Ramsay 04 - Killjoy Read online

  Bello:

  hidden talent rediscovered

  Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

  At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.

  We publish in ebook and Print on Demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.

  www.panmacmillan.co.uk/bello

  Contents

  Ann Cleeves

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Ann Cleeves

  KILLJOY

  Ann Cleeves is the author behind ITV’s VERA and BBC One’s SHETLAND. She has written over twenty-five novels, and is the creator of detectives Vera Stanhope and Jimmy Perez – characters loved both on screen and in print. Her books have now sold over one million copies worldwide.

  Ann worked as a probation officer, bird observatory cook and auxiliary coastguard before she started writing. She is a member of ‘Murder Squad’, working with other British northern writers to promote crime fiction. In 2006 Ann was awarded the Duncan Lawrie Dagger (CWA Gold Dagger) for Best Crime Novel, for Raven Black, the first book in her Shetland series. In 2012 she was inducted into the CWA Crime Thriller Awards Hall of Fame. Ann lives in North Tyneside.

  Chapter One

  At seven o’clock on November 30th the Grace Darling Arts Centre was busy. The fog seeped inland from the Tyne and hung around the horse chestnut trees in Hallowgate Square but the building had a light in every window and the car park behind the house was full. Hallowgate had once been a prosperous Victorian suburb. The wealthy middle classes from Newcastle who made their money from ships or coal built houses there. Then the conurbation spread and Hallowgate became part of the North Tyneside sprawl. Its fortunes declined. It had never been as smart as Tynemouth or Martin’s Dene to the east and was too far from the metro line and the main road to be taken up by serious commuters. From attic windows in the solid red-brick houses there were views of the cranes along the river, a rope factory, the remaining skeleton of a boatyard. Hallowgate was close to the Tyne but this part had an identity of its own: quiet, shabby, forgotten.

  The rest of the square was quiet. Most of the residents were elderly. Recent news reports of skirmishes with the police on the Starling Farm, a nearby council estate, kept them inside. The talk in the pubs was of joy riding, ram raiders. The streets seemed dangerous. On the corner of Anchor Street the Bengali grocer’s shop was still open but the languid teenage girls behind the counter had no customers to serve and spent the evening reading magazines and sucking sweets. By then the fog was so thick that even with the street lights they could not see the visitors to the Arts Centre in any detail. Even if the visibility had been perfect they were unlikely to take any notice.

  Evan Powell drove into the Grace Darling car park, saw that it was full, and drove out again to find a space in the square. It would not have occurred to him to cause inconvenience by double parking. The manoeuvre took longer than he had anticipated and it was just after seven when he opened the door to the small music room where the other members of the choral society were arranging chairs and music stands. Punctuality was important to him and he had been faintly anxious that they might have started. It came as a relief to see that three other people came in after him. Before the conductor called them to order he wondered briefly if his son John had remembered that he would be here tonight to give him a lift home. It was a bad time for youngsters to be out on the streets alone.

  In the main hall the Tyneside Youth Theatre had just begun its rehearsal. The teenagers were limbering up to loud rock music. The windows were covered by blackout curtains and the room was dimly lit by coloured spots. They moved barefoot across the wooden floor, jumping and twisting, dressed in cycle shorts or Lycra leggings and loose, sexless T-shirts. Prue Bennett, sitting on the stage and watching them, admired their youth and energy, with a trace of envy. She switched off the large cassette-recorder.

  ‘OK everyone,’ she said. ‘Relax.’

  Then she turned to the theatre’s director, who was too grand, it seemed, to take the exercises but who came in now once the real work of the evening was to begin.

  Gus Lynch was a local man. His dad had been a draughtsman at the Swan Hunter boatyard and he had been to school in Wallsend. The trustees of the Grace Darling thought it was local pride that had brought him back to run the Centre and direct the Youth Theatre but he was too canny for that. Soon after drama school he had starred as a token Geordie in an ITV sitcom. The series had run for years to a dwindling audience and when it came to an end Gus was virtually unemployable. He had no experience of the serious stage and in its final years the series had been something of a joke; advertisers and the producers of the new, slick comedy programmes were not interested in anyone associated with it. Gus was an ambitious man and although he had played hard to get he had welcomed the approaches from the Centre’s trustees. He recognized the potential the post had for reviving his image. It made him the North-East’s most prominent media man. He was invited on to late-night television shows to discuss provincial theatre. The money was crap, he had to admit, but in the scheme of things the Grace Darling Centre was performing a useful function. The situation comedy had almost been forgotten and he was already looking forward to something new.

  He cultivated the part of the famous actor. Despite middle age he wore a lot of denim and he swore at them all. The teenagers thought he was wonderful. They gathered together to listen as he joined Prue on the stage.

  ‘Let’s do some work on the last scene,’ he said, ‘when Sam Smollett rescues Abigail from the crowd around the gallows, don’t forget I want real menace, not just a lot of shouting and abuse.’

  He was very thin and his head was the shape of a skull, Prue saw now, prompted by talk of the gallows.

