by Ann Cleeves
‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘We met. She’d never come to the house but she wanted to keep in touch.’ She spoke bitterly. ‘We weren’t much but we were all she had.’
‘Why didn’t she come to the house?’
Ellen shook her head as if it was beyond her understanding. Ramsay tried to control his impatience.
‘Was it because she knew she wouldn’t be welcome?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘She’d have been welcome enough. We’d have had her back to live if she’d wanted to come. She didn’t want to go there. That’s all.’
‘Did your mother know that you were meeting Gabriella?’
‘She knows I saw Gabby at the Grace Darling,’ Ellen said, ‘but not that I saw her away from work.’
‘Why didn’t you tell her?’ Ramsay asked.
Ellen shrugged. Perhaps she had so little privacy that any secret, however harmless, was important to her. Perhaps there had been so much animosity between Alma and Gabriella that her mother had forbidden her to see the girl. Whatever the reason she refused to say.
‘Where did you meet?’ he asked.
‘Usually in the coffee shop in Martin’s Dene,’ Ellen said. Had they chosen Martin’s Dene, Ramsay wondered, because they were unlikely to meet any of their acquaintances from the Starling Farm there? Ellen leaned forward greedily and took another biscuit. ‘We had tea, cream cakes. It was a treat, something to look forward to.’
‘Who paid?’ he asked.
‘We took it in turns,’ she said resentfully, ‘if it’s any business of yours.’
‘Did you ever give her money?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ She obviously saw it as an admission of weakness. ‘I know it was all her own fault storming out of the house like that, but it didn’t seem right that she should live off a stranger. Not completely. I wanted her to have some cash of her own.’
‘How much did you give her?’
‘Ten pounds, twenty pounds, whatever I could afford.’
That would be a lot, Ramsay thought, for Ellen Paston. Probably a day’s pay. But it didn’t explain the eight hundred pounds in the building society.
‘Did you ever give her more than that?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps for her to start a savings account?’
Ellen shook her head. ‘Where would I get more than that?’ she demanded. ‘There’s only Mam’s pension and what I get from the Grace Darling.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, surprised by her aggression. ‘ Is that why Gabby came to meet you?’ he asked, suddenly brutal. ‘For the money?’
Ellen’s mood changed quickly, like a child’s. She forgot her anger and smiled.
‘Nah,’ she said. ‘She’d have got that anyway. She knew I’d not see her go short. I told you. She wanted to keep in touch.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Everything,’ she said. ‘Bit of news from the estate. She’d lost contact with most of her friends there. What was going on in the Grace Darling. Gossip, I suppose you’d call it. A bit of a crack.’
Ramsay saw that it was quite plausible. Gabby Paston had lived on the Starling Farm for sixteen years. Despite Prue’s kindness it must have been a strain to be uprooted into a middle-class household. The rules of engagement would be different. The talk would be of books, the theatre, politics. He remembered his own introduction to the Bennetts. It had been an exhilarating experience but he had been frightened always of betraying his ignorance and it had been a relief at times to escape home, to soap operas on the TV and his mother’s chat. So Gabby had sneaked away every couple of weeks to eat cream cakes with her aunt. With Ellen she could relax for an hour and use the dialect words and expressions which the Bennetts would hardly understand. And she could listen to gossip, to the trivial, salacious, and amusing bits of news which would be despised in her new life, but which would make her feel part of the estate again. Then why had she left in the first place, he wondered, if it was such a wrench? He did not put the question immediately to Ellen Paston. He thought she would refuse to answer it and he had other things to ask while she was being co-operative.
‘Did you talk about Amelia Wood?’ he asked. ‘She was a trustee at the Grace Darling and there must have been stories to tell about a woman like that.’
‘Maybe,’ she conceded, ‘but we didn’t see enough of her at the Centre to find out.’
‘Had you heard that she’d been murdered?’ he asked quietly.
