Ramsay 04 - Killjoy

by Ann Cleeves

  She took a shortcut through an alley up a steep and narrow flight of stone steps between blank brick walls known as Meggie’s Cut. She always took the same path after court. Although it was poorly lit she had never been frightened. It never occurred to her that she might be vulnerable. A figure appeared out of the fog at the top of the steps: a plump young woman with a pushchair which she had tilted back at an alarming angle so the two back wheels jolted down, a step at a time. Amelia stood aside to let her pass. The child inside was quite awake but lay still and the eyes which were all that could be seen between quilt and anorak hood were wide and terrified. As Amelia continued she heard the thud of wheel against stone echoing away from her.

  At the bottom of the steps Gus Lynch turned his back to the woman with the pushchair. He unwrapped his scarf and held it, one end in each hand, then began to run up the steps after Amelia Wood. She heard the footsteps but took no notice. She went through the guest list for the dinner party and wondered if they could run to smoked salmon for the first course. She felt she deserved a celebration.

  The footsteps came closer and she turned, without curiosity, to see who was there. Through the gloom she saw a man, his hood pulled over his head, who seemed to stumble away from her. She decided he was a drunk.

  ‘Mrs Wood!’ She looked past the shadowy figure to an elderly man caught in the street light at the bottom of the steps. It was the court usher, a retired policeman whose name she could never remember. It was beneath her dignity to yell and as the usher was making no effort to join her she descended to talk to him. The drunk lurched past her and disappeared into the street above.

  ‘Well,’ she demanded. ‘What is it?’ She presumed it would be something trivial. Perhaps she had forgotten to sign an expenses form. ‘Couldn’t it wait?’

  The man was wheezing painfully. He had run after her and the cold was bad for his chest.

  ‘It’s the police,’ he said. ‘They want to speak to you urgently. They’ve been trying to get in touch all day.’

  ‘Well,’ she said grandly. ‘They know where to find me.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be going straight home,’ the usher said sulkily. ‘I thought it would be important.’ He had expected gratitude. The least she could do was satisfy his curiosity about what it was all about.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I’m going straight home. Thank you for coming after me, but really you needn’t have bothered.’

  When Gus Lynch got back to Chandler’s Court Hunter was waiting outside the house in an unmarked car. Lynch recognized him and waited for the policeman to get out and join him on the pavement.

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived,’ Lynch said hurriedly. ‘I’d been in waiting for you all day. I really needed some fresh air. You know what it’s like.’

  Hunter nodded sympathetically. He had always enjoyed the television series which Lynch had starred in, had been one of the few people to stick with it to the end. Although he tried to keep his cool it was something of a thrill to be here, talking to the actor who had played Wor Billy. His mam would want to know all about it.

  The flat lived up to all Hunter’s expectations. It had a polished wood-block floor and deep rugs, a soft white leather sofa, and an expensive CD player. Without asking Lynch poured him a Scotch and Hunter felt it would be churlish to refuse. He was so taken with his surroundings that he did not notice Lynch replace the receiver on the telephone.

  ‘How can I help you?’ Lynch asked. He realized that he was shivering and bent to light a gas fire which was almost indistinguishable from the real thing. The flames leapt and were reflected on the shining floor. More composed, he stood and turned to face the policeman.

  ‘Do you know when I’ll get my car back? It’s rather inconvenient, you know, without transport.’

  ‘I should hire one,’ Hunter said pessimistically. ‘With forensic you’re talking weeks. We’ll need fingerprints from you and from anyone you’ve carried as a passenger recently. To eliminate from the prints we find.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lynch said absently. ‘Of course.’ He looked up from his drink. ‘Do you know yet who it was, who killed Gabby?’

  Hunter shrugged mysteriously to show that he could not pass on sensitive information but that he was optimistic. ‘It’ll soon be over,’ he said. ‘These things are often more simple than they first seem. Most murders are domestic, you know. It’s usually the husband or the boyfriend.’

