by Ann Cleeves
‘She had a letter yesterday,’ Ramsay said. ‘ Who was it from?’
‘How would we know?’ Prue said. She was quite angry. ‘We never read her mail.’
‘She might have told you,’ he said, apologetically. Surely she understood that he was only doing his job. ‘She did have a letter yesterday?’
Prue nodded, only slightly appeased. She stood behind her daughter with her arm round Anna’s shoulder.
‘Did she have a holiday job in the summer vacation?’ he asked.
Anna answered. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We both tried to find work but it was impossible.’
‘She had a building society account with eight hundred pounds in,’ he said. ‘Do you know where she got the money?’
Prue shook her head. ‘ She was always pleading poverty. I kept her on her child benefit. She got a small allowance for pocket money from her family.’
‘So you can’t explain the money in the account?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Prue said firmly. ‘ I wish I could help.’
It was a dismissal and Ramsay left, excluded by the women’s closeness, feeling that he had ruined any chance he might have had with Prue. He went back to Hallowgate police station to talk to Hunter, who had made up his mind already that John Powell was a murderer.
Chapter Eight
Amelia Wood spent the day on the bench at Hallowgate magistrates’ court. She arrived early, feeling cheerful and optimistic but was soon worn down by the atmosphere of the place. She did not enjoy the practical business of being a magistrate. The prestige of being a JP, the training sessions with other professionals, the study of theoretical case histories, the social events, all these she found enjoyable and entertaining. But in the shabby and squalid court, with the smell of damp and urine seeping up from the police cells below she found little to entertain her. The defendants were wretched and inadequate. She did not despise their attempts to improve their financial situation. In their place she would have done the same. But she did despise their incompetence, their half-heartedness, the lack of imagination which prevented their seeing anything through.
The clerk of the court was a well-meaning, rather ineffective young man, who took seriously the Home Office circulars exalting magistrates to consider community based disposals instead of prison. He disliked working with Amelia Wood, whom he found unnecessarily punitive, irrationally arbitrary, but he found confrontation difficult. Stammering and blushing he would interpose at intervals to suggest an alternative sentence. The conflict between them made justice a slow and long-winded affair. There was a long list and the fat solicitors in crumpled suits who sat along the front bench sighed, looked at their watches, and knew that they would miss lunch.
In the afternoon there were two trials. The first concerned a driver with excess alcohol and was over quickly. The second dragged on despite its lack of substance and Amelia Wood found it hard to concentrate. The death of the girl might be an added complication but she did not expect it to make too much difference to her plans.
The defendant who sat in the dock opposite her was middle aged, over-weight, frightened. A few wisps of lank hair had been combed ridiculously across his bare head. He was sweating. He lived on the Starling Farm estate and had been charged with handling stolen property: car radios, which he had been caught selling in several of the Hallowgate pubs. He had remained uncooperative, the police said, throughout questioning. In court the man claimed he had bought the radios legitimately from a car breaker’s yard in Wallsend but was unable to produce any witnesses to back up his story. The prosecutor brought evidence that the radios had been taken from cars stolen in the area. The defence solicitor cross-examined halfheartedly. Amelia listened, her attention wandering, and yawned. At last the trial was over and the magistrates retired to tepid coffee and to consider their decision.
Amelia was prepared to find the man not guilty. It was not that she believed him innocent but it would make things simpler. The case could be over immediately and they would not have to go into a prolonged discussion about sentence. She wanted to be home. Her two colleagues were shocked. They took their position as magistrates seriously. One, a retired bank manager with badly fitting false teeth and body odour, had even taken notes. The sentence of not guilty was out of the question. At a time like this, he said, of disturbance and riot, the courts should be seen to be supporting the police.
‘You’re right, of course,’ said Amelia Wood, graciously. She knew better than to waste energy fighting lost causes. ‘The only question then is what to do with him. I suggest a three-week remand for probation reports. That will give us the opportunity to consider all the options.’
