Killjoy

Chapter Ten

Amelia Wood’s body was found by a jogger at eight in the morning while Dennis Wood was still sleeping off the excess of the night before. The jogger, a PE teacher at St Martin’s High School, took the same route every day: through the village, across the hill, and down the footpath through the dene. When he crossed the hill it was still dark and the ground was hard. There was no pleasure in the running and he wondered what crazy obsession prompted him to maintain the daily ritual. In the solid houses which backed on to the hill the lights in the bedroom windows reminded him that he could be still at home, drinking tea, reading the paper. The sky was clear and by the time he reached the path into the dene it was light enough to see where he was going. A high wall marked the boundary of the gardens and gave some shelter from the frost.

Amelia Wood lay only yards from the open hill. The teacher thought at first she was a pile of summer rubbish blown into the undergrowth and left to rot. He even began to develop in his mind a lecture on the subject of litter to be delivered at the morning’s assembly. But as he approached he saw that it was a woman’s shape. She was lying on her side, dressed in a dark velour track suit, her buttocks curved towards him. She was quite close to the path and little attempt had been made to hide her.

He ran back on to the hill looking for someone to help, someone with whom to share the responsibility of the discovery. There was no one in sight. He could have returned to the village, used the phone in Front Street, but that would have taken time and the situation seemed urgent. He chose instead to go through a gate in the high wall which bounded the common, into one of the gardens, and up to the house beyond. He had time to think, even in his panic, that he was in the wrong job and he wished he could afford a place like this. At first he could find no way into the house. There was no light and when he banged on the back door there was no response. He ran round the house over a lawn scattered with leaves, past bare fruit trees. On a semicircle of gravel a BMW was parked. Presumably then, someone was at home. As he ran to the front door he was joined by a Labrador which appeared from nowhere. He leaned on the door bell with all his weight until he heard movement upstairs, then stood, suddenly breathless and shaky waiting for someone to answer it.

Dennis Wood was wakened by the shrieking of the door bell below him and by the barking of the dog. He groaned and turned over, hoping that Amelia would be up and would answer it. But it continued, making his head pound, and eventually he padded downstairs, still wearing the socks of the night before, pulling on a dressing-gown and tying it around his paunch. When he opened the door he saw a madman in a track suit and running shoes who yelled incoherently about an emergency, about needing to use the phone. As a good citizen he let the man in, but showed no interest. He thought the incident had nothing to do with him.

Ramsay was sitting at his desk at Hallowgate police station when he received the news of Amelia Wood’s death. He had been there since seven, reading through the statements taken the day before from people who had been at the Grace Darling Centre on Monday evening, realizing with increasing frustration that no one had seen anything unusual. His first reaction to the discovery of the body was anger, directed not at the murderer but at Hunter. He had told the sergeant that someone should interview Mrs Wood. What had happened? It was the sort of incompetence that irritated because it was unnecessary. Hunter disliked the routine of statement taking and avoided it. He claimed it was boring, usually a waste of time, but Ramsay thought it was the listening which he found so irksome. He could not bear to give someone else his full attention. He had assumed apparently that like all the other witnesses Amelia Wood had no useful information to give. Her murder contradicted the assumption.

Ramsay drove to Martin’s Dene alone, leaving instructions that Hunter was to follow him when he got in. He drove down the wide avenue of Martin’s Close looking at the smart houses without envy. The Woods’ home was at the end of a cul-de-sac, 1930s mock-Tudor, large, separated from the street by a row of trees. A police car was blocking the drive so Ramsay parked in the street and walked in. The front door was open. He shouted and stepped into a wide hall, then went through to the kitchen where he could hear voices.

The kitchen was sleek and expensive and gave no sign that food was ever prepared there. Dennis Wood was perched ridiculously on a stool by a breakfast bar-there was nowhere else to sit. He was dressed in a grey suit and striped shirt, but the shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and he wore no tie. After letting the jogger into the house he had gone on to prepare for work. The policeman called first to the scene had recognized the woman as Amelia Wood-he had seen her in court-and broke the news to him.

‘Didn’t you notice,’ the policeman had asked, polite but incredulous, ‘that she’d been missing all night?’

‘No,’ Wood had said, still fuddled by the hangover, by the shock. ‘She was a busy woman. I’d assumed that she was still out when I got in last night. There was no sign of her car, you see. She must have put it away in the garage as soon as she got home. Then this morning I thought that she’d left early.’ Seeing the young policeman’s disbelief he added: ‘She wasn’t the sort of woman, you know, that you worried about.’

The PE teacher was obviously still in shock. He was standing by the window, staring out into the garden. Ramsay introduced himself but the man hardly seemed to register his presence.

