Ann Cleeves - Killjoy

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.