Ramsay 04 - Killjoy (9 page)

‘What’s he like, this Powell?’

She hesitated, trying to find the right words. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Unusual, different. Bright enough if he puts the work in but you get the impression that he doesn’t really care, that it’s all beneath him. Arrogant, I suppose you’d call him.’

‘A troublemaker?’ Hunter asked.

‘Not really. Not in the accepted sense. But I always find his presence in a class undermining. It’s impossible to forget he’s there. You don’t feel you can treat him like all the other kids. He won’t be taken for granted.’

‘Friends?’

‘No,’ Ellie said. ‘I don’t think he’s any close friends. Not here at least. Admirers perhaps. He’s something of a cult figure. I’m not sure why.’

The staff room was starting to empty. There was a queue at the sink as the teachers rinsed their cups. Ellie looked at her watch.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I’ll have to go soon. I’m teaching next period.’

‘When did you last see Gabby?’ Hunter asked.

‘Yesterday morning. But not in a tutor group. There was an English lesson. From ten until eleven thirty.’

‘And she was definitely there?’

‘Oh yes. I remember quite clearly. We were doing
Hamlet.
She read Ophelia.’ She paused, shocked. ‘Quite prophetic,’ she said, ‘when you think of it.’

Hunter, who did not understand what she was talking about, kept quiet.

‘Did you see where she went when she left the class?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘ She rushed off as soon as the bell went. As if she were in a hurry. It wasn’t like her. She often stayed behind for a chat.’

A bell rang and Ellie Smith looked at her watch again. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’m really sorry. I’ll have to go. But if you want to come with me I can introduce you to some of Gabby’s friends. I’m teaching the same group as I was yesterday morning.’

The classroom was in a different block and she led Hunter outside, across a yard where the frost still lay in the shadow. The building was 1960s glass and concrete with rusting window frames and noisy corridors. She opened a door and stood aside to let him in. The room was full of sunlight so Hunter blinked, then felt foolish, at a disadvantage. He saw twelve young people dressed in costumes which ranged from the bizarrely flamboyant to the threadbare. Ellie followed him into the room and sat on one of the desks. He stood, uncomfortably, intimated by their stares. He was not sure how to speak to these bright young people who spent all day reading Shakespeare. He felt he had more in common with the joy riders he pulled in on a Friday night.

‘You’ll all have heard by now,’ Ellie Smith was saying, ‘that the body of a young woman was found at the Grace Darling Arts Centre last night. The police have identified the victim as Gabby Paston.’

She paused. A girl had started to cry and turned to be comforted by a friend. Ellie went on.

‘Of course it’s an awful shock and terribly upsetting but the police obviously want to ask questions about Gabby and they especially want to trace her movements yesterday. This is Detective Sergeant Hunter. He’ll ask you some questions now. If you have any other information about Gabby and there are details you’d prefer to remain confidential you can always arrange a private meeting with him through me.’ She looked around. ‘You do see,’ she said, ‘that this is a serious matter. Whatever views you might hold about the police generally, you must co-operate with them now.’

There was a silence and she turned to Hunter. He cleared his throat nervously.

‘I understand that Gabriella attended the English class with you yesterday morning,’ he said. ‘According to Miss Smith she left in rather a hurry. Does anyone know where she was going?’

A skeletally thin girl with black spiked hair and huge eyes, blackened at the rims so she looked like an anorexic panda, raised her hand. She was wearing a long black dress which reached almost to the ground and the ubiquitous Dr Martens.

‘Gabby had a date,’ she said. ‘Someone was taking her out to lunch.’

‘Did she tell you who she was meeting?’

The girl shook her head.

‘Does anyone know?’

Again there was silence.

‘I know
where
she was going.’ The girl who interjected was plump, quietly spoken, dressed in denims and a hand-knitted sweater. ‘To the Holly Tree at Martin’s Dene. She was teasing, you know, about the canteen food. How we’d have to put up with that while she was sitting down at the Holly Tree to something delicious.’

‘When did she tell you that?’

‘First thing in the morning. While we were all waiting for Miss Smith to come in.’