‘I’ve never seen a dead person before,’ he said, almost to himself. A policeman handed him a mug of tea and he took it absently, turned to him, and repeated the phrase like a chant.

‘I want someone on the front door,’ Ramsay said. ‘No unauthorized access. We’ll need back up. Immediately. I want to get to the scene of crime as quickly as possible. If my sergeant arrives send him on down to me. Tell him no interviews at this stage. I’ll talk to Mr Wood myself later.’

The last thing he needed after the cock-up of failing to see Mrs Wood the night before was Hunter bullying the witnesses.

‘Which is the quickest way?’ he asked.

‘Through the garden. There’s a gate in the wall with access straight on to the hill. You won’t miss it from there.’

Ramsay thought that the Woods must have paid for help with the garden. Apart from a few beech leaves on the lawn it was immaculate. The vegetable plot had been dug over for the winter, the paths were clear, the trees and shrubs regularly pruned. He could not imagine Dennis Wood getting his hands dirty and even with her ferocious energy Amelia would hardly have had the time. Besides, from what he had learned of her, horticulture would have been too tame an interest. The door through the wall was arched. It could be bolted from the inside but had been left ajar. Ramsay went through it and stood for a moment to take his bearings.

The hill was a piece of windswept common surrounded on three sides by houses and bordered on the fourth side by the dene. There was a view over roofs to Tynemouth and the sea. Ramsay stood now at the corner where the dene and the houses met. There was access to the hill from a number of points but a well-trodden footpath led from Martin’s Dene village opposite him to the corner, where a cinder track had been created through the trees down the steep side of the valley. At the village end of the footpath was the Holly Tree restaurant.

There was already a considerable police presence by the body and he was impressed by the efficiency of at least some members of the Hallowgate force. A Land-Rover had been driven over the hill and a policeman in a navy anorak was marking the area with blue and white tape. As he walked towards it Ramsay caught the jolly Scottish voice of the pathologist unnaturally loud in the still, clear air. It was still cold and the grass and each branch and twig were covered with hoar. At the bottom of the dene a pool of mist lay over the burn. He stepped over the tape and joined the group of people looking down at the body. Among them he recognized Hallowgate’s chief superintendent, a quiet, studious man, nearing retirement. He was considered soft by some of his subordinates, too liberal by far, but Ramsay liked and respected him.

‘Ah, Ramsay,’ the superintendent said. ‘ Thank you for getting here so quickly. Any connection, do you think, with the Paston murder?’

‘Almost certainly,’ Ramsay said. ‘Mrs Wood was at the Grace Darling Centre on Monday evening, when Gabriella Paston’s body was discovered.’

‘You think she witnessed something?’ Ramsay was aware of a sharp intelligence.

‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately she’d left the Centre before the girl was found and we couldn’t get hold of her yesterday to take a statement.’

‘Yes,’ the superintendent said quietly. ‘I see. That was unfortunate.’ He said nothing else. He was not the sort of man to be critical in front of outsiders.

‘Have you discovered any other connection between Mrs Wood and the Paston girl?’

‘None at all at this stage.’

‘But it seems sensible to you to consider both murders as part of the same investigation?’

‘Definitely. Unless we come across any evidence to the contrary.’

‘Well then,’ the man said, briskly indicating, as he intended, his confidence in Ramsay. ‘I’ll leave you in charge. Report back to me later today. We’ll need details at some stage for a press conference.’

‘Of course,’ Ramsay said, wishing that his boss in Otterbridge was half as sensitive. He watched as the superintendent, slightly stooped, more like a scholar than a policeman, walked back towards the Woods’ house.

‘What have you got for me, then?’ he asked the pathologist.

‘Hey, man. Give me a chance. What do you want? Miracles?’

‘Cause of death would do for a start.’

‘She was strangled,’ the pathologist said. ‘Not with a rope or wire. Something thicker. A scarf maybe.’

‘Time of death?’

‘Hard to tell at this stage. Got to allow for the cold. It’s bloody freezing. Yesterday evening probably.’

‘Can’t you be more specific?’

‘Not yet.’ He stood up and grinned. ‘Find out when she last ate and I might be able to help you later today.’

On his way back to the Woods’ house, at the garden gate, Ramsay met Hunter. The sergeant was defensive.

‘I tried to get hold of her,’ he said. ‘I found out she was at court all day, but when I phoned there she’d already left. The usher chased after her and gave her the message to get in touch. I phoned him back to check that he’d got hold of her and he said she was going straight home. She hadn’t contacted the station when I left so I called here on the way to Otterbridge. There was no reply. I can’t see that I could have done any more.’

‘No,’ Ramsay said. There was nothing more that Hunter could have done. ‘What time were you here?’

