Ramsay 04 - Killjoy (2 page)

Ellen Paston was Gabby’s aunt, her dead father’s sister. She had worked part-time in the cafeteria in the Grace Darling Centre since it had opened, had worked there in fact before that, cleaning for the old lady who had owned the big house. On November 30th Ellen Paston began her shift at six o’clock. She got a bus from the Starling Farm to the end of Anchor Street and walked the rest of the way, staring in at the shop windows. Most of the shops were shut but the windows were bright with gaudy Christmas decorations. Outside the pub a thin-faced man sold flimsy sheets of wrapping paper twisted into tubes. He smoked roll-up cigarettes and his eyes were alert, all the time, for the police. Ellen was heavy, big boned, and walked with a slow, lumbering gait. She took in all the details of her surroundings.

By seven o’clock Ellen Paston was pouring coffee for the Hallowgate Writer’s Circle. They met in the cafeteria then moved on to the small lecture room to share news of rejection slips and to massage bruised egos. The membership was composed mostly of middle-class women who drove in from the more affluent suburbs. Ellen Paston listened to their conversation without apparent interest. Despite her size she managed to be unobtrusive and though they met her each week the Writers’ Circle hardly noticed she was there. The women’s competitive boasting about their grandchildren’s achievements left Ellen cold, but she listened just the same. You never knew when you could pick up something worthwhile. She was single, always had been, and realized that being single put you at risk. There was a danger that you would miss out on what was due to you. Ellen knew instinctively that information gave you power and she was determined always to know what was happening in Hallowgate.

It had been inevitable that John Powell would be chosen to play Sam Smollett, the hero of
The Adventures of Abigail Keene.
He had been given a leading role in every production since he was fourteen. Even then, sullen and covered with spots, brought by his father who thought it would be good for him, Gus had recognized something special about him, something moody and reckless. He saw that John would not be afraid of taking risks. The character of Sam Smollett suited him down to the ground.

Tonight John’s performance was not up to its usual standard. It lacked the pace and swagger needed for the part. His mind was not on the role. Gus blamed Gabby’s absence for the lack of energy, but John knew that his inability to concentrate was at fault. He was ashamed of some of the trivia which distracted him. The lousy mark he’d got for the last history essay, for example. He couldn’t hide it from his father any longer. The old man was already asking about it—not angrily but with that hateful, compassionate interest that made John want to hit him.

‘How did you get on with that project you were researching?’ his father had asked the night before. ‘Cromwell, wasn’t it?’ He had come in from a late shift and looked tired, but still made the effort to take an interest in his only son’s work. When he was eleven John’s form teacher had said he was Oxbridge material and Mr Powell had never forgotten that.

‘I don’t know,’ John had muttered. ‘Haven’t had it back yet.’

And Powell had shaken his head in disappointment. ‘I suppose they’re overworked,’ he had said, ‘but all the same…’ He wondered if they should have sent John to private school after all. Jackie had been all for it, had offered to go out to work to pay the fees, but Evan hadn’t been keen on that. In his work he saw too many kids allowed to roam the streets without proper supervision. That wasn’t going to happen to his son.

John stood, waiting for the crowd to move back to their places so they could rehearse the movement again. It was the climax of the play, a piece of comic melodrama. He appeared, disguised as the hangman, and at the last moment pulled Abigail to safety through the crowd. Usually, he enjoyed the scene but today he was preoccupied, wondering why his father bugged him so much. He wasn’t unreasonable, not compared with some other kids’ dads, but he left John always with a sense of vague and uneasy aggression.

And there was the same unease whenever he thought about Gabby…

Anna Bennett touched his shoulder to move him back to their starting place, and he jumped with a start. He was getting nervy. That wouldn’t do. In his game he needed to keep his nerve. He breathed deeply into the pit of his stomach as he did in the relaxation exercises Prue set them before they started rehearsing.

‘Are you all right?’ Anna whispered. ‘ Is anything wrong?’

‘No,’ he said, smiling, super cool. ‘It’s just a drag, isn’t it, Gabby not being here?’

