by Ann Cleeves
‘You were telling me how you get rid of the stuff,’ Hunter said.
‘Was I?’ She was teasing him, pleased by his interest. ‘ Perhaps I’ll let you work that one out for yourself. We don’t want to make it too easy for you.’
‘You’ll stop mucking me about,’ he said.
‘I run a sort of franchise,’ she said proudly, not intimidated in the least. She had wanted to tell him anyway. ‘I suppose that’s what you’d call it. I have agents who do the selling for me. I take a commission.’
‘That bloke who was in court on the afternoon Mrs Wood died,’ Hunter said. ‘Tommy Shiels. Was he one of your agents?’
She nodded. ‘Not one of the best, though, hinnie. You mustn’t think I only deal with the losers.’
‘At least he kept his mouth shut,’ Hunter said. ‘He never let on he was working for you.’
‘Oh, they all keep their mouths shut, hinnie,’ she said. ‘ They know that some of my friends are…unpredictable.’ She touched his arm again with her thick soft fingers. ‘ You might not believe this, but they’re frightened of me!’
She seemed to find the idea hilarious and burst into laughter, rocking backwards and forwards. Hunter, watching her felt suddenly sick and chill. Like Ramsay he could believe her capable of anything.
Before he could settle to the investigation Ramsay phoned Prue Bennett at the Grace Darling Centre. The disappearance of Anna disturbed him, nagged at his subconscious all day. He did not see how she could be in real danger but knew that he would always blame himself if anything happened to her. Prue had been determined to go in to work and had left Otterbridge at her usual time. If she stayed at home she’d just mope, she said. She needed to keep busy. Anna would know where to find her.
‘Any news?’ he said.
‘Yes. I was just going to ring you.’ She sounded almost drunk with relief. ‘ She phoned in to say she was all right.’
‘Where is she?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. She wouldn’t speak to me. Her pride, I suppose. Or she’d think I’d just make a fuss, get cross. She left a message with Joe.’
‘What exactly did she say?’
‘That she was sorry to have worried me, she was fine, and she’d be at the rehearsal tonight. She’d explain it all then.’
Ramsay said nothing.
‘Stephen,’ she said, perhaps sensing his disquiet. ‘You don’t think anything’s wrong, do you? She is going to turn up this evening, full of the adventure?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course she is.’ There was no point in frightening her.
But as soon as she had replaced the phone he dialled again and spoke to Joe Fenwick.
‘That message you took for Miss Bennett this morning,’ he said. ‘You are sure it was Anna on the phone?’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘ For sure. I knew it was her before she gave her name. There’s not much of the Geordie in her voice, y’knaa, and it’s very quiet. I’d recognize it anywhere.’
Ramsay replaced the receiver slowly. He hoped to God she was safe.
In the neat terraced house on Martin’s Dene Front Street Hilda Wilkinson made tea for the pleasant policewoman who had come to talk to her. Hilda Wilkinson was a widow, spry, independent, energetic. She had just returned from her daughter’s and was full of the trip. She had enjoyed her weekend in the Lakes, she said, despite the weather. She still managed a good tramp across the fells.
‘It’s about the car you saw last Monday,’ the young detective said. ‘Can you tell us anything more about it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Wilkinson said. It was only mid-afternoon but the windows of the cottage were small and the light was already beginning to fade. The lights were on and she had just lit a fire in the grate. ‘It was about two o’clock, I know that, and it’s unusual to see cars parked there during the week. At weekends it’s different of course. But there was nothing really to catch my interest.’
She poured tea into pretty china cups and handed one to her visitor.
‘Did you see anyone out on the hill while you were walking your dog?’
‘Not the young girl who was killed,’ Mrs Wilkinson said. ‘I saw a photo of her in the paper and a description of her clothes. I’ve rather a good memory, you know, almost photographic despite my age, and if I’d seen her I’d remember.’
‘But was there anyone else?’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Wilkinson sat very still. She wanted to test her memory. She was quite confident in her own ability.
