by Ann Cleeves
She stood up and Ramsay saw a thin woman with high cheekbones and intense grey eyes. She said nothing and he was surprised. He would have expected Evan’s wife to be more conventional, more restful.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said. ‘I was hoping to talk to your son.’
‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘What do you think he’s done?’
‘Nothing,’ Evan intervened reassuringly. ‘What would he have done? It’s all a matter of routine. That’s right, isn’t it?’
Ramsay said nothing.
‘You won’t mind if I get on,’ Evan said. He was in the middle of preparing a meal. On the table was a chopping board laid out with green chillies, peppers, an aubergine, root ginger. There were jars of spices and Madhur Jaffrey’s Indian Cookery was propped open against the garam masala. ‘I always do a curry on Friday night if I’m not working, don’t I, love?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. Ramsay recognized the irony in her voice but Evan seemed not to notice. ‘ It’s always curry on Friday.’
‘Why don’t you stop and have a meal with us,’ he said. ‘It can’t be much fun having to fend for yourself. John’ll be back soon. You can talk to him then.’
‘No, thank you,’ Ramsay said. ‘ It’s very kind, but I don’t think so.’
‘Can we help you, then?’ Evan said.
‘Yes,’ Ramsay said. ‘ Perhaps you can. Does John have any friends who live on the Starling Farm estate?’
‘I expect so,’ Evan said. ‘ Kids from there go to the sixth form college. We don’t encourage it but you can’t choose their friends for them.’
‘Was he on the Starling Farm yesterday afternoon?’
‘He might have been. After school. He wouldn’t tell us. He’d know we’d disapprove.’
‘He used to hang around with Connor,’ Jackie said. ‘He works at the Community Centre. John might have gone there to see him.’
‘Connor?’ Ramsay asked.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know his second name. They were at first school together.’
‘No,’ Ramsay said. ‘ I don’t think John went to the Community Centre. He was seen coming out of the Pastons’ house.’
‘Don’t be daft!’ Evan said. ‘What would he have been doing there? Someone’s trying to wind you up. To get back at me.’
Ramsay did not answer. Something had been troubling him since he had come to the house at Barton Hill, an inconsistency which had been niggling at his subconscious throughout the exchange with Evan Powell.
‘Is that your car on the drive, Mrs Powell?’ he asked abruptly.
‘The Renault? Yes. Evan keeps his car in the garage. Why?’
‘Did you loan your car to your son on the evening before last?’
‘No. He might have taken it, though. He knows he can use it whenever he likes. That’s not a crime.’ But she was uneasy.
‘You didn’t use it then?’
‘I might have done,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember. Was that the night I was babysitting?’
She turned to her husband but he shook his head. ‘I don’t know, I was at work on Wednesday.’ Even as he spoke he watched Ramsay, trying to judge where the questions were leading.
The inspector ignored Evan’s stare and continued with his questions to Jackie.
‘You don’t own a red Volkswagen Polo?’
‘Of course not!’ She was losing patience. ‘What would I want with two cars?’
‘I think,’ Evan said, ‘you’d better explain what this is about.’
‘On Wednesday night John was driving a red Volkswagen Polo,’ Ramsay said. ‘ He claimed it was yours, Mrs Powell.’
‘What business is it of yours what John was driving on Wednesday?’ Evan said. Concern had made him angry. ‘And how do you know he was on the Starling Farm yesterday? Are you following him? What gave you the right to do that?’
His hands were shaking and he could hardly control his temper. ‘I didn’t think you used that sort of tactic, Stephen. I didn’t think that was your style of policing. Harassing young kids.’
‘There’s no question of harassment,’ Ramsay said. He was hating this confrontation. He was tempted to apologize and leave, to take the superintendent’s advice and give himself a break. ‘The information came up on the course of routine enquiries.’ He paused. As in the conversation with Mrs Barrass he knew it would be impossible to convince Evan that he wanted to help. He would have to let the facts speak for themselves.
