Killjoy

Chapter Fourteen

In the Incident Room at Hallowgate police station Hunter was bored and frustrated. Any junior officer could have undertaken the routine chore of checking Gus Lynch’s finances and it was turning out to be more time consuming than he had expected. He wanted to be out on the street, feeling he was getting somewhere. Besides, he was convinced it was all a waste of time. Gus Lynch was a television star. If anyone could afford a spanking new flat down on the Fish Quay it would be him.

When Ramsay came into the Incident Room Hunter was defensive. He wished he had more information to pass on.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’ve nothing for you yet. I’m waiting for some people to call me back.’

‘That’s all right.’ Ramsay was surprisingly calm. All around him was the noise and bustle of people who wanted to prove to a superior that they were busy but he took no notice. ‘I’ll find someone else to do that. I want you to organize a surveillance team. On the Pastons. I want to know who comes to the house. That’s all.’

‘Why?’ Hunter demanded. ‘ What have they been up to?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Ramsay said. ‘But people on the estate are frightened of them. I want to know why.’

‘Is that all?’ What have you got? Hunter thought. You lucky bastard. You’re on to something. I can tell.

‘Yes.’ Ramsay shrugged. Humour me, he implied. ‘It’s a hunch, I suppose,’ he said. ‘It’s worth a try for a day.’

‘Of course,’ Hunter said. Anything was better than hours in the office.

‘You’ll need to be discreet,’ Ramsay said. ‘It’s a quiet street. Any unusual vehicle would be noticed. Don’t park directly outside the house. It’s a culde-sac, so you’ll see anyone approaching from a distance. Any ideas?’

‘I’ll get hold of a council van,’ Hunter said. ‘After the disturbances the council sent dozens of officers to assess the damage. No sign of any work being done yet, but you see those red vans parked on every street corner.’

‘Fine,’ Ramsay said absently. ‘Choose your own team.’

‘I’ll be off then,’ Hunter said. He felt a wonderful sense of freedom. This was how villains must feel when they were given bail.

Ramsay took over the investigation of Lynch’s finances. The task, methodical and detailed, relaxed him. It was easier at least than being out on the streets confronting people like Gary Barrass and his mother. And as he worked throughout the afternoon he became convinced that he was on to something, and that the information he gathered in tidy piles on his desk was significant.

He went off as often as he could to the top and his politeness and respect combined with his air of authority usually persuaded the people he spoke to that they should help him. From the Director of Finance of Hallowgate Borough Council he learned that Lynch had been in arrears with his community charge two years previously. A summons had been sent and there had been one court appearance. Almost immediately afterwards the debt had been paid in full. The records of the North-East Electricity Board and Northern Gas showed a similar pattern-Lynch had ignored final demands and threats of disconnection and then on the same date had paid up. At around the same time he had miraculously found enough money to put a deposit on the flat at Chandler’s Court.

Ramsay thought at first that Lynch’s failure to pay his bills might be the result of carelessness, absentmindedness. He was an actor, an artist. Would he consider the settlement of such routine debt as unimportant? But the coincidence was too strong and he began to wonder about the source of the dramatic and timely windfall.

He phoned Prue Bennett at the Grace Darling Centre and made discreet enquiries about the pattern of Lynch’s work. She had been his assistant for three years. During that time had he undertaken any outside work? A television part perhaps or an advertisement?

She was bewildered and slightly hostile but answered as accurately as she could.

‘No,’ she said. ‘ I don’t think so. He’s appeared on television during that time of course but as a representative of the Grace Darling, talking about forthcoming productions or as a contributor to a discussion show on the arts.’

‘And neither of those would have been particularly lucrative?’

‘I shouldn’t have thought so. I suppose there would be an appearance fee and expenses but we’re only talking about local television, not the South Bank Show. What is all this about?’

‘Oh,’ Ramsay said vaguely, ‘it’s probably not important. Just routine. You know.’

‘No,’ she replied tartly. ‘I don’t.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘ when all this is over perhaps you’d let me explain…’

There was a discouraging silence at the end of the telephone. At last she relented. ‘I have some news about Gus which might interest you,’ she said. ‘A news release has gone to the press today so you’ll hear about it soon anyway. He’s leaving the Grace Darling in the new year. He’s going to be artistic director of a theatre in the West Country. It’s quite a step up for him actually, after running a community project like this. He’s horribly pleased with himself.’

So, Ramsay thought, there was another interesting coincidence: Lynch had decided to leave the Grace Darling immediately after the deputy chairwoman of trustees had been murdered. But could it have any real significance? The move must have been planned months before. It could hardly have been triggered by Amelia Wood’s death. Then it occurred to him that Lynch’s resignation might have been the subject of his conversation with Amelia Wood on the night that Gabriella Paston’s body was found. If so, why had he been so secretive about it in the interview? He could surely have trusted the police not to release the news of his resignation until he was ready to make the move public. Ramsay made a cup of strong black coffee and sat in the gloomy office to drink it, allowing different ideas to connect in his mind until he had come up with a theory.