‘It was very foggy,’ she said. ‘In the morning it had been sunny but by lunch time the mist started to come in from the sea. I didn’t go very far. I’m not a nervous person but it wasn’t pleasant there…’ She paused. ‘ There was a young mother,’ she said, ‘ with a child in a pushchair. I almost bumped into her, the fog was so thick. The baby wasn’t wearing gloves and I thought it was so irresponsible. His hands must have been freezing. I almost said something but she hurried away.’
‘Anyone else?’ The policewoman looked out of the window. She supposed the inspector must know what he was doing but this seemed a waste of time. She nibbled a piece of shortbread, stretched her hand towards the fire, and thought she might as well make the most of the rest. It had been a busy weekend.
‘There was Eleanor Darcy,’ the old woman said, ‘but I don’t suppose you’ll be interested in her. She walks on the hill every afternoon. She’ll not have remembered anything. She’s rather confused, poor dear. Still on the committee of the WI but not really up to it, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ll take her address,’ the policewoman said. ‘Just in case.’ She jotted the information in her notebook and stood to go.
‘Wait a minute!’ Mrs Wilkinson said. She was suddenly excited. ‘There was someone else. Not actually on the hill but on the road close to where the car was parked. Now, let me think…’ She shut her eyes and then began a detailed description which tallied almost exactly with that given to the policewoman by Stephen Ramsay the day before.
Chapter Eighteen
By early evening the news of the Pastons’ arrest had spread over the Starling Farm estate. Neighbours who hadn’t seen Alma Paston in the open air for years described her departure in the police car.
‘Man, you’d have thought she was the Queen, waving and bowing. Ellen held an umbrella over her so she’d not get wet. And the size of her! They tried to squeeze her into the back of the car but she wouldn’t fit and in the end she had to go in the front beside the driver.’
It started as good-natured gossip. There was little resentment. Most of the people in the street had guessed what the Pastons had been up to and thought they had been lucky to get away with it for so long. They’d had a good run for their money, the neighbours said. You couldn’t blame the police for doing their job. Alma Paston had never been popular. They were too frightened of her.
It got nasty later. When the trouble was over they blamed Connor for that. He’d always been a hot-head, a firebrand. They’d never taken him seriously but he had too much influence over the kids. They could only guess at his motive for stirring up resentment. Perhaps it was political. He was always talking about the revolution. Perhaps he believed it would finally start on the Starling Farm estate. Or perhaps he had his own personal reason for wanting to cause trouble for the police—he had always been close to Alma Paston and had supported himself for years by supplying her with stolen goods. Whatever his motive, everyone agreed that without Connor the evening would have ended quietly. It was a cold and wet Monday evening—not the night for taking to the streets. It took Connor’s rhetoric to start the kids off.
He got the news in the Community Centre on the Starling Farm in the afternoon. A boy who had bunked off school to play pool passed on the information almost casually, as if it were a joke.
‘Old Ma Paston’s been arrested!’ he said. ‘ The cops took her away at dinner time.’
It was Connor who called the arrest harassment. He made the unemployed teenagers switch off the music
and stood in the middle of the Games Room lecturing them.
What right did the police have, he said, to take the two ladies from their home? What harm could they be doing? How would they feel, he demanded of his audience, if the police came and dragged their grans into the police station for questioning? It was a vendetta against the Paston family, he said earnestly. Robbie was dead, Gabby was dead, and now Ellen and Alma were in custody. He was so eloquent that the boys almost believed that the police were responsible for Gabriella Paston’s death.
‘It’s Evan Powell,’ he said at the end. ‘He’s behind it. He’s never liked the Pastons or the Starling Farm estate.’
‘What are we going to do about it then, Connor?’ one of the lads asked.
‘We’ll show them,’ he said, ‘who’s in charge here.’
