Ann Cleeves - Killjoy

‘Perhaps it was a present from some other relative,’ Hunter said. ‘Someone on her mother’s side. And she didn’t tell her gran in case she expected a cut.’

‘Yes, perhaps.’ But it was unlikely, Ramsay thought, that her mother’s family would get in touch after all this time. They would have to be traced just the same. Through the Spanish police.

Hunter emptied his glass and set it on the window sill, hoping that Ramsay would offer a refill but the inspector seemed lost in his own thoughts and did not notice.

‘I still think the boy’s hiding something,’ the sergeant said at last.

‘John Powell?’

He nodded.

‘I hope he’s not involved,’ Ramsay said, ‘for Evan’s sake. It would be very difficult, very unpleasant. He was there of course last night in Martin’s Dene at the Holly Tree but he was with his family all the time. I checked with Evan today. And the timing’s all wrong. They didn’t arrive at the restaurant until nine. Amelia Wood left court before five and told the usher she was going straight home. Allowing for the drive, a shower, tea, she would have been out on the hill by six thirty at the latest. We haven’t had a time of death from the pathologist yet but I’d be surprised if it was much later than that.’

‘He could have killed her beforehand then,’ Hunter said stubbornly. ‘According to his statement he arrived home at seven. He left me at the school in the early afternoon. He’d have had plenty of time to get to Martin’s Dene.’

‘But not to get home after committing the murder,’ Ramsay said. ‘He doesn’t have a car and it would be pushing it on foot or using public transport. Besides, what motive could he have?’

Hunter shrugged. ‘As I see it,’ he said. ‘None of them have got a motive.’ He looked wistfully at his empty glass. This time Ramsay took the hint and poured him a drink.

‘I was with Lynch between five thirty and six,’ Hunter said. ‘His car’s still with forensic so he’d hardly be able to make it to Martin’s Dene in time to kill Mrs Wood. Unless he had an accomplice who drove him and that’s not very likely.’

‘No,’ Ramsay said. ‘Perhaps not. But I don’t think we can rule anyone out at this stage.’

He stood up and moved restlessly to the window. The cold penetrated the glass and he shivered.

‘You’re quite right,’ he said, ‘about our lacking a motive. I’m certain that the killings weren’t random or opportunistic. As you said it’s all too complicated and well planned for that. We need a motive that connects the two women. The only link we have at the moment is the Grace Darling Centre so we should start there.’ He paused. ‘ I was interested in something Dennis Wood said. About Lynch. Apparently Wood developed the flats at Chandler’s Court. He told me that when Lynch was first interested in buying a flat he had difficulty getting together the finance. Then, miraculously, he found the money. I’d like to know where it came from. He won’t be making much as director of the Arts Centre. The local authority’s not known for its generosity.’

‘He must have had savings,’ Hunter said, ‘ after all that time on the telly.’ He thought Ramsay was clutching at straws.

‘Perhaps,’ Ramsay said. ‘All the same it might be worth looking into. Check tomorrow with one of those credit agencies. See if he had any debts.’

‘What else?’ Hunter asked. He preferred to be out, knocking on doors, making things happen.

‘It occurred to me that Mrs Wood must have made enemies during her time on the bench. She was notorious for her controversial judgements. There’s a record that her car was vandalized after one unpopular decision. Look into all the cases she’d dealt with in the last few months. See if there’s anything that connects with Gabriella Paston.’

‘All right.’ Hunter was unenthusiastic. It was the sort of work he hated, sitting in an office with a pile of paperwork and a telephone. ‘What will you be doing?’

‘Me?’ Ramsay said. ‘I’ll be tracing a lad called Gary Barrass.’

It did not take Ramsay long the next morning to find out about Barrass, the boy he’d met at the Pastons’ on the day after Gabriella’s death. The lad already had a string of convictions which ranged from shoplifting to carrying an offensive weapon. He was described in reports as ‘easily led’. His most recent charge for burglary had resulted in a six-month sentence at Castington Young Offenders’ Institution. At first Ramsay thought that Barrass might provide the link he was looking for between Amelia Wood and the Pastons, but with all his criminal experience he was still a juvenile and Mrs Wood had never sat on the juvenile bench.

The police file gave Gary’s address as 53 Windward Avenue, the Starling Farm estate. The whole country had seen Windward Avenue on their television screens in the previous weeks. At one end was the small row of shops which had been the target for looting. It had formed the front line between angry teenagers and the police who had tried to stop their joy riding. Later, politicians, churchmen, and reporters had stood on the pavement to hold forth on the causes of the disturbances.

When Ramsay stood on the same pavement he saw that there had been no improvement to the street since the riots had headed the news. He had parked outside the launderette and wondered, without anxiety, if the car would still be there on his return. Two houses at the end of the avenue still had blackened paintwork and crumbling walls. Bright yellow signs nailed to the wall warned that the buildings were unsafe but otherwise it seemed that no steps had been taken to begin repairs. Ramsay saw that it would not be easy to find number fifty-three. The boards used to cover the doors on the empty houses had been used before and were scrawled all over by painted numbers. Many occupied houses had no numbers at all. Was it a deliberate ploy, Ramsay wondered, to confuse the police? There was no one to ask for directions, no sign of life at all except a pit-bull terrier which barked as he walked past, chained to a rusting car.

Then he came to number thirty-seven, which must have been bought by the tenants when the council’s right to buy scheme was first introduced. The house had mock-mullioned windows and a stone-clad exterior. There was a Georgian-style door and a lightly polished brass number plate. The effect was ridiculous but Ramsay could not help but admire the determination which sent someone out every day to polish the brass.

From there he could count the houses until he reached fifty-three. He stood on the pavement for a moment to check that he’d found the right place. It was hard to believe at first that the house was lived in. There were no curtains at the window and in the garden there was a pile of rubbish-a rabbit hutch with a wire-mesh door, an ancient mattress, and a rotting roll of carpet. But as he walked up to the door he saw through the window a Christmas tree made of silver tinsel, hung with baubles and paper chains, and heard a Metro Radio disc jockey announcing the next record then a woman’s voice, singing along with it. He knocked at the door.

The woman who opened it was wearing a threadbare pink dressing-gown, so thin in places that it was almost transparent. She clutched it around her with nicotine-stained fingers. As she opened the door the noise of the radio was suddenly louder and she had to shout over it. She was still swaying to the rhythm of the music.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘What is it?’

‘Is Mr Barrass at home?’ he asked.

‘Him!’ she said. ‘He left five years ago. I’ve not seen him since.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘ It’s Gary I wanted to see. I’m from Northumbria Police.’

‘Just a minute,’ she shouted. ‘I’ll turn that off.’ And she shimmied reluctantly down the hall to the kitchen, her hips swaying, enjoying the music while she could. There was a sudden silence.