Ramsay 04 - Killjoy (23 page)

‘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.

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 more 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.

He went to bed early and was woken from a deep sleep by the telephone. It had been ringing too in his dream and he was only half awake as he picked up the receiver.

‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘Ramsay.’ The dream had been pleasant, mildly erotic, and he struggled to capture some memory of it.

‘Stephen,’ a woman said. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I didn’t know what to do.’

It was Prue Bennett.

‘How did you get my number?’ he asked foolishly. It was the first thing to come into his head. He was ex-directory and he had been certain that it would be a work call.

‘I phoned your mother,’ she said. ‘ Not now. Earlier this evening. It’s taken me a couple of hours to find the nerve to phone you. I didn’t know what else to do. I was frantic and the police station wouldn’t give it to me.’

Ramsay looked at the clock by his bed. It was two o’clock.

‘What
is
this all about?’ he asked impatiently.

‘It’s Anna,’ she said. ‘She’s missing. She hasn’t come home.’

‘Have you reported her missing to your local police station?’

‘Of course,’ she cried. ‘Hours ago. But when they found out how old she was they weren’t interested. She’s an adult, apparently. If she wants to stay out all night with her boyfriend it’s up to her. There’s nothing they can do.’

‘Is she with John Powell?’ His voice sharpened. For the first time he seemed properly awake.

‘I don’t know,’ she said helplessly. ‘I think so.’

‘Look,’ he said, ‘do you want me to come over? I’m not sure what good it’ll do but I’ll come if you like.’

‘Yes,’ she said relieved and he realized that was what she had wanted from the start. ‘Please come. As soon as you can.’

When he arrived at the house in Otterbridge he caught a glimpse of her face pale in the street light, peering between the curtains in the living room. Had she been looking out for him? Or was she still keeping a vigil for her daughter? Perhaps she had been disappointed to see him emerge from the car instead of Anna. But when she opened the door to him there was only relief.

‘Oh, Stephen!’ she said. ‘It’s so good of you to come.’ She put her arms around him. He held her for a moment, astonished that it felt so natural. Her hair smelled as it always had and memories of their summer together came flooding back.

‘You look washed out,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you some tea.’

He saw that she was almost hysterical with anxiety. He led her like a child to the kitchen, sat her in the rocking chair, and put on the kettle. The room was still warm but she was shivering.

‘Your mother remembered me,’ she said. ‘After all this time!’

He did not know what to say. He wondered what his mother would have made of the call. She would be imagining romance, wedding bells, grandchildren. He poured out mugs of tea, handed one to her, and sat beside her.

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘When did Anna leave?’

‘This afternoon at about half-past three.’ She looked at him over the rim of her mug with dark eyes. ‘It seems days ago. We had a late lunch together then we started talking about the play she’s in—
The Adventures of Abigail Keene.
There’s another rehearsal tomorrow—’ She looked at the kitchen clock and corrected herself. ‘Today. It all started off quite amicably. We discussed some details of her performance. I heard her lines. She’s taken over Gabriella Paston’s character and it’s a big part to learn in the few weeks before the show. Then it all got more abstract and high-flown. It was almost as if she was trying to pick a fight. She assumed I was critical, that I didn’t think she could be as good as Gabby. It was
my
fault, she said, that she couldn’t play the part. I’d been too protective. Her childhood had been too cosy. She didn’t have the experience.’

Prue paused and looked up at Ramsay.

‘I suppose in a way she was right. But I only did what I thought was best.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘ Did she walk out then?’

‘No. Not straight away. I said that it didn’t sound like her talking. It was more like Gabby. Or John Powell. That’s when she really flew off the handle. What was wrong with John Powell, she said. I’d made it quite clear that I disapproved of him. Didn’t I think she was mature enough to choose her own friends? That’s when she stormed out of the house.’