Ann Cleeves: Killjoy

‘I thought it was locked at night,’ he said.

‘It is. But I know a way. Come on. It’s miles quicker.’

And she took his hand and ran with him across the bridge and pulled him through a hole in the hedge. They were alone in the moonlight in the park. The trees threw long shadows across the path and there was a smell of honeysuckle and roses.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s lovely,’ he said. ‘Really lovely.’ But he was not sure if that was what she wanted him to say. Perhaps they were too corny for her these images of moonlight and roses. Perhaps she expected him to laugh.

He was still holding her hand. He began to stroke her palm with his thumb, expecting her to pull away and make a fuss. He was tensely defensive, prepared for rejection. But she didn’t make a fuss and when he put his arm around her shoulder and then pulled her towards him to kiss her she went along with that too, with a kind of amused good humour.

Now, in the Grace Darling Centre, he wondered what she had seen in him. She could have chosen any of the boys: one of the intellectuals from her scholarship group, a musician, an artist, anyone. Perhaps she had picked him through a stubborn perversity, just because he was unfashionable. Walking with her that night through the park, burying his face in her hair, he did not care. He knew he would never be so happy again.

She had lived in a large Victorian house on the corner of a street, with a view over the park to the town.

‘Why don’t you come in?’ she had said that night. ‘Meet Mum and Dad.’

‘I don’t know,’ he had said. ‘ I don’t want to disturb them. Perhaps they’ll be ready for bed.’ His mother would already be in her candlewick dressing-gown, nervously watching the clock, waiting for his return. ‘No,’ she said. ‘ Of course not. Don’t be silly. It’s early yet.’ And in her laughter he had the glimpse of a domestic world completely different from his own.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said reluctantly. ‘ I should get the bus. My mother…’ he did not finish the sentence, unwilling to imply that he was in any sense a mother’s boy.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Well, another time.’

‘When?’ he had demanded, decisive for the first time. ‘When can I come?’

And she had laughed again. She was pleased with him. ‘Whenever you like,’ she said.

‘But when? Give me a definite time.’

‘Tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Come for supper tomorrow. About seven o’clock.’

And she had run up the crumbling grey steps and through the front door, so he was left open-mouthed, staring after her.

He had three months before she would go away to university. He never considered that they would stay together once she left the area. The affair had a natural time scale and he counted the days. He came to know her parents quite well during that time. He was happier in the large, untidy house than he was introducing Prue to his own home. Mr and Mrs Bennett were older than his own parents, in their late fifties, and he thought their age gave them a licence to be eccentric. Although Prue was an only child they allowed her a freedom which he envied. They were wrapped up in their own interests: Mrs Bennett taught piano and always seemed, Ramsay thought, to have music in her head. When she was not teaching the stream of eager middle-class children who came to the door she was playing herself, and even in the middle of a conversation she would break off, and begin to hum absentmindedly. She encouraged Prue in her academic interests without putting too much pressure on her-of course the girl would do well, she implied. Why should she fuss about it?

Mr Bennett had been a civil engineer and had taken early retirement because of ill health. He was a cheerful, unassuming man who held the house together. He took care of all the practical matters-ordering milk and bread, fixing dripping taps, battling with the large, unruly garden.

Stephen was flattered because the family seemed to like him. He was invited regularly to relaxed, chaotic meals, where he was introduced to olive oil, garlic, and wine. It was much easier than taking Prue back to his home in the pit village between Otterbridge and the coast. She was charming, uncritical, but in her presence Mrs Ramsay grew uneasy and threatened. She looked around the small Coal Board cottage where they lived, as if she knew it was not what Prue was used to. She could not bring herself to apologize for it but Prue’s style and confidence made her resentful. She was brittle, too polite, and when Stephen’s father came home from the pit with coal dust under his fingernails she blushed with shame.

Ramsay standing in the doorway, looking at the three women huddled around the tea tray, thought that Prue had grown to look more like her father. She had not changed so much. Her hair was streaked with grey and she was drawn and tired but he would have known her anywhere. She looked up at him calmly, without apparent recognition, and he thought he must have aged dramatically or that their relationship had meant so little to her that she had forgotten it long ago.

‘Good evening,’ he said evenly. ‘ I’m sorry to have kept you. My name’s Ramsay. I’m an Inspector with Northumbria Police.’

Then there was a slow recognition, a relief. ‘Stephen,’ she said. ‘It is you. I wondered but I couldn’t believe it. It seemed too good to be true.’

Ramsay was uncomfortably aware of Hunter. What would the sergeant make of that? he wondered. What sordid rumour would he start in the canteen?

He spoke formally. ‘I’m afraid I have to ask some questions,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand.’

‘Yes,’ she said. Was she offended by the formality? Surely she would understand. Probably she hardly cared either way. If there was a daughter there was probably a husband. She wore no wedding ring but that meant nothing. And many women used their maiden names for professional purposes. ‘Yes,’ she repeated. ‘ Of course.’

He was aware of the need to concentrate, to bring his attention back to the case, to treat it as just another investigation.

‘Perhaps you would introduce me,’ he said briskly, to get things moving. She seemed surprised by his tone but answered readily.

‘This is Anna,’ she said. ‘My daughter. You must realize that she’s very upset. Gabby was a close friend.’

He looked at a thin, pale teenager with unusually straight dark hair. He saw a shadow of Prue as a girl in the features, but there was none of Prue’s confidence and the shadow disappeared. Anna had been crying and clutched a wet handkerchief in long white fingers. She looked up at him and nodded, then returned to her grief.

‘This is Ellen Paston,’ Prue said then. ‘ Gabby was her niece.’ Ramsay saw a large middle-aged woman with a permanently curved back, she shape of a turtle’s shell, and huge red hands. She stared back at him, blankly, without distress or anger.

‘I work here,’ she said. ‘In the cafeteria.’ Then, grudgingly: ‘I suppose you’ll want some tea.’

He shook his head. He was unsure how he should handle the situation. He should see them all separately of course, take statements, check discrepancies, the small lies and mistakes which would lead to a conviction. But was there any need for all that tonight? Surely it could wait until the morning. Tonight an informal discussion, when shock would make them talk more freely, would be more fruitful. Hunter would disapprove of course. He had the technique of the macho hectoring interview down to a fine art. But Ramsay was used to Hunter’s disapproval. He pulled a chair between Anna and Ellen Paston. ‘Tell me what happened,’ he said, gently.

‘We found her body,’ Prue said. ‘You know that.’