Her colleagues agreed, relieved that they would not be forced into a decision about the man’s future, glad to hand the responsibility to someone else.
Gus Lynch woke up late, at midday, disturbed by the men gathering outside the Seamen’s Mission, waiting to be let in for lunch. He poured a Scotch for breakfast and carried on drinking all afternoon—not heavily but steadily enough to make him believe that his growing self-pity was justified. The police had closed down the Grace Darling until further notice. They had told him to stay at home and make himself available if required. He poured another drink and told himself that fate was against him. Fate and bloody Amelia Wood. The last thing he needed now was bad publicity.
He was tempted to phone Jackie. She would have come like a shot to comfort him. But he had already decided that she was in the way and he knew he would have to get rid of her. He ought to talk to her about this business with Gabriella Paston, make her see that there was nothing to be gained by coming forward, bringing the affair into the open. Would the forensic team find traces of her in his car? He had given her a lift occasionally. He thought that might be awkward but he took a sudden mischievous delight in the prospect of Evan Powell’s wife being implicated in murder. The idea was so ridiculous that he laughed out loud, then stopped abruptly, realizing that he had nothing to laugh about.
He sat by the window, brooding. The affair had got out of hand, of course. Jackie had taken it so seriously and he had never taken her seriously at all. They had met at the party Evan Powell had given for the cast of the Youth Theatre’s last production. He had gone along reluctantly, expecting suburban small talk, unappetizing bits of food on trays, sweet Spanish wine. He had gone because he would need people to think well of him. The young people, intimidated by Evan’s profession, had been on their best behaviour, drinking moderately the beer and cider he had provided for them, leaving at the earliest opportunity. John had obviously hated every minute of it.
Jackie Powell had sat in a corner, drinking glass after glass of white wine, watching the proceedings with detachment, bored to distraction. When Evan Powell told a joke she smiled dutifully then returned to her drinking. Lynch found it impossible to believe that Powell did not realize she was unhappy. Was that how the affair had started, Gus wondered now, out of pity? He had always been attracted by pale and vulnerable women. But it was in an attempt to cause mischief that he had approached her, an attempt to shatter Evan Powell’s complacency.
‘How can you stand all this?’ he had said to her in a low voice. No small talk. No politeness. He had seen that she had had enough of all that. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
Then in a louder voice he called to Evan. ‘I’m going to steal your wife for an hour. She tells me she’s never been to the Grace Darling. I’m going to show her round.’
And Evan had smiled foolishly, proud apparently that Lynch had taken an interest in his wife, too honest himself to suspect anything. Mesmerized, Jackie had followed him and allowed him to put a coat over her shoulders. He had given her a conducted tour of the theatre and they had made love on the stage, where the set was still up for Romeo and Juliet, with the curtains drawn. There had been a smell of dust and grease paint, of the real theatre. Joe Fenwick in reception had seen them go in but had never mentioned the incident to anyone.
So it had started as an im
pulse, because he had been bored one evening at a tedious party, because he wanted the admiration of a woman to whom he had brought a little excitement. He had expected never to see her again.
She had phoned him, a week later, obviously nervous. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
He had been flattered. It had been a long time since he had had such an effect on a woman. When he was a household name, on the television every week, it had been easier. Still he did not know what he was letting himself in for. He had never thought she would get serious. A married woman whose kid’s grown up, approaching middle age, wanting a bit of excitement on the side. That’s what he’d thought. Something to push away the idea that the next great adventure in her life would be death.
‘Why don’t you come to my flat?’ he had said. ‘I’ll cook you a meal. Dinner.’ He was proud of his flat in Chandler’s Court. He wanted to show it off to her.
‘Are you sure?’ she said, grateful as a child. ‘Eh, I’d love to.’
And he imagined her going off, choosing what clothes to wear, making herself attractive just for him. It was a good feeling.