At the police station Alma Paston was remarkably frank despite the tape-recorder and the policewoman sat in the corner. Ellen seemed so confused and frightened that she was almost incoherent and Hunter soon gave up on her. He’d never been known for his patience. But Alma told them everything they wanted to know. Ramsay sat in on the interview and watched her dominate the conversation.
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I can give you names. It was John Powell, hinnie. He brought in most of the stuff and he was behind the ram raids too.’ She repeated the boy’s name at every opportunity like a talisman or a chant, looking at the machine on the table as she spoke to make sure it was recording.
Later Ramsay sought out Evan Powell to tell him of the allegations made against his son.
‘I tried to phone you yesterday,’ he said at first. ‘You must have been away.’
‘Yes,’ Evan said. ‘ Jackie’s been off-colour lately. I thought we could do with a weekend on our own. I took her to a place we know in the dales.’
So the house had been free for John and Anna, Ramsay thought, but he said nothing. The boy’s illicit night of love-making with a girlfriend hardly compared with the other things Evan would have to accept. Evan looked tired and drawn and Ramsay thought that the weekend could not have lived up to expectations. He had expected a romantic second honeymoon and had been disappointed.
‘How can I help you?’ Evan said. He spoke warily but without hostility. Perhaps he thought Ramsay was there to apologize for the bad feeling between them on Friday night.
‘Hunter arrested Alma and Ellen Paston this morning. Their house is full of stolen goods. Apparently they’ve been dealing for years.’
‘Why are you telling me?’ Evan said, though he must have guessed what it was all about.
‘Their statement implicates John.’
‘No!’ Evan cried. He leaned forward across his desk. ‘Don’t you see? It’s their way of revenge. They’re lying to pay me back for Robbie’s death.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Ramsay said. ‘It was revenge of a sort. They encouraged John to get involved. They knew that would hurt you more than anything. But he was there. Hunter saw him. And he was seen by Joe Fenwick in Anchor Street on the night of the Co-op ram raid driving a car similar to that used by the thieves.’
‘That’s impossible,’ Evan said. ‘ He was home all night.’
‘Are you sure?’ Ramsay said. ‘ Couldn’t he have left the house without your knowing?’
Evan said nothing.
‘We’ll have to talk to him,’ Ramsay said. ‘You do realize that? Have you seen him today?’
Evan shook his head. ‘He’d left for school before we got home.’
‘He’s not in school,’ Ramsay said. ‘ We’ve checked.’
The news that John was absent from school seemed to affect Evan more than the possibility of his arrest. He had put all his faith in his son’s academic success. He saw it as a passport to a brilliant future. Now he put his head in his hands and shut his eyes. All the fight had left him.
‘He’ll be at the rehearsal at the Grace Darling tonight,’ he said. ‘If you don’t pick him up during the day you’ll find him there. Whatever happens he’d not miss that.’
‘You don’t know what plans John had for the weekend?’ Ramsay asked. ‘Did he mention a party? Friends he might visit?’
Evan shook his head. ‘He told me he’d be working,’ he said. ‘And fool that I am, I believed him.’
‘Yes,’ Ramsay said. ‘I see.’ He would have liked to offer some comfort to Evan but knew that kind words would only make things worse. ‘I’ll check at your house first,’ he said. ‘Just to make sure John’s not gone back there. You don’t mind?’
‘No,’ Evan said. ‘I’d be pleased. You can talk to Jackie. She might know where he is.’ He paused. ‘I’d rather she heard about all this from you than from the press.’
‘You could come with me,’ Ramsay said. ‘Take some time off to be with her.’
‘No,’ Evan said. ‘I can’t face her. Not yet. I’d lose my temper. Say things I’d regret.’ He looked up at Ramsay. ‘You will go yourself?’ he said. ‘ I’d not trust anyone else.’
Ramsay nodded but when he got to Barton Hill the house was empty and there was no reply when he knocked at the door.
Over the weekend Gus Lynch thought with relief that at last Jackie was getting the message that their affair was over. During the week following Gabby Paston’s death there had been no peace from her. She had phoned him almost continually. At home he had switched the telephone to the answering machine and at work he refused to take her calls. Joe Fenwick was usually on the switchboard and had come to recognize her voice. She never gave her name.