He phoned the Woods’ home in Martin’s Dene but there was no reply so he dialled Dennis Wood’s business number. A breathy young receptionist said: ‘How may I help you?’ and ‘Please hold,’ then a computer played a tuneless jingle in his ear as he waited. The synthesized music irritated him so intensely that he was about to replace the receiver when Wood’s voice came on quite suddenly.

‘Inspector,’ he said. ‘ What can I do for you?’

‘I’m interested in any records Mrs Wood might have kept on the Grace Darling Centre. Presumably she had minutes of trustees’ meetings, copies of accounts, that sort of thing. Where would I find them?’

‘In her office at home. She had a filing system which would put any business to shame. Look, I’m not expecting to be home until later but you’ve still got a key. Why don’t you help yourself?’

So in the late afternoon Ramsay drove to Martin’s Dene. He slowed down in the village past the Georgian terrace inhabited mostly now by university lecturers from Newcastle and past the Holly Tree restaurant where two businessmen were emerging from a late lunch. St Martin’s Close was quiet. The big houses were set well back from the trees. He thought it was not surprising that none of the residents had seen a strange car in the street on the evening of Amelia’s death.

He let himself into the house and switched off the alarm. The dog, apparently shut up in the kitchen, began to bark but again the houses were too far apart for any neighbours to hear and worry about intruders. Eventually the animal lapsed into an exhausted silence. The study was a pleasant square room at the side of the house. Along one wall was a set of filing cabinets and it seemed that, as Wood had said, Amelia’s record keeping had been meticulous. A three-drawer cabinet was given over entirely to the affairs of the Grace Darling Centre and Ramsay began at the top and worked his way carefully through the envelope files contained there.

Copies of the minutes of trustees’ meetings went back to the opening of the Centre. Amelia, apparently, had been on the steering committee which lobbied for its formation and began the unending business of fund-raising. In none of the meetings, however, had there been any discussion about Lynch in relation to financial matters. If Amelia had any suspicions about his integrity she had kept them to herself. Next came a bundle of copy letters sent out to local businesses asking for sponsorship of the Arts Centre. It seemed that Amelia had experimented with the format of the letter and had made a note of the different levels of response to each one. Ramsay wondered how many other local charities would be equally efficient and if Lynch had been aware of the degree of detailed interest that Amelia had taken in the finances of the scheme.

About three years previously the borough council had cut its grant to the Centre. The council had been threatened with poll-tax capping and the Community Arts fund had been chopped in half. Amelia had been put in charge of a special fund-raising exercise for the Grace Darling, an attempt to replace the missing grant. She had kept a list of the sponsorship she had achieved during that time. The sums were substantial and had totalled more than fifty thousand pounds. Amelia had been a persuasive woman.

Pinned to the back of the word-processed list of sponsors was a bank statement covering the period of fund-raising. Amelia had ticked off each entry as it appeared on the statement but it seemed that one of the sponsors had failed to meet its commitment to the Centre, or at least that its cheque had not been paid into the bank. A company called Northumbria Computing had pledged ten thousand pounds over two years but there was no record of the amount on the bank statement. Amelia had obviously seen the omission because beside the company’s name on the list was a large question mark.

Ramsay allowed himself a moment’s self-congratulation. He must be right. The theory devised in his office was almost proved. He was convinced that a fraud had taken place.

Then he began to wonder how it had been done. Surely Northumbria Computing would have made its cheque payable to the Grace Darling Centre, not to Gus Lynch personally. How then had he managed to get his hands on the money? And if Amelia Wood had realized that he had stolen from the trust, why hadn’t she taken steps to bring the matter to light? If she had taken her suspicions to an auditor he would discover immediately what had happened to the money. Ramsay could understand that a charity like the Grace Darling would want to avoid damaging publicity but there were ways to deal with the thing discreetly. He had seen it done before.

When Prue Bennett left her office at six o’clock she came across Ramsay in the lobby, leaning on Joe Fenwick’s desk, chatting to the porter as if they were old friends. It was clear that he was waiting for her, and she did not know what to make of it. She had persuaded herself that she rather despised him. There was something grubby and unpleasant about his prying into other people’s business. Yet now she found his presence reassuring.

‘I’m glad to have bumped into you,’ he said, as if the meeting had been quite by chance. ‘ There are one or two questions I need to clear up.’

‘I can’t stop now,’ Prue said. ‘Anna will be expecting me. We’ve hardly seen each other in the last few days.’