  The group had devised the play—The Adventures of Abigail Keene—from stories they had grown up with since childhood, and from a folk song performed still in clubs and pubs all over the region. Abigail Keene had been an eighteenth-century rebel, the daughter of a Hallowgate merchant who had run away from home to travel and see the world. She had taken up with a robber and highwayman, then been caught and sentenced to hang, rescued only at the last moment by her lover. There was no real evidence of her existence but her story had survived in the area through song and myth. The group had turned it into a roistering melodrama, full of black humour and sexual innuendo, interspersed by music. Prue Bennett described it to her friends as Richardson’s Clarissa crossed with Monty Python.

  Gus looked down at the expectant teenagers and felt the sudden exhilaration of power. This might be a small pond, he thought, but he was a bloody big fish in it.

  ‘OK,’ he said. He moved restlessly over the stage. ‘Let’s set it up. John and Gabby to their positions, the crowd over here. We’ll try it without the music first. Don’t forget we’ve our first dress rehearsal next week.’

  The young people were using the stage and the front of the auditorium below it. They had placed blocks to separate the space and give a var
iation in height. They milled around to find their starting positions.

  ‘Right!’ Gus said. ‘Now, can we have more light?’

  The hall was suddenly lit by a series of white spotlights. In one, on the stage stood a dark, muscular boy in a track suit. He held one hand to his face to shield the glare from the light.

  ‘Gabby’s not here,’ the boy said flatly. ‘I haven’t seen her all evening.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Gus Lynch said. ‘We can’t do much without her. Prue, where the hell is Gabby? She lives with you, doesn’t she? What have you done with her?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything with her,’ Prue said calmly. ‘I’m her landlady not her minder.’

  ‘Well, we can’t wait any longer for her. Anna, you can play her part for tonight. Let’s get on with it.’

  Prue Bennett watched her daughter move from the shadow, sensing her nervousness. In the circle of light John Powell stood, moving his feet and shaking his hands as if he were some athlete warming up before a big race. She wondered if Gus Lynch had hoped to cause her some awkwardness by choosing Anna as Gabby’s understudy for Abigail Keene. He knew that the girl worked well as part of a group but became shy and diffident when she was the centre of attention. Was this an attempt to give her confidence, or just an opportunity for him to exert his authority over Prue?

  Gus produced in Prue, as always, mixed feelings. She knew he was an arrogant bastard, but she enjoyed her work in the Arts Centre. She had been there for three years and still thought she was fortunate to have the job, that Gus Lynch had in some way been kind to employ her. She had applied for the job at the Grace Darling with enthusiasm but with little hope of success. She had little enough experience—a year in rep between university and getting herself pregnant. She had had no real work since then. First there had been Anna to look after, and just as the child grew more independent her elderly parents had begun to make different and more cruel demands. Even now, three years later, she felt a remnant of gratitude to Lynch for not choosing one of the eager and attractive young actresses she had met at the interview. She was still uncertain why he had gone for her.

  Prue watched John Powell put his arm round her daughter. She knew it was acting. John was Sam Smollett, the highwayman, hero of the piece. But still she felt a twinge of possessiveness. Something about the guarded tension of Anna’s face made her anxious, reminded her of the turbulence of her own teenage years. She fancies him, she thought suddenly. She’s excited by the physical contact. Then, almost immediately: I hope nothing comes of it. Not with John. He’s too reckless. He’s more Gabby’s type. Then: What has it got to do with me anyway? I always promised myself I’d never interfere.

  Thought of Gabby produced her to more irritation. Where was the girl? She could be unreliable at home but usually took the Youth Theatre seriously. She had never been this late before. For the first time she began to worry, influenced despite herself by the lurid news reports. Perhaps Ellen knows something, she thought without much hope. I’ll speak to her after the rehearsal. Then she felt resentful. She had responsibility enough without having to take on someone else’s child. She forced herself to concentrate on the teenagers in the body of the hall.

  Ellen Paston was Gabby’s aunt, her dead father’s sister. She had worked part-time in the cafeteria in the Grace Darling Centre since it had opened, had worked there in fact before that, cleaning for the old lady who had owned the big house. On November 30th Ellen Paston began her shift at six o’clock. She got a bus from the Starling Farm to the end of Anchor Street and walked the rest of the way, staring in at the shop windows. Most of the shops were shut but the windows were bright with gaudy Christmas decorations. Outside the pub a thin-faced man sold flimsy sheets of wrapping paper twisted into tubes. He smoked roll-up cigarettes and his eyes were alert, all the time, for the police. Ellen was heavy, big boned, and walked with a slow, lumbering gait. She took in all the details of her surroundings.

  By seven o’clock Ellen Paston was pouring coffee for the Hallowgate Writer’s Circle. They met in the cafeteria then moved on to the small lecture room to share news of rejection slips and to massage bruised egos. The membership was composed mostly of middle-class women who drove in from the more affluent suburbs. Ellen Paston listened to their conversation without apparent interest. Despite her size she managed to be unobtrusive and though they met her each week the Writers’ Circle hardly noticed she was there. The women’s competitive boasting about their grandchildren’s achievements left Ellen cold, but she listened just the same. You never knew when you could pick up something worthwhile. She was single, always had been, and realized that being single put you at risk. There was a danger that you would miss out on what was due to you. Ellen knew instinctively that information gave you power and she was determined always to know what was happening in Hallowgate.