She shook her head and for a brief moment he thought he saw her mouth turn up in a strange lopsided grin. Was it shock? Embarrassment? Or the pleasure in having information which he needed and which she was not prepared to share?
‘She was strangled,’ he said more sharply. ‘Like Gabriella.’
‘When?’ The question surprised him. He had expected some expression of regret.
‘Yesterday evening,’ he said. ‘At some time after six.’ He paused then asked deliberately. ‘What were you doing then?’
She seemed pleased to have gained accurate information from him and answered almost absentmindedly.
‘I was at home with Mam. There was no work. The Centre was closed for the day.’
‘You didn’t leave the house all evening?’
She shook her head and looked up at him, a challenge. ‘Ask Mam,’ she said. ‘She’ll tell you.’
Oh, yes, he thought. I bet she will.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Why did Gabriella leave home?’
She looked straight at him, not caring whether or not he believed her.
‘I’ve told you,’ she said. ‘ It was her age. She just got fed up with us.’
‘She fell out with your mother,’ he said.
‘Aye. It was something like that.’
‘What was the row about?’
She smiled maliciously. ‘ You’ll have to ask Mam,’ she said. ‘ Won’t you?’
Ramsay did not answer. They both knew that Alma Paston would give little away.
‘Look,’ Ellen said. ‘ I should get back. I’ve work to do.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘ I’ll clear it with Mr Lynch. And I’ll take you back myself. There’s just one more question…’ He looked directly at the hunched, ungainly figure sitting on the chair on the other side of the desk. ‘Gabriella had eight hundred pounds in a building society account. Do you know where she got the money?’
Ellen gave a hard laugh and he could have sworn that her astonishment was genuine.
‘The mean little madam,’ she said. ‘And she still took money off me!’
The resentment was directed not at the fact that Gabriella had money, but that Ellen had known nothing about the account.
Joe Fenwick heard the news of Amelia Wood’s death on the transistor radio he kept behind the reception desk to liven up the duller moments of the day. The afternoon was always quiet. There were a few old ladies in the small lounge for a reminiscence session, sharing stories of their childhood in the twenties, but Joe thought that most of them were so deaf that they would not be disturbed by the strains of Radio Newcastle coming from the lobby. There was an extended report of the murder during the two o’clock news and Joe thought the information was too interesting to keep to himself.
He found Prue Bennett and Gus Lynch in the theatre. They were arguing in an irritable, petulant way about the following week’s rehearsal of Abigail Keene. Prue thought the whole production should be cancelled or at least postponed. How could they go on with the rehearsals, she said, pretending that nothing had happened? The information, given by Joe, that Amelia Wood had died only strengthened her argument. They must cancel now, she said. They couldn’t go ahead when both a member of the Youth Theatre and a trustee had been killed. Besides the question of taste it was a practical matter. They couldn’t encourage young girls to come out after dark. Not at a time like this. The parents wouldn’t stand for it.
‘If the parents don’t like it,’ Gus Lynch said crossly, ‘they can arrange to bring the kids to the square and pick them up after the rehearsa
l. It’s not beyond the wit of man to organize some sort of rota.’
His reaction to Amelia Wood’s death surprised Prue. She was shocked and frightened— it seemed to her that everyone connected with the Grace Darling was a potential target—but Gus seemed overtaken by a terrible excitement. He talked about the murders all the time and became feverish and restless, insisting even more strongly that the production should go ahead. ‘The publicity won’t do us any harm,’ he said. ‘It’ll ensure a full house at least. And the press will certainly be there.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s terrible. We don’t want that sort of publicity.’
‘There are lots of parallels with the play when you come to look at it. Sam Smollett was accused of murder. He just never got caught.’
‘But who’ll play Abigail?’ Prue cried, hoping that a discussion of the practical details would make him calmer, give her a chance to make him see sense.
‘Anna, of course,’ he said, as if Prue were a fool. ‘She’ll make a perfectly adequate understudy.’