How did he let it get out of hand? he wondered. Laziness, he supposed. He just never bothered to contradict her. They would lie together in his bed, with the sound of the river outside, and she would talk of her dreams. He never thought of them as plans. They were fantasies. She couldn’t bring herself to leave Evan, she would say. Not yet. Not with John still at school. Besides, he had a dreadful temper. He would kill her if he found out. No, they would wait until John had left school and Gus had got a job somewhere else, away from the district, where Evan couldn’t find them. Then they would start a new life together.
Why had he never said anything? he wondered. Because he hadn’t wanted to disillusion her, because he wanted to avoid the confrontation. And because, despite himself, he did not want to lose her. He had become addicted to her flattery. He loved the way she made him feel the most important man in the world. Then there were the practical things she did to make life easy for him—the row of ironed shirts in his wardrobe every morning, the washed dishes, the meals. He would have been a fool to give all that up. So he had gone along with her dreams, had even on occasion encouraged them.
But now he had other worries, he thought bitterly, watching the crew of a fishing boat on the quay working companionably to untangle a net. It was too much for him to cope with Jackie too. He stared out of the window as the afternoon wore on. The sun was covered by a grey mist which rolled in again from the sea so the river and the land beyond it became indistinguishable, luminous, broken by the silhouettes of the boats and the cormorants standing on the rocks uncovered by the tide.
At some point his agent phoned. Simon Jasper was thin, elegant, with the languid drawl of a pre-war English gentleman. Lynch could picture him in the untidy office in Covent Garden where he presided, pandered to by a gaggle of well-bred young women who considered employment with him as equivalent to a year in a Swiss finishing school. It only paid pocket money but provided culture and contacts.
‘Gus!’ Jasper said. The drawl was more pronounced than usual. Gus Lynch looked at his watch. It was half-past three. He guessed that Simon had been entertaining one of his more successful clients to lunch and was full of claret and brandy. ‘Gus,’ Jasper repeated. ‘I’m sorry but I must have an answer by the end of the week. At the very latest.’ He paused, expecting an answer, then went on more sharply: ‘ You know you won’t get a better deal.’
‘No,’ Lynch said. ‘I realize that.’
‘I tried to phone you at the Centre,’ Jasper said. ‘Someone said it was closed for the day. No problems, I hope. I’ve told you the subsidized sector is very vulnerable at the moment. You should get out while you have the chance.’
‘I want to get out,’ Lynch said hurriedly. ‘ I explained that I’m ready for a move.’ He hesitated and sensed that Jasper was becoming irritated, then continued quickly: ‘It’s just that I’m having problems persuading the trustees to release me from my contract at the Grace Darling.’
‘What contract?’ The affected drawl almost disappeared. ‘ I didn’t know anything about a contract. I hope you didn’t sign anything without consulting me.’
‘No,’ Lynch said. ‘Of course not.’ The whisky was getting in the way, preventing him from producing a coherent story. ‘It’s nothing formal. But I don’t want to leave with any bad feeling. That sort of publicity would get in the way of the new job. You know that.’
‘I suppose.’ To express his disapproval Jasper withdrew his attention and shouted to someone in the room with him: ‘Jemima, bring me some tea, there’s a good girl.’ There was a silence, then he relented and spoke to Gus again. ‘You do realize,’ he said, ‘that if you’re interested you’ll have to sign by the end of the week, bad publicity or no.’
‘All right, Simon,’ Lynch said, losing patience. ‘I understand. There’s no need to spell it out. I’ll sort it.’
‘Good,’ Jasper said. ‘ Right. Well, I’ll expect to hear from you then.’
Lynch replaced the receiver before the agent could bully him further. He poured another drink and phoned Amelia Wood’s home. He had her number, with a list of the other trustees, in his book. A cleaning lady answered primly like a servant in a television historical drama. Mrs Wood was not at home, she said. She thought she had expected to be in court all day, but she would be home soon. If he would like to leave a message she would make sure Mrs Wood received it.
‘No,’ Gus said. ‘No message.’