Hunter considered. The Holly Tree was expensive, well out of the range, he would have thought, of the average sixth former. It was unlikely that Gabriella’s date had been with one of her schoolfriends. But if she had been there for a meal someone would have remembered her. At lunch time it would be full of business people who had driven out of Newcastle to do their entertaining. In her black leggings and boots Gabriella Paston would have stuck out like a sore thumb. Someone would haved noticed her companion too. Suddenly Hunter began to feel more hopeful. He resisted the temptation to leave immediately for the Holly Tree and went on, turning to the plump girl. ‘ Did she tell you anything about her plans for the rest of the day?’

‘No. Nothing.’

‘How did she seem to you?’

‘Excited. Really high.’

‘She didn’t tell you why?’

Sadly the girl shook her head. Hunter considered the information. It was vague, subjective, but he would have put the girl down as a reliable witness.

‘Yesterday morning Gabriella told her landlady that she had been invited to a friend’s house after college. Was anyone here expecting Gabby to come home with them for a meal?’

There was no reply.

‘Did anyone see her yesterday afternoon?’

Again there was silence.

‘Is anyone here a member of the Youth Theatre at the Grace Darling Centre?’

The teenagers turned to face John Powell, who slowly raised his hand. Hunter looked at a tall boy with untidy hair and strong features, who stared back at him.

‘And your name is?’

‘John Powell.’ The boy was slouched in his chair, his legs stretched in front of him. Without being overtly rude he managed to convey insolence. Hunter disliked him immediately. This then was the lad in which Gabby had shown a special interest. Hunter’s antipathy towards the boy made him authoritative. He was no longer intimidated.

‘I’d like to speak to Mr Powell on his own,’ he said. He turned to the teacher. ‘I take it you’ve no objections?’ Ellie Smith shook her head helplessly. ‘Then we won’t take up any more of your time. Mr Powell!’

It was a summons and he waited while the boy uncoiled himself from his chair and followed him out into the corridor. Hunter had intended to find some empty classroom where they could talk but most of the rooms were occupied. Besides, the classrooms, with their books and maps and reminders of his ignorance, disturbed him. In the end he led the boy out into the open air and they talked as they walked past the playing fields where beefy young men ran in a line practising rugby passes, their breath coming in clouds in the cold air. A row of beeches threw shadows over the field and they walked alternately in bright sunlight and shade. As he followed the boy across the grass Hunter realized that something about the boy was familiar. He had not recognized it in class. It had more to do with the way Powell moved, the silhouette against the bright orange sun, than with his features.

‘Aren’t you related to Evan Powell?’ he demanded abruptly, and the boy turned, more hostile than ever, and nodded.

It was a complication he could do without, Hunter thought. He would have to treat the boy carefully. He didn’t want any more bloody lectures from Evan Powell. John regarded Hunter warily.

He felt suddenly very tired, drained of energy. The sleepless night was beginning to tell. He knew he would have to concentrate.

‘Tell me about Gabriella Paston,’ Hunter said. It was one of Ramsay’s tricks, the open question which could not be answered with a monosyllable. Ramsay had his faults as a detective but Hunter was prepared to learn from him. Now they were walking side by side and Powell answered without breaking his stride.

‘She was a bloody good actress,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Even Gus Lynch admitted that and he usually liked to think he was the only one with talent.’ He stopped speaking suddenly, as if it were some sort of weakness that he had responded at all. If he weren’t so tired, he thought, he’d be able to make a show of it, turn on the charm a bit. As it was all he could do was make sure he gave nothing away.

‘Fancied her, did he?’ Hunter said.

‘What!’

‘I’m asking you if Gus Lynch fancied Gabby.’

‘No…at least I don’t think so. She never said.’

‘What were you doing yesterday afternoon?’ Hunter asked conversationally.

‘History,’ Powell said. ‘All afternoon.’

‘You didn’t take Gabriella to Martin’s Dene, to lunch?’

‘Are you joking? I couldn’t afford that place. I was here. You can ask anyone.’

‘And after college,’ Hunter said. ‘Where did you go then?’

‘To the library to work.’

‘The library here in college?’

‘No. They close the library here at five. To Hallowgate library. It’s just off the square. It’s handy for the Grace Darling. I often work there on Mondays.’

‘Were you with anyone?’

‘No.’

On the rugby field the team was forming a scrum. Hunter, who had always been a football supporter, watched the swaying buttocks with distaste.

