Ramsay 04 - Killjoy (13 page)

‘There were three of them, all in overalls,’ the guard said resentfully. ‘Navy overalls. Like a mechanic would wear. And hoods. I couldn’t see a thing.’

‘You must have heard them speak!’

‘They didn’t say a word,’ the guard said. ‘Man, it all happened so fast. They were in and out in minutes. The organization was magnificent. I’ve never seen anything like it. They must have known I’d press the panic button, but the break-in would have triggered the alarm anyway so they didn’t bother to stop me. They left me alone. They were cool, I’ll say that for them. You’d almost say professional.’

Evan, irritated by the note of admiration in the man’s voice, turned away. He was outraged that the general public regarded these ram raiders as almost heroic, modern day Robin Hoods, and he was beginning to see his battle against them as a personal crusade. It was a question of morality. The car thieves seemed to taunt him. He had been through it all before with Robbie Paston…

The news that Tommy Shiels from the Starling Farm estate had been found guilty in Hallowgate magistrates’ court of handling stolen goods was welcome but it reminded Evan too that he had only been capable of tracing the insignificant people involved in car thefts. He had interrogated Tommy Shiels himself but had been unable to persuade him to give any information at all. The man had claimed to have no knowledge about who was organizing the robberies and by the end of the interviews Powell had almost believed him.

Jackie Powell saw her husband and son out of the house and spent the morning waiting for the phone to ring. She knew that her infatuation for Gus Lynch was a madness. It was making her ill and was in danger of wrecking her marriage. But she could think of nothing else. In her saner moments she compared Lynch unfavourably with her husband. Evan was a good man, she told herself, kind, upright, decent. But boring! she cried then. Was it so wrong of her to want some excitement and passion before she grew too old to enjoy it? And she pushed the guilt away, knowing that if she allowed it to it would destroy her.

She had a shower to clear her head but left the bathroom door open, worried that she would not hear the phone. She dressed in black velvet ski pants and a long red jumper, then changed because the red made her face seem paler than ever and she wanted to look her best in case there was a summons from Gus.

She knew there was no logic to her affair with Lynch. Her mood changed daily. She wanted some commitment from him, some public sign that they had a future together, yet she was terrified that her husband would discover her infidelity. She no longer knew what she wanted. She was confused and exhausted and thought that she would only make sense of it if she could have more time with Gus.

She spent the morning in restless housework, ripping sheets and duvet covers from the beds, polishing the sink and bath to a dangerous shine, ironing everything in the linen basket, even towels and underwear. She had not eaten breakfast and stopped at midday only to drink a mug of black coffee and smoke a cigarette. By the end of the afternoon she could stand the waiting no longer. With trembling hands she dialled Lynch’s number but the line was engaged and, frustrated, she replaced the receiver.

John Powell had spent the afternoon on the Starling Farm estate. He was in no mood to return to college. He had taken to spending more time on the estate, attracted despite himself by the danger, the tension, the possibility of violence. A group of teenagers sat on a wall outside the Keel Row and stared at him with undisguised hostility as he walked past. He ignored them and walked on to find Connor. He had known Connor since infants’ school. He was one of the friends from the old street of whom Evan Powell so disapproved. John was almost certain that he knew where to find him. He would be in the Neighbourhood Advice and Community Centre, a square fortified building at the heart of the estate. Technically unemployed, Connor often worked more than a full week at the Centre, making tea for the old people, organizing activities for the kids, holding the whole thing together. Although only a year older than John he was an expert on welfare rights and dished out advice and mediated with the authorities with an immense confidence. He was a short, intense young man with a bony forehead and a prominent nose, obsessed with politics. As recreation he would sell the Militant newspaper in Newcastle outside the Monument metro station. He spent every Saturday there, shouting slogans, trying to convert passers-by to his point of view.

When John arrived at the Community Centre Connor was playing pool with a group of young teenagers in a windowless games room. He was bent over the table, concentrating on the shot and did not see John, lounging just inside the door, until he straightened.

‘What are you doing here?’

John shrugged. ‘ I wanted to talk to you.’

‘What is it?’ All his attention was still on the game.

John looked at the boys. ‘ Not here,’ he said.

For the first time Connor looked directly at him, frowning.

