Ann Cleeves - Killjoy

Back at Hallowgate police station Ramsay wondered why he had not asked Prue to come to Heppleburn. He would like to have shown her the cottage. He was busy but he could have made some vague, friendly gesture. He decided that a sort of superstition had prevented him. He did not have a good record in protecting the women he came close to in murder cases. He wanted to keep her safe and when the investigation was over he would make his move.

The telephone rang. It was Hunter reporting on the surveillance operation outside the Pastons’ house. He had called it off now, he said. The van would cause suspicion if it were parked there after dark. Especially if it was there in the morning with all the wheels still on.

‘How did it go?’ Ramsay asked. He thought his interest now was academic. Gus Lynch must be his most likely suspect.

‘It was like St James’s Park on Derby match day, kids in and out all afternoon. And one of the visitors might interest you.’

‘Who was it?’ He tried to sound excited to humour Hunter.

‘John Powell. Now what do you make of that?’

By the next morning the weather had changed. The wind had gone westerly and was mild and damp, carrying squalls of rain. In Hallowgate police station Ramsay and Hunter had a meeting with the superintendent. From his office at the front of the building they saw the bright splash of colour of the yellow oilskins worn by the men driving fork-lift trucks on the Fish Quay against the grey of the river. Ramsay stared out at the scene below him and found it hard to concentrate.

‘So,’ the superintendent said, ‘what are we going to do about Gus Lynch?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Ramsay knew he must appear indecisive and tried to gather his thoughts. ‘I’m tempted to bring him in for questioning on suspicion of fraud but technically that’s awkward because the Grace Darling trustees have never reported a crime. The matter’s complicated of course by his high profile.’

‘You’ve not got enough to charge him with murder?’

Ramsay shook his head. ‘ There’s nothing to put him in Martin’s Dene on the evening of Amelia Wood’s death. We had his car and so far no one’s come forward to say that they gave him a lift. Of course someone might be protecting him. But until we have something more substantial than motive to link him to the murders it would be too risky to bring him in.’

They all knew the problem: once the PACE clock started ticking there was only a limited time before a decision had to be made whether to charge or release a suspect. And if Lynch was released after questioning Ramsay would have shown his hand and given the actor the opportunity to cover his tracks. That’s why he hadn’t asked to see the slush account records.

‘Of course we do have substantial evidence to implicate Lynch in the Paston murder,’ the superintendent said. ‘ Her body was found in the boot of his car.’

‘Yes.’ But Ramsay’s voice was uncertain. Paradoxically it was only the body in the car which made him question their case against Lynch. An intelligent man would have found somewhere to dump it. But perhaps it was all an elaborate counterbluff. Or the result of the sort of panic which leads to inaction.

‘There’s nothing we can do without more evidence,’ he said, taking a decision at last. ‘We can’t even talk to him informally about the missing funds without giving too much away. We need proof that he was in Martin’s Dene on Monday lunch time and Tuesday evening. Either a witness or forensic evidence. He’s well known. You’d think he’d be recognized. We’ve taken the clothes he was wearing on Tuesday for testing but there’s no result yet.’

‘I presume you’ve checked his alibi that he was in the pub in Anchor Street on Monday lunch time?’ The superintendent spoke apologetically, implying he was sure they had checked, but they must realize that he had to ask.

‘Yes,’ Hunter said. ‘He was definitely there. But the barmaid thought it was early, about twelve, and we know from Ellen Paston that Gabby was still in Hallowgate then. She was seen running through the market.’

‘She might have been killed somewhere in Hallowgate, of course,’ Ramsay said almost to himself. ‘We know she never reached the Holly Tree. It’s only supposition that she got to Martin’s Dene. We’ve had no response from the press campaign asking for witnesses and you’d think someone would have noticed her if she were waiting outside the restaurant. It’s a busy road…’

‘So we’re agreed then,’ the superintendent said, ‘that we make no move to question Lynch, at least over the weekend. We can re-assess the situation on Monday. We should have something back from forensic by then.’ He looked up at them. ‘What about this other business on the Starling Farm?’ he asked. ‘Is that relevant to the murder enquiry or is it just something you’ve turned up in the course of the investigation?’

‘It’s hard to say at this stage, sir,’ Hunter said. ‘But I’d like to get a search warrant to find out what is happening in the Pastons’ bungalow. There’s something going on in that place. There were kids running in and out all day. If you ask me it’s a right Fagin’s den.’

The superintendent raised his eyebrows.

‘You have evidence for that?’

‘Look,’ Hunter leaned forward earnestly. ‘I’ve been asking around the station, talking to officers who know the patch. They’ve suspected for ages that someone was organizing these car thefts, getting rid of the stuff stolen for them from the kids who nick it. Twelve lads went to that house during the course of our surveillance yesterday. Some were carrying boxes and bags. And they weren’t all collecting for bob a job.’

‘But two single ladies. They wouldn’t know how to go about it.’ Ramsay was sceptical.

‘Why not?’ Hunter demanded. ‘ Robbie must have carried out a similar business from the same premises.’

Ramsay was silent. He thought Hunter’s Fagin analogy was a good one. There was something Dickensian and grotesque about Alma Paston. ‘ I suppose it would be an excellent cover,’ he said. ‘Who would suspect them?’

‘You do realize how sensitive this could be?’ the superintendent said. ‘It’s not only that the estate’s so tense at the moment, and any heavy-handed police operation could provoke worse violence. It’s the Pastons. Memories on the Starling Farm go back a long way. They all remember Robbie Paston. They thought he was a bastard when he was alive but his death turned him into a folk hero. If news gets out that we’ve been harassing Robbie Paston’s defenceless mother and sister the whole place’ll go up. We’ll have to tolerate a bit of unlawful receiving until the mood there improves. There’s no way I can authorize a search.’

‘But there could be more to it than unlawful receiving!’ Hunter said. ‘We’ve been looking all along for a link between Gabriella Paston and Amelia Wood, something more than their involvement with the Grace Darling. Perhaps this is it. If the Pastons were dealing in stolen goods Gabby must have known. Perhaps that’s why she left home. She didn’t want to be involved any more. She knew she had too much to lose. And on the day of her death Amelia Wood convicted Tommy Shiels, a bloke from the estate who was selling nicked car radios. He wouldn’t tell Evan Powell who was organizing the racket but perhaps he said something in court which gave Mrs Wood an idea what was going on.’

‘I don’t know,’ Ramsay said. ‘That’s not very likely. What would Amelia Wood know about it?’

‘All right,’ Hunter said, unabashed. ‘Perhaps not. But there’s the John Powell connection. That must be significant.’