Ramsay 04 - Killjoy (11 page)

By now the top of the desk was clear except for a swirling pattern of dust and Ramsay turned his attention to the desk drawers. He was afraid that the top one was locked but it was just stuck and when he lifted it and pulled at the same time it came out altogether. Ramsay set it beside him on the bed. It contained a diary, two sheets of paper, an envelope, and a building society passbook. This must be all that Gabby needed to keep from prying eyes.

The diary was small, of the size to fit in a handbag, and there were none of the teenage outpourings which Ramsay might have expected. In it Gabby noted her appointments, rehearsal times, the dates when essays were due to be handed in. The only inclusion of any interest was an E which appeared at approximately fortnightly intervals. Beside it was a time, usually different. Was E for Ellen, Gabby’s aunt? Ramsay wondered. If so, why the secrecy. Unsatisfied, he moved to the other items in the drawer.

The first sheet of paper was a printed programme for
Romeo and Juliet
, a Youth Theatre production. Gabby had been playing Juliet. The programme had been autographed by each member of the cast and she had kept it, Ramsay supposed, for sentimental reasons. He noticed briefly that John Powell had played Romeo and wondered if that was Evan’s boy. The second sheet was a lined piece of A4. He would have to check the handwriting but he presumed it was Gabby’s and thought it was the draft of a letter. It was a love letter in which Gabby pleaded to be noticed, to be taken seriously. It was addressed to ‘John’ and Ramsay, whose memory of his own teenage pain was heightened by his meeting with Prue, thought that it had probably never been sent.

The building society account had been opened three months previously with £500 and payments had been made since then to bring the total to almost £800. Ramsay wondered where the money had come from. Her family? A holiday job? The timing of the opening of the account at the end of the summer would suggest that. He would have to check with Prue.

The envelope, which had been at the top of the pile in the drawer, contained no letter. It was cheap and white with Gabby’s name and the Bennett’s address printed in blue ink. It was post-marked the day before her death. Why had she kept it? Ramsay wondered. What had it contained that was so important? And where was the letter that had been inside? He straightened and returned to the warmth of the kitchen.

Anna was there, still in her outdoor jacket, already drinking tea, fending off her mother’s concern about how she was feeling.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Really. Please don’t fuss.’ But she looked tired and unhappy and had nothing in common with the girl who beamed out at him from the photo on the noticeboard.

‘John Powell,’ Ramsay said. ‘Was he a boyfriend of Gabby’s?’

‘She liked him,’ Anna said. ‘I don’t think they ever went out together.’ She shivered slightly and dipped her head over her mug.

‘She had a letter yesterday,’ Ramsay said. ‘ Who was it from?’

‘How would we know?’ Prue said. She was quite angry. ‘We never read her mail.’

‘She might have told you,’ he said, apologetically. Surely she understood that he was only doing his job. ‘She did have a letter yesterday?’

Prue nodded, only slightly appeased. She stood behind her daughter with her arm round Anna’s shoulder.

‘Did she have a holiday job in the summer vacation?’ he asked.

Anna answered. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We both tried to find work but it was impossible.’

‘She had a building society account with eight hundred pounds in,’ he said. ‘Do you know where she got the money?’

Prue shook her head. ‘ She was always pleading poverty. I kept her on her child benefit. She got a small allowance for pocket money from her family.’

‘So you can’t explain the money in the account?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Prue said firmly. ‘ I wish I could help.’

It was a dismissal and Ramsay left, excluded by the women’s closeness, feeling that he had ruined any chance he might have had with Prue. He went back to Hallowgate police station to talk to Hunter, who had made up his mind already that John Powell was a murderer.

Amelia Wood spent the day on the bench at Hallowgate magistrates’ court. She arrived early, feeling cheerful and optimistic but was soon worn down by the atmosphere of the place. She did not enjoy the practical business of being a magistrate. The prestige of being a JP, the training sessions with other professionals, the study of theoretical case histories, the social events, all these she found enjoyable and entertaining. But in the shabby and squalid court, with the smell of damp and urine seeping up from the police cells below she found little to entertain her. The defendants were wretched and inadequate. She did not despise their attempts to improve their financial situation. In their place she would have done the same. But she did despise their incompetence, their half-heartedness, the lack of imagination which prevented their seeing anything through.