‘I’ll be in the office,’ he said to the boys, ‘if you need me.’

The office was a tip. There were boxes full of information booklets, rolled-up posters, a row of dirty coffee cups, and half a bottle of sour milk. Against one wall was a table with a heavy manual typewriter and a phone. Connor cleared a pile of paper from the only chair and motioned John to sit on it. He squatted on the floor.

‘What’s bugging you?’ he said.

‘The police have been to the school,’ John said.

‘Who?’

‘A detective sergeant called Hunter. I don’t think he’s local. He was asking questions about Gabby Paston.’

‘That’s all right then. Just tell him what he wants to know. Within reason.’

‘I don’t know,’ John said. ‘It’s not that easy.’

‘Of course it’s easy. But you must keep your nerve. Use your head. Did anyone see you come here?’

‘No,’ John said. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Go and have a game of pool with the lads just in case. It’ll explain you being here if anyone asks.’

‘Why should anyone ask?’ There was a trace of panic in his voice.

‘Don’t worry. They won’t. But just in case. Now piss off. I’ve work to do.’

John played two games of pool with the boys in the games room, then wandered back to say goodbye to Connor, who was still in the office. He was talking animatedly on the phone, replacing the receiver as John came into the room.

‘That was Tommy Shiel’s wife,’ he said. ‘ Tommy was found guilty this afternoon of handling.’

John said nothing.

‘That bitch Amelia Wood was chair of the bench,’ Connor said. ‘He’d not stand a chance with her. She’d bring back flogging given the chance.’

‘Look,’ John said awkwardly. ‘I’ll be off.’ But when he got outside he saw it was still only five o’clock and he decided not to take the direct route home.

He must have arrived back at Barton Hill just after his mother because her car was parked on the drive and she sat still in the driver’s seat as if she was exhausted. When she saw him she got out and began to pull carrier bags of groceries from the boot. She’d just been to the supermarket, she said, for the late-night shopping. She’d meant to go earlier but she hadn’t been able to face it. What would Evan say? She hadn’t even thought about what they’d eat tonight.

They stood together in the white security light, surrounded by carrier bags while she fiddled with her key to let them into the house. He could feel her unhappiness.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘ You look awful. What is it?’

She pulled away from him. ‘ Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get this shopping inside. There’s a pile of stuff for the freezer and it’ll all be melting.’

When Evan Powell arrived home at eight o’clock the frustrations of the day were compounded by the fact that the table wasn’t set and there was no meal ready for him. He was lucky to get the overtime. He only worked it for Jackie and the boy. It would have been nice to have been appreciated. But he restrained his feelings. Jackie looked so tired and ill, was so apologetic about the lack of a cooked meal.

‘I could do an omelette,’ she said nervously. ‘That wouldn’t take long.’

Evan felt suddenly very protective. He put his arm around her and sat her on his knee. She sat where he had placed her and he could feel her bony frame shaking slightly with anxiety. He was overcome by tenderness and guilt.

‘Come on,’ he said gently. ‘What sort of monster do you think I am? I know I take you for granted but I’m not going to throw a tantrum because supper’s not ready. Look, I tell you what. Why don’t we go out for dinner? The three of us. It’s not too late to book a table at the Holly Tree. We haven’t celebrated my promotion yet. Let’s give ourselves a treat.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. I’m really tired. And I’ll need to change.’

But she turned to him, trapped by his kindness like a moth by a light.

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘ Go upstairs and make yourself beautiful. I’ll phone the restaurant. It’s mid-week. They’ll fit us in.’

He thought she was going to argue again but she did not move. ‘Yes,’ she said at last. She had always been incapable of standing up to him. ‘Yes.’

The Holly Tree was a double-fronted Georgian house on the edge of St Martin’s Hill. It was part of an elegant crescent and had a long back garden with a famous herb bed and a terrace where diners could take their drinks in the summer. Access was from the road at the front and from a small gate at the back used by Martin’s Dene residents who walked to the restaurant over the hill.

In the Holly Tree Evan Powell was determinedly cheerful. He praised the table they were given near a long window overlooking the garden, the atmosphere, the menu.