‘We suspect the Pastons of trading in stolen goods,’ he said. ‘ John was one of a number of young people seen going to the house during a surveillance operation. There must be some suspicion that the car he was driving on Wednesday was stolen.’
‘No!’ Evan shouted. ‘ You must be mad? Why would he do something like that?’
Ramsay ignored the outburst and continued calmly: ‘If your son is on the fringe of illegal activity on the Starling Farm estate it wouldn’t be so terrible. He’d be prosecuted, of course. You’d not want any special treatment for him. But we’re most concerned with the murder. He’s a first offender. He’d get probation, community service, specially if he gave himself up. It wouldn’t need to interrupt his education. But don’t you see? If he doesn’t explain his part in it now, there’s a danger that he could get mixed in the murder investigation. None of us want that.’
‘No,’ Evan bellowed again. ‘I’ll not accept it.’ He sat at the table with his head in his hands then began again, more reasonably: ‘Have you any evidence that the Polo was stolen?’
Ramsay shook his head. ‘The significance didn’t occur to me until I saw your wife’s car on the drive.’
‘Then he could have borrowed it from a friend, anything. The least you could do is check that a similar vehicle had been reported missing before you come here making accusations. Without that you’ve nothing to go on.’
‘Of course I’ll check,’ Ramsay said. He stood up. ‘ But you will talk to John,’ he said. ‘If he’s involved in any way he should tell us. You can call me at home over the weekend if you don’t want to take him in to the station.’
‘I’ll talk to him,’ Evan said. ‘ But don’t expect to hear from me. You’ve made some mistakes in your career, Ramsay, but none as big as this.’
And with the hint of that threat between them Ramsay left.
Outside it was still raining. Ramsay ran from the house to the car, but put his foot in the gutter and still managed to get wet. In the doorway Evan stood and watched until he drove off. Ramsay was in his own car and switched on the radio and tuned to The Archers, hoping that the rural fantasy would distract him, at least for a while, from his sense of failure. But he could not concentrate and in the end he drove in silence back to the police station.
He thought he had achieved none of the objectives the superintendent had set him. He had alienated Evan Powell without coming to any conclusion about John’s role in the car thefts. He still did not know the extent of Evan’s knowledge—was he protecting his son? It had been foolish and ill thought-out to ask about Mrs Powell’s car. If course he should have found out first if a Polo had been stolen. If he had gained anything positive from the interview it was a firm belief that Evan was innocent of any part in the murders. His hostility had been on his son’s behalf. He had no personal fear, no idea even that his integrity was being questioned.
The police station was quiet. There was a smell of damp which reminded Ramsay as he entered of an empty school changing-room. The walls ran with condensation and everywhere was too hot. The people who remained in the Incident Room were tense and expectant. Friday night was busy in the town—all the recent disturbances had taken place at the weekend. Everyone who could be spared was out on the street. For a moment Ramsay wished that he was one of them, sharing the camaraderie of the relief, with no responsibility except to do as he was told.
Hunter was still in the Incident Room. His desire to get a search warrant for the Pastons’ house was stronger than his dislike of p
aperwork. He was going through the details of young people convicted of auto-crime, matching the descriptions with the visitors he had seen going to the house on the previous day. Besides, he wanted to be around if something exciting happened. Something like arson or riot. Hunter had a very low boredom threshold and he was prepared to sacrifice a night out with the lads for a chance like that.
‘Can you do something for me?’ Ramsay said. ‘Find out if a Volkswagen Polo was reported stolen in the last few days. Red. J Reg. I haven’t got the number.’
‘Is it relevant to the murders?’
‘Probably not.’
He went to his office, watched the rain on the window and brooded. Hunter knocked on the door.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No car of that description’s been reported stolen.’