‘About nine, I suppose. We left together, didn’t we?’

‘You didn’t see anything unusual?’

‘No. There was a light on at the back of the house but I thought it might be a normal security measure to leave a light on when the family was out.’

‘Yes,’ Ramsay said. ‘I see.’

‘What do you want me to do now?’ Hunter asked.

‘Keep people off the hill and out of the dene until we’ve done a search. I suppose you can organize that.’

He walked back to the house thinking he had been unfair to Hunter, too abrupt. In the kitchen he found the jogger, still staring out of the window, still clutching a mug of tea which was obviously cold. When he saw Ramsay he turned with a start.

‘Can I go now?’ he said. ‘ I’ve classes to take this morning. It won’t be easy for them to cover for me.’

‘Just a few questions,’ Ramsay said. ‘What made you come to this house? Did you recognize her?’

‘No. I didn’t even stop to look at her closely. When I touched her hand it was freezing. She was obviously dead. This was the closest place.’

‘You came in through the back gate?’

The man nodded.

‘Was it open?’

‘Yes. Slightly open. I was surprised. You expect people in houses like this to worry about security.’

‘Was there a light on in the kitchen?’

‘No, the house was quite dark.’

When Ramsay had begun talking to the teacher, Wood had made his excuses and left the kitchen. Ramsay found him in a cold living room, slumped in a chair, his eyes shut, his face grey.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Ramsay said. ‘But I do have to ask some questions.’

Wood sat up and hunched forward, his elbows on his knees.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘ of course.’

‘What time did you get home last night?’

‘I’m not sure exactly. About midnight.’ He looked apologetically at Ramsay. ‘I’m afraid I’d had a skinful.’

‘But you must have noticed that Mrs Wood wasn’t here.’

‘Oh, yes. Of course I’d noticed. But it wasn’t unusual. We lived very independent lives. I thought she was out at some council function or charity do.’

‘Yes,’ Ramsay said. ‘I see.’ Evan Powell would never have understood that sort of marriage but it made sense to him. He had never known where Diana was.

‘She had been home,’ he said, ‘after finishing at court?’

‘Was she at court yesterday?’ Wood was faintly curious, unsurprised. ‘Yes, she had been home. I realize that now. Her car’s in the garage.’

‘Were there any lights on in the house when you got home?’

Wood hunched further forward, concentrating.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The kitchen light. I turned it off before I went to bed. I suppose it should have struck me as odd, but I was in no state to think clearly about anything.’

‘You can’t remember what plans your wife might have had for the evening?’

‘No,’ Wood said. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Was there any reason for her leaving the house on foot?’

Wood sat up and shook his head slowly as if he had been a fool. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course. The dog.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ramsay said.

‘Whichever of us was first home in the evening let the dog out for a run on the hill. Amelia was more thorough about it than me. She actually took him for a walk. I’m afraid I just let him out on to the common and called him back five minutes later. After that we’d lock the back gate for the night. The dog was still outside this morning. He must have found his own way home.’

‘I see. Would your wife take the dog out as soon as she got home from court?’

‘No. She’d shower first. She always said the courtroom stank. Change into something more comfortable, a cup of tea, then take the dog for a run.’

‘So how long would all that take?’

‘I don’t know. Three-quarters of an hour, perhaps.’

‘Thank you,’ Ramsay said. ‘We should be able to estimate the time of death very precisely with that information.’

‘So you think she was killed then? When she took the dog out on to the hill?’

‘Probably,’ Ramsay said. He was lost in thought. ‘ I think so. Yes.’

They sat in silence.

‘Was he some sort of madman, then?’ Wood demanded at last. ‘First that girl at the Grace Darling Centre, then Amelia. What would they call him in America? A serial killer. Was he one of those?’

Ramsay gave the proposition serious consideration. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘Really, I don’t think so. The murders weren’t random. It can hardly be a coincidence that Mrs Wood was at a meeting at the Grace Darling on the night that Gabriella’s body was found there.’

‘So you think she might have seen something. She was killed to keep her quiet.’

‘It’s a possibility, though there are obvious problems with the theory. If she’d seen something obviously suspicious why didn’t she get in touch with us immediately? She was a magistrate, concerned, responsible.’

There was a pause and then Wood answered slowly. ‘She was all those things, Inspector. But she was also a woman who enjoyed power. If she had come across information which she could put to her advantage she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.’

Ramsay was surprised by his honesty and detachment. Bereavement usually made people sentimental. Wood sensed the surprise.

‘We had a successful marriage, Inspector. We understood each other’s needs. There was respect and admiration. But not what you could call romantic love and that’s what clouds one’s judgement.’

‘Did you discuss the Gabriella Paston murder yesterday evening?’ Ramsay asked.

