Ramsay 04 - Killjoy

by Ann Cleeves

  In Hallowgate police station Ramsay sought out Evan Powell.

  ‘You know the Starling Farm,’ he said. ‘What’s your opinion of the Paston women?’

  ‘They’re mad as hatters,’ Powell said. ‘The pair of them.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘When Robbie Paston died they took it personally. Thought it was my fault. Thought for some reason that I’d meant to do it. Ellen threw a fit at the inquest and accused me of murder. They started sending hate mail. It came here first. Then they must have found out where I lived because it arrived at my home. Nothing subtle, mind. Always the same writing on the same sort of envelopes and in the end I threw the letters away without opening them.’

  ‘You were sure the letters came from them?’

  ‘Of course. Who else would it be?’

  ‘You didn’t prosecute?’

  ‘What would have been the point? It would only have made things worse. Feeling was running pretty high on the estate as it was. Imagine how it would have been if we’d took the bereaved relatives to court. If you remember it was the time of the Toxteth riots. We had instructions from above to treat with kid gloves. Much like now. I didn’t mind. The Pastons didn’t bother me. I thought they’d get used to the idea of Robbie’s death, that they’d learn to forgive and forget.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘I’m not sure about that but they stopped sending malicious mail. I had a bit of a shock when I joined the choral society. I walked into the Grace Darling cafeteria and saw Ellen behind the bar. She seemed to haunt me for a while after that. Wherever I’d go I’d see her. She never approached me, just stood and watched as if she wanted me to know she was there. But even that stopped when we moved to Barton Hill. Perhaps she’s mellowing with age, got better things to do with her time.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ramsay said. ‘Perhaps.’ He paused. ‘ Do they have a big following on the estate?’

  Powell shrugged. ‘ There was sympathy of course when Robbie died, but that was a long time ago. I wouldn’t have thought they’d have much influence now.’

  ‘You don’t think they could be stirring up the disturbances on the Starling Farm? As a way of getting back at the authorities?’

  Powell laughed. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past them,’ he said. ‘But it’s a bit far fetched, isn’t it, after all this time? Why would anyone take any notice of them? What power could they have?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Ramsay said. He stood up and seemed about to leave Powell to his work, then returned to the desk.

  ‘Did John know that you were involved in the death of Gabby’s father?’ he asked. ‘Had you warned him to keep his distance?’

  Powell shook his head. ‘I never talked about it at all,’ he said. ‘I thought if the Pastons wanted to spread the dirt that was up to them and I’d explain if it arose. And I’ve never interfered in any of his friendships. I’d have welcomed it if he’d started going out with Gabby. She seemed a pleasant girl and I’d have been glad of a better relationship with the family.’

  ‘He never brought her home?’

  ‘Once,’ Powell said. ‘We threw a sort of party after the first night of one of the Youth Theatre productions and all the cast came along. Otherwise I’ve only seen her at the Grace Darling.’ He stood up to face Ramsay. ‘John isn’t involved in all this,’ he said. ‘ He has too much to lose.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ramsay said. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’ But he did not meet Powell’s eyes and his attention seemed to be elsewhere.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In the Incident Room at Hallowgate police station Hunter was bored and frustrated. Any junior officer could have undertaken the routine chore of checking Gus Lynch’s finances and it was turning out to be more time consuming than he had expected. He wanted to be out on the street, feeling he was getting somewhere. Besides, he was convinced it was all a waste of time. Gus Lynch was a television star. If anyone could afford a spanking new flat down on the Fish Quay it would be him.

  When Ramsay came into the Incident Room Hunter was defensive. He wished he had more information to pass on.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’ve nothing for you yet. I’m waiting for some people to call me back.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Ramsay was surprisingly calm. All around him was the noise and bustle of people who wanted to prove to a superior that they were busy but he took no notice. ‘I’ll find someone else to do that. I want you to organize a surveillance team. On the Pastons. I want to know who comes to the house. That’s all.’

