rowing quietly. It was all screams and throwing the furniture about. You’d think he was murdering her. Then the neighbours would call the police and our nice community policeman would come to sort it out.’ She paused, still smiling. ‘Mr Powell was a man of fixed ideas,’ she said. ‘ He got it into his head that Robbie was a villain!’ She paused again. ‘He thought he was battering Isabella!’
‘Well?’ Ramsay said. ‘ Was he?’
‘No more than she was battering him.’
‘What else was Robbie up to, then?’ Ramsay asked.
She moved her huge bulk in her chair and did not answer directly.
‘It was 1980,’ she said. ‘Not an easy time on Tyneside, Inspector. Men losing their jobs. Worse even than it is today. Robbie had a family to support. And he was wild. I admit that. He needed the excitement.’
‘So he stole cars,’ Ramsay said. ‘Is that it?’
She shrugged. ‘There’s no death penalty for stealing cars,’ she said.
‘You’d better tell me exactly what happened.’
‘We don’t know exactly what happened,’ she said sharply. ‘No one would tell us. There was a police operation, they said. Evan Powell was driving the car following Robbie. They knew who he was. They could have picked him up at any time but they followed him so hard that he drove into the back of a lorry.’ She squeezed tears from between the folds of flesh of her face. ‘The bairn was six years old,’ she said.
‘You don’t think this has anything to do with Gabby’s death?’ Ramsay said. ‘Not after all these years.’
‘I knew that he was there last night. At the Grace Darling,’ Alma said sharply. ‘Ellen saw him, didn’t you pet?’
Ellen, still standing by the door nodded. ‘He’s in the choral society,’ she said. ‘He came into the cafeteria after for a cup of tea.’
‘That’s hardly a good enough reason to suspect him of murder,’ Ramsay said lightly.
‘I’ve reason enough,’ Alma said. She lay back in her chair and slowly closed her eyes.
‘If you’ve any information,’ Ramsay said impatiently, ‘you should tell me.’ But Alma Paston gave no sign that she had heard him and remained with her eyes shut.
The door bell rang. Ellen stood uncertainly by the door and did not move. The bell rang again. Eventually Alma Paston opened her
eyes.
‘Go on, then, pet,’ she said. ‘Let’s see who’s there.’
Still Ellen hesitated and looked at her mother as if questioning her judgement. Alma nodded encouragingly and Ellen lumbered slowly to the front door.
‘It’s Gary Barrass,’ she said cautiously.
‘H’way in Gary, hinnie,’ shouted Alma. ‘Don’t be shy.’
Ellen stood aside to let in a boy of indeterminate age. He was thin, with a grey unhealthy pallor. His hair was cropped short and Ramsay wondered if he had recently been released from some institution. Despite the cold he wore a short-sleeved cotton T-shirt. He shivered slightly and stared at Ramsay.
‘This is our Gary,’ Alma said to the Inspector. ‘My friend’s lad. He runs errands for us, don’t you pet? Helps us out in the garden.’
The boy, obviously confused, simply nodded. He looked at his hands. LOVE had been written in black ink on the knuckles of one hand and HATE on the other. His nails were split and bitten.
‘I don’t think we need anything today, pet,’ Alma Paston said. ‘But perhaps you could come back later.’ She winked at him.
‘What time?’ the boy said.
‘Oh,’ Alma said. ‘Any time.’ She laughed. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
The boy hovered. He shuffled from one foot to the other and seemed about to ask a question.
‘Off you go now,’ Alma said interrupting. ‘This is Inspector Ramsay from Northumbria Police. You don’t want to disturb him.’
And he disappeared before Ramsay could speak to him.
With his departure the atmosphere in the room changed. The women relaxed. Ramsay felt again that he had been outwitted in some way. The heat and Alma’s superficially jovial words had worn him down. He thought he would get no more from them now. He stood up and sensed Alma’s triumph.
‘Are you off now, Inspector?’ she said. ‘You’ll not mind if I don’t get up. Ellen’ll see you out.’
Ramsay stood in the doorway for a moment, enjoying the fresh air, reluctant still to go. He knew that the interview had been a failure. He wondered, as he always did at times like these, if Hunter could have done any better. But even Hunter would have found it hard to bully two ladies on their own. Perhaps he would have taken them at face value, commiserated with their loss, considered them characters in the great Tyneside tradition. What motive could they have for murdering the girl? The idea was ludicrous. But Ramsay was uncomfortable. As he hesitated on the step he heard a deep, uncontrollable chuckle from the depth of the house. Alma Paston was laughing. At a time of grief the noise was horrifying. Ramsay walked quickly to his car and drove away.
As he was approaching the main road which circled the estate Ramsay saw Gary Barrass, the boy who had come to the Pastons’ house supposedly to run errands. The idea of Gary as an angel of mercy was improbable and Ramsay was interested. The boy was standing on a corner outside a big gloomy pub called the Keel Row, which had been famous once for its Saturday night fights, but which now attracted so few customers that it had lost even that distinction. Gary seemed to be waiting for someone. He was dancing up and down with the cold and seemed pathetically young. When Ramsay slowed the car and drew up beside him he approached at first as if this might be the person he was waiting for, then he recognized Ramsay and he started to run.
Ramsay jumped out of the car and chased after him, wondering as he did so why he was bothering. Gary crossed the pub car park and scrambled over a wall. Ramsay, already out of breath, stood and watched as the boy scuttled down an alley behind a row of almost derelict houses. He knew it would be pointless to follow him now. He would have friends or relatives all over the estate prepared to hide him. Besides, he would be easy enough to trace. Ramsay wished, though, that he had had a chance to tell the boy that he only wanted to help.
