Ann Cleeves - Killjoy

‘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.’

‘She’d stick out like a sore thumb then, wouldn’t she?’ Felicity said. ‘I spent all lunch time in the bloody kitchen so I didn’t see her, but if she was here someone will recognize her. They should all be finishing soon. Sit down and have a drink until we’ve got rid of the punters. I don’t want you wandering round the restaurant in your big boots. I might get a reputation.’

He sat beside her on a tall stool and accepted a glass of wine.

‘Of course I’d like a description of the person she was with,’ Ramsay said. ‘ That’s most important. And some idea of the time they left.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Leave it to old Felicity. It wasn’t desperately busy here yesterday lunch time, and the same staff are on, so I’m sure we’ll be able to sort it out for you.’ She looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Diana always said that the stress would kill you,’ she said. ‘Relax and leave it to me.’

But when the waiters and waitresses came into the kitchen, complaining that their feet were killing them, grumbling at each other with the familiarity of family members, no one was able to identify Gabriella Paston. They tried. They passed the photo round between them, tried to remember similar customers served in the past.

‘When was she supposed to be here? Yesterday? No. No one like this was here yesterday.’

‘If she had smartened herself up?’ Ramsay said. ‘Put on make-up? Tied up her hair?’

No, they said. The day before had been fairly quiet. There had been a big party of executives from a Newcastle insurance company. All men. The only woman in the place was at least sixty.

He gave up and let them go away to their homes.

‘I’m sorry,’ Felicity said. ‘She can’t have been here. They’re a good crowd. If she had been they would have noticed.’

‘You take reservations for the tables in the restaurant, don’t you?’ Ramsay said.

‘Of course. Most regulars know they won’t get in without booking.’

‘Would you have a record of the reservations made for yesterday? And a note if any of them failed to turn up?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘ I get Carlo to make a note. It’s a bloody nuisance if you’ve turned away custom because someone’s booked and then the table’s empty.’

‘Perhaps we could look,’ Ramsay suggested gently.

‘Of course.’ She did not move but screamed through the kitchen door. ‘Bring the reservations diary, Carlo, there’s a dear.’

The young man came immediately. ‘What is it?’ he said with theatrical resignation. ‘What have I done now?’

‘Nothing, my sweet. You’re perfect. You know that. The inspector wants to see if someone made a reservation for yesterday lunch time and didn’t keep it.’