She turned away and he saw with irritation that he must have offended her. He should be more careful, keep his feelings under control. It wasn’t her fault. He saw himself as a modern Sam Smollett, gallant and daring, a gentleman of the road. He flashed her a smile.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean that. You know what it’s like when you get used to working with someone. It’s bound to make a difference. Let me buy you a Coke later, to show there are no hard feelings.’

Gus Lynch looked at his watch and saw gratefully that it was a quarter to nine. He felt like giving the whole thing up now.

‘We’ll go through it just one more time,’ he called, unenthusiastically. ‘Try to be aware of each other. We need a co-ordinated movement. It’s not a rugby serum. God knows how we’ll be ready for performance. And what happened to you, John? Let’s have a bit more dash and pace.’

‘Sorry, Gus!’ John shouted. ‘I’m feeling a bit off tonight.’

Gus Lynch shrugged and gave the cue to start them off. He watched the dispirited, disorganized performance with annoyance. This play was important to him. For God’s sake he needed a bit of media attention. Especially now. He wouldn’t allow the bloody kids to let him down. If John Powell didn’t pull his finger out he’d be replaced with someone more committed.

The rehearsal rambled on to its close. The lights were switched up and the young people stood in groups, blinking and shame-faced, expecting an angry lecture from Gus. The old lecture about how he’d given up a good career to come and work with them and he expected some guts and energy in return. But he let them go in silence and they wandered through to the cafeteria where Ellen Paston stood, hunched and unresponsive, behind the counter.

John Powell, haunted by the old worries, forgot immediately about the easy promise to buy Anna a Coke when the session was over. He left the Centre, ignoring the porter’s greeting, and stopped at the entrance to the car park. He’d always liked cars and it had become a habit to stop there to admire the smart vehicles left by the Centre’s patrons. But the fog and the smashed security lights meant that visibility was poor and he hurried back to the square. The pavement was covered with sodden leaves and his footsteps made no sound. Through the mist he saw his mother’s car parked outside the grocer’s shop. He remembered his dad had said he could borrow it because his was in the garage for a service, and was pleased, it would give him an excuse for not waiting for a lift home. He would say that he’d forgotten about the service and when his father’s car wasn’t around he’d presumed that he had missed the choral society because of some emergency at work. His excuses to his father grew more elaborate every day.

In the cafeteria Anna Bennett pretended not to notice that John had left without buying her a drink, without saying goodbye. The place was busy so she could chat to her friends and ignore her mother’s glances of anxious sympathy.

‘Gabby wasn’t here tonight,’ Prue said to Ellen as she collected her coffee.

Ellen looked up, said nothing.

‘She told me she’d be here,’ Prue said, trying to contain her impatience. ‘You don’t know where she might be?’

Ellen shook her head then seemed to realize that some contribution was expected.

‘Perhaps she’s poorly,’ she said.

‘She didn’t say anything this morning,’ Prue said. ‘ But perhaps that’s it. Perhaps she didn’t feel well at school and went straight home.’

‘You don’t want to worry about that one. She can look after herself,’ Ellen said unhelpfully. She began to serve the next customer and added as an afterthought: ‘No need to fuss.’

‘All the same,’ Prue said, ‘ I think we’d better go home and check.’ She imagined Gabby in the house at Otterbridge, alone, seriously ill. She drank her coffee quickly and called to Anna who was standing at the edge of a group of girls, smiling too brightly, pretending too hard to be interested in what they were saying. With a relief that was only obvious to Prue, Anna gathered up her coat and bag and followed her mother into the lobby.

At an impressive wooden desk sat a short, thick set, bald man, reading the
Sun.
This was Joe Fenwick, retired boxer, porter and security man. He looked up from the paper and smiled.

‘All right, Miss Bennett?’ he said. ‘Finished for the night, then, pet?’

‘Yes,’ said Prue, then, contradicting herself, ‘no, I’d forgotten. I must see Gus before I go.’ She turned to her daughter apologetically. ‘He’s worked out a final draft for the programme and I want to check it before it’s printed. I’ll take it home with me.’

‘Go on then!’ said Anna, long suffering, tolerant of her mother’s middle-aged absentmindedness. ‘I’ll wait for you here.’

