Ann Cleeves - Killjoy

‘What’s he been up to now?’ she said, resigned.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Not so far as I know. It’s information I’m after. I think he can help me. That’s all.’

‘He’s still in his bed,’ she said. ‘Bairns today, they’ve nothing to get up for, have they? Stay there and I’ll rouse him.’ She left Ramsay standing in the hall and disappeared up the stairs. He could see through to a kitchen where a box of breakfast cereal and a pile of dirty bowls stood on a table. Presumably there were younger children who had already taken themselves off to school.

The boy came down on his own, stretching and only half awake. He wore black Wrangler jeans and Reebok trainers. His mother hadn’t bought them , Ramsay thought, from her Income Support. The boy led him through into the room with the Christmas tree and motioned uneasily for him to sit down. There was a leatherette suite and a television set and video recorder. In a corner a budgerigar in a cage on a stand scratched at a piece of millet. The walls were covered with orange gloss paint. Gary Barrass perched on the window ledge and stared out at the street.

I should have sent Hunter to talk to him, Ramsay thought suddenly. He would have shouted and bullied and got what he wanted immediately. He felt his own pity for the boy getting in the way.

‘I need to talk to you, Gary,’ he said. ‘It’s important.’

‘It’s no good asking me,’ the boy said. ‘I wasn’t there.’

‘Perhaps you should explain,’ Ramsay said evenly.

‘I wasn’t at the races last night. I can’t help you.’

There had been reports of joy riders tearing round the estate, Ramsay knew, and complaints from respectable residents because the police could do nothing to stop it. But the joy riding was a regular event. Gary had seen him with the Pastons and must have connected him with Gabriella’s murder. They’d be talking about little else on the estate. Was he too stupid or too sly to admit the connection?

‘I’m not here about the racing,’ Ramsay said. ‘It’s more serious than that. I’m investigating Gabriella Paston’s murder. Did you know her?’

The boy turned to face him. The corner of an eye twitched with tension.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘We were at school together. She was two years older than me.’

He was sixteen. From his appearance Ramsay would have guessed he was three years younger.

‘You heard what happened to her?’

Gary nodded and Ramsay saw that he was dumb through terror not insolence. Yet he must have been interviewed by the police dozens of times. What was different on this occasion to make him so frightened?

‘When did you last see her?’ Ramsay asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Gary muttered. ‘ Not for ages. Not since before I got sent down. She’d left the Starling Farm before I went to Castington.’

‘Do you know why she left?’

‘No!’ the boy cried. ‘What are you asking me for? I don’t know anything.’

‘Yet you seemed very friendly with the Pastons,’ Ramsay said quietly. ‘With Alma and Ellen. I understood you were a regular visitor. Didn’t they say anything about it? Didn’t you ever talk about Gabby?’

‘No!’ he said, looking about him wildly. ‘They wouldn’t talk to me.’ He was like a backward child facing accusations he did not quite understand. He began desperately to bite the fingernails of his left hand.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Ramsay said. He had allowed his impatience to turn to anger, thinking that it might be a reaction the boy would understand. ‘I’m not playing games. We’re talking about murder.’ Then, when Gary continued to stare dumbly into the street he added sharply: ‘Let’s get your mam in here. Perhaps she’ll help you see sense.’ He raised his voice still further. ‘Mrs Barrass. Could you come here, please? We need your help.’

She had changed into a pink track suit which was a size too small and stretched across her stomach and breast. Her hands were soapy with washing-up liquid. She stood just inside the door, eager, optimistic, hoping this time it was true Gary had done nothing wrong. She had tried to keep her son out of trouble, always tried to think the best of him, but the pressures of the estate had been too much for her.

‘I’m trying to explain to Gary that he should tell me all he knows,’ Ramsay said.

She wanted to help him, he was sure of that. He thought she was a good woman, law abiding, honest.

‘H’ way man Gary, tell the man what he wants to know,’ she said. ‘Those friends of yours’d do nothing to save you.’

‘I’m interested in the Paston household,’ Ramsay said. ‘Do you know what Gary was doing there?’

Her reaction changed abruptly and he saw a panic which mirrored the expression he had seen on the face of her son.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know anything about what goes on in that place.’

‘You’re not friendly with the Pastons, then?’

She turned away as if the question were not worth answering. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep him in. Make sure he stays away from them.’

‘Why?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong with them?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said firmly. ‘ I keep myself to myself.’ She was jolly, good natured. He did not believe her. She’d look forward to a night out with the girls, a few drinks, a bit of a chat.

‘Look,’ he said, more persuasively. ‘I don’t need evidence, facts. Not now. There must be talk on the estate about Gabby Paston, about why she left, about her murder. You must have heard rumours about Alma and Ellen Paston.’

‘No,’ she said, as stubborn as her son. ‘I know nothing.’

‘But you do know them.’ But she would tell him nothing more. She stood her ground with a nervous dignity that he could only admire. It was her house, she said, and if he didn’t mind they had things to do, her and Gary. She would like him to go.

‘I want to help,’ he said, as he stood at the door, preparing to leave. ‘I’m not here to cause trouble.’

‘Maybe not,’ she said more sadly. ‘ But there’s no bugger can help us.’

Then she smiled at him hoping there were no hard feelings between them.

In Hallowgate police station Ramsay sought out Evan Powell.

‘You know the Starling Farm,’ he said. ‘What’s your opinion of the Paston women?’

‘They’re mad as hatters,’ Powell said. ‘The pair of them.’

‘In what way?’

‘When Robbie Paston died they took it personally. Thought it was my fault. Thought for some reason that I’d meant to do it. Ellen threw a fit at the inquest and accused me of murder. They started sending hate mail. It came here first. Then they must have found out where I lived because it arrived at my home. Nothing subtle, mind. Always the same writing on the same sort of envelopes and in the end I threw the letters away without opening them.’

‘You were sure the letters came from them?’

‘Of course. Who else would it be?’

‘You didn’t prosecute?’

‘What would have been the point? It would only have made things worse. Feeling was running pretty high on the estate as it was. Imagine how it would have been if we’d took the bereaved relatives to court. If you remember it was the time of the Toxteth riots. We had instructions from above to treat with kid gloves. Much like now. I didn’t mind. The Pastons didn’t bother me. I thought they’d get used to the idea of Robbie’s death, that they’d learn to forgive and forget.’

‘Did they?’

‘I’m not sure about that but they stopped sending malicious mail. I had a bit of a shock when I joined the choral society. I walked into the Grace Darling cafeteria and saw Ellen behind the bar. She seemed to haunt me for a while after that. Wherever I’d go I’d see her. She never approached me, just stood and watched as if she wanted me to know she was there. But even that stopped when we moved to Barton Hill. Perhaps she’s mellowing with age, got better things to do with her time.’