‘Only briefly. Amelia didn’t know about it when she came in. I’d seen a short report on the local news and passed on the details. I knew she’d be interested because of her connection with the Centre.’

‘Had she ever met the girl?’

‘I don’t think so. She would have told me last night if she’d known her personally.’

‘Do you know what she was doing at the Arts Centre yesterday?’

‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I haven’t a clue. As I’ve explained, we led very separate lives.’

‘She’d arranged a meeting with a Mr Lynch, the director,’ Ramsay persisted. ‘She didn’t mention it? The name doesn’t mean anything to you?’

‘Oh, yes, I recognize the name. I’ve had business dealings with Lynch but Amelia wasn’t connected in any way.’

‘Could you tell me what sort of business dealings?’

‘He bought a flat from me.’ Wood stood up and stretched. The colour had returned to his face. The shock and the hangover were beginning to wear off. ‘In Chandler’s Court just off Hallowgate Fish Quay. I’m an architect and my firm bought the building and converted it. It was rather a successful venture for us and we hope to do more of it in the future.’

‘Was there anything unusual about your negotiations with Mr Lynch?’

‘Not really. At first he haggled about the price. He tried to bring Amelia into it, said that he’d taken a massive drop in salary to come to work at the Grace Darling and he thought I should make a gesture by reducing the asking price.’

‘What did you say?’

‘That his dealing with Amelia was quite separate from his business with me and that if he didn’t want the flat there were lots of people who did.’

‘And he managed to find the asking price?’

Wood shrugged. ‘Of course.’

‘When did he move into Chandler’s Court?’

‘Two and a half years ago.’

‘Where was he living before that?’

‘I don’t think I ever knew. He’d been renting somewhere since he moved up from London but I sent all the correspondence about the sale to the Arts Centre.’ The architect returned to his chair.

They sat for a moment in silence. Outside there was the sound of cars pulling up in the street, doors banging, voices, as the team who would search the hill were directed through the garden to the back gate.

‘Have you ever been to the Holly Tree restaurant?’ Ramsay asked.

Wood was surprised by the question but answered easily. ‘Yes. It’s a convenient place to entertain. I often take business clients there and Amelia and I went quite regularly, perhaps once a month, for dinner or Sunday lunch.’

‘Is it possible, do you think, that Mrs Wood booked a table there on Monday lunch time?’

It seemed unlikely, Ramsay thought, though the question had to be asked. Why would Amelia want to buy Gabriella Paston an expensive lunch? And why not use her own name? As a regular customer it would guarantee her a better table. It could not be because she wanted to keep the trip to the restaurant a secret-she would be recognized as soon as she arrived.

‘Quite possible,’ Wood said. ‘ She went there sometimes with her friends.’

‘She didn’t mention it to you?’

‘No. But she wouldn’t have done. She would have written it in her appointments diary though. Everything went in there. I’ll find it for you.’

He stood up and left the room, glad it seemed of the excuse for movement. As Ramsay waited for his return a minibus pulled up in the street, and a pile of men in navy anoraks trampled over the gravel and across the grass to the back of the house. Wood came back almost immediately with a thick desk diary which Ramsay opened at November 30th. A string of appointments was listed in small neat handwriting. Amelia’s day had started with a Cancer Research coffee morning, there was a meeting of the planning subcommittee at 2.00, tea with D.Y at four and a meeting of the governors of Hallowgate Sixth-Form College at 6.30.

‘D.Y?’ Ramsay asked.

‘Deidre Yeoman. Another Tory councillor. They met occasionally for moral support and to discuss strategy.’

Ramsay considered the appointments. They would check of course if Amelia had kept them all. She must have gone straight to the Grace Darling after the governor’s meeting. It was just possible that she could have fitted in an early lunch at the Holly Tree and still be at the council meeting at two but unlikely surely that she would have made the arrangement. The mysterious Abigail Keene who had booked the table must be someone altogether different.

His thoughts were interrupted by Hunter, who tapped on the door and stood just inside the room, scarcely able to suppress his excitement.

‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ he said, obviously not sorry at all. ‘ If I could have a word.’

Ramsay followed him into the hall and shut the door.

‘We’ve found something,’ Hunter said. ‘Something really interesting.’ He paused for dramatic effect and then continued. ‘A sports bag. The sort all the kids use to carry their gear in, full of books and files. It belonged to Gabriella Paston.’

‘So,’ Ramsay said. ‘She did come to Martin’s Dene on the day of her death. Where exactly did you find it?’

Hunter paused again, like a child wanting to savour a moment of triumph. ‘ Well,’ he said. ‘That’s the most interesting thing of all. We found it here. In this garden. In the middle of the shrubbery next to the wall. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?’