Ann Cleeves - Killjoy

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.

‘Gus!’ Jasper said. The drawl was more pronounced than usual. Gus Lynch looked at his watch. It was half-past three. He guessed that Simon had been entertaining one of his more successful clients to lunch and was full of claret and brandy. ‘Gus,’ Jasper repeated. ‘I’m sorry but I must have an answer by the end of the week. At the very latest.’ He paused, expecting an answer, then went on more sharply: ‘ You know you won’t get a better deal.’

‘No,’ Lynch said. ‘I realize that.’

‘I tried to phone you at the Centre,’ Jasper said. ‘Someone said it was closed for the day. No problems, I hope. I’ve told you the subsidized sector is very vulnerable at the moment. You should get out while you have the chance.’

‘I want to get out,’ Lynch said hurriedly. ‘ I explained that I’m ready for a move.’ He hesitated and sensed that Jasper was becoming irritated, then continued quickly: ‘It’s just that I’m having problems persuading the trustees to release me from my contract at the Grace Darling.’