Killjoy

Chapter Three

One summer, more than twenty years before, Stephen Ramsay had been in love with Prue Bennett. He had been a sixth former at Otterbridge Grammar School. She had been a year older, at the same school. There, Ramsay had been considered boring. He was hard working, not terribly bright, never a real member of the arty group which dominated the Common Room. He found the talk of politics, rock music, and pop psychology bewildering. There was nothing in his background or personality to excite interest and the girls who were at that time into long floral dresses and self-expression ignored him. In their presence he was awkward, gawky, quite socially inept. He cared too much what they thought of him, desperate for some contact, some intimate female company. Now, in the Grace Darling Centre, standing in the doorway, trying to catch Prue’s eye, he still remembered with pain the desperation of that summer and the occasion that had brought them together.

A trendy young English teacher had organized a trip to the Newcastle City Hall in the school’s minibus. The lead guitarist from a famous rock group had recently gone solo and was playing there as part of a country-wide tour. Who was he? Ramsay wondered now. But although he had an image of a fine-featured young man, with long ginger hair, bending over a guitar, could even hear one of the more lyrical tunes which had the girls in the party dancing, he could not remember the musician’s name. Had it been familiar to him even then? Or had he gone along on the trip just because he was frightened of being left out altogether, of becoming one of the strange, misfit pupils, the target of jokes, hardly considered as part of the sixth form at all? He had gone, he admitted to himself now, though he would not admit it then, because there would be girls in the party and in 1971 he was obsessed by women. For Ramsay, at that time, almost any girl would have done. He would have been content with a kiss, a touch, a token taste of the sexual activity which was going on all around him and in which he never participated. He supposed that someone fat or particularly ugly would have been an embarrassment but he had the sense that once he made it with one girl the rest would be easy. There was a feeling of time running out.

Prue Bennett was not any girl. She was a calm, dark young woman as tall as he was. She was in the upper sixth and had already gained a place at Cambridge. She was, he knew, way out of his league. Yet because of chance or circumstance, because the trendy English teacher was infatuated with a married woman, Ramsay and Prue were thrown together.

It had been arranged that the minibus would deliver all the girls to their homes, but it had taken longer than the teacher had expected to negotiate the traffic generated by the concert. He had a date with his mistress and knew she would not wait for him if he were delayed. She had a husband to return to. He was a mild distraction to relieve her boredom, not someone to ruin her life for. When he arrived at the town centre with Prue still on board he was frantic.

‘Look!’ he said, persuasive, chummy, one of the lads. ‘I’ve got an appointment, something I can’t miss. You know how it is. Steve, you’ve got to get the bus home anyway. Can’t you walk Prue to her house and get it from the top of the hill?’

‘All right,’ Ramsay had said hesitantly. Would Prue Bennett want him to walk with her? She was independent. Perhaps she would prefer to walk alone. He was more nervous than he had ever been. More nervous than before ‘O’levels, even than before the eleven-plus and then he had been so frightened that he had spewed up in the playground of the village school where he’d been a pupil.

‘Prue?’ the teacher had said. ‘You don’t mind, my love? You’ll be quite safe with old Steve.’ And he had laughed, a little unpleasantly, as if he knew of Stephen’s inexperience and was making a joke of it.

‘No,’ Prue had said easily. ‘Of course not. I’d like the walk if you don’t mind…’ She had turned round in her seat in the minibus to face him and put her hand on his arm. ‘If you’re quite sure.’

Oh yes, Ramsay mumbled. He was quite sure.

‘Let’s go through the park,’ she said as they crossed the bridge. It was still warm but a breeze from the Otter blew her hair, and the skirt between her legs. He looked away.

‘I thought it was locked at night,’ he said.

‘It is. But I know a way. Come on. It’s miles quicker.’

And she took his hand and ran with him across the bridge and pulled him through a hole in the hedge. They were alone in the moonlight in the park. The trees threw long shadows across the path and there was a smell of honeysuckle and roses.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s lovely,’ he said. ‘Really lovely.’ But he was not sure if that was what she wanted him to say. Perhaps they were too corny for her these images of moonlight and roses. Perhaps she expected him to laugh.

He was still holding her hand. He began to stroke her palm with his thumb, expecting her to pull away and make a fuss. He was tensely defensive, prepared for rejection. But she didn’t make a fuss and when he put his arm around her shoulder and then pulled her towards him to kiss her she went along with that too, with a kind of amused good humour.

Now, in the Grace Darling Centre, he wondered what she had seen in him. She could have chosen any of the boys: one of the intellectuals from her scholarship group, a musician, an artist, anyone. Perhaps she had picked him through a stubborn perversity, just because he was unfashionable. Walking with her that night through the park, burying his face in her hair, he did not care. He knew he would never be so happy again.

She had lived in a large Victorian house on the corner of a street, with a view over the park to the town.

‘Why don’t you come in?’ she had said that night. ‘Meet Mum and Dad.’

