Ramsay 04 - Killjoy (3 page)

‘What did you think of the game at Murrayfield on Saturday?’ he whispered with barely concealed delight as they walked together to the car, managing just to maintain an air of appropriate solemnity. He had Ramsay down as an ardent English fan, perhaps mistaking him for some other colleague met in similar circumstances and always made some comment on the latest Rugby International. Ramsay, who had no interest at all in sport, was never sure what to say.

‘She would have been a pretty young thing,’ the pathologist muttered appreciatively, peering into the boot of the car. Ramsay resisted the temptation to say that he could tell that, without a medical qualification. The pathologist straightened. ‘I can’t give you much,’ he said cheerfully, ‘until I examine her. It looks like asphyxiation. No scratch marks on the neck but I’d say she was strangled. And moved of course after death.’

‘Time of death?’ Ramsay asked, more in hope than in expectation.

But the pathologist shook his head and refused to commit himself.

One of the attractions for Ramsay of taking responsibility for the Hallowgate murder was the chance to work with a new team. He thought he was getting stale. He hoped, perhaps to find a new enthusiasm for the job. In Otterbridge his sergeant was Gordon Hunter, brash, over confident, with the sensitivity of a cart horse. Ramsay thought that in Hallowgate he would find a more sympathetic colleague, someone less abrasive. There was Evan Powell, for example; he would find out if Evan was available to join him on the enquiry. They would work well together. He felt a jolt of disappointment then, when he saw Hunter sauntering across the car park towards him. The sergeant wore his usual uniform of designer trainers, jeans, and leather jacket and greeted colleagues from North Tyneside with easy frivolity, using nicknames, making jokes.

‘What are you doing here?’ Ramsay demanded, then regretted his abruptness. Hunter was a good policeman in his way. There was no point in putting his back up. But Hunter was too insensitive to take offence.

‘Knew you couldn’t manage without me,’ he said. ‘Besides, it’s as quiet as the grave in Otterbridge. All our bad lads are on this patch joining in the fun.’

Ramsay thought that riot and ram raiding and the death of a child was hardly his idea of fun but he did not want to provoke an argument, especially here in front of strangers. He knew he already had a reputation for being pompous and humourless.

Hunter sensed nothing of Ramsay’s disapproval. ‘Think of the overtime,’ he said. ‘It’ll come in handy just before Christmas. And it doesn’t hurt to volunteer for something occasionally. Makes them think you’re keen.’ He turned to one of the local uniformed officers who had been first on the scene. ‘What’s the score, then? Do we know who she is?’

‘Her name’s Gabriella Paston,’ the young man said warily. He was new to the force and unsure of Hunter’s authority. ‘She’s a member of the Youth Theatre but she didn’t turn up for the rehearsal tonight.’

‘What
is
this place?’ Hunter asked of no one in particular. He looked with distaste at the building with its Gothic turrets, at the gloomy garden and dripping trees. This time Ramsay answered.

‘It’s the Grace Darling Arts Centre,’ he said. Diana, his ex-wife, had brought him to the Grace Darling when she was trying to educate him, to see experimental theatre groups and exhibitions by obscure local artists. He had no positive memories of these experiences but remembered what Diana had told him about the place. ‘It was a big private house. The old lady who lived here left it in her will to the community to be used as a centre for encouraging the arts. She came from Bamburgh originally and stipulated the name. Eventually the trustees bought up the house next door and extended it.’ He stopped, knowing that Hunter hated to be lectured and saw that his attention was already wandering. He was staring at the body.

‘I think I may have seen her around,’ Hunter said. ‘In Otterbridge. In that new night club on the market square. She was a cracker. You couldn’t help noticing her.’ He paused and Ramsay thought he might express some grief, a reflection on the waste of a young life, but he continued cheerfully, ‘I offered to buy her a drink once but it didn’t do me any good. She could have had any bloke in the place.’ He swung round and faced the uniformed constable. ‘Who found the body, then?’

‘A mother and daughter,’ the man said. ‘But it’s not their car. Apparently the owner gave them his keys to fetch something from the boot.’

‘Where is the owner of the car now?’ Ramsay asked.

‘In the Centre with the other witnesses. We’ve got the names and addresses of the people who were here when we arrived but we’ve let most of them go home. There weren’t that many—mostly kids from the Youth Theatre hanging around the cafeteria. Apparently it was very busy earlier on but most people went at about nine. The only people left now are some security and domestic staff, Gus Lynch the director, who owns the car, and the two women who found the body.’

