Ann Cleeves - Killjoy

On Sunday, in the early evening, the joy riders returned to the Starling Farm. There was more racing in the street and a spectacular show of hand-brake turns performed to the audience who had been charged a pound each for a grandstand view. The police waited for the crowd to disperse before moving in, thinking that there would be little resistance if the spectators had had their money’s worth. The episode ended in good humour and the policemen on the ground began to think that the worst of the tension was over.

Ramsay followed the developments at a distance. On Saturday morning he drove to Hallowgate police station and haunted the Incident Room, waiting for news. Still no witnesses had come forward to confirm that Gabriella Paston had actually arrived at Martin’s Dene, despite a piece in the Journal and on local television.

‘Sorry, sir,’ a young woman DC said. ‘It’s as if she disappeared.’

‘And Lynch’s car? The blue Volvo. Did anyone see that?’

The policewoman shrugged. One witness thinks she saw a blue saloon parked on the edge of the hill that day-at the layby where one of the footpaths begins.’ She tapped into the computer. ‘Her name’s Hilda Wilkinson. I’m not sure how reliable she’ll be. She’s an elderly lady who was walking her dog and she seems pretty absentminded. She can’t tell us the make of the vehicle, never mind the age or registration number.’

‘Go and talk to her again,’ Ramsay said. ‘ Why would she remember a car? She probably doesn’t drive and it would have no interest for her. But she might remember someone she met on the hill. If she’s a local she might know if it was a stranger. She might even have tried to engage them in conversation. Don’t put ideas into her head but if she comes up with a description like this let me know immediately…’ He spoke quickly and precisely and watched as the DC wrote in her notebook.

Ramsay went to the CID room and then to the canteen to look for Evan Powell. He needed to re-establish contact. There were still questions to be asked and after the conversation with Joe Fenwick the questions had become more urgent, but he was told by a colleague that Powell had taken the weekend off too. Ramsay tried to phone him at home several times but there was no reply. At lunch time he decided he might as well be at home.

He worked the afternoon in the garden, leaving the kitchen window open so he would hear the phone if it rang. The rain had stopped but the air was misty and damp. He raked dead leaves from the lawn and as he moved rhythmically across the grass the unformed ideas which had disturbed him throughout the investigation grew more substantial. The theory which had seemed possible the evening before now seemed probable, but he felt none of the satisfaction which usually marked the approaching end of the case. He thought he knew what happened but many of the details were still unclear and he took no pleasure in it.

By four o’clock all the light had gone and he went inside. He took a basket of laundry into the living room and ironed shirts as he watched the football results come through on the television. He had no interest in sport but still felt a tribal allegiance to the team his family had supported since he was a child and there was an irrational disappointment when he learned they had lost.

He wondered what his mother would think if she could see him. When Diana had divorced him Mrs Ramsay had wanted her son to move back home so she could care for him properly. His room was still ready for him. She thought it inconceivable that a man could fend for himself. He couldn’t tell her that Diana had never ironed a shirt in their married life, that he had usually been the one to cook, that he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. When he had moved to the cottage in Heppleburn, without actually lying he allowed his mother to gain the impression that he employed a woman from the village to help in the house. At least that had put a stop to the phone calls inviting him for meals and the requests for bags of dirty washing. He enjoyed living on his own and he told himself it would be impossible for him to adjust now to anything different. But the evening seemed long and he felt that something was missing.

On Sunday morning he woke early and phoned the police station, where the DC who had taken the first statement from Hilda Wilkinson was still on duty.

‘Did you talk to her?’ he asked. He needed proof and at present this was the most he had.

‘Sorry, sir. I called at her house but there was no reply. A neighbour said she’d gone away for the weekend to stay with her daughter in the Lakes. She’ll not be back until Monday. Do you want me to try and get a phone number for her?’

‘No,’ he said. Some old people disliked the phone, felt flustered by it. ‘Wait until tomorrow then. Talk to her in her own home. She’ll be more relaxed there.’

In a sense he welcomed the delay. It put off the time when he would have to commit himself, have to say: ‘I believe this person is a murderer.’ It gave him time to collect his ideas.

At lunch time Hunter called at the cottage in Heppleburn. He stood on the doorstep, his hands thrust deep in his jacket pockets.

‘I thought you might fancy a drink,’ he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to be there. ‘It’s all very well the boss saying to take a break but I can’t settle to anything while this is still up in the air.’

Ramsay knew that this was no social call. It had never happened before and Hunter had dozens of drinking companions he would choose before the Inspector. They walked slowly through the quiet village to the Northumberland Arms and found a seat in a corner. The pub was busy, full of men enjoying a pint before their Sunday lunch. Hunter got in the first round and Ramsay realized he must want something.

It soon became clear that he was there to lobby for support. He wanted the Pastons’ house searched. ‘I’ve been through the records of every lad in North Tyneside convicted of an auto-crime in the last three years,’ he said. ‘I’m sure that at least six of the boys who went into that house on Thursday have been done for taking without consent. I’ve the list of names here.’

‘If you took a random sample of kids you bumped into on the street in the Starling Farm you’d probably come up with the same result,’ Ramsay said mildly.

‘But you will support me?’ Hunter demanded. ‘There’s been no real bother on the estate this weekend.’

Ramsay shrugged and went to the bar for another drink. He supposed it would do no harm. He had to keep his options open.

‘Well?’ Hunter said.

‘I think it would be useful to know what’s going on there,’ Ramsay said cautiously.

That was good enough for Hunter. Having got what he came for he bolted his pint and left, saying his mam would be keeping his dinner for him. Ramsay remained in the pub on his own until closing time. The afternoon stretched ahead of him, empty and uninviting.

He went to bed early and was woken from a deep sleep by the telephone. It had been ringing too in his dream and he was only half awake as he picked up the receiver.

‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘Ramsay.’ The dream had been pleasant, mildly erotic, and he struggled to capture some memory of it.

‘Stephen,’ a woman said. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I didn’t know what to do.’

It was Prue Bennett.

‘How did you get my number?’ he asked foolishly. It was the first thing to come into his head. He was ex-directory and he had been certain that it would be a work call.

‘I phoned your mother,’ she said. ‘ Not now. Earlier this evening. It’s taken me a couple of hours to find the nerve to phone you. I didn’t know what else to do. I was frantic and the police station wouldn’t give it to me.’