Chapter Six
When John Powell got up his father had already left the house. John had had very little sleep and would have been late for college if his mother had not woken him. She came into his room, still in her dressing gown, bringing a mug of tea for each of them, then sat on his bed and tried to make him talk about Gabby.
‘I thought she was a special friend of yours,’ she said. ‘ She was in your English group at college, wasn’t she?’ She lit a cigarette and inhaled it deeply. She had taken to smoking when his father was out of the house.
‘She was just a friend,’ he said. She had woken him in the middle of a dream, in which he was Smollett the highwayman being chased by a gang of soldiers. He felt the light-headed exhilaration which comes from too little sleep. His mind was racing. He was surprised by his mother’s interest in the murder. His father had always protected her from the unpleasantness of his work.
‘But you knew her quite well,’ Jackie Powell persisted. ‘ I’ve seen you with her.’
John knew he would have to be careful. There was a rush of adrenalin and he found it almost impossible to lie still in bed. He breathed slowly, and reminded himself that if he was an actor this was just another performance.
‘She was Abigail Keene in the play,’ he said. ‘We had to work closely together.’
‘Did you see her yesterday?’
‘Not at the Arts Centre,’ he said, deliberately misunderstanding. ‘You know that. She didn’t turn up. She was dead.’
‘But earlier?’ His mother leaned forward and he could see the fine lines around her eyes and on her forehead. Without any make-up she looked old, desiccated. ‘ Did you talk to her earlier? At college?’
John considered carefully but could not decide what line to take.
‘I can’t remember,’ he said flatly. ‘She might have been there. Why do you want to know?’
Jackie Powell stood up.
‘I don’t want you involved in this,’ she said quietly. ‘The police will be asking questions everywhere. I don’t want you involved.’
There was a trace of hysteria in her voice. He thought she was going to cry. He sat up, irritated by the unwelcome emotional demand.
‘Look,’ he said, trying unsuccessfully to control his impatience. ‘What’s the matter?’ He had his own life to lead. What problems could she have? He viewed his parents almost as if they were a different species—respectable, untroubled, invulnerable.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She took a tissue from her dressing-gown pocket and blew her nose. ‘ I’m just upset…a young girl like that. It might have been you.’
He got out of bed and pulled a T-shirt over his head.
‘No,’ he said deliberately. ‘You mustn’t worry about that. I can look after myself. It wouldn’t have been me.’
John walked to the sixth-form college from Barton Hill. The prosperous streets of the estate were empty. Most of the families who lived there had two cars. The children would be driven to school or to the childminder. The parents would already be at work. Most people needed two incomes to support a mortgage on Barton Hill. John wondered how his father managed it.
When he left the estate he avoided the main road, and chose instead the narrow red-brick terraced streets, sauntering, his hands in the pockets of the leather jacket which had been last year’s Christmas present. He thought again about his portrayal of Smollett, a criminal, an outsider, trying to work out how he could give some depth to the character. He refused to see the play as a jolly jape, a pantomine. He wanted to be good. He ran over the lines in his head.
There had been a heavy frost and the cars still parked in the street were covered in ice. He watched irate motorists, already late for work, messing with kettles and de-icer spray. He saw how many of them left the keys in the ignition when they went back to their houses to replace the cloths and kettles and cans. Some of them even left the engine running. It would be child’s play, John thought, to steal a car like that from right under the bastards’ noses. Not that most of them were worth nicking. The majority were tiny Japanese hatchbacks or clapped-out family saloons.
He walked on, crossing Hallowgate Square to the grocer’s shop on the
corner to buy a Mars bar for his breakfast. The car park of the Grace Darling Centre was still roped off and policemen were searching the garden in the middle of the square and the bushes by the drive. He pretended to take no notice and continued down Anchor Street, past the shop and Joe Fenwick’s flat, to the college. When he got there he felt fit and healthy and ready for anything.
His first lesson was history and everyone was talking about Gabby. They sat in a small group around the radiator, warming their hands as they waited for the teacher, speculating wildly about what might have happened to her. He was the centre of attention because he had been at the Grace Darling the night before.
‘Come on!’ they said. ‘Didn’t you notice anything?’
‘No,’ he said. He was beginning to enjoy the interest. He wished he had something to tell them.
‘Weren’t you there when they found the body?’
‘No,’ he said again, smiling, remembering. ‘I left early. I didn’t see a thing.’
The sense of excitement and wellbeing remained with him all morning.
Gordon Hunter arrived at Hallowgate Sixth-Form College at lunch time. He was met at the main door by a mute adolescent with greased black hair and acne and taken to the staff room. A maternal woman made him tea and introduced him to Ellie Smith, Gabriella Paston’s personal tutor. Hunter looked around him and thought that teachers had never been like this when he was a lad. Ellie had long red hair and wore a very short skirt and black tights. She sat in a low chair with her legs stretched ahead of her, crossed at the ankle, and ate coleslaw from a plastic tub with a fork. Perhaps, Hunter thought, there was something in further education after all.
‘Personal tutor?’ he asked. ‘ I don’t understand. What does that mean?’
‘I monitored her general progress,’ the teacher said, ‘ in all the subjects she was taking.’ She pressed the lid on the coleslaw tub and bit into an apple. Hunter saw the stain of red lipstick on the apple’s green skin. He was finding it hard to concentrate on the woman’s words. Ellie munched and continued: ‘In a college this size we felt it’s important that there’s a member of staff responsible for the pastoral care of the young people. We all supervise a small group of students. They’re not necessarily the people we teach, although Gabby was in my English group.’