  ‘I didn’t realize Gabby had a boyfriend.’ Lynch tried not to sound too interested.

  Hunter realized that he had said too much. He set the glass on a polished oval table.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m only here to tell you that we’ve finished with the Grace Darling Centre. You can open again tomorrow if you want to.’

  ‘Did you find anything?’ Hunter was surprised by the anxiety in the man’s voice but put it down to an honest man’s natural awe of authority.

  ‘No,’ Hunter said. ‘Nothing at all. They’ve been through it with a fine-tooth comb but they’ve found nothing, no murder weapon, no incriminating traces of blood …’ He was playing on Lynch’s discomfort and laughed to show he was teasing. The actor joined in uncomfortably.

  ‘I’ll have to go,’ Hunter said. ‘I’ve a meeting back at the station with the Inspector.’ At the door he stopped. ‘There is just one thing you could do for me,’ he said awkwardly.

  ‘Yes?’ The tension returned to Lynch’s voice.

  ‘Your autograph. For my mam. She’d be thrilled to bits.’

  Lynch seemed to relax then. He smiled. Perhaps after all he was beyond suspicion. He found a publicity photo in a drawer and signed it with a flourish. Hunter took it gratefully. The man had aged a canny few years since the photo was taken but his mam would never know the difference.

  When he had seen the policeman out Lynch stood by the window and watched until Hunter’s car had driven away. He picked up the telephone receiver and dialled. There was someone he had to speak to.

  Chapter Nine

  Evan Powell was not a member of the team working on the Gabriella Paston case. He had been too close to it because of his attendance at the Grace Darling Centre on the night of the murder. There was also the fact, unmentioned, that he had been involved in the death of her parents. Instead he continued to lead the auto-crime group and spent the day talking to witnesses of the ram raid on the Coast Road the night before. They were little help. The security guard had recorded all the details of the car which had smashed through the plate-glass window of the Coop Hypermarket, but it had been stolen from a pub car park in Tynemouth on the same night and dumped immediately afterwards. People living in nearby houses had heard the sound of breaking glass, the screech of tyres, but had been too frightened to go out on to the street to see what it was all about.

  ‘What about the men?’ Powell demanded of the security guard. The window had already been boarded up and the business of the shop continued around them. An instore disc jockey was extolling the virtues of Co-op frozen turkeys and suggesting that its customers should already be fully prepared for the Christmas festivities. ‘Good God, man, the car came through the window and landed within feet of your office. You must have some description of the gang.’

  ‘There were three of them, all in overalls,’ the guard said resentfully. ‘Navy overalls. Like a mechanic would wear. And hoods. I couldn’t see a thing.’

  ‘You must have heard them speak!’

  ‘They didn’t say a word,’ the guard said. ‘Man, it all happened so fast. They were in and out in minutes. The organization was magnificent. I’ve never seen anything like it. They must have known I’d press the panic button, but the break-in would have triggered the alarm anyway so they didn’t bother to stop me. They left me alone. They were cool, I’ll say that for them. You’d almost say professional.’

  Evan, irritated by the note of admiration in the man’s voice, turned away. He was outraged that the general public regarded these ram raiders as almost heroic, modern
day Robin Hoods, and he was beginning to see his battle against them as a personal crusade. It was a question of morality. The car thieves seemed to taunt him. He had been through it all before with Robbie Paston…

  The news that Tommy Shiels from the Starling Farm estate had been found guilty in Hallowgate magistrates’ court of handling stolen goods was welcome but it reminded Evan too that he had only been capable of tracing the insignificant people involved in car thefts. He had interrogated Tommy Shiels himself but had been unable to persuade him to give any information at all. The man had claimed to have no knowledge about who was organizing the robberies and by the end of the interviews Powell had almost believed him.