‘We’ll need an appeal on local radio tomorrow morning asking everyone who used the Centre today to come forward,’ Ramsay said, thinking out loud. ‘Then we’ll need more men to take statements.’

‘You won’t be popular,’ Hunter said, grinning, thinking again about overtime. ‘I hear they’ve already exceeded their budget.’

Ramsay turned away and muttered under his breath. This would be hard enough—working on an unfamiliar patch—without the political pressure of keeping costs down. Perhaps over-work wasn’t the only reason why his North Tyneside colleagues had handed the case to an outsider. He shivered, feeling suddenly very cold. The mist was thinning again and above the grey slate roof of the Grace Darling appeared a small sharp-edged moon. In the distance they heard the wailing siren of a police car or fire engine, the sign, perhaps, of more disturbance.

‘Come on,’ Ramsay said. ‘Let’s go in and see what they’ve got to say for themselves.’ Then, with an optimism he did not feel, ‘This might be a straightforward one. Perhaps we’ll have it all wrapped up by morning.’

The sound of the siren came closer.

In the lobby of the centre many of the original features of the old house remained. There was wood panelling, a huge portrait of a stern Victorian, a chintz-covered sofa. How did they survive, Ramsay wondered, these remnants of gracious living, without being stolen or vandalized?

Joe Fenwick recognized the men as police as soon as they came in. Until he was fifty he had worked as a bouncer for one of the roughest clubs in Newcastle. He was a squat tub of a man, known to his opponents in the ring as Popeye, because of his protruding head and his ability to find sudden bursts of strength from nowhere. He had retired from boxing thirty years ago and still missed the excitement. The work at the Grace Darling was steady, without the aggravation of the club, but he found himself perpetually bored. The murder had lifted his spirits considerably. He set aside his newspaper and waited for Ramsay to approach him.

‘You heard what happened outside tonight?’ Ramsay said.

Fenwick nodded.

‘Is this the only entrance?’

‘Aye, that’s right. The trustees decided it’d be more secure that way.’

‘Do visitors have to check in?’

‘No,’ Fenwick said. ‘ It wouldn’t be practical the number that use the place. But there’s always someone on duty here, day and night. It costs them a packet but they reckon it’s worth it. I’ve been here since ten this morning.’

‘Do you ever get any trouble?’ Ramsay asked.

‘Nothing we can’t handle,’ the porter said. ‘ It gets a bit rowdy sometimes, especially if they have a rock group in, but not
nasty.
You know what I mean?’

Ramsay nodded.

‘They got a consultant in to make it vandal-proof—wire-mesh shutters on the windows, everything with locks on. It’s not foolproof—some bugger smashed the security lights last week—but I’ve never had any real bother. I’ve been here since the place opened.’

‘So you know most of the regulars, at least by sight?’

‘I suppose so, but there’s often something different going on—one-off shows or concerts, that bring in their own audience. I can’t keep track of everyone then.’

‘No,’ Ramsay said. ‘ Of course not. Was anything unusual happening tonight?’

Fenwick shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It was just a normal Monday night—the Youth Theatre rehearsing in the New Theatre, the Choral Society in the music room, and the Writers’ Circle in the small lounge.’

‘And all the activities started at the same time?’

‘Aye. They all run from seven until nine. It doesn’t always work out like that. The groups fix their own times.’

‘Did you know Gabriella Paston?’ Ramsay asked gently.

‘Oh, we all knew our Gabby!’ Fenwick exclaimed. ‘Such a bonny lass. It brightened my day to see her.’

‘Did you see her today?’

‘No,’ Fenwick said. ‘And I missed her.’

Ramsay paused and Hunter, impatient as always, hoped that he had finished with the old man. But Ramsay continued: ‘You can’t see the car park from here. Do you do any security checks out there?’

‘No! The trustees are worried about the building, not the punters’ cars.’

‘So you wouldn’t have noticed if Mr Lynch’s car was there all day?’

‘No,’ Fenwick said sadly. He would have liked to have helped them.

‘We’d like to talk to Mr Lynch,’ Ramsay said. ‘ Where can we find him?’

‘Upstairs in his office.’

‘Thank you,’ Ramsay said. ‘You’ve been a great help.’ He walked up the curving wooden staircase with Hunter at his heels.