‘What about Gabriella Paston?’ he said. ‘Didn’t she come to the library to work with you before rehearsals?’

‘Sometimes. She came sometimes. But not last night. I didn’t see her after English in the morning.’

‘But you expected her to be at the rehearsal? She hadn’t told you that she wouldn’t be there?’

‘No. The last thing she said before she ran off at lunch time was “See you tonight!”’

They walked on in silence.

‘Tell me about you and her,’ Hunter said at last. ‘Everyone says you were special friends. Tell me. How special was she?’

John Powell stopped and turned towards the policeman, irritated by all the questions, losing control for a moment.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.’

‘Try me,’ Hunter said.

‘All right!’ Powell said angrily. ‘ She fancied me. She really fancied me. Only I wasn’t interested.’

‘Why not?’

Powell shrugged. ‘I suppose she wasn’t my type.’

‘What is your type?’ Hunter demanded, goading. ‘Got a girlfriend at the moment, have you? You’ll have to introduce me so I can see what your type is.’

Powell swore under his breath and walked on, kicking up the beech leaves with his boots.

‘Come on!’ Hunter said. ‘ Don’t be shy. Have you got a girlfriend?’

‘No,’ Powell shouted, losing his temper. ‘I haven’t got a girlfriend. Is that a crime? I’m busy. I’m studying for ‘A’ levels. I haven’t got time for a girlfriend.’

Hunter did not believe him. Even brainy eighteen-year-olds had hormones. There weren’t many lads who would turn away a girl like Gabriella Paston.

‘Look,’ he said, trying to sound friendly, approachable, to imply that after all they were much of the same generation. ‘Is it your father? Did he disapprove of Gabriella? This conversation is confidential. I’m not going to say anything to him.’

‘No,’ John Powell said. ‘It’s not my father. You can say whatever you like to him. You don’t understand anything at all.’ He turned to face Hunter, blocking his path. ‘I know my rights,’ he said. ‘ I don’t have to answer any of these questions. You haven’t arrested or cautioned me. You’ve no business prying into my private life. So you can sod off and leave me alone.’

And he walked away, not back to college, to his English lesson and a discussion of
Hamlet
as a tragedy, but over the frosty playing fields towards the Starling Farm estate.

On his way from Hallowgate to Otterbridge Ramsay called in at his home. In Heppleburn, the village where he lived, the children were coming out of school and he was stopped by the fat lollipop lady in the shiny white coat which might have been fashionable in the sixties. His cottage was cold. The fire which had still been smouldering when he had left in the morning was out. He took the milk from the doorstep and picked up the mail. There was an early Christmas card from an aunt in Canada, who thought letters still took six weeks to cross the Atlantic. Ramsay, who never sent any to her, felt slightly guilty. The rest were circulars and went into the bucket by the grate. They would help start the fire when he finally got home that night. He washed in tepid water and put on the kettle for coffee.

He had thought of Prue Bennett many times since she disappeared to Cambridge. Occasionally he had dreamed of her. The memories had been gentle, romantic, idealized. He had sense enough to know that she would not live up to them, that disappointment would inevitably follow the new acquaintance. Diana had been something quite different. Diana had been a passion, an addiction, and he had married her knowing that it had little chance of succeeding but prepared for once in his life to take the risk. Even now, given the choice between Diana and Prue, he was not sure he would not take Diana. But this is ridiculous, he thought, the fantasies of a lonely middle-aged man. Prue’s probably married, settled. Why would she be interested in you? And why do you think you have any choice?

She lived in the same house he had visited as a boy. It was called, for some reason, Minsmere, and the letters were painted in flaking gold on the semicircle of glass over the front door. He recognized them immediately. It had seemed very grand to him twenty years before to live in a house with a name and a number.

The house was red-brick and would have been rather ugly, but its outlines were softened by a Virginia creeper climbing up one corner and by large trees in the front garden. It was at the junction of two residential streets and was still shabbier, much less smart than the surrounding houses. At first it was quite unfamiliar to Ramsay and he almost walked past it, then realized that it only seemed different because he had never been there in the winter. He had only seen it when the trees were in leaf and his memory was so fixed that now, in the gloomy half light, it was almost unrecognizable. It was the letters over the front door which stopped him short and made him turn into the drive.