Ann Cleeves - Killjoy

His hands were shaking and he could hardly control his temper. ‘I didn’t think you used that sort of tactic, Stephen. I didn’t think that was your style of policing. Harassing young kids.’

‘There’s no question of harassment,’ Ramsay said. He was hating this confrontation. He was tempted to apologize and leave, to take the superintendent’s advice and give himself a break. ‘The information came up on the course of routine enquiries.’ He paused. As in the conversation with Mrs Barrass he knew it would be impossible to convince Evan that he wanted to help. He would have to let the facts speak for themselves.

‘We suspect the Pastons of trading in stolen goods,’ he said. ‘ John was one of a number of young people seen going to the house during a surveillance operation. There must be some suspicion that the car he was driving on Wednesday was stolen.’

‘No!’ Evan shouted. ‘ You must be mad? Why would he do something like that?’

Ramsay ignored the outburst and continued calmly: ‘If your son is on the fringe of illegal activity on the Starling Farm estate it wouldn’t be so terrible. He’d be prosecuted, of course. You’d not want any special treatment for him. But we’re most concerned with the murder. He’s a first offender. He’d get probation, community service, specially if he gave himself up. It wouldn’t need to interrupt his education. But don’t you see? If he doesn’t explain his part in it now, there’s a danger that he could get mixed in the murder investigation. None of us want that.’

‘No,’ Evan bellowed again. ‘I’ll not accept it.’ He sat at the table with his head in his hands then began again, more reasonably: ‘Have you any evidence that the Polo was stolen?’

Ramsay shook his head. ‘The significance didn’t occur to me until I saw your wife’s car on the drive.’

‘Then he could have borrowed it from a friend, anything. The least you could do is check that a similar vehicle had been reported missing before you come here making accusations. Without that you’ve nothing to go on.’

‘Of course I’ll check,’ Ramsay said. He stood up. ‘ But you will talk to John,’ he said. ‘If he’s involved in any way he should tell us. You can call me at home over the weekend if you don’t want to take him in to the station.’

‘I’ll talk to him,’ Evan said. ‘ But don’t expect to hear from me. You’ve made some mistakes in your career, Ramsay, but none as big as this.’

And with the hint of that threat between them Ramsay left.

Outside it was still raining. Ramsay ran from the house to the car, but put his foot in the gutter and still managed to get wet. In the doorway Evan stood and watched until he drove off. Ramsay was in his own car and switched on the radio and tuned to The Archers , hoping that the rural fantasy would distract him, at least for a while, from his sense of failure. But he could not concentrate and in the end he drove in silence back to the police station.

He thought he had achieved none of the objectives the superintendent had set him. He had alienated Evan Powell without coming to any conclusion about John’s role in the car thefts. He still did not know the extent of Evan’s knowledge-was he protecting his son? It had been foolish and ill thought-out to ask about Mrs Powell’s car. If course he should have found out first if a Polo had been stolen. If he had gained anything positive from the interview it was a firm belief that Evan was innocent of any part in the murders. His hostility had been on his son’s behalf. He had no personal fear, no idea even that his integrity was being questioned.

The police station was quiet. There was a smell of damp which reminded Ramsay as he entered of an empty school changing-room. The walls ran with condensation and everywhere was too hot. The people who remained in the Incident Room were tense and expectant. Friday night was busy in the town-all the recent disturbances had taken place at the weekend. Everyone who could be spared was out on the street. For a moment Ramsay wished that he was one of them, sharing the camaraderie of the relief, with no responsibility except to do as he was told.

Hunter was still in the Incident Room. His desire to get a search warrant for the Pastons’ house was stronger than his dislike of paperwork. He was going through the details of young people convicted of auto-crime, matching the descriptions with the visitors he had seen going to the house on the previous day. Besides, he wanted to be around if something exciting happened. Something like arson or riot. Hunter had a very low boredom threshold and he was prepared to sacrifice a night out with the lads for a chance like that.

‘Can you do something for me?’ Ramsay said. ‘Find out if a Volkswagen Polo was reported stolen in the last few days. Red. J Reg. I haven’t got the number.’

‘Is it relevant to the murders?’

‘Probably not.’

He went to his office, watched the rain on the window and brooded. Hunter knocked on the door.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No car of that description’s been reported stolen.’

So, Ramsay thought. Evan was right. He had no evidence against John. That did not mean of course that the car had not been stolen. It could have been replaced in the street without the owner realizing it had gone. The record of the theft could be lost, the owner away on holiday. But it meant they could take no further action. At least until after the weekend. It meant that he could go home and get quietly drunk.

Hunter was on his way out of the office when he stopped. ‘I forgot to tell you,’ he said. ‘You had a phone call when you were out. From Joe Fenwick, that security man at the Arts Centre. He wants to talk to you. I offered to go but I wouldn’t do apparently. He said he’d be at home at his flat in Anchor Street. I told him you’d probably not get to see him tonight but he said he’d wait in anyway.’

‘I think I’d better go,’ Ramsay said. He liked Fenwick. He didn’t want him to wait in all evening hoping for a visit. Hunter shrugged and went back to the control room, to listen for news coming in from the town.

Ramsay put on the overcoat, which was still wet, and went out. The streets were quiet but it was early, not nine o’clock, and any troublemakers would need a few pints inside them before facing the rain.

So, instead of getting drunk at home, he found himself sitting in the steaming basement flat in Anchor Street, listening to Joe’s stories of his life in the ring. They drank whisky together and Ramsay made no attempt to hurry the old man. He realized it wouldn’t come easy to him to tell tales. When he left the flat at eleven o’clock there was a fire on the horizon and all the cranes along the river stood out in silhouette against the flames.

The weekend passed in an uneasy peace. There were occasional disturbances which would probably have passed unnoticed if the situation had been less tense. The fire Ramsay had seen on Friday night was in a derelict warehouse close to the river. The arson looked dramatic but the damage was limited. It was rumoured that some lads from the Starling Farm had been paid by the owner to set the place alight. It was well insured and he was planning to redevelop the site with a retail park.

On Saturday afternoon Newcastle United lost 3-1 to Bristol Rovers at St James’s Park after a scrappy and uninspired game. The fans were frustrated and angry and there were scuffles at the metro station as they left. The only casualty was a student from the West Country who was jostled and lost his footing when a group of supporters heard his accent. He had not even attended the match and his injuries were superficial. The incident would have been ignored during a normal weekend but the police moved in quickly to break up the crowd and move the boy to safety.