‘Look,’ Prue said. ‘I’m not sure she’s up to it. Not after all this strain.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said impatiently. ‘ Of course she’s up to it. It’s a group piece. She won’t be on her own. Besides, shouldn’t you ask her, before making up her mind for her?’
‘Yes,’ Prue said. ‘I suppose I should.’
But Gus had walked away without waiting for an answer and she was left in the theatre alone. She shivered with a sudden panic and was tempted for a moment to phone Stephen Ramsay. But what would she tell him? That she was concerned by her boss’s reaction to the news of Amelia Wood’s murder, that he seemed under some psychological strain? The call might give her fears more weight than they deserved. It might even give the impression that she saw Gus Lynch as a murderer.
She was still in the theatre when Ramsay arrived at the Grace Darling. He left Ellen Paston in the lobby and went to look for Prue, wanting to get the most awkward interview over first. She heard the door bang and watched him walk across the polished wood floor to join her. In the unnatural light of the theatre she saw him as a stranger and wondered even if she would have recognized him that first evening if he had not given his name.
‘I’m sorry for the intrusion,’ Ramsay said. ‘ You’ll have heard about Mrs Wood?’
She nodded. She was wearing the jeans and sweater of the night before and her face was tense and strained. He wanted to comfort her and to make her smile.
‘I’m afraid I have to ask you some questions about your movements yesterday evening,’ he said.
She did not answer.
‘What did you do after I left?’
‘I went to see a friend,’ she said. ‘Anna wasn’t very good company and I needed someone to talk to.’
‘I’ll need the name of the friend,’ Ramsay said apologetically. ‘You do realize we’ll have to check.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘ Of course. Her name’s Judy, Judy Delaney. She’s a solicitor. She lives in a flat just round the corner from me.’
‘You won’t mind if someone goes to speak to her?’
‘Not at all. She’ll love the drama. She’s quite a character, great fun.’ She paused. ‘I needed fun,’ she said. ‘Last night.’
‘Was Anna left in the house on her own?’ Ramsay asked.
‘Of course. She’s not a child. I tried to persuade her to come with me to Judy’s but she said she wanted to be on her own. In fact she practically begged me to go out. She had a bath and went to bed early. When I got back she was already asleep.’
‘Did you take your car to visit your friend?’
‘No. I’ve told you. It was just around the corner. Otterbridge isn’t New York.’
‘Does Anna drive?’
She looked at him, horrified. ‘What are you saying?’ she demanded. ‘That Anna drove my car to Martin’s Dene and strangled Amelia Wood? You must be mad!’
‘I have to ask,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do.’
‘She hasn’t passed her test,’ Prue said angrily.
‘But she has taken lessons? It would be possible for her to drive your car?’
‘Yes,’ she said reluctantly. ‘She only failed her test last time because of nerves. But it’s impossible. She wouldn’t do it. What motive could she have?’
‘None,’ he said. ‘ Probably none. But you do understand that it’s my job to ask?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘But it’s a shitty sort of job.’
They stood in silence, staring at each other. The hostility made her feel closer to him than she had in all their previous polite exchanges. There was an emotional charge between them. She wondered again whether she should pass on her anxieties about Gus Lynch but before she could make up her mind to speak Ramsay had apologized again for taking up her time and walked away.
When Ramsay knocked at Lynch’s office door the man was on the telephone. He shouted for the policeman to come in then, with his hand over the receiver said: ‘ Sit down, Inspector. This’ll not take a minute.’
‘Look, I’m sorry.’ Lynch spoke in a brisk, business like way into the phone, but his eyes flickered wildly about the room. ‘I’m busy now. I’ll call you later.’ He replaced the hand set and focused his gaze on the policeman. ‘I suppose this is about Mrs Wood?’
Ramsay nodded.
‘How can I help you, Inspector? I can’t give you much time. I’m very busy today.’
‘When did you last see Mrs Wood?’
‘On Monday evening. Just before Gabriella’s body was found.’ He spoke as if Ramsay was a fool.
‘She hadn’t been in touch since then?’