‘Now!’ he said. ‘What about a drink?’ He never drank himself but he prided himself on being broadminded. He wanted them all to be happy. He had a sudden recollection of a family outing to the beach when John was a toddler, of splodging in rock pools and fish and chips eaten in the car on the way home. It seemed to him now that when he was with them he spent all his energy trying to recreate the same closeness. It was the first time the three of them had been out for months yet they seemed to have nothing to say to each other.

Jackie ordered a gin and tonic which she drank very quickly. She was thinking inevitably of Lynch, of what a mess it all was. She wished she could tell him how much she had sacrificed, make him understand what she was going through, but she knew the man well enough to realize that if she put him under pressure he would just lash out and destroy her. Evan had begun to talk about his day at work, the robbery on the Coast Road, and she tried to concentrate on what he was saying.

John drank lager and thought about Connor and Sam Smollett and of how much the two had in common.

How Connor would sneer, he thought, if he could see him now.

‘Gabby Paston was here yesterday,’ he said suddenly. From Sam Smollett he had gone on to think of Abigail Keene and he spoke the words without thinking. He regretted them immediately.

‘What do you mean?’ Evan Powell looked up from his meal.

‘She was here yesterday. She had an appointment for lunch. She told someone in class.’

‘Do the police know about this?’

‘Yes,’ John said evenly. ‘ Someone was in college today asking questions. A detective sergeant called Hunter.’

Evan grunted to show what he thought of Gordon Hunter.

‘What else did she say?’ Jackie asked. ‘ That poor girl. I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind all day. Do they know yet what happened to her? What did he tell you?’

‘Nothing,’ John said. ‘ He didn’t tell me anything.’

Ramsay called into the Holly Tree on his way home from the police station. Hunter, thinking of the overtime, would have been glad to go, but Ramsay knew he could be more discreet, that he would find it easier to persuade people to talk. The owner, a dynamic woman with a county voice called Felicity Beal, was an old acquaintance. She had been at school with Diana, his ex-wife, and during his brief marriage he had been a regular at the restaurant. Diana always claimed that Felicity fed them for nothing, simply as a token of friendship, but he suspected that Diana had paid the bills secretly. He could never have afforded to take her there.

He was greeted at reception by the restaurant manager, a young man with Mediterranean good looks who shared Felicity’s bed, and according to Diana, took all the profits. His English was perfect, his accent cultivated.

‘Mr Ramsay,’ he said. ‘Sir. We are just about to finish serving but if you come to a table now I’m sure we can accommodate you.’

‘Not tonight, thank you,’ Ramsay said. He had forgotten the man’s name and felt awkward about it. ‘ Is Miss Beal working today?’

‘Of course,’ the man said smoothly. ‘She works every night. Sometimes I think she doesn’t trust me. I’ll tell her that you’re here.’

‘No,’ Ramsay said. ‘Please don’t bother. I’m sure I can find my own way.’

He walked past the restaurant door to get to the kitchen and saw the Powells, their meal over, standing up to leave. Jackie was in profile, her face tense, staring out of the window and Evan touched her shoulder to gain her attention. Ramsay felt awkward about being there. He didn’t want to explain his presence in front of the other diners and he hurried on before they saw him.

Felicity was sitting by a stainless-steel table with a large glass of red wine. In a corner a young girl was stacking plates into a machine.

‘Stephen Ramsay!’ Felicity shouted in a voice which had been honed during her hunting days. ‘Come in and pour yourself a drink. I can’t get up. I’m bloody knackered. I did most of the cooking myself tonight. The chef claims to have flu. How’s that bitch Diana?’

‘I don’t know.’ Ramsay said mildly. ‘You’ve probably seen her more recently than me.’

‘What are you doing here then? If you’re fed up with the police canteen you’ve had it, old son. I’m not cooking another thing tonight.’

‘No,’ Ramsay said. ‘ It’s work. I need your help.’

‘And how can I help Ramsay the great detective?’ She took another swig from her glass.

‘You may have heard that a girl was found murdered yesterday evening in the Grace Darling Centre in Hallowgate Square. We’ve traced her movements for the morning but no one seems to have seen her after midday. She claimed to have had a lunch appointment here. I was wondering if she came.’ He took a photograph from his pocket and set it on the table. ‘Her name’s Gabriella Paston,’ he said. ‘She was wearing black leggings, a navy jumper, and heavy boots.’