Ann Cleeves - Killjoy

Ramsay looked at the clock by his bed. It was two o’clock.

‘What is this all about?’ he asked impatiently.

‘It’s Anna,’ she said. ‘She’s missing. She hasn’t come home.’

‘Have you reported her missing to your local police station?’

‘Of course,’ she cried. ‘Hours ago. But when they found out how old she was they weren’t interested. She’s an adult, apparently. If she wants to stay out all night with her boyfriend it’s up to her. There’s nothing they can do.’

‘Is she with John Powell?’ His voice sharpened. For the first time he seemed properly awake.

‘I don’t know,’ she said helplessly. ‘I think so.’

‘Look,’ he said, ‘do you want me to come over? I’m not sure what good it’ll do but I’ll come if you like.’

‘Yes,’ she said relieved and he realized that was what she had wanted from the start. ‘Please come. As soon as you can.’

When he arrived at the house in Otterbridge he caught a glimpse of her face pale in the street light, peering between the curtains in the living room. Had she been looking out for him? Or was she still keeping a vigil for her daughter? Perhaps she had been disappointed to see him emerge from the car instead of Anna. But when she opened the door to him there was only relief.

‘Oh, Stephen!’ she said. ‘It’s so good of you to come.’ She put her arms around him. He held her for a moment, astonished that it felt so natural. Her hair smelled as it always had and memories of their summer together came flooding back.

‘You look washed out,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you some tea.’

He saw that she was almost hysterical with anxiety. He led her like a child to the kitchen, sat her in the rocking chair, and put on the kettle. The room was still warm but she was shivering.

‘Your mother remembered me,’ she said. ‘After all this time!’

He did not know what to say. He wondered what his mother would have made of the call. She would be imagining romance, wedding bells, grandchildren. He poured out mugs of tea, handed one to her, and sat beside her.

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘When did Anna leave?’

‘This afternoon at about half-past three.’ She looked at him over the rim of her mug with dark eyes. ‘It seems days ago. We had a late lunch together then we started talking about the play she’s in- The Adventures of Abigail Keene. There’s another rehearsal tomorrow-’ She looked at the kitchen clock and corrected herself. ‘Today. It all started off quite amicably. We discussed some details of her performance. I heard her lines. She’s taken over Gabriella Paston’s character and it’s a big part to learn in the few weeks before the show. Then it all got more abstract and high-flown. It was almost as if she was trying to pick a fight. She assumed I was critical, that I didn’t think she could be as good as Gabby. It was my fault, she said, that she couldn’t play the part. I’d been too protective. Her childhood had been too cosy. She didn’t have the experience.’

Prue paused and looked up at Ramsay.

‘I suppose in a way she was right. But I only did what I thought was best.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘ Did she walk out then?’

‘No. Not straight away. I said that it didn’t sound like her talking. It was more like Gabby. Or John Powell. That’s when she really flew off the handle. What was wrong with John Powell, she said. I’d made it quite clear that I disapproved of him. Didn’t I think she was mature enough to choose her own friends? That’s when she stormed out of the house.’

‘She didn’t give you any idea where she was going?’

Prue Bennett shook her head. ‘But I had the impression that the whole quarrel was manufactured and that she’d already planned to meet him. She wanted an excuse to go, an excuse to get back at me. But I wouldn’t have stopped her going out with John. I don’t particularly like him, but she’s old enough to make up her own mind. She didn’t have to go through all that. I don’t know what’s got into her.’

‘Perhaps she’s growing up,’ he said. ‘ Very quickly. After a slow start. Isn’t that how teenagers are supposed to be? Moody, confused, rebellious.’

‘I suppose so. I can never remember being like that.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘ Nor can I. Perhaps we were unusually sensible.’

She smiled for the first time, then her mood changed again suddenly.

‘I’m so frightened,’ she said. ‘Gabby was playing Abigail Keene and now she’s dead. What if the same has happened to Anna?’

She looked at him, desperate for reassurance.

‘I don’t see,’ he said carefully, ‘ how the play could have anything to do with it.’

‘Really?’ she said. ‘Really?’ He hoped he could live up to her trust.

‘Have you tried phoning the Powells’ house?’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘ I never knew John’s number. And they’re ex-directory too.’

‘I know the number. Do you want to ring them? Or would you like me to try?’

‘You do it,’ she said. ‘ I wouldn’t know what to say.’

He stood in the cold and dusty hall and dialled the number but though he let it ring and ring there was no reply.

‘Evan must be away,’ Ramsay said. ‘I know he’s got a weekend off work. If he were there he’d have answered it.’

‘That’s a good sign, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘ That John’s not there. It means they must be out together. A party, something like that. At least Anna’s not on her own. She’s not phoned because she wants to prove she’s independent.’

She was brighter. Since Ramsay’s arrival she had lost the desperate, haunted look. Now she seemed almost optimistic. Perhaps he was right and it would do Anna good to be rebellious for a change.

Ramsay was noncommittal.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I think you should get some sleep.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘ I couldn’t. What if Anna turns up? If she phones and needs a lift.’

‘I’ll be here,’ he said. ‘ I’ll wait until morning.’

At last she allowed herself to be persuaded and left him in the rocking chair, thinking. He tried to make sense of Anna’s disappearance. How did it fit in with the theory he had put together over the weekend? It was the last thing he would have expected. Then he saw there was a connection, a common motive at least, even if Hunter would never have recognized it. Now he could see how all the major players in the piece were driven.

When Ramsay arrived at work Hunter had already persuaded the superintendent to authorize a search of the Pastons’ bungalow and was in the process of putting together a team to go. He was triumphant.

‘I told the old man I had your blessing,’ Hunter said, looking up from his phone. Then: ‘By, man, you look dreadful. A night on the tiles, was it?’

‘Something like that,’ Ramsay said. He wasn’t going to tell Hunter he’d spent the night with a murder suspect.

‘Do you want to come?’

‘No,’ Ramsay said. ‘I’ll be tied up here all morning. I’ll leave you to deal with it. But be discreet. We don’t want the local lads saying we cocked up an operation on their patch.’

‘Man, they’ll never know I’ve been there.’

Alma Paston never missed her cooked breakfast. She thought it set her up for the day. She was sitting at the kitchen table eating a last slice of fried bread when the doorbell went.

Ellen was standing by the sink, running cold water into the frying pan. Her face was flushed with the cooking.

‘H’ way then, hinnie,’ Alma said impatiently. ‘It’ll be one of the bairns. I heard the cars out racing yesterday. Let’s see what they’ve got for us.’