‘I don’t know,’ he had said. ‘ I don’t want to disturb them. Perhaps they’ll be ready for bed.’ His mother would already be in her candlewick dressing-gown, nervously watching the clock, waiting for his return. ‘No,’ she said. ‘ Of course not. Don’t be silly. It’s early yet.’ And in her laughter he had the glimpse of a domestic world completely different from his own.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said reluctantly. ‘ I should get the bus. My mother…’ he did not finish the sentence, unwilling to imply that he was in any sense a mother’s boy.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Well, another time.’

‘When?’ he had demanded, decisive for the first time. ‘When can I come?’

And she had laughed again. She was pleased with him. ‘Whenever you like,’ she said.

‘But when? Give me a definite time.’

‘Tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Come for supper tomorrow. About seven o’clock.’

And she had run up the crumbling grey steps and through the front door, so he was left open-mouthed, staring after her.

He had three months before she would go away to university. He never considered that they would stay together once she left the area. The affair had a natural time scale and he counted the days. He came to know her parents quite well during that time. He was happier in the large, untidy house than he was introducing Prue to his own home. Mr and Mrs Bennett were older than his own parents, in their late fifties, and he thought their age gave them a licence to be eccentric. Although Prue was an only child they allowed her a freedom which he envied. They were wrapped up in their own interests: Mrs Bennett taught piano and always seemed, Ramsay thought, to have music in her head. When she was not teaching the stream of eager middle-class children who came to the door she was playing herself, and even in the middle of a conversation she would break off, and begin to hum absentmindedly. She encouraged Prue in her academic interests without putting too much pressure on her-of course the girl would do well, she implied. Why should she fuss about it?

Mr Bennett had been a civil engineer and had taken early retirement because of ill health. He was a cheerful, unassuming man who held the house together. He took care of all the practical matters-ordering milk and bread, fixing dripping taps, battling with the large, unruly garden.

Stephen was flattered because the family seemed to like him. He was invited regularly to relaxed, chaotic meals, where he was introduced to olive oil, garlic, and wine. It was much easier than taking Prue back to his home in the pit village between Otterbridge and the coast. She was charming, uncritical, but in her presence Mrs Ramsay grew uneasy and threatened. She looked around the small Coal Board cottage where they lived, as if she knew it was not what Prue was used to. She could not bring herself to apologize for it but Prue’s style and confidence made her resentful. She was brittle, too polite, and when Stephen’s father came home from the pit with coal dust under his fingernails she blushed with shame.

Ramsay standing in the doorway, looking at the three women huddled around the tea tray, thought that Prue had grown to look more like her father. She had not changed so much. Her hair was streaked with grey and she was drawn and tired but he would have known her anywhere. She looked up at him calmly, without apparent recognition, and he thought he must have aged dramatically or that their relationship had meant so little to her that she had forgotten it long ago.

‘Good evening,’ he said evenly. ‘ I’m sorry to have kept you. My name’s Ramsay. I’m an Inspector with Northumbria Police.’

Then there was a slow recognition, a relief. ‘Stephen,’ she said. ‘It is you. I wondered but I couldn’t believe it. It seemed too good to be true.’

Ramsay was uncomfortably aware of Hunter. What would the sergeant make of that? he wondered. What sordid rumour would he start in the canteen?

He spoke formally. ‘I’m afraid I have to ask some questions,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand.’

‘Yes,’ she said. Was she offended by the formality? Surely she would understand. Probably she hardly cared either way. If there was a daughter there was probably a husband. She wore no wedding ring but that meant nothing. And many women used their maiden names for professional purposes. ‘Yes,’ she repeated. ‘ Of course.’

He was aware of the need to concentrate, to bring his attention back to the case, to treat it as just another investigation.

‘Perhaps you would introduce me,’ he said briskly, to get things moving. She seemed surprised by his tone but answered readily.

‘This is Anna,’ she said. ‘My daughter. You must realize that she’s very upset. Gabby was a close friend.’

He looked at a thin, pale teenager with unusually straight dark hair. He saw a shadow of Prue as a girl in the features, but there was none of Prue’s confidence and the shadow disappeared. Anna had been crying and clutched a wet handkerchief in long white fingers. She looked up at him and nodded, then returned to her grief.

‘This is Ellen Paston,’ Prue said then. ‘ Gabby was her niece.’ Ramsay saw a large middle-aged woman with a permanently curved back, she shape of a turtle’s shell, and huge red hands. She stared back at him, blankly, without distress or anger.

‘I work here,’ she said. ‘In the cafeteria.’ Then, grudgingly: ‘I suppose you’ll want some tea.’

He shook his head. He was unsure how he should handle the situation. He should see them all separately of course, take statements, check discrepancies, the small lies and mistakes which would lead to a conviction. But was there any need for all that tonight? Surely it could wait until the morning. Tonight an informal discussion, when shock would make them talk more freely, would be more fruitful. Hunter would disapprove of course. He had the technique of the macho hectoring interview down to a fine art. But Ramsay was used to Hunter’s disapproval. He pulled a chair between Anna and Ellen Paston. ‘Tell me what happened,’ he said, gently.

