Ann Cleeves: Killjoy

The murder of a teenage girl, which in other circumstances might have been seen as a welcome break from routine, an excitement to see them through until Christmas, was only an added complication, a distraction from the important issues. Ramsay was welcome to it. Besides, they soon found that the girl had lived in Otterbridge, the Northumberland market town twenty miles away where Ramsay was based, and that was excuse enough to pass it on to him.

Ramsay arrived at the Grace Darling car park at the same time as the pathologist, a man of ridiculously youthful appearance, consultant at one of the Newcastle teaching hospitals. He was a clean-shaven athletic Scot who spent his spare time climbing mountains and playing rugby.

‘What did you think of the game at Murrayfield on Saturday?’ he whispered with barely concealed delight as they walked together to the car, managing just to maintain an air of appropriate solemnity. He had Ramsay down as an ardent English fan, perhaps mistaking him for some other colleague met in similar circumstances and always made some comment on the latest Rugby International. Ramsay, who had no interest at all in sport, was never sure what to say.

‘She would have been a pretty young thing,’ the pathologist muttered appreciatively, peering into the boot of the car. Ramsay resisted the temptation to say that he could tell that, without a medical qualification. The pathologist straightened. ‘I can’t give you much,’ he said cheerfully, ‘until I examine her. It looks like asphyxiation. No scratch marks on the neck but I’d say she was strangled. And moved of course after death.’

‘Time of death?’ Ramsay asked, more in hope than in expectation.

But the pathologist shook his head and refused to commit himself.

One of the attractions for Ramsay of taking responsibility for the Hallowgate murder was the chance to work with a new team. He thought he was getting stale. He hoped, perhaps to find a new enthusiasm for the job. In Otterbridge his sergeant was Gordon Hunter, brash, over confident, with the sensitivity of a cart horse. Ramsay thought that in Hallowgate he would find a more sympathetic colleague, someone less abrasive. There was Evan Powell, for example; he would find out if Evan was available to join him on the enquiry. They would work well together. He felt a jolt of disappointment then, when he saw Hunter sauntering across the car park towards him. The sergeant wore his usual uniform of designer trainers, jeans, and leather jacket and greeted colleagues from North Tyneside with easy frivolity, using nicknames, making jokes.

‘What are you doing here?’ Ramsay demanded, then regretted his abruptness. Hunter was a good policeman in his way. There was no point in putting his back up. But Hunter was too insensitive to take offence.

‘Knew you couldn’t manage without me,’ he said. ‘Besides, it’s as quiet as the grave in Otterbridge. All our bad lads are on this patch joining in the fun.’

Ramsay thought that riot and ram raiding and the death of a child was hardly his idea of fun but he did not want to provoke an argument, especially here in front of strangers. He knew he already had a reputation for being pompous and humourless.

Hunter sensed nothing of Ramsay’s disapproval. ‘Think of the overtime,’ he said. ‘It’ll come in handy just before Christmas. And it doesn’t hurt to volunteer for something occasionally. Makes them think you’re keen.’ He turned to one of the local uniformed officers who had been first on the scene. ‘What’s the score, then? Do we know who she is?’

‘Her name’s Gabriella Paston,’ the young man said warily. He was new to the force and unsure of Hunter’s authority. ‘She’s a member of the Youth Theatre but she didn’t turn up for the rehearsal tonight.’

‘What is this place?’ Hunter asked of no one in particular. He looked with distaste at the building with its Gothic turrets, at the gloomy garden and dripping trees. This time Ramsay answered.

‘It’s the Grace Darling Arts Centre,’ he said. Diana, his ex-wife, had brought him to the Grace Darling when she was trying to educate him, to see experimental theatre groups and exhibitions by obscure local artists. He had no positive memories of these experiences but remembered what Diana had told him about the place. ‘It was a big private house. The old lady who lived here left it in her will to the community to be used as a centre for encouraging the arts. She came from Bamburgh originally and stipulated the name. Eventually the trustees bought up the house next door and extended it.’ He stopped, knowing that Hunter hated to be lectured and saw that his attention was already wandering. He was staring at the body.

‘I think I may have seen her around,’ Hunter said. ‘In Otterbridge. In that new night club on the market square. She was a cracker. You couldn’t help noticing her.’ He paused and Ramsay thought he might express some grief, a reflection on the waste of a young life, but he continued cheerfully, ‘I offered to buy her a drink once but it didn’t do me any good. She could have had any bloke in the place.’ He swung round and faced the uniformed constable. ‘Who found the body, then?’

‘A mother and daughter,’ the man said. ‘But it’s not their car. Apparently the owner gave them his keys to fetch something from the boot.’

‘Where is the owner of the car now?’ Ramsay asked.

‘In the Centre with the other witnesses. We’ve got the names and addresses of the people who were here when we arrived but we’ve let most of them go home. There weren’t that many-mostly kids from the Youth Theatre hanging around the cafeteria. Apparently it was very busy earlier on but most people went at about nine. The only people left now are some security and domestic staff, Gus Lynch the director, who owns the car, and the two women who found the body.’

‘We’ll need an appeal on local radio tomorrow morning asking everyone who used the Centre today to come forward,’ Ramsay said, thinking out loud. ‘Then we’ll need more men to take statements.’

‘You won’t be popular,’ Hunter said, grinning, thinking again about overtime. ‘I hear they’ve already exceeded their budget.’

Ramsay turned away and muttered under his breath. This would be hard enough-working on an unfamiliar patch-without the political pressure of keeping costs down. Perhaps over-work wasn’t the only reason why his North Tyneside colleagues had handed the case to an outsider. He shivered, feeling suddenly very cold. The mist was thinning again and above the grey slate roof of the Grace Darling appeared a small sharp-edged moon. In the distance they heard the wailing siren of a police car or fire engine, the sign, perhaps, of more disturbance.

‘Come on,’ Ramsay said. ‘Let’s go in and see what they’ve got to say for themselves.’ Then, with an optimism he did not feel, ‘This might be a straightforward one. Perhaps we’ll have it all wrapped up by morning.’

The sound of the siren came closer.

In the lobby of the centre many of the original features of the old house remained. There was wood panelling, a huge portrait of a stern Victorian, a chintz-covered sofa. How did they survive, Ramsay wondered, these remnants of gracious living, without being stolen or vandalized?

Joe Fenwick recognized the men as police as soon as they came in. Until he was fifty he had worked as a bouncer for one of the roughest clubs in Newcastle. He was a squat tub of a man, known to his opponents in the ring as Popeye, because of his protruding head and his ability to find sudden bursts of strength from nowhere. He had retired from boxing thirty years ago and still missed the excitement. The work at the Grace Darling was steady, without the aggravation of the club, but he found himself perpetually bored. The murder had lifted his spirits considerably. He set aside his newspaper and waited for Ramsay to approach him.