The clerk of the court was a well-meaning, rather ineffective young man, who took seriously the Home Office circulars exalting magistrates to consider community based disposals instead of prison. He disliked working with Amelia Wood, whom he found unnecessarily punitive, irrationally arbitrary, but he found confrontation difficult. Stammering and blushing he would interpose at intervals to suggest an alternative sentence. The conflict between them made justice a slow and long-winded affair. There was a long list and the fat solicitors in crumpled suits who sat along the front bench sighed, looked at their watches, and knew that they would miss lunch.

In the afternoon there were two trials. The first concerned a driver with excess alcohol and was over quickly. The second dragged on despite its lack of substance and Amelia Wood found it hard to concentrate. The death of the girl might be an added complication but she did not expect it to make too much difference to her plans.

The defendant who sat in the dock opposite her was middle aged, over-weight, frightened. A few wisps of lank hair had been combed ridiculously across his bare head. He was sweating. He lived on the Starling Farm estate and had been charged with handling stolen property: car radios, which he had been caught selling in several of the Hallowgate pubs. He had remained uncooperative, the police said, throughout questioning. In court the man claimed he had bought the radios legitimately from a car breaker’s yard in Wallsend but was unable to produce any witnesses to back up his story. The prosecutor brought evidence that the radios had been taken from cars stolen in the area. The defence solicitor cross-examined halfheartedly. Amelia listened, her attention wandering, and yawned. At last the trial was over and the magistrates retired to tepid coffee and to consider their decision.

Amelia was prepared to find the man not guilty. It was not that she believed him innocent but it would make things simpler. The case could be over immediately and they would not have to go into a prolonged discussion about sentence. She wanted to be home. Her two colleagues were shocked. They took their position as magistrates seriously. One, a retired bank manager with badly fitting false teeth and body odour, had even taken notes. The sentence of not guilty was out of the question. At a time like this, he said, of disturbance and riot, the courts should be seen to be supporting the police.

‘You’re right, of course,’ said Amelia Wood, graciously. She knew better than to waste energy fighting lost causes. ‘The only question then is what to do with him. I suggest a three-week remand for probation reports. That will give us the opportunity to consider all the options.’

Her colleagues agreed, relieved that they would not be forced into a decision about the man’s future, glad to hand the responsibility to someone else.

Gus Lynch woke up late, at midday, disturbed by the men gathering outside the Seamen’s Mission, waiting to be let in for lunch. He poured a Scotch for breakfast and carried on drinking all afternoon—not heavily but steadily enough to make him believe that his growing self-pity was justified. The police had closed down the Grace Darling until further notice. They had told him to stay at home and make himself available if required. He poured another drink and told himself that fate was against him. Fate and bloody Amelia Wood. The last thing he needed now was bad publicity.

He was tempted to phone Jackie. She would have come like a shot to comfort him. But he had already decided that she was in the way and he knew he would have to get rid of her. He ought to talk to her about this business with Gabriella Paston, make her see that there was nothing to be gained by coming forward, bringing the affair into the open. Would the forensic team find traces of her in his car? He had given her a lift occasionally. He thought that might be awkward but he took a sudden mischievous delight in the prospect of Evan Powell’s wife being implicated in murder. The idea was so ridiculous that he laughed out loud, then stopped abruptly, realizing that he had nothing to laugh about.

He sat by the window, brooding. The affair had got out of hand, of course. Jackie had taken it so seriously and he had never taken her seriously at all. They had met at the party Evan Powell had given for the cast of the Youth Theatre’s last production. He had gone along reluctantly, expecting suburban small talk, unappetizing bits of food on trays, sweet Spanish wine. He had gone because he would need people to think well of him. The young people, intimidated by Evan’s profession, had been on their best behaviour, drinking moderately the beer and cider he had provided for them, leaving at the earliest opportunity. John had obviously hated every minute of it.

