Ann Cleeves - Killjoy

‘What contract?’ The affected drawl almost disappeared. ‘ I didn’t know anything about a contract. I hope you didn’t sign anything without consulting me.’

‘No,’ Lynch said. ‘Of course not.’ The whisky was getting in the way, preventing him from producing a coherent story. ‘It’s nothing formal. But I don’t want to leave with any bad feeling. That sort of publicity would get in the way of the new job. You know that.’

‘I suppose.’ To express his disapproval Jasper withdrew his attention and shouted to someone in the room with him: ‘Jemima, bring me some tea, there’s a good girl.’ There was a silence, then he relented and spoke to Gus again. ‘You do realize,’ he said, ‘that if you’re interested you’ll have to sign by the end of the week, bad publicity or no.’

‘All right, Simon,’ Lynch said, losing patience. ‘I understand. There’s no need to spell it out. I’ll sort it.’

‘Good,’ Jasper said. ‘ Right. Well, I’ll expect to hear from you then.’

Lynch replaced the receiver before the agent could bully him further. He poured another drink and phoned Amelia Wood’s home. He had her number, with a list of the other trustees, in his book. A cleaning lady answered primly like a servant in a television historical drama. Mrs Wood was not at home, she said. She thought she had expected to be in court all day, but she would be home soon. If he would like to leave a message she would make sure Mrs Wood received it.

‘No,’ Gus said. ‘No message.’

He went out quickly, an impulse. There was a thick winter jacket at the back of a cupboard. He seldom wore it-he had never been one for outdoor pursuits-and scarcely recognized himself in the mirror in the hall. Before leaving the flat he drew the living-room curtains, then took the phone off the hook. If the police tried to contact him it would take them a while to realize that it was not simply engaged. With any luck they would assume the phone was out of order and leave him until the morning. Even if they sent someone to the flat that would take time and he did not expect to be away for very long.

The cold outside took his breath away. The light behind the mist had drained away and it was almost dark. He twisted a scarf around his neck and over his mouth and pulled up the hood of his jacket. In his pocket he found a pair of gloves and pulled them on.

The wholesale fish shops along the quay were beginning to close. Boards advertising the day’s catch were lifted in and men stood with poles to pull down thick metal shutters over the windows. Lynch walked past anonymously, another man just finished work, on his way home or to the pub. One of the fishmongers even waved to him, certain that Gus belonged there. Lynch walked up the steep bank away from the river, past the red low light that guided boats into the quay. The exercise and the whisky made him light-headed and he had to stop half-way and gasp for breath.

In the middle of Hallowgate the shops were still open and busy. It was only half-past four. Gangs of teenagers on their way home from school walked aimlessly and gathered outside the Wimpy Bar to share a bag of chips. The jangle of inevitable Christmas carols came from the Price Savers Supermarket and from all the tatty clothes shops selling sequinned party frocks or threadbare denim. A pork butcher was scooping pease pudding from a huge tray into a plastic carton to sell to an old man who carefully counted pennies from a purse on to the counter and outside the greengrocer’s next door two women were fighting over a pile of Christmas trees: both had chosen one that was less battered than the rest. Only the many charity shops seemed quiet and respectable. Genteel ladies in suede boots and tweed skirts stood awkwardly behind their counters, watching the clock tick on, knowing that the week’s ordeal of charitable do gooding would soon be over. In the window of Barnardo’s was a poster advertising The Adventures of Abigail Keene.

Gus Lynch took no notice of the shops or the passers-by, though walking through Hallowgate was a novelty for him. He did his shopping weekly in the big new Sainsbury’s in Whitley Bay. He bought ready-cooked Indian meals, exotic cheese, and bottles of wine recommended by the Sunday Times , and spent more than most Hallowgate families would in a month. He hunched his shoulders, put his head down and looked at the pavement in front of him.

He knew where the Hallowgate magistrates’ court was because he had been there once to pay a speeding fine. He walked past it slowly. The lights were on inside but everything seemed quiet. Now he was here he felt awkward. He was not sure what to do. A door marked Staff Only opened and two middle-aged men came out. They were pulling on identical raincoats and chatted about golf. They must have seen him but they took no notice. Who were they? Lynch wondered. Magistrates? Court officials? Plain-clothes policemen? He watched them walk together up the street, envying their easy conversation, their quiet consciences.

The door opened again and Amelia Wood came out. He stood with his back flat against the wall of the building but she went in the opposite direction and did not see him. She walked quickly. She wore a calf-length Burberry mackintosh and tied a silk scarf over her hair, worried that the damp in the air would affect her new perm. He heard the heels of her shoes tapping on the uneven pavement.

When Amelia Wood emerged from the court she was surprised to find that it was already dark. The court’s business had taken longer than she had expected. It was over, at least, for another week. She had parked her car away from the court in one of the quieter, more salubrious streets close to Hallowgate Square. It was a precaution she had taken since a previous car had been vandalized by the friends of a defendant she had sentenced to youth custody. They had seen her arrive in it and while she dealt with other cases they had wreaked their vengeance with razor blades and spray paint. Besides, there was usually something therapeutic about the short walk in the fresh air after a day in court. It put a distance between her and the lives of the people on whom she passed judgement. As she walked briskly away she began to plan the dinner party she would hold at the weekend for some of the more prominent trustees of the Grace Darling Centre. Despite the tragedy of the girl’s murder she would be able to promise them that the Centre had a secure future.

She took a shortcut through an alley up a steep and narrow flight of stone steps between blank brick walls known as Meggie’s Cut. She always took the same path after court. Although it was poorly lit she had never been frightened. It never occurred to her that she might be vulnerable. A figure appeared out of the fog at the top of the steps: a plump young woman with a pushchair which she had tilted back at an alarming angle so the two back wheels jolted down, a step at a time. Amelia stood aside to let her pass. The child inside was quite awake but lay still and the eyes which were all that could be seen between quilt and anorak hood were wide and terrified. As Amelia continued she heard the thud of wheel against stone echoing away from her.

At the bottom of the steps Gus Lynch turned his back to the woman with the pushchair. He unwrapped his scarf and held it, one end in each hand, then began to run up the steps after Amelia Wood. She heard the footsteps but took no notice. She went through the guest list for the dinner party and wondered if they could run to smoked salmon for the first course. She felt she deserved a celebration.

The footsteps came closer and she turned, without curiosity, to see who was there. Through the gloom she saw a man, his hood pulled over his head, who seemed to stumble away from her. She decided he was a drunk.