  Jackie Powell saw her husband and son out of the house and spent the morning waiting for the phone to ring. She knew that her infatuation for Gus Lynch was a madness. It was making her ill and was in danger of wrecking her marriage. But she could think of nothing else. In her saner moments she compared Lynch unfavourably with her husband. Evan was a good man, she told herself, kind, upright, decent. But boring! she cried then. Was it so wrong of her to want some excitement and passion before she grew too old to enjoy it? And she pushed the guilt away, knowing that if she allowed it to it would destroy her.

  She had a shower to clear her head but left the bathroom door open, worried that she would not hear the phone. She dressed in black velvet ski pants and a long red jumper, then changed because the red made her face seem paler than ever and she wanted to look her best in case there was a summons from Gus.

  She knew there was no logic to her affair with Lynch. Her mood changed daily. She wanted some commitment from him, some public sign that they had a future together, yet she was terrified that her husband would discover her infidelity. She no longer knew what she wanted. She was confused and exhausted and thought that she would only make sense of it if she could have more time with Gus.

  She spent the morning in restless housework, ripping sheets and duvet covers from the beds, polishing the sink and bath to a dangerous shine, ironing everything in the linen basket, even towels and underwear. She had not eaten breakfast and stopped at midday only to drink a mug of black coffee and smoke a cigarette. By the end of the afternoon she could stand the waiting no longer. With trembling hands she dialled Lynch’s number but the line was engaged and, frustrated, she replaced the receiver.

  John Powell had spent the afternoon on the Starling Farm estate. He was in no mood to return to college. He had taken to spending more time on the estate, attracted despite himself by the danger, the tension, the possibility of violence. A group of teenagers sat on a wall outside the Keel Row and stared at him with undisguised hostility as he walked past. He ignored them and walked on to find Connor. He had known Connor since infants’ school. He was one of the friends from the old street of whom Evan Powell so disapproved. John was almost certain that he knew where to find him. He would be in the Neighbourhood Advice and Community Centre, a square fortified building at the heart of the estate. Technically unemployed, Connor often worked more than a full week at the Centre, making tea for the old people, organizing activities for the kids, holding the whole thing together. Although only a year older than John he was an expert on welfare rights and dished out advice and mediated with the authorities with an immense confidence. He was a short, intense young man with a bony forehead and a prominent nose, obsessed with politics. As recreation he would sell the Militant newspaper in Newcastle outside the Monument metro station. He spent every Saturday there, shouting slogans, trying to convert passers-by to his point of view.

  When John arrived at the Community Centre Connor was playing pool with a group of young teenagers in a windowless games room. He was bent over the table, concentrating on the shot and did not see John, lounging just inside the door, until he straightened.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  John shrugged. ‘ I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘What is it?’ All his attention was still on the game.

  John looked at the boys. ‘ Not here,’ he said.

  For the first time Connor looked directly at him, frowning.

  ‘I’ll be in the office,’ he said to the boys, ‘if you need me.’

  The office was a tip. There were boxes full of information booklets, rolled-up posters, a row of dirty coffee cups, and half a bottle of sour milk. Against one wall was a table with a heavy manual typewriter and a phone. Connor cleared a pile of paper from the only chair and motioned John to sit on it. He squatted on the floor.

  ‘What’s bugging you?’ he said.

  ‘The police have been to the school,’ John said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A detective sergeant called Hunter. I don’t think he’s local. He was asking questions about Gabby Paston.’

  ‘That’s all right then. Just tell him what he wants to know. Within reason.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ John said. ‘It’s not that easy.’

  ‘Of course it’s easy. But you must keep your nerve. Use your head. Did anyone see you come here?’

  ‘No,’ John said. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Go and have a game of pool with the lads just in case. It’ll explain you being here if anyone asks.’

  ‘Why should anyone ask?’ There was a trace of panic in his voice.

  ‘Don’t worry. They won’t. But just in case. Now piss off. I’ve work to do.’