  It had been inevitable that John Powell would be chosen to play Sam Smollett, the hero of The Adventures of Abigail Keene. He had been given a leading role in every production since he was fourteen. Even then, sullen and covered with spots, brought by his father who thought it would be good for him, Gus had recognized something special about him, something moody and reckless. He saw that John would not be afraid of taking risks. The character of Sam Smollett suited him down to the ground.

  Tonight John’s performance was not up to its usual standard. It lacked the pace and swagger needed for the part. His mind was not on the role. Gus blamed Gabby’s absence for the lack of energy, but John knew that his inability to concentrate was at fault. He was ashamed of some of the trivia which distracted him. The lousy mark he’d got for the last history essay, for example. He couldn’t hide it from his father any longer. The old man was already asking about it—not angrily but with that hateful, compassionate interest that made John want to hit him.

  ‘How did you get on with that project you were researching?’ his father had asked the night before. ‘Cromwell, wasn’t it?’ He had come in from a late shift and looked tired, but still made the effort to take an interest in his only son’s work. When he was eleven John’s form teacher had said he was Oxbridge material and Mr Powell had never forgotten that.

  ‘I don’t know,’ John had muttered. ‘Haven’t had it back yet.’

  And Powell had shaken his head in disappointment. ‘I suppose they’re overworked,’ he had said, ‘but all the same…’ He wondered if they should have sent John to private school after all. Jackie had been all for it, had offered to go out to work to pay the fees, but Evan hadn’t been keen on that. In his work he saw too many kids allowed to roam the streets without proper supervision. That wasn’t going to happen to his son.

  John stood, waiting for the crowd to move back to their places so they could rehearse the movement again. It was the climax of the play, a piece of comic melodrama. He appeared, disguised as the hangman, and at the last moment pulled Abigail to safety through the crowd. Usually, he enjoyed the scene but today he was preoccupied, wondering why his father bugged him so much. He wasn’t unreasonable, not compared with some other kids’ dads, but he left John always with a sense of vague and uneasy aggression.

  And there was the same unease whenever he thought about Gabby…

  Anna Bennett touched his shoulder to move him back to their starting place, and he jumped with a start. He was getting nervy. That wouldn’t do. In his game he needed to keep his nerve. He breathed deeply into the pit of his stomach as he did in the relaxation exercises Prue set them before they started rehearsing.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Anna whispered. ‘ Is anything wrong?’

  ‘No,’ he said, smiling, super cool. ‘It’s just a drag, isn’t it, Gabby not being here?’

  She turned away and he saw with irritation that he must have offended her. He should be more careful, keep his feelings under control. It wasn’t her fault. He saw himself as a modern Sam Smollett, gallant and daring, a gentleman of the road. He flashed her a smile.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean that.
You know what it’s like when you get used to working with someone. It’s bound to make a difference. Let me buy you a Coke later, to show there are no hard feelings.’

  Gus Lynch looked at his watch and saw gratefully that it was a quarter to nine. He felt like giving the whole thing up now.

  ‘We’ll go through it just one more time,’ he called, unenthusiastically. ‘Try to be aware of each other. We need a co-ordinated movement. It’s not a rugby serum. God knows how we’ll be ready for performance. And what happened to you, John? Let’s have a bit more dash and pace.’

  ‘Sorry, Gus!’ John shouted. ‘I’m feeling a bit off tonight.’

  Gus Lynch shrugged and gave the cue to start them off. He watched the dispirited, disorganized performance with annoyance. This play was important to him. For God’s sake he needed a bit of media attention. Especially now. He wouldn’t allow the bloody kids to let him down. If John Powell didn’t pull his finger out he’d be replaced with someone more committed.

  The rehearsal rambled on to its close. The lights were switched up and the young people stood in groups, blinking and shame-faced, expecting an angry lecture from Gus. The old lecture about how he’d given up a good career to come and work with them and he expected some guts and energy in return. But he let them go in silence and they wandered through to the cafeteria where Ellen Paston stood, hunched and unresponsive, behind the counter.

  John Powell, haunted by the old worries, forgot immediately about the easy promise to buy Anna a Coke when the session was over. He left the Centre, ignoring the porter’s greeting, and stopped at the entrance to the car park. He’d always liked cars and it had become a habit to stop there to admire the smart vehicles left by the Centre’s patrons. But the fog and the smashed security lights meant that visibility was poor and he hurried back to the square. The pavement was covered with sodden leaves and his footsteps made no sound. Through the mist he saw his mother’s car parked outside the grocer’s shop. He remembered his dad had said he could borrow it because his was in the garage for a service, and was pleased, it would give him an excuse for not waiting for a lift home. He would say that he’d forgotten about the service and when his father’s car wasn’t around he’d presumed that he had missed the choral society because of some emergency at work. His excuses to his father grew more elaborate every day.