  ‘Why?’ Hunter demanded. ‘ What have they been up to?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Ramsay said. ‘But people on the estate are frightened of them. I want to know why.’

  ‘Is that all?’ What have you got? Hunter thought. You lucky bastard. You’re on to something. I can tell.

  ‘Yes.’ Ramsay shrugged. Humour me, he implied. ‘It’s a hunch, I suppose,’ he said. ‘It’s worth a try for a day.’

  ‘Of course,’ Hunter said. Anything was better than hours in the office.

  ‘You’ll need to be discreet,’ Ramsay said. ‘It’s a quiet street. Any unusual vehicle would be noticed. Don’t park directly outside the house. It’s a culde-sac, so you’ll see anyone approaching from a distance. Any ideas?’

  ‘I’ll get hold of a council van,’ Hunter said. ‘After the disturbances the council sent dozens of officers to assess the damage. No sign of any work being done yet, but you see those red vans parked on every street corner.’

  ‘Fine,’ Ramsay said absently. ‘Choose your own team.’

  ‘I’ll be off then,’ Hunter said. He felt a wonderful sense of freedom. This was how villains must feel when they were given bail.

  Ramsay took over the investigation of Lynch’s finances. The task, methodical and detailed, relaxed him. It was easier at least than being out on the streets confronting people like Gary Barrass and his mother. And as he worked throughout the afternoon he became convinced that he was on to something, and that the information he gathered in tidy piles on his desk was significant.

  He went off as often as he could to the top and his politeness and respect combined with his air of authority usually persuaded the people he spoke to that they should help him. From the Director of Finance of Hallowgate Borough Council he learned that Lynch had been in arrears with his community charge two years previously. A summons had been sent and there had been one court appearance. Almost immediately afterwards the debt had been paid in full. The records of the North-East Electricity Board and Northern Gas showed a similar pattern—Lynch had ignored final demands and threats of disconnection and then on the same date had paid up. At around the same time he had miraculously found enough money to put a deposit on the flat at Chandler’s Court.

  Ramsay thought at first that Lynch’s failure to pay his bills might be the result of carelessness, absentmindedness. He was an actor, an artist. Would he consider the settlement of such routine debt as unimportant? But the coincidence was too strong and he began to wonder about the source of the dramatic and timely windfall.

  He phoned Prue Bennett at the Grace Darling Centre and made discreet enquiries about the pattern of Lynch’s work. She had been his assistant for three years. During that time had he undertaken any outside work? A television part perhaps or an advertisement?

  She was bewildered and slightly hostile but answered as accurately as she could.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘ I don’t think so. He’s appeared on television during that time of course but as a representative of the Grace Darling, talking about forthcoming productions or as a contributor to a discussion show on the arts.’

  ‘And neither of those would have been particularly lucrative?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought so. I suppose there would be an appearance fee and expenses but we’re only talking about local television, not the South Bank Show. What is all this about?’

  ‘Oh,’ Ramsay said vaguely, ‘it’s probably not important. Just routine. You know.’r />
  ‘No,’ she replied tartly. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘ when all this is over perhaps you’d let me explain…’

  There was a discouraging silence at the end of the telephone. At last she relented. ‘I have some news about Gus which might interest you,’ she said. ‘A news release has gone to the press today so you’ll hear about it soon anyway. He’s leaving the Grace Darling in the new year. He’s going to be artistic director of a theatre in the West Country. It’s quite a step up for him actually, after running a community project like this. He’s horribly pleased with himself.’

  So, Ramsay thought, there was another interesting coincidence: Lynch had decided to leave the Grace Darling immediately after the deputy chairwoman of trustees had been murdered. But could it have any real significance? The move must have been planned months before. It could hardly have been triggered by Amelia Wood’s death. Then it occurred to him that Lynch’s resignation might have been the subject of his conversation with Amelia Wood on the night that Gabriella Paston’s body was found. If so, why had he been so secretive about it in the interview? He could surely have trusted the police not to release the news of his resignation until he was ready to make the move public. Ramsay made a cup of strong black coffee and sat in the gloomy office to drink it, allowing different ideas to connect in his mind until he had come up with a theory.

