Ann Cleeves - Killjoy

‘It’s me!’ Prue shouted up the stairs. ‘I’m just making some tea if you want some.’ It was what she always said when she came in from work and the repeated words reassured her.

Anna was still wearing her school uniform. She looked very young and Prue thought again how absurd it was that Gus could consider her a suitable Abigail Keene. Abigail had to be sexy, sophisticated, confident of her ability to attract.

‘Amelia Wood’s dead,’ Anna said. ‘I’ve just heard it on the radio.’

Prue looked at her daughter for signs that she was upset but Anna’s words were calm, matter of fact.

‘I know,’ Prue said. ‘The police were at the Centre today.’

‘That Stephen Ramsay? Your old flame?’

Was she sneering? Prue wondered, but again it was impossible to tell. What’s wrong with us? she thought. Why can’t we communicate? Then she thought she was getting paranoid: they’d muddled along well enough in the past.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Stephen was there.’

‘Does he know who killed Mrs Wood?’

Prue shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Not yet.’

‘Will it make any difference to the production?’

Prue shrugged. ‘I wanted to cancel but Gus thinks we should go ahead.’

‘So do I,’ Anna said firmly. ‘It can’t make any difference to Gabby and Mrs Wood now.’

Prue was surprised by the strength of her words.

‘Gus thinks you should play Abigail Keene,’ she said.

‘Does he?’ There was no clue in the girl’s voice to what she thought of the idea. ‘Does he think I can do it?’

‘Apparently.’

‘And you?’ Anna asked quietly. ‘What do you think?’ Then before Prue could answer she cried: ‘You don’t think I’ll be anywhere near as good as Gabby. I’ve never lived up to your expectations, have I? You don’t want me to try in case I make a fool of you.’

‘No,’ Prue said, distressed, wondering if that was what she thought. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

As they stared at each other angrily, shocked by the unusual tension between them, the telephone rang.

After speaking to Connor, John Powell hung round the lobby of the Grace Darling, reading posters on the noticeboard advertising the Contemporary Dance Festival in town and Shakespeare at the Theatre Royal. He was putting off a decision about what to do next. The evening stretched ahead of him as a prospect of unendurable boredom. Sod Connor, he thought. This was no time to lose his nerve.

He was just about to leave the building when Joe Fenwick called him back.

‘Hey!’ he said. ‘You. Young Powell. I want a word with you.’

‘What is it?’ John stood at the door.

‘Come here, bonny lad. I don’t want the whole world to hear. And nor will you.’

‘What is it?’ John said again, sauntering towards the desk, refusing to be rattled.

‘What were you doing playing silly buggers in Anchor Street a couple of nights ago?’ Joe said.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ He was superior, haughty. It was a faultless performance.

‘Don’t come the innocent with me. I saw you and your mates driving like lunatics. What had you been up to, eh? It wasn’t your car you were driving. Don’t you think the police would be interested?’

‘No,’ John said calmly. ‘I don’t think they would. They’ve more important things to worry about than a few lads mucking about. Besides I’d deny it.’

‘Deny what you like, bonny lad. But if I see you at it again I’ll be on to your father as quick as you like. Or to that Inspector Ramsay.’

‘I shouldn’t do that,’ John said. ‘That would be a mistake.’

He was more worried by the exchange than he let on but he refused to run away. He wasn’t going to be intimidated by an old man like Joe Fenwick. He told himself it was the lack of information which was frightening. If he knew which way the police investigation was moving he’d have more to work on. He’d know what line to take. He thought then that Anna Bennett might be a source of inside information. Her mother was close to the inspector leading the investigation. It was an outside chance but he’d always been willing to gamble. Ignoring Joe Fenwick’s disapproval he walked defiantly back to the pay phone.

‘Hi!’ he said when Anna answered. ‘I think we should meet.’ He thought it was beneath him to identify himself. He took it for granted she would recognize his voice. He knew she liked him. ‘We’ll need to talk about the play if you’re taking over from Gabby. You are going to take on Abigail Keene?’

‘Yes,’ she said, then consciously echoing her mother: ‘Apparently.’

‘I’ll borrow my mum’s car and pick you up,’ he said and replaced the receiver before she had a chance to refuse.

Anna walked slowly back to the kitchen. She was flushed with excitement.

‘That was John,’ she said. ‘He’s asked me out.’

‘Tonight? Will you go?’

‘Yes,’ Anna said, then added sarcastically, ‘if it’s all right with you.’

What can I say? Prue thought. She’s eighteen. An adult. At her age I was making love to Stephen Ramsay in the dunes at Duridge Bay.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘ Of course it’s all right. I hope you enjoy yourself.’

‘Oh, Mum,’ Anna said impulsively. ‘You don’t know how much this means to me.’

Prue did not know what to say.

John arrived at the house later than they had expected and the waiting only increased the tension between them. When the door bell rang Anna rushed off to answer it. Prue wished that she was not so eager. She would be so easily hurt. Through the open kitchen door she heard John say, without apology, that he was late because he’d had problems arranging transport. Then the front door slammed and Anna went off without saying goodbye.

John knew from the beginning that the evening was a crazy idea. Why Anna Bennett, for Christ’s sake? It had started logically enough with a desire to find out more about the police investigation but as soon as he got hold of the car he knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with a quiet drink and a chat. He needed danger like a drug. Her affection for him was a challenge, as Gabby’s had been. He wanted to shock her out of it.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked. She had changed from her school uniform into a long black skirt and boots. He could tell she had made an effort for him. She sat primly with her hands on her lap. What had she expected? he wondered. The pictures? A meal in a wine bar in Otterbridge? Did she think he fancied her when he could have had Gabby Paston? Her passivity made him want to hit her.

‘You’ll see,’ he said roughly. ‘It’s a surprise.’

He drove fast out of Otterbridge and joined the main road south. He realized it wasn’t too late to save the evening, to stop him making a fool of himself. He could buy her a pizza, a few glasses of wine, make her feel good and deliver her safely home to her mother. But he had never played safe and he recognized the self-destructive excitement, the lack of control, which made him drive too fast and spend his time with Connor and which was his only antidote to boredom.

‘I thought we were going to talk about the play,’ she said. He overtook a lorry and just missed an oncoming vehicle. She clasped her hands in her lap more tightly.

‘Not talk,’ he said. ‘Talk’s not enough. We’ll never understand Abigail and Sam just by talking. They took risks. They lived on the edge.’

‘So,’ she said more loudly, too proud to let him see how frightened she was by the speed. ‘Where are we going?’

‘We’re going to the races,’ he said and braked sharply as they approached a roundabout. She thought she must have misheard and did not like to ask what he meant. She felt out of her depth. As they waited for the traffic to pass he said: ‘What do the police say then about these murders? Your mam must know. They were at the Grace Darling today. And didn’t you say she was a special friend of Inspector Ramsay’s?’