Ramsay 04 - Killjoy (12 page)

‘Gus!’ Jasper said. The drawl was more pronounced than usual. Gus Lynch looked at his watch. It was half-past three. He guessed that Simon had been entertaining one of his more successful clients to lunch and was full of claret and brandy. ‘Gus,’ Jasper repeated. ‘I’m sorry but I must have an answer by the end of the week. At the very latest.’ He paused, expecting an answer, then went on more sharply: ‘ You know you won’t get a better deal.’

‘No,’ Lynch said. ‘I realize that.’

‘I tried to phone you at the Centre,’ Jasper said. ‘Someone said it was closed for the day. No problems, I hope. I’ve told you the subsidized sector is very vulnerable at the moment. You should get out while you have the chance.’

‘I want to get out,’ Lynch said hurriedly. ‘ I explained that I’m ready for a move.’ He hesitated and sensed that Jasper was becoming irritated, then continued quickly: ‘It’s just that I’m having problems persuading the trustees to release me from my contract at the Grace Darling.’

‘What contract?’ The affected drawl almost disappeared. ‘ I didn’t know anything about a contract. I hope you didn’t sign anything without consulting me.’

‘No,’ Lynch said. ‘Of course not.’ The whisky was getting in the way, preventing him from producing a coherent story. ‘It’s nothing formal. But I don’t want to leave with any bad feeling. That sort of publicity would get in the way of the new job. You know that.’

‘I suppose.’ To express his disapproval Jasper withdrew his attention and shouted to someone in the room with him: ‘Jemima, bring me some tea, there’s a good girl.’ There was a silence, then he relented and spoke to Gus again. ‘You do realize,’ he said, ‘that if you’re interested you’ll have to sign by the end of the week, bad publicity or no.’

‘All right, Simon,’ Lynch said, losing patience. ‘I understand. There’s no need to spell it out. I’ll sort it.’

‘Good,’ Jasper said. ‘ Right. Well, I’ll expect to hear from you then.’

Lynch replaced the receiver before the agent could bully him further. He poured another drink and phoned Amelia Wood’s home. He had her number, with a list of the other trustees, in his book. A cleaning lady answered primly like a servant in a television historical drama. Mrs Wood was not at home, she said. She thought she had expected to be in court all day, but she would be home soon. If he would like to leave a message she would make sure Mrs Wood received it.

‘No,’ Gus said. ‘No message.’

He went out quickly, an impulse. There was a thick winter jacket at the back of a cupboard. He seldom wore it—he had never been one for outdoor pursuits—and scarcely recognized himself in the mirror in the hall. Before leaving the flat he drew the living-room curtains, then took the phone off the hook. If the police tried to contact him it would take them a while to realize that it was not simply engaged. With any luck they would assume the phone was out of order and leave him until the morning. Even if they sent someone to the flat that would take time and he did not expect to be away for very long.

The cold outside took his breath away. The light behind the mist had drained away and it was almost dark. He twisted a scarf around his neck and over his mouth and pulled up the hood of his jacket. In his pocket he found a pair of gloves and pulled them on.

The wholesale fish shops along the quay were beginning to close. Boards advertising the day’s catch were lifted in and men stood with poles to pull down thick metal shutters over the windows. Lynch walked past anonymously, another man just finished work, on his way home or to the pub. One of the fishmongers even waved to him, certain that Gus belonged there. Lynch walked up the steep bank away from the river, past the red low light that guided boats into the quay. The exercise and the whisky made him light-headed and he had to stop half-way and gasp for breath.

In the middle of Hallowgate the shops were still open and busy. It was only half-past four. Gangs of teenagers on their way home from school walked aimlessly and gathered outside the Wimpy Bar to share a bag of chips. The jangle of inevitable Christmas carols came from the Price Savers Supermarket and from all the tatty clothes shops selling sequinned party frocks or threadbare denim. A pork butcher was scooping pease pudding from a huge tray into a plastic carton to sell to an old man who carefully counted pennies from a purse on to the counter and outside the greengrocer’s next door two women were fighting over a pile of Christmas trees: both had chosen one that was less battered than the rest. Only the many charity shops seemed quiet and respectable. Genteel ladies in suede boots and tweed skirts stood awkwardly behind their counters, watching the clock tick on, knowing that the week’s ordeal of charitable do gooding would soon be over. In the window of Barnardo’s was a poster advertising
The Adventures of Abigail Keene.

Gus Lynch took no notice of the shops or the passers-by, though walking through Hallowgate was a novelty for him. He did his shopping weekly in the big new Sainsbury’s in Whitley Bay. He bought ready-cooked Indian meals, exotic cheese, and bottles of wine recommended by the
Sunday Times
, and spent more than most Hallowgate families would in a month. He hunched his shoulders, put his head down and looked at the pavement in front of him.

He knew where the Hallowgate magistrates’ court was because he had been there once to pay a speeding fine. He walked past it slowly. The lights were on inside but everything seemed quiet. Now he was here he felt awkward. He was not sure what to do. A door marked
Staff Only
opened and two middle-aged men came out. They were pulling on identical raincoats and chatted about golf. They must have seen him but they took no notice. Who were they? Lynch wondered. Magistrates? Court officials? Plain-clothes policemen? He watched them walk together up the street, envying their easy conversation, their quiet consciences.

The door opened again and Amelia Wood came out. He stood with his back flat against the wall of the building but she went in the opposite direction and did not see him. She walked quickly. She wore a calf-length Burberry mackintosh and tied a silk scarf over her hair, worried that the damp in the air would affect her new perm. He heard the heels of her shoes tapping on the uneven pavement.

When Amelia Wood emerged from the court she was surprised to find that it was already dark. The court’s business had taken longer than she had expected. It was over, at least, for another week. She had parked her car away from the court in one of the quieter, more salubrious streets close to Hallowgate Square. It was a precaution she had taken since a previous car had been vandalized by the friends of a defendant she had sentenced to youth custody. They had seen her arrive in it and while she dealt with other cases they had wreaked their vengeance with razor blades and spray paint. Besides, there was usually something therapeutic about the short walk in the fresh air after a day in court. It put a distance between her and the lives of the people on whom she passed judgement. As she walked briskly away she began to plan the dinner party she would hold at the weekend for some of the more prominent trustees of the Grace Darling Centre. Despite the tragedy of the girl’s murder she would be able to promise them that the Centre had a secure future.

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.

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.’