Gus Lynch was drinking whisky from a large tumbler. His face was grey and the hand that held the glass was shaking. When they knocked at his door he was speaking, caught in mid-sentence, and when they went in his mouth was open, gaping and ridiculous. Ramsay introduced himself. Lynch half stood to greet them and finally shut his mouth.

‘I was just explaining to the policeman,’ Lynch said, nodding towards the constable who sat nervously in the corner clutching a notebook on his knee, ‘that I didn’t know anything about it. How could I? I would hardly have given my keys to anyone else if I were intending to dispose of a body.’ He looked around desperately. ‘Now would I?’

Ramsay ignored the question.

‘How long has your car been parked there, sir?’ he asked. The calm question seemed to reassure Lynch. He set the tumbler on the desk and made a visible effort to control his panic.

‘Since ten o’clock this morning,’ Lynch answered. ‘I don’t work office hours, Inspector. Most of my active work is done in the evening.’

‘And you’ve been in the Centre all day?’

‘All day. Certainly.’

‘You didn’t go out for lunch?’

‘Lunch?’ Lynch expressed surprise as if lunch were too trivial a matter for the Inspector to bother himself with. ‘Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry. I should have realized. Just to the Ship in Anchor Street for a sandwich. But I walked. I didn’t take the car.’

‘And on the way out did you notice that your car was in its usual place?’

‘No,’ Lynch said. ‘Not specially. My space is at the end of the car park, under the trees. I wouldn’t see from the front door or the street.’

‘Do you usually go to the pub for lunch, Mr Lynch? Was that a normal daily routine?’

‘Yes,’ Lynch said with some irritation. ‘ I suppose so. If I’m here. I have other commitments, of course. Radio. Local TV. But if I’m here I like to go to the pub, get some fresh air.’

‘When was the last time you looked inside the boot of your car, Mr Lynch?’ Ramsay asked.

Lynch answered immediately. ‘This morning. Before I left home for work. There was a programme I’d been working on. I put that in the boot.’

There was a pause.

‘Would that be a bulky manuscript?’ Ramsay asked at last.

‘Bulky?’ Lynch seemed astonished. ‘ No, of course not.’

‘Wasn’t it unusual then,’ Ramsay asked, ‘to open the boot specially? Wouldn’t it be more normal to take the paper into the car with you, to put it perhaps on the passenger seat?’ He paused again. ‘Unless of course you had a passenger with you.’ He looked up from the notes he was making. ‘ Do you live alone, Mr Lynch?’

‘Yes,’ Lynch said sharply. ‘ Of course.’ There was a silence which he seemed to need to fill. ‘I have been married, Inspector. When I was a drama student. We were both very young. It didn’t work out and we parted, quite amicably, twelve years ago. Since then I’ve lived alone.’ There was another pause before he continued. ‘My wife was a rather jealous woman, Inspector. She couldn’t cope with my success.’

Perhaps he expected then a question about his career in television because he seemed quite surprised when Ramsay said: ‘Tell me about Gabriella Paston.’

Lynch shrugged. How can I tell you anything, he implied.

‘How long has she been a member of the Youth Theatre?’

‘For four years. Since she was fourteen.’

‘You must have learned something about her in that time.’

‘Look, Inspector, we’re not friends, me and the kids. I never meet them socially. I run a workshop session every Monday night and then they go home. There’s no time to chat.’

‘You don’t meet for a coffee afterwards?’

‘No,’ Lynch said. ‘ The kids usually meet up in the cafeteria but to tell you the truth I’ve had enough of them by nine. I’m knackered and I want to get straight home.’

‘But not tonight?’ Ramsay interrupted.

‘What do you mean, not tonight.’

‘You didn’t go straight home after the workshop finished tonight. You were still here, in your office at nine thirty when Miss Paston’s body was found. What was different about tonight?’

‘I had a visitor,’ Lynch said reluctantly. ‘One of the trustees, Amelia Wood. She descends on me occasionally to make sure I’m running the place efficiently. The trustees think I need help with the administration.’

‘Was she still here when the body was found?’

‘I’m not sure. She might have been downstairs. She’d left my office by then.’

‘And there’s nothing more you can tell me about Gabriella Paston?’

‘You should ask one of the others, Inspector. Her aunt works in the cafeteria here. Her landlady’s my assistant. But I’ll tell you something about Gabby, I liked her. She was fun.’