  John played two games of pool with the boys in the games room, then wandered back to say goodbye to Connor, who was still in the office. He was talking animatedly on the phone, replacing the receiver as John came into the room.

  ‘That was Tommy Shiel’s wife,’ he said. ‘ Tommy was found guilty this afternoon of handling.’

  John said nothing.

  ‘That bitch Amelia Wood was chair of the bench,’ Connor said. ‘He’d not stand a chance with her. She’d bring back flogging given the chance.’

  ‘Look,’ John said awkwardly. ‘I’ll be off.’ But when he got outside he saw it was still only five o’clock and he decided not to take the direct route home.

  He must have arrived back at Barton Hill just after his mother because her car was parked on the drive and she sat still in the driver’s seat as if she was exhausted. When she saw him she got out and began to pull carrier bags of groceries from the boot. She’d just been to the supermarket, she said, for the late-night shopping. She’d meant to go earlier but she hadn’t been able to face it. What would Evan say? She hadn’t even thought about what they’d eat tonight.

  They stood together in the white security light, surrounded by carrier bags while she fiddled with her key to let them into the house. He could feel her unhappiness.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘ You look awful. What is it?’

  She pulled away from him. ‘ Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get this shopping inside. There’s a pile of stuff for the freezer and it’ll all be melting.’

  When Evan Powell arrived home at eight o’clock the frustrations of the day were compounded by the fact that the table wasn’t set and there was no meal ready for him. He was lucky to get the overtime. He only worked it for Jackie and the boy. It would have been nice to have been appreciated. But he restrained his feelings. Jackie looked so tired and ill, was so apologetic about the lack of a cooked meal.

  ‘I could do an omelette,’ she said nervously. ‘That wouldn’t take long.’

  Evan felt suddenly very protective. He put his arm around her and sat her on his knee. She sat where he had placed her and he could feel her bony frame shaking slightly with anxiety. He was overcome by tenderness and guilt.

  ‘Come on,’ he said gently. ‘What sort of monster do you think I am? I know I take you for granted but I’m not going to throw a tantrum because supper’s not ready. Look, I tell you what. Why don’t we go out for dinner? The three of us. It’s not too late to book a table at the Holly Tree. We haven’t celebrated my promotion yet. Let’s give ourselves a treat.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘I don’t think so. I’m really tired. And I’ll need to change.’

  But she turned to him, trapped by his kindness like a moth by a light.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘ Go upstairs and make yourself beautiful. I’ll phone the restaurant. It’s mid-week. They’ll fit us in.’

  He thought she was going to argue again but she did not move. ‘Yes,’ she said at last. She had always been incapable of standing up to him. ‘Yes.’

  The Holly Tree was a double-fronted Georgian house on the edge of St Martin’s Hill. It was part of an elegant crescent and had a long back garden with a famous herb bed and a terrace where diners could take their drinks in the summer. Access was from the road at the front and from a small gate at the back used by Martin’s Dene residents who walked to the restaurant over the hill.

  In the Holly Tree Evan Powell was determinedly cheerful. He praised the table they were given near a long window overlooking the garden, the atmosphere, the menu.

  ‘Now!’ he said. ‘What about a drink?’ He never drank himself but he prided himself on being broadminded. He wanted them all to be happy. He had a sudden recollection of a family outing to the beach when John was a toddler, of splodging in rock pools and fish and chips eaten in the car on the way home. It seemed to him now that when he was with them he spent all his energy trying to recreate the same closeness. It was the first time the three of them had been out for months yet they seemed to have nothing to say to each other.

  Jackie ordered a gin and tonic which she drank very quickly. She was thinking inevitably of Lynch, of what a mess it all was. She wished she could tell him how much she had sacrificed, make him understand what she was going through, but she knew the man well enough to realize that if she put him under pressure he would just lash out and destroy her. Evan had begun to talk about his day at work, the robbery on the Coast Road, and she tried to concentrate on what he was saying.