Jackie Powell had sat in a corner, drinking glass after glass of white wine, watching the proceedings with detachment, bored to distraction. When Evan Powell told a joke she smiled dutifully then returned to her drinking. Lynch found it impossible to believe that Powell did not realize she was unhappy. Was that how the affair had started, Gus wondered now, out of pity? He had always been attracted by pale and vulnerable women. But it was in an attempt to cause mischief that he had approached her, an attempt to shatter Evan Powell’s complacency.

‘How can you stand all this?’ he had said to her in a low voice. No small talk. No politeness. He had seen that she had had enough of all that. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’

Then in a louder voice he called to Evan. ‘I’m going to steal your wife for an hour. She tells me she’s never been to the Grace Darling. I’m going to show her round.’

And Evan had smiled foolishly, proud apparently that Lynch had taken an interest in his wife, too honest himself to suspect anything. Mesmerized, Jackie had followed him and allowed him to put a coat over her shoulders. He had given her a conducted tour of the theatre and they had made love on the stage, where the set was still up for
Romeo and Juliet
, with the curtains drawn. There had been a smell of dust and grease paint, of the real theatre. Joe Fenwick in reception had seen them go in but had never mentioned the incident to anyone.

So it had started as an impulse, because he had been bored one evening at a tedious party, because he wanted the admiration of a woman to whom he had brought a little excitement. He had expected never to see her again.

She had phoned him, a week later, obviously nervous. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

He had been flattered. It had been a long time since he had had such an effect on a woman. When he was a household name, on the television every week, it had been easier. Still he did not know what he was letting himself in for. He had never thought she would get serious. A married woman whose kid’s grown up, approaching middle age, wanting a bit of excitement on the side. That’s what he’d thought. Something to push away the idea that the next great adventure in her life would be death.

‘Why don’t you come to my flat?’ he had said. ‘I’ll cook you a meal. Dinner.’ He was proud of his flat in Chandler’s Court. He wanted to show it off to her.

‘Are you sure?’ she said, grateful as a child. ‘Eh, I’d love to.’

And he imagined her going off, choosing what clothes to wear, making herself attractive just for him. It was a good feeling.

How did he let it get out of hand? he wondered. Laziness, he supposed. He just never bothered to contradict her. They would lie together in his bed, with the sound of the river outside, and she would talk of her dreams. He never thought of them as plans. They were fantasies. She couldn’t bring herself to leave Evan, she would say. Not yet. Not with John still at school. Besides, he had a dreadful temper. He would kill her if he found out. No, they would wait until John had left school and Gus had got a job somewhere else, away from the district, where Evan couldn’t find them. Then they would start a new life together.

Why had he never said anything? he wondered. Because he hadn’t wanted to disillusion her, because he wanted to avoid the confrontation. And because, despite himself, he did not want to lose her. He had become addicted to her flattery. He loved the way she made him feel the most important man in the world. Then there were the practical things she did to make life easy for him—the row of ironed shirts in his wardrobe every morning, the washed dishes, the meals. He would have been a fool to give all that up. So he had gone along with her dreams, had even on occasion encouraged them.

But now he had other worries, he thought bitterly, watching the crew of a fishing boat on the quay working companionably to untangle a net. It was too much for him to cope with Jackie too. He stared out of the window as the afternoon wore on. The sun was covered by a grey mist which rolled in again from the sea so the river and the land beyond it became indistinguishable, luminous, broken by the silhouettes of the boats and the cormorants standing on the rocks uncovered by the tide.

At some point his agent phoned. Simon Jasper was thin, elegant, with the languid drawl of a pre-war English gentleman. Lynch could picture him in the untidy office in Covent Garden where he presided, pandered to by a gaggle of well-bred young women who considered employment with him as equivalent to a year in a Swiss finishing school. It only paid pocket money but provided culture and contacts.