  He phoned the Woods’ home in Martin’s Dene but there was no reply so he dialled Dennis Wood’s business number. A breathy young receptionist said: ‘How may I help you?’ and ‘Please hold,’ then a computer played a tuneless jingle in his ear as he waited. The synthesized music irritated him so intensely that he was about to replace the receiver when Wood’s voice came on quite suddenly.

  ‘Inspector,’ he said. ‘ What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m interested in any records Mrs Wood might have kept on the Grace Darling Centre. Presumably she had minutes of trustees’ meetings, copies of accounts, that sort of thing. Where would I find them?’

  ‘In her office at home. She had a filing system which would put any business to shame. Look, I’m not expecting to be home until later but you’ve still got a key. Why don’t you help yourself?’

  So in the late afternoon Ramsay drove to Martin’s Dene. He slowed down in the village past the Georgian terrace inhabited mostly now by university lecturers from Newcastle and past the Holly Tree restaurant where two businessmen were emerging from a late lunch. St Martin’s Close was quiet. The big houses were set well back from the trees. He thought it was not surprising that none of the residents had seen a strange car in the street on the evening of Amelia’s death.

  He let himself into the house and switched off the alarm. The dog, apparently shut up in the kitchen, began to bark but again the houses were too far apart for any neighbours to hear and worry about intruders. Eventually the animal lapsed into an exhausted silence. The study was a pleasant square room at the side of the house. Along one wall was a set of filing cabinets and it seemed that, as Wood had said, Amelia’s record keeping had been meticulous. A three-drawer cabinet was given over entirely to the affairs of the Grace Darling Centre and Ramsay began at the top and worked his way carefully through the envelope files contained there.

  Copies of the minutes of trustees’ meetings went back to the opening of the Centre. Amelia, apparently, had been on the steering committee which lobbied for its formation and began the unending business of fund-raising. In none of the meetings, however, had there been any discussion about Lynch in relation to financial matters. If Amelia had any suspicions about his integrity she had kept them to herself. Next came a bundle of copy letters sent out to local businesses asking for sponsorship of the Arts Centre. It seemed that Amelia had experimented with the format of the letter and had made a note of the different levels of response to each one. Ramsay wondered how many other local charities would be equally efficient and if Lynch had been aware of the degree of detailed interest that Amelia had taken in the finances of the scheme.

  About three years previously the borough council had cut its grant to the Centre. The council had been threatened with poll-tax capping and the Community Arts fund had been chopped in half. Amelia had been put in charge of a special fund-raising exercise for the Grace Darling, an attempt to replace the missing grant. She had kept a list of the sponsorship she had achieved during that time. The sums were substantial and had totalled more than fifty thousand pounds. Amelia had been a persuasive woman.

  Pinned to the back of the word-processed list of sponsors was a bank statement covering the period of fund-raising. Amelia had ticked off each entry as it appeared on the statement but it seemed that one of the sponsors had failed to meet its commitment to the Centre, or at least that its cheque had not been paid into the bank. A company called Northumbria Computing had pledged ten thousand pounds over two years but there was no record of the amount on the bank statement. Amelia had obviously seen the omission because beside the company’s name on the list was a large question mark.

  Ramsay allowed himself a moment’s self-congratulation. He must be right. The theory devised in his office was almost proved. He was convinced that a fraud had taken place.

  Then he began to wonder how it had been done. Surely Northumbria Computing would have made its cheque payable to the Grace Darling Centre, not to Gus Lynch personally. How then had he managed to get his hands on the money? And if Amelia Wood had realized that he had stolen from the trust, why hadn’t she taken steps to bring the matter to light? If she had taken her suspicions to an auditor he would discover immediately what had happened to the money. Ramsay could understand that a charity like the Grace Darling would want to avoid damaging publicity but there were ways to deal with the thing discreetly. He had seen it done before.