So, Ramsay thought. Evan was right. He had no evidence against John. That did not mean of course that the car had not been stolen. It could have been replaced in the street without the owner realizing it had gone. The record of the theft could be lost, the owner away on holiday. But it meant they could take no further action. At least until after the weekend. It meant that he could go home and get quietly drunk.
Hunter was on his way out of the office when he stopped. ‘I forgot to tell you,’ he said. ‘You had a phone call when you were out. From Joe Fenwick, that security man at the Arts Centre. He wants to talk to you. I offered to go but I wouldn’t do apparently. He said he’d be at home at his flat in Anchor Street. I told him you’d probably not get to see him tonight but he said he’d wait in anyway.’
‘I think I’d better go,’ Ramsay said. He liked Fenwick. He didn’t want him to wait in all evening hoping for a visit. Hunter shrugged and went back to the control room, to listen for news coming in from the town.
Ramsay put on the overcoat, which was still wet, and went out. The streets were quiet but it was early, not nine o’clock, and any troublemakers would need a few pints inside them before facing the rain.
So, instead of getting drunk at home, he found himself sitting in the steaming basement flat in Anchor Street, listening to Joe’s stories of his life in the ring. They drank whisky together and Ramsay made no attempt to hurry the old man. He realized it wouldn’t come easy to him to tell tales. When he left the flat at eleven o’clock there was a fire on the horizon and all the cranes along the river stood out in silhouette against the flames.
Chapter Sixteen
The weekend passed in an uneasy peace. There were occasional disturbances which would probably have passed unnoticed if the situation had been less tense. The fire Ramsay had seen on Friday night was in a derelict warehouse close to the river. The arson looked dramatic but the damage was limited. It was rumoured that some lads from the Starling Farm had been paid by the owner to set the place alight. It was well insured and he was planning to redevelop the site with a retail park.
On Saturday afternoon Newcastle United lost 3-1 to Bristol Rovers at St James’s Park after a scrappy and uninspired game. The fans were frustrated and angry and there were scuffles at the metro station as they left. The only casualty was a student from the West Country who was jostled and lost his footing when a group of supporters heard his accent. He had not even attended the match and his injuries were superficial. The incident would have been ignored during a normal weekend but the police moved in quickly to break up the crowd and move the boy to safety.
On Sunday, in the early evening, the joy riders returned to the Starling Farm. There was more racing in the street and a spectacular show of hand-brake turns performed to the audience who had been charged a pound each for a grandstand view. The police waited for the crowd to disperse before moving in, thinking that there would be little resistance if the spectators had had their money’s worth. The episode ended in good humour and the policemen on the ground began to think that the worst of the tension was over.
Ramsay followed the developments at a distance. On Saturday morning he drove to Hallowgate police station and haunted the Incident Room, waiting for news. Still no witnesses had come forward to confirm that Gabriella Paston had actually arrived at Martin’s Dene, despite a piece in the Journal and on local television.
‘Sorry, sir,’ a young woman DC said. ‘It’s as if she disappeared.’
‘And Lynch’s car? The blue Volvo. Did anyone see that?’
The policewoman shrugged. One witness thinks she saw a blue saloon parked on the edge of the hill that day—at the layby where one of the footpaths begins.’ She tapped into the computer. ‘Her name’s Hilda Wilkinson. I’m not sure how reliable she’ll be. She’s an elderly lady who was walking her dog and she seems pretty absentminded. She can’t tell us the make of the vehicle, never mind the age or registration number.’
‘Go and talk to her again,’ Ramsay said. ‘ Why would she remember a car? She probably doesn’t drive and it would have no interest for her. But she might remember someone she met on the hill. If she’s a local she might know if it was a stranger. She might even have tried to engage them in conversation. Don’t put ideas into her head but if she comes up with a description like this let me know immediately…’ He spoke quickly and precisely and watched as the DC wrote in her notebook.
