Ann Cleeves - Killjoy

‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ he said, obviously not sorry at all. ‘ If I could have a word.’

Ramsay followed him into the hall and shut the door.

‘We’ve found something,’ Hunter said. ‘Something really interesting.’ He paused for dramatic effect and then continued. ‘A sports bag. The sort all the kids use to carry their gear in, full of books and files. It belonged to Gabriella Paston.’

‘So,’ Ramsay said. ‘She did come to Martin’s Dene on the day of her death. Where exactly did you find it?’

Hunter paused again, like a child wanting to savour a moment of triumph. ‘ Well,’ he said. ‘That’s the most interesting thing of all. We found it here. In this garden. In the middle of the shrubbery next to the wall. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?’

At midday Ramsay left St Martin’s Close and drove back to Hallowgate to report to the chief superintendent. The Close was filled with police vehicles and he made a mental note that when the case was over he should write to all the residents to thank them for their forbearance.

In his office the superintendent listened carefully to what Ramsay had to tell him. On the wall above his head was a watercolour of St Mary’s Island which he had painted himself. From the window was a view of the mouth of the river.

‘Not a coincidence then,’ he said, ‘if the girl’s things were found in the Woods’ garden.’

‘Definitely not a coincidence,’ Ramsay said, ‘ but nothing to connect the women yet either, except the Grace Darling Centre.’

‘You think Gabriella Paston was murdered in Martin’s Dene too?’

‘That seems the most obvious explanation. She’d told her friends she was going there. Her bag was found at the end of the garden. It could have been thrown over the wall from the common.’ Ramsay paused. ‘I think the focus of the investigation will have to shift to Martin’s Dene,’ he said. ‘ We’ll need to make that point clearly at the press conference. Presumably Gabby Paston got there by public transport. Someone must have seen her. And she was quite a striking figure. We’ll need a house-to-house in the village. I’m having photos printed now. ‘ Then we’ll need everyone who was out on the hill yesterday evening to come forward.’

‘Any other lines of enquiry?’

‘Someone was paying regularly into the girl’s building society account. It could have been her family of course. I’ll check that. If not it would be interesting to know who was giving her the money.’

‘You think it could have been payment for services rendered?’

Ramsay shrugged. ‘It’s possible. She was an attractive girl. And she seems not to have sustained any lasting relationships with lads of her own age. She’d not be the first drama student to sleep her way through college.’

‘Where does Mrs Wood come into it?’

‘At this stage,’ Ramsay said, ‘I haven’t a clue.’

‘You don’t see Dennis Wood as Miss Paston’s mysterious benefactor?’

‘It’s a neat explanation,’ Ramsay said. ‘But no. I don’t think Dennis Wood’s a murderer.’

There was a moment’s silence while the superintendent leaned forward, his arms on his desk.

‘I’d be grateful to get this cleared up quickly,’ he said, awkwardly.

‘Of course.’ Ramsay was surprised. He had not expected to be put under pressure.

‘There should be no difference in our response to a teenage lad stabbed to death in a pub brawl on the Starling Farm estate as to a magistrate strangled in Martin’s Dene.’ The superintendent was speaking almost to himself but looked up to check that Ramsay understood what he was saying. ‘ Morally there’s no difference at all. But practically…’ He smiled wryly. ‘ Practically there’s all the difference in the world. The respectable citizens of Martin’s Dene will be affronted by an outrage on their doorstep. They’ll take it personally. When you spend that much on a house you expect to be insulated from the nasty realities of the outside world. I get enough flak about dog mess on the pavement. They’ll write to their MPs, to the members of the police committee, to me. They’ll make my life hell.’ He smiled again, more gently. ‘I was hoping for a peaceful year before I retire. As I said, I’d be grateful.’

‘I’ll have a try,’ Ramsay said, but his voice gave little room for hope.

From his cold, depressing office in Hallowgate police station Ramsay phoned the Grace Darling Arts Centre. The call was answered by Joe Fenwick on the reception desk. It was a small piece of luck but made Ramsay feel optimistic for the first time that day.

‘Ellen Paston,’ he asked. ‘Is she working today?’

‘Aye. She got in half an hour ago.’

‘That’s fine then. You’ll not tell anyone I was asking.’

‘Me!’ Joe Fenwick laughed. ‘Man, I’ll not tell a soul.’

Ramsay sent a car to bring Ellen Paston to the police station. It was a gamble, of course. She might just refuse to come. He had been tempted to go to the Grace Darling to talk to her there, tempted too by the prospect of seeing Prue Bennett again. But in the end he had decided to bring her into the police station. Away from her own home ground, her mother and her work, she might be more prepared to talk. And he thought that she would come. Curiosity would bring her along.

He had hoped to find somewhere more pleasant to interview her, thinking she might be persuaded to relax her guard in less formal surroundings, but no other room was available and he saw her in his office. He phoned for a WPC to bring them tea, hoping to make Ellen Paston feel important, special. She spent her life waiting on others, dominated by her mother, patronized by the customers at the Grace Darling. He felt she would be susceptible to flattery.

‘I believe you’ll be able to help me,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to tell me about your meetings with Gabriella.’

She looked up at him but said nothing. A policewoman knocked at the door, then came in with a tea tray which she set on the table. She took a chair to the corner of the room where she sat, apparently lost in thoughts of her own throughout the interview. Ramsay poured tea, offered biscuits.

‘You did meet Gabriella quite regularly,’ he said gently. ‘She kept a record of your appointments in her diary.’ He held his breath, hoping that he was right and that the E of the diary was Ellen Paston.

‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘We met. She’d never come to the house but she wanted to keep in touch.’ She spoke bitterly. ‘We weren’t much but we were all she had.’

‘Why didn’t she come to the house?’

Ellen shook her head as if it was beyond her understanding. Ramsay tried to control his impatience.

‘Was it because she knew she wouldn’t be welcome?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘She’d have been welcome enough. We’d have had her back to live if she’d wanted to come. She didn’t want to go there. That’s all.’

‘Did your mother know that you were meeting Gabriella?’

‘She knows I saw Gabby at the Grace Darling,’ Ellen said, ‘but not that I saw her away from work.’

‘Why didn’t you tell her?’ Ramsay asked.

Ellen shrugged. Perhaps she had so little privacy that any secret, however harmless, was important to her. Perhaps there had been so much animosity between Alma and Gabriella that her mother had forbidden her to see the girl. Whatever the reason she refused to say.

‘Where did you meet?’ he asked.

‘Usually in the coffee shop in Martin’s Dene,’ Ellen said. Had they chosen Martin’s Dene, Ramsay wondered, because they were unlikely to meet any of their acquaintances from the Starling Farm there? Ellen leaned forward greedily and took another biscuit. ‘We had tea, cream cakes. It was a treat, something to look forward to.’