‘It’s that woman again,’ he would say.
‘Tell her I’m busy,’ Gus would shriek. He thought she was mad. She would ruin everything. ‘Tell her I’m in a meeting and I can’t be disturbed.’
‘She won’t believe you’re still in a meeting.’
‘I don’t care what she believes.’
On Wednesday night she had come to his flat. He had seen her car pull up in the street below and had switched off all the lights and bolted the door so even though she had a key she could not get in. She must have known that he was there because she stood on the wooden steps in full view of the street banging on the door and shouting through the letterbox, threatening to tell his secrets to the trustees, the press, the whole bloody world. He had stood in the kitchen, out of her view, shaking, thinking how easy it would be to let her in and keep her quiet for good.
Then, over the weekend everything went quiet. There were no calls from her on his answerphone, no sight of her car parked on the quay. On Sunday morning when he went into Hallowgate to buy the papers he felt that at last the worst was over. For the first time he thought there was no danger he would be followed. In the new year he would leave the area to begin his new job and he could leave the nightmare of the last few months behind. He even allowed himself a little optimism and excitement. There were FOR SALE posters stuck in the windows of his flat and he saw them as a symbol of change. They proved that the episode at the Grace Darling was a temporary aberration, and soon he would take up his life properly again.
The phone calls started once more on Monday. The first one came when Gus Lynch was out of the Centre, having a sandwich and a pint in the Anchor at lunch time, determined to maintain the old routine. Joe Fenwick put it through to Prue, who couldn‘ t persuade the caller to say what she wanted.
‘There was some woman on the phone for you just now,’ she said to Lynch when he returned. ‘She was in a phone box somewhere and wouldn’t leave a message but she was really upset, almost hysterical. I said you’d be in all afternoon.’
‘Oh, thanks!’ he said. He wondered how she could have been so stupid. ‘That’s just what I need!’
Prue ignored the sarcasm. She was still thinking about Anna.
Then the optimism of the weekend re-asserted itself and Gus thought that Jackie could do him no harm. He refused to let her phone calls threaten him or undermine his confidence. If she went public it would be an embarrassment of course, but who would take her seriously? Who woul
d believe a middle-aged neurotic woman who had been jilted by her lover?
He sat in his office and concentrated on preparing a press release to advertise the performance of Abigail Keene. He was determined that the production would be a success. He wanted to go out with a bang. His phone rang.
‘It’s that woman again,’ Joe Fenwick said cautiously. He was expecting Lynch to be angry and was surprised by the director’s reaction.
‘Tell her to piss off, Joe,’ he said cheerfully. ‘ Tell her I want nothing to do with her. It’s one of the problems with being famous, old son, being pestered by women you’ve never met in your life.’
He replaced the phone, feeling pleased with himself, and shouted through to Prue to come into his office. He wanted to talk about costumes. They’d need to find the money from somewhere to hire them. This time he wasn’t going to have it done on the cheap.
‘I’ll not have it looking like a school play,’ he said. ‘There’ll be no jumble-sale cast-offs for us.’ Then, noticing for the first time how tired and tense she looked: ‘ What the hell’s the matter with you today?’
‘I’m worried about Anna,’ she said. ‘She went out with John Powell last night and didn’t come home.’
He laughed unpleasantly.
‘Good for Anna!’ he said. ‘I never knew she had it in her. She’s fancied him for ages, we could all see that. Now that Gabby’s out of the way…’
‘That’s a dreadful thing to say,’ Prue snapped. ‘Anna was Gabby’s friend. She wouldn’t have done her any harm…’
‘Of course not, pet, but it’s not done Anna any harm either, has it? She’s got the leading role and her man. Good luck to her. I only hope they get off the nest long enough to make it to rehearsal.’
And he laughed again.
Chapter Nineteen