  When Prue Bennett left her office at six o’clock she came across Ramsay in the lobby, leaning on Joe Fenwick’s desk, chatting to the porter as if they were old friends. It was clear that he was waiting for her, and she did not know what to make of it. She had persuaded herself that she rather despised him. There was something grubby and unpleasant about his prying into other people’s business. Yet now she found his presence reassuring.

  ‘I’m glad to have bumped into you,’ he said, as if the meeting had been quite by chance. ‘ There are one or two questions I need to clear up.’

  ‘I can’t stop now,’ Prue said. ‘Anna will be expecting me. We’ve hardly seen each other in the last few days.’

  ‘Perhaps I could come back with you,’ he said, ‘if it wouldn’t be too much of an intrusion.’

  She would have liked to assert her authority, to tell him to get lost, but she couldn’t quite manage it. She was curious and it was hard to see him now as the sleazy detective she had long imagined. Most of her friends were younger, people she’d met through the theatre. They were enthusiastic, passionate, changing their philosophies to suit the latest trend. They were fun. Ramsay’s solidness and constancy was different and attractive.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t be an intrusion.’

  She wondered if she should invite him for a meal then thought that might cause him embarrassment. Perhaps there was some rule preventing policemen eating with the murder suspects. There should be.

  He followed her up the dual-carriageway to Otterbridge in his own car. She saw his headlights in her mirror and though she usually drove home far too fast she maintained the regulation 60 m.p.h. Is this what it would be like? she thought. Living with a policeman? Having to keep all the rules. Could I stand it?

  In the house the lights were on and as usual she called up the stairs to Anna. Ramsay followed her through to the kitchen where she automatically switched on the kettle then took a tin from the fridge to feed the cat. Anna wandered in ten minutes later, poured herself a mug of tea and went away without a word.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ramsay said. ‘You wanted some time together.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Prue said. ‘ She’s not communicat
ing much anyway. I think she’s in love.’

  ‘Who’s the subject of her affection?’

  ‘John Powell. He took her out last night.’ She smiled, making a joke of her unease. ‘You policemen can’t be badly paid,’ she said. ‘He brought her home in a very smart new Polo. His mother’s apparently. My car’s fifteen years old and held together with string.’

  ‘It’s about money that I want to talk to you,’ he said.

  He had intended to stick to a story that his enquiries into the Grace Darling finances were a matter of routine police work, but she was too intelligent to believe that. Even after all these years she knew him too well. He saw that the only way to obtain her co-operation was to tell her the truth.

  ‘I think Gus Lynch might have been stealing from the Arts Centre,’ he said. ‘ Had you ever suspected anything like that?’

  She shook her head. ‘But I’d have no way of knowing,’ she said.

  ‘Amelia Wood had a bank statement which seems to show that any payment to the Grace Darling—grants from the local authority and money from sponsors—was put on deposit and transferred into the current account when it was needed.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s right. I was joint signatory to both accounts.’

  ‘Presumably each year the trustees would appoint an auditor to go through the books and make sure that any cheque from either account had a legitimate purpose. You had to keep receipts?’

  She nodded. ‘ Of course.’

  ‘I want to know if there was another account,’ he said quietly.

  ‘A secret account that the trustees didn’t know about and the auditors never got to see.’

  She blushed. ‘There was nothing dishonest in that,’ she said defensively. ‘ Gus started it soon after I arrived. There’d been a fuss about the expenses he claimed after a Youth Theatre production which we took to the Berwick Festival. He’d hired a minibus. The trustees said he should have charged the parents for the transport cost and that in future he should consult them before making a similar gesture. He was furious and said he wasn’t going to them every time he needed five pounds from the petty cash. They should trust him. He’d given up enough to come and work for them.’