He went out quickly, an impulse. There was a thick winter jacket at the back of a cupboard. He seldom wore it—he had never been one for outdoor pursuits—and scarcely recognized himself in the mirror in the hall. Before leaving the flat he drew the living-room curtains, then took the phone off the hook. If the police tried to contact him it would take them a while to realize that it was not simply engaged. With any luck they would assume the phone was out of order and leave him until the morning. Even if they sent someone to the flat that would take time and he did not expect to be away for very long.
The cold outside took his breath away. The light behind the mist had drained away and it was almost dark. He twisted a scarf around his neck and over his mouth and pulled up the hood of his jacket. In his pocket he found a pair of gloves and pulled them on.
The wholesale fish shops along the quay were beginning to close. Boards advertising the day’s catch were lifted in and men stood with poles to pull down thick metal shutters over the windows. Lynch walked past anonymously, another man just finished work, on his way home or to the pub. One of the fishmongers even waved to him, certain that Gus belonged there. Lynch walked up the steep bank away from the river, past the red low light that guided boats into the quay. The exercise and the whisky made him light-headed and he had to stop half-way and gasp for breath.
In the middle of Hallowgate the shops were still open and busy. It was only half-past four. Gangs of teenagers on their way home from school walked aimlessly and gathered outside the Wimpy Bar to share a bag of chips. The jangle of inevitable Christmas carols came from the Price Savers Supermarket and from all the tatty clothes shops selling sequinned party frocks or threadbare denim. A pork butcher was scooping pease pudding from a huge tray into a plastic carton to sell to an old man who carefully counted pennies from a purse on to the counter and outside the greengrocer’s next door two women were fighting over a pile of Christmas trees: both had chosen one that was less battered than the rest. Only the many charity shops seemed quiet and respectable. Genteel ladies in suede boots and tweed skirts stood awkwardly behind their counters, watching the clock tick on, knowing that the week’s ordeal of charitable do gooding would soon be over. In the window of Barnardo’s was a poster advertising The Adventures of Abigail Keene.
Gus Lynch took no notice of the shops or the passers-by, though walking through Hallowgate was a novelty for him. He did his shopping weekly in the big
new Sainsbury’s in Whitley Bay. He bought ready-cooked Indian meals, exotic cheese, and bottles of wine recommended by the Sunday Times, and spent more than most Hallowgate families would in a month. He hunched his shoulders, put his head down and looked at the pavement in front of him.
He knew where the Hallowgate magistrates’ court was because he had been there once to pay a speeding fine. He walked past it slowly. The lights were on inside but everything seemed quiet. Now he was here he felt awkward. He was not sure what to do. A door marked Staff Only opened and two middle-aged men came out. They were pulling on identical raincoats and chatted about golf. They must have seen him but they took no notice. Who were they? Lynch wondered. Magistrates? Court officials? Plain-clothes policemen? He watched them walk together up the street, envying their easy conversation, their quiet consciences.
The door opened again and Amelia Wood came out. He stood with his back flat against the wall of the building but she went in the opposite direction and did not see him. She walked quickly. She wore a calf-length Burberry mackintosh and tied a silk scarf over her hair, worried that the damp in the air would affect her new perm. He heard the heels of her shoes tapping on the uneven pavement.
When Amelia Wood emerged from the court she was surprised to find that it was already dark. The court’s business had taken longer than she had expected. It was over, at least, for another week. She had parked her car away from the court in one of the quieter, more salubrious streets close to Hallowgate Square. It was a precaution she had taken since a previous car had been vandalized by the friends of a defendant she had sentenced to youth custody. They had seen her arrive in it and while she dealt with other cases they had wreaked their vengeance with razor blades and spray paint. Besides, there was usually something therapeutic about the short walk in the fresh air after a day in court. It put a distance between her and the lives of the people on whom she passed judgement. As she walked briskly away she began to plan the dinner party she would hold at the weekend for some of the more prominent trustees of the Grace Darling Centre. Despite the tragedy of the girl’s murder she would be able to promise them that the Centre had a secure future.