Prue ran up the stairs and paused outside Gus’s office door to catch her breath, then knocked and went straight in. She saw first that Gus had a visitor then that she had interrupted some silent confrontation. Gus was sitting behind his desk facing a middle-aged woman who sat squarely in a leather chair inherited with the house. The woman was well dressed, confident, classy. Prue recognized her as Amelia Wood, Deputy Chair of the Grace Darling trustees. Prue composed herself. Mrs Wood was an intruding presence and she wondered briefly what trouble the old bat was causing now. She smiled.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Gus,’ she said lightly. ‘I’m here for the programme. I was hoping to work on it at home, this evening.’

He jumped to his feet, all tension and nervous energy. He was rattled, Prue thought. Mrs Wood sat with her gloved hands clasped in her lap and smiled.

‘Yeah,’ Gus said. ‘Right. Of course. Look, the draft’s still in my car. In a file in the boot. Why don’t you help yourself?’ He took keys from the pocket of a jacket which was hanging on a coatstand by the window, and tossed them to her. ‘Leave them with Joe at reception,’ he said. ‘Save you coming all the way up the stairs again.’

Mrs Wood watched his agitation with amusement. She stood up, offered one of her hands to Prue and said: ‘Miss Bennett! How nice to meet you again.’

Resisting the urge to curtsy Prue left the room and returned to Anna.

When they walked into the car park the Christ Church clock was striking 9.30. Usually the place was brightly lit with security floodlights but they had been smashed by vandals the weekend before and still not replaced. After the warmth and light of the house the car park was chill and uninviting. The only light came from the orange street lamps beyond the trees and from the uncurtained windows of the cafeteria. From the mouth of the river came the distant, muffled sound of a foghorn and the smell of mud. The car park was almost empty. The teachers and solicitors who came to the Grace Darling Centre to sing and write enjoyed its facilities but were nervous about its location. One heard such dreadful stories. At the end of each meeting they were relieved to find their cars still there intact, and drove back with relief to the civilization of Tynemouth and Martin’s Dene.

Gus had his own space in the car park. He had insisted that Joe Fenwick should paint DIRECTOR in big white letters on the concrete. The blue Volvo was parked at an angle between the parallel white lines as if he had arrived in a hurry. Prue fitted a key into the lock of the door. As she lifted it a bulb inside lit automatically, and she had no difficulty in seeing the contents. There, on top of the file containing the programme for
The Adventures of Abigail Keene
, lay Gabby Paston, curled on her side like a child at sleep. But her eyes were open and bulging. Gabriella Paston was dead.

Inspector Ramsay was loaned to the North Tyneside division of Northumbria Police to work on the Gabriella Paston murder because it was desperately under-staffed. The area had seen an epidemic of what was known in the anodyne jargon of the sociologist as auto-related crime. Young people had always stolen cars and driven them dangerously. The offence was so common in the North Tyneside courts that it was hardly taken seriously. But recently the thefts had become more organized. There was a suspicion that they were being co-ordinated by more sophisticated criminals. The situation was complicated too by gangs of ram raiders who drove high-performance cars through shop windows to steal the expensive goods inside, and by the circus-like exhibition of the racing of stolen cars around the district’s council estates in the middle of the night.

Nightly street disturbances followed the police’s attempts to control these demonstrations of male bravado and there were tragedies: the death of a seven-year-old child as a stolen car chased by the police swung out of control at a school crossing, and the stabbing of an eighty-year-old man who was rumoured to have given information to the police. In the quiet period before Christmas there was little other domestic news and the broadcasters and newspaper reporters gathered in the area in their hundreds, inflaming the locals’ bitterness with their cameras and their questions. There was talk of riot and constant criticism of the policing of the area; the Northumbria Police sweated it out defensively, waiting for the situation to calm of its own accord.

The murder of a teenage girl, which in other circumstances might have been seen as a welcome break from routine, an excitement to see them through until Christmas, was only an added complication, a distraction from the important issues. Ramsay was welcome to it. Besides, they soon found that the girl had lived in Otterbridge, the Northumberland market town twenty miles away where Ramsay was based, and that was excuse enough to pass it on to him.

Ramsay arrived at the Grace Darling car park at the same time as the pathologist, a man of ridiculously youthful appearance, consultant at one of the Newcastle teaching hospitals. He was a clean-shaven athletic Scot who spent his spare time climbing mountains and playing rugby.