‘Perhaps I could come back with you,’ he said, ‘if it wouldn’t be too much of an intrusion.’

She would have liked to assert her authority, to tell him to get lost, but she couldn’t quite manage it. She was curious and it was hard to see him now as the sleazy detective she had long imagined. Most of her friends were younger, people she’d met through the theatre. They were enthusiastic, passionate, changing their philosophies to suit the latest trend. They were fun. Ramsay’s solidness and constancy was different and attractive.

‘No,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t be an intrusion.’

She wondered if she should invite him for a meal then thought that might cause him embarrassment. Perhaps there was some rule preventing policemen eating with the murder suspects. There should be.

He followed her up the dual-carriageway to Otterbridge in his own car. She saw his headlights in her mirror and though she usually drove home far too fast she maintained the regulation 60 m.p.h. Is this what it would be like? she thought. Living with a policeman? Having to keep all the rules. Could I stand it?

In the house the lights were on and as usual she called up the stairs to Anna. Ramsay followed her through to the kitchen where she automatically switched on the kettle then took a tin from the fridge to feed the cat. Anna wandered in ten minutes later, poured herself a mug of tea and went away without a word.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ramsay said. ‘You wanted some time together.’

‘That’s all right,’ Prue said. ‘ She’s not communicating much anyway. I think she’s in love.’

‘Who’s the subject of her affection?’

‘John Powell. He took her out last night.’ She smiled, making a joke of her unease. ‘You policemen can’t be badly paid,’ she said. ‘He brought her home in a very smart new Polo. His mother’s apparently. My car’s fifteen years old and held together with string.’

‘It’s about money that I want to talk to you,’ he said.

He had intended to stick to a story that his enquiries into the Grace Darling finances were a matter of routine police work, but she was too intelligent to believe that. Even after all these years she knew him too well. He saw that the only way to obtain her co-operation was to tell her the truth.

‘I think Gus Lynch might have been stealing from the Arts Centre,’ he said. ‘ Had you ever suspected anything like that?’

She shook her head. ‘But I’d have no way of knowing,’ she said.

‘Amelia Wood had a bank statement which seems to show that any payment to the Grace Darling-grants from the local authority and money from sponsors-was put on deposit and transferred into the current account when it was needed.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s right. I was joint signatory to both accounts.’

‘Presumably each year the trustees would appoint an auditor to go through the books and make sure that any cheque from either account had a legitimate purpose. You had to keep receipts?’

She nodded. ‘ Of course.’

‘I want to know if there was another account,’ he said quietly.

‘A secret account that the trustees didn’t know about and the auditors never got to see.’

She blushed. ‘There was nothing dishonest in that,’ she said defensively. ‘ Gus started it soon after I arrived. There’d been a fuss about the expenses he claimed after a Youth Theatre production which we took to the Berwick Festival. He’d hired a minibus. The trustees said he should have charged the parents for the transport cost and that in future he should consult them before making a similar gesture. He was furious and said he wasn’t going to them every time he needed five pounds from the petty cash. They should trust him. He’d given up enough to come and work for them.’

‘So he opened a new account in the Grace Darling’s name?’

She nodded. ‘ With the Wallsend and Hallowgate Building Society. We paid in money that didn’t go through the books-small cash donations given by the public, money raised by the kids in informal fund-raising events, that sort of thing. It was used on projects which the trustees might not have approved of. For instance last summer we hired a mime artist to run a workshop and paid him from the account. I suppose it wasn’t strictly honest but there was nothing illegal going on.’

‘You were joint signatory on that account too?’

‘Yes. The banks and building societies insist on two signatures for charitable accounts.’

‘Did you always watch Mr Lynch write the cheque before signing it?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course not. You know what it’s like. It’s always a mad house there, always busy. He rushes into my office waving the cheque book. “Sign a couple of cheques for me pet. I’m just on my way into town.” So I sign them.’

‘Without asking what they’re for?’

‘Sometimes,’ she admitted, ‘ if it’s really hectic. Usually he tells me what they’re for-costume hire or transport or to take some supporters for a meal.’

‘You never check?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course not.’

‘The building society must send you a statement every six months.’

She shrugged. ‘I suppose so. I’ve never seen it.’

‘Who opens your mail? A secretary?’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘the trustees don’t believe in paying proper secretaries. We’ve had a series of YTS trainees who leave us just as they’re getting competent.’ She paused. ‘You think Gus was making out the cheques I’d signed to himself?’

‘More probably for cash. That would be less easy to trace.’

‘How much did he get away with then?’ she asked cheerfully. ‘Fifty quid? A hundred? There could never have been much more than that in the account.’