‘No. Why should she?’
‘I’ll need an account of your movements yesterday evening,’ Ramsay said.
‘Good God, man!’ Lynch said with an unpleasant laugh. ‘You know where I was. Your sergeant came to see me.’
‘Hunter arrived at your house at five o’clock and left at about half past,’ Ramsay said calmly. ‘I’d like some details of your movements after that please.’
‘There were no movements,’ Lynch said. ‘ How could there be? You’ve still got my car.’
‘But I understand from my sergeant that you had gone out earlier by foot.’
‘Oh that!’ Lynch said. ‘That was just to get some fresh air. I was only gone ten minutes. I didn’t go out again.’
‘Can anyone corroborate that?’ Ramsay asked quietly.
‘Of course not. I was in the flat on my own.’
‘Did you receive any phone calls, for example?’
‘No,’ Lynch said. ‘No.’
He got to his feet as if he expected the interview to be over, but Ramsay remained seated and he returned awkwardly to his chair.
‘I’d like you to tell me about your business dealings with Mr Wood.’ Ramsay said.
‘I have no business dealings with him.’
‘I understood that you’d bought your flat from his company.’
‘Oh. Yes, of course. But that was a very straightforward transaction.’
‘You never met him since then?’
‘I don’t think I even met him at the time,’ Lynch said. ‘One of his staff showed me around the property and all the negotiations were done through our solicitors or by post.’
‘They were lengthy negotiations? You questioned the asking price?’
‘Of course. Doesn’t everyone when they’re buying property? Look, Inspector, I don’t mean to be rude but I don’t understand what this has to do with Mrs Wood’s murder.’
No, Ramsay thought. Nor do I. But he knew Lynch was anxious about something and wished he knew what lay behind the fear.
‘Just routine enquiries,’ he said. Blundering around in the dark, he thought.
John Powell left Hallowgate Central Library and walked through the empty streets towards the square. At the Grace Darling he stopped and went into the lobby to use the pay phone there. Joe Fenwick l
ooked up from his desk and stared at him.
‘It is all right to use the phone?’
‘Oh, aye,’ the man said. ‘That’s all right.’ But still he was staring and John turned his back to him and spoke softly so he wouldn’t be overheard. He dialled the Starling Farm Community Centre and asked to speak to Connor.
‘Are you on for tonight?’ he asked.
‘No.’ Connor’s voice was guarded. ‘Not tonight.’
‘Why? Is there a problem?’
‘You could say that,’ Connor said. ‘Haven’t you heard the news?’
‘What news?’
‘It’s our friend Mrs Amelia Wood. She was found dead this morning on St Martin’s Hill. She’d been strangled.’
‘I don’t see,’ John said, ‘what that’s got to do with us.’
‘No?’ Connor said shortly. ‘Think about it.’
Chapter Twelve
Prue Bennett left work early, irritated by Gus Lynch and anxious about Anna. She knew that in Otterbridge her daughter should be safe but she could not relax while she thought of her in the house on her own. When she arrived home she saw that Anna was already there. Her coat was hanging over the bannister in the hall and music came from her room.
‘It’s me!’ Prue shouted up the stairs. ‘I’m just making some tea if you want some.’ It was what she always said when she came in from work and the repeated words reassured her.
Anna was still wearing her school uniform. She looked very young and Prue thought again how absurd it was that Gus could consider her a suitable Abigail Keene. Abigail had to be sexy, sophisticated, confident of her ability to attract.
‘Amelia Wood’s dead,’ Anna said. ‘I’ve just heard it on the radio.’
Prue looked at her daughter for signs that she was upset but Anna’s words were calm, matter of fact.
‘I know,’ Prue said. ‘The police were at the Centre today.’
‘That Stephen Ramsay? Your old flame?’
Was she sneering? Prue wondered, but again it was impossible to tell. What’s wrong with us? she thought. Why can’t we communicate? Then she thought she was getting paranoid: they’d muddled along well enough in the past.
