Ann Cleeves - Killjoy

He switched on the engine and sat, tense, over the wheel, just as John Powell had sat watching the races on the estate.

They heard the car before they saw it. Its exhaust had no silencer and it roared like a jet plane up the slip road to the dual-carriageway. They switched on their siren and followed.

‘Bloody young fools,’ the older policeman said uncomfortably. ‘They’ll kill themselves.’

But the driver was caught up in the excitement of the chase and said nothing. The speedometer rose to a hundred miles an hour.

‘That old banger will fall to bits if they go much faster,’ the older policeman said, but still the driver made no attempt to moderate his speed.

The road was busy still with commuter traffic. On the opposite carriageway there was a tailback from roadworks and temporary traffic lights and as they approached the town the cars ahead of them were moving less freely.

‘Slow down!’ the policeman shouted but the driver seemed not to hear him.

Ahead of the Sierra a Mini indicated and pulled out carefully to overtake a bus. The middle-aged woman driving must have seen the Sierra behind her but had misjudged its speed. The Sierra swerved wildly to avoid it but clipped the back of the Mini, so it swivelled to face the oncoming traffic, then crossed the central reservation and smashed into the stationary cars on the opposite carriageway. The Sierra hit with such force that the chassis crumpled and the stationary vehicles were bounced like billiard balls across the width of the road. The driver of the police car slowed down automatically and came to a halt, then stared at the wreckage with astonishment. It was as if he had just wakened from a dream and couldn’t believe the reality in front of him.

The Grace Darling Centre was quiet. The Writers’ Circle and Choral Group finished early and rushed away to watch the violence with a vicarious excitement on their television screens. Ellen was sent home.

‘Can’t we give you a lift?’ Prue said. ‘It might be dangerous out there.’ But Ellen refused the offer firmly, without explanation, and they stood in the lobby and watched her plod across the square, her back more stooped than usual, until she disappeared down Anchor Street. Only Prue, Gus, Joe Fenwick, and Ramsay were left.

Ramsay could sense Prue’s tension. He knew she would wait there all night for Anna if he let her. ‘I’ll drive you to the police station,’ he said. ‘If there’s any news of Anna they’ll have it there.’ He turned to Gus. ‘You might as well go home too, Mr Lynch. I need to talk to you but I can do it just as well in your flat. You will be in all evening?’

‘Yes,’ Gus said. ‘I’ll be in. But I can’t think what this is all about. I’d have thought you had better things to do with all these disturbances. It’s all a matter of priorities, surely.’

‘My priority is to complete a murder investigation,’ Ramsay said quietly. ‘I’ll be coming to talk to you tonight.’

Behind his desk Joe Fenwick was almost asleep. The doors were already locked and he stretched as he got up to let the three of them out. Outside it was still raining and the bare chestnut trees in the square glistened and dripped. There was a faint smell of burning. Ramsay and Prue waited at the top of the steps to say goodbye to the old man and Lynch went ahead of them into the street. He stopped and turned towards Ramsay.

‘You people have still got my car,’ he grumbled. It was another grievance. ‘I’ve had to hire one. This time I’ve left it in the street where I can keep an eye on it. I hope you intend to pay me back. It’s costing me a fortune.’

He stepped out into the road to cross the square.

From the corner of his eye Ramsay saw the headlights of a car move around the square. They seemed to be picking up speed, to be moving much too fast in the enclosed space.

‘Look out!’ he shouted and Lynch threw himself on to the pavement as the Renault hurtled past. It mounted the pavement, missing Lynch by inches. Its wing hit a lamppost and the car came jerkily to a stop. In the orange street light they saw Jackie Powell, her head resting on the steering-wheel.

Ramsay went to the car, opened the door, and helped her out. He told her gently that he was arresting her for the murders of Gabriella Paston and Amelia Wood. As he stood on the pavement to radio for help he saw a small, bedraggled figure walk across the square from Anchor Street. It was Anna Bennett. She saw Prue and ran into her mother’s arms.

They sat in the kitchen of the house in Otterbridge. It was almost midnight. Ramsay had sent them back in a police car and promised to come later to explain it all to them. Anna was wrapped up in a towelling dressing-gown in the rocking chair. When Ramsay arrived Prue made a fuss of him, took his wet coat, offered him tea, a drink.

‘Whisky,’ he said. ‘If you’ve got it.’

‘Anna’s been explaining what happened,’ Prue said. She couldn’t take her eyes off her daughter. She sat on the arm of her chair and stroked her as if she needed to make sure she was really there.

‘Perhaps you’d better tell me,’ Ramsay said to the girl. ‘If you can face going through it again.’

‘I think it was a kind of madness,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what got into me.’

‘You met John Powell?’ he said.

She nodded. ‘We went to the Starling Farm,’ she said. ‘The kids there race stolen cars…’

‘And you?’ he asked. ‘Did you take part?’

‘Not the first time,’ she said. ‘The first time I just watched but when I went on Sunday afternoon I joined in. John was driving. I just sat beside him. I had my eyes closed most of the time but it was so exciting…’

‘And after the racing?’ Ramsay said flatly. ‘ What did you do then?’ He wanted to tell her that she was a stupid fool, that her mother had been frantic with worry, but he knew that Prue wouldn’t have wanted that.

‘I asked John to take me home,’ she said defensively. ‘But he wouldn’t. He was going with some friends to a sort of party in one of the boarded-up houses on the estate.’

‘You could have phoned me,’ Prue interrupted. ‘I would have come for you.’

‘I know.’ Anna paused. ‘It was pride, I suppose. I couldn’t bear phoning up, begging to be collected. Like a child. And I wanted to be with John.’

‘So you went to the party with him?’

She nodded. ‘I didn’t enjoy it much. It lasted all night. I just wanted to go to sleep. John drank himself senseless and was in no state then to take me home.’

‘What happened in the morning?’ Ramsay asked.

‘I said I should go to school but they all laughed at me. What did I want with school, they said. I told them I’d have to phone my mother. She’d be frantic. She’d have the police out looking for me and it would only cause trouble. So John took me to the Community Centre and I used the phone there.’

‘You were still in the Community Centre when Connor got the news that the Pastons had been arrested?’ Ramsay asked.

She nodded. ‘Connor told John to run away. He said the police would be on to him like a shot. They’d cause a disturbance to distract them, and give John a chance to get away. But John said he wasn’t running anywhere. I think in a way he would be glad to be caught. He knew he was out of his depth. It had all got out of hand.’ She looked directly at her mother. ‘I tried to leave then,’ she said. ‘But Connor wouldn’t let me. He said I would only give them away. I was a sort of hostage, until it was all over.’ She shivered. ‘I think he must be mad,’ she said. ‘I heard him plan it all-the petrol bombs, the looting. He phoned some friends from Newcastle to join in.’