‘Oh, considerably more than that,’ he said. ‘I believe that Mr Lynch paid some sponsorship money into the account. A firm called Northumbria Computing donated ten thousand pounds to the Grace Darling about three years ago.’

‘And you believe he took all that?’ She was astounded.

‘Not all at once,’ Ramsay said. ‘I think he withdrew it in cash. Over a period.’

‘And I signed the bloody cheques,’ she said. ‘What a bastard!’

There was a silence. In her room Anna was playing lyrical and sentimental music. Prue took a knife and a board from a drawer and began violently to chop an onion.

‘It isn’t the theft itself which is of most concern at the moment,’ Ramsay said. ‘It provides a motive, you see, for Mrs Wood’s murder.’

‘You think she found out about it?’ Prue stood, poised for a moment with the knife in her hand. ‘ Do you think that’s why he decided to look for another job?’

‘I think it’s almost certain that she suspected he’d been stealing,’ Ramsay said, almost to himself. ‘She’d have heard from her husband that he wanted to buy the flat in Chandler’s Court. She might even have been on the bench when Lynch was charged with non-payment of the community charge. So she went through the bank statement herself to check. But it all happened years ago. If she’d wanted to get rid of him she’d have done it before now.’

‘But she wouldn’t have wanted to get rid of him!’ Prue was suddenly excited, caught up in the investigation despite herself. ‘Don’t you see, he was the best thing that had ever happened to the Grace Darling. He was a famous actor. Even better, a local famous actor. It meant that we got all the publicity we could handle. It meant that the Grace Darling was successful when other similar projects were closing down. It would be worth ten grand to her to keep him.’

‘So you’re saying that she used the information that he’d been stealing to put pressure on him to stay? A sort of blackmail?’

She nodded.

‘It’s certainly very significant that he only decided to announce his resignation on the day after she died,’ Ramsay said.

‘Does that mean,’ Prue said incredulously, ‘ that you think he killed her?’

‘There’s no evidence,’ he said slowly. ‘ We need more than motive.’ He knew this was all a mistake. He had no right to discuss the case with Prue. He had never been so unprofessional, but he was certain he could trust her discretion. She had information he needed, and he continued: ‘Besides, there’s Gabriella Paston. Where could she fit into all this? Is there any way, do you think, that she could have discovered the fraud?’

‘I don’t know,’ Prue said. ‘I think Gus gave her a contribution towards her RADA audition expenses from the building society account but she’d surely have no way of knowing where it came from. Unless…’ she hesitated.

‘Yes?’

‘Unless Ellen told her. Ellen Paston. She’s a dreadful snoop. I’ve even caught her going through the mail on my desk. It would be hard to keep anything in that place secret from her.’

‘And we know that Gabby met Ellen regularly. It’s marked in her diary.’ It’s all coming together, he thought. At last. Gabby and Ellen met for a gossip. Of course Ellen would pass on her suspicions. There was no more juicy gossip than dishonesty of a famous man. And then Gabby must have acted on it. Surely the contribution towards audition expenses wasn’t all she received from Lynch. There was the five hundred pounds which started her savings account. It couldn’t be coincidence that both murder victims had blackmailed the director.

‘All the same,’ Prue said. ‘I can’t believe it of Gus Lynch. He wouldn’t have the guts.’

She stood up and rinsed mushrooms under the tap, then returned to the board to slice them.

‘You do understand,’ he said awkwardly, ‘that this is all confidential. I’m sorry. I’ve put you in an unfair position. You have to work with the man. But I must ask you to keep it secret.’

‘Oh,’ she said lightly. ‘I’ve always been good at secrets. Are you going home? To your cottage in Heppleburn? I should like to see it some time.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Back to the police station. There’s still work to do. It won’t be long, I hope, now.’ He touched her shoulder clumsily, but there was no invitation to his cottage and she thought she had made a fool of herself. He was only interested in her as a means of clearing up his case.

Back at Hallowgate police station Ramsay wondered why he had not asked Prue to come to Heppleburn. He would like to have shown her the cottage. He was busy but he could have made some vague, friendly gesture. He decided that a sort of superstition had prevented him. He did not have a good record in protecting the women he came close to in murder cases. He wanted to keep her safe and when the investigation was over he would make his move.

The telephone rang. It was Hunter reporting on the surveillance operation outside the Pastons’ house. He had called it off now, he said. The van would cause suspicion if it were parked there after dark. Especially if it was there in the morning with all the wheels still on.

‘How did it go?’ Ramsay asked. He thought his interest now was academic. Gus Lynch must be his most likely suspect.

‘It was like St James’s Park on Derby match day, kids in and out all afternoon. And one of the visitors might interest you.’

‘Who was it?’ He tried to sound excited to humour Hunter.

‘John Powell. Now what do you make of that?’