Ramsay went to the CID room and then to the canteen to look for Evan Powell. He needed to re-establish contact. There were still questions to be asked and after the conversation with Joe Fenwick the questions had become more urgent, but he was told by a colleague that Powell had taken the weekend off too. Ramsay tried to phone him at home several times but there was no reply. At lunch time he decided he might as well be at home.
He worked the afternoon in the garden, leaving the kitchen window open so he would hear the phone if it rang. The rain had stopped but the air was misty and damp. He raked dead leaves from the lawn and as he moved rhythmically across the grass the unformed ideas which had disturbed him throughout the investigation grew more substantial. The theory which had seemed possible the evening before now seemed probable, but he felt none of the satisfaction which usually marked the approaching end of the case. He thought he knew what happened but many of the details were still unclear and he took no pleasure in it.
By four o’clock all the light had gone and he went inside. He took a basket of laundry into the living room and ironed shirts as he watched the football results come through on the television. He had no interest in sport but still felt a tribal allegiance to the team his family had supported since he was a child and there was an irrational disappointment when he learned they had lost.
He wondered what his mother would think if she could see him. When Diana had divorced him Mrs Ramsay had wanted her son to move back home so she could care for him properly. His room was still ready for him. She thought it inconceivable that a man could fend for himself. He couldn’t tell her that Diana had never ironed a shirt in their married life, that he had usually been the one to cook, that he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. When he had moved to the cottage in Heppleburn, without actually lying he allowed his mother to gain the impression that he employed a woman from the village to help in the house. At least that had put a stop to the phone calls inviting him for meals and the requests for bags of dirty washing. He enjoyed living on his own and he told himself it would be impossible for him to adjust now to anything different. But the evening seemed long and he felt that something was missing.
On Sunday morning he woke early and phoned the police station, where the DC who had taken the first statement from Hilda Wilkinson was still on duty.
‘Did you talk to her?’ he asked. He needed proof and at present this was the most he had.
‘Sorry, sir. I called at her house but there was no reply. A neighbour said she’d gone away for the weekend to stay with her daughter in the Lakes. She’ll not be back until Monday. Do you want me to try and get a phone number for her?’
‘No,’ he said. Some old people disliked the phone, felt flustered by it. ‘Wait until tomorrow then. Talk to her in her own home. She’ll be mo
re relaxed there.’
In a sense he welcomed the delay. It put off the time when he would have to commit himself, have to say: ‘I believe this person is a murderer.’ It gave him time to collect his ideas.
At lunch time Hunter called at the cottage in Heppleburn. He stood on the doorstep, his hands thrust deep in his jacket pockets.
‘I thought you might fancy a drink,’ he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to be there. ‘It’s all very well the boss saying to take a break but I can’t settle to anything while this is still up in the air.’
Ramsay knew that this was no social call. It had never happened before and Hunter had dozens of drinking companions he would choose before the Inspector. They walked slowly through the quiet village to the Northumberland Arms and found a seat in a corner. The pub was busy, full of men enjoying a pint before their Sunday lunch. Hunter got in the first round and Ramsay realized he must want something.
It soon became clear that he was there to lobby for support. He wanted the Pastons’ house searched. ‘I’ve been through the records of every lad in North Tyneside convicted of an auto-crime in the last three years,’ he said. ‘I’m sure that at least six of the boys who went into that house on Thursday have been done for taking without consent. I’ve the list of names here.’
‘If you took a random sample of kids you bumped into on the street in the Starling Farm you’d probably come up with the same result,’ Ramsay said mildly.
‘But you will support me?’ Hunter demanded. ‘There’s been no real bother on the estate this weekend.’
Ramsay shrugged and went to the bar for another drink. He supposed it would do no harm. He had to keep his options open.
‘Well?’ Hunter said.
‘I think it would be useful to know what’s going on there,’ Ramsay said cautiously.
That was good enough for Hunter. Having got what he came for he bolted his pint and left, saying his mam would be keeping his dinner for him. Ramsay remained in the pub on his own until closing time. The afternoon stretched ahead of him, empty and uninviting.