‘We found her body,’ Prue said. ‘You know that.’

‘It was dreadful!’ Anna cried. Prue seemed surprised by the interruption and Ramsay thought it was hysteria which had given the girl the courage to speak. ‘I was so cross when she didn’t turn up tonight, you know. She messed us around and put Gus in a bad mood. I even thought she’d done it on purpose to make us realize how indispensable she was. And then there she was. In the back of Gus’s car. Her face all swollen and distorted.’

‘You were expecting Gabby at the rehearsal tonight?’

The girl nodded.

‘When did you last see her?’

‘This morning at breakfast.’

Ramsay looked at Prue for explanation.

‘Gabby lived with us,’ Prue said. ‘ She was a sort of lodger, I suppose.’ She looked warily at Ellen.

‘We weren’t good enough for her,’ Ellen said sharply. ‘We brought her up and when she was sixteen she decided Starling Farm wasn’t good enough and she left.’

‘We?’ Ramsay asked.

‘Me and her gran. Her mam and dad were killed in a car crash when she was a bairn.’

‘When did she leave home?’ Ramsay asked.

Ellen shrugged, not sufficiently interested apparently to work it out.

‘About eighteen months ago,’ Prue said.

‘And she’s lived with you since then?’

Prue nodded. Ramsay turned again to Anna.

‘You didn’t see Gabby at school?’ he asked.

‘No,’ the girl said. ‘She still went to school in Hallowgate. To the sixth-form college. I’m at Otterbridge High.’

‘How did she get to school from Otterbridge every morning?’

‘I gave her a lift,’ Prue said. ‘Unless I had a meeting in another part of the region. Then she got the bus.’

‘But this morning?’

‘I gave her a lift.’

‘All the way to school?’

‘No. We were late. I dropped her here and she said she would walk.’ She put her head in her hands. ‘I left her here in the car park. We made plans for this evening. She said she had been invited to a friend’s house after school and she would come straight here afterwards. I never saw her again.’

‘Was that sort of arrangement usual?’

Prue shrugged. ‘She was eighteen, as streetwise as any kid I’ve ever met. I didn’t feel any need to check up on her.’

‘She didn’t seem unusually worried? Or excited?’

‘She was always pretty high,’ Prue said. ‘ But perhaps she was even more excitable than usual. I didn’t think anything about it.’

There was a pause.

‘Did you notice any change in her clothes when you found her body?’ Ramsay asked cautiously. The last thing he wanted was a distressing scene with Anna in floods of tears. ‘Or was she wearing the same things as when you left her this morning?’

‘The same,’ Prue said. ‘Definitely the same. Black leggings, a long navy sweater, a black leather jacket, and DMs.’

‘DMs?’ Ramsay asked.

For the first time Hunter interrupted, pleased to emphasize Ramsay’s age, to show how out of touch he was.

‘Dr Marten’s,’ he said, with a sneer. ‘They’re boots.’

‘Oh yes!’ Ramsay said confused. Weren’t Dr Marten’s worn by the thugs who kicked policemen at football matches and marched on National Front demonstrations? What was a pretty young girl like Gabriella Paston doing wearing boots that his dad would have worn down the pit?

‘They’re quite common,’ Prue said. ‘All the kids have them.’

He said nothing. How could he know what all the kids were wearing?

‘We’ll check with the school,’ Ramsay said at last. ‘See if she was there all day. We haven’t got a time of death yet…’

He paused unhappily, aware that he was passing on ideas and information to which the witnesses had no right. He was treating Prue Bennett as a friend not as a possible suspect in a murder investigation. He should know by now the danger of becoming involved…

‘Gabby weren’t at school,’ Ellen Paston said suddenly. ‘At least she weren’t there late this morning. I saw her.’

‘Where did you see her?’

‘Hallowgate Market,’ she said flatly. ‘I don’t start here until six on a Monday. I went out and did my bits of shopping before I came.’

‘What time did you see Gabriella?’

She shook her head. ‘Twelve o’clock,’ she said. ‘Half past.’

‘Did you speak to her?’

‘Na!’ she said. ‘I didn’t get a chance. I was queuing by that stall that always has the cheap veg.’ She turned to Prue. ‘ You know the one. I said to the lass behind me: “It’s like bloody Moscow waiting to be served here.” But it’s worth it in the end. You can get a canny bargain…I was just about to be served when our Gabby came past, walking very fast, almost running. I shouted out to her but she didn’t take no notice. Perhaps she didn’t hear me but I think she heard well enough. I wasn’t going to lose my place in the queue to go chasing after her.’

‘Were you surprised,’ Ramsay asked, ‘to see her out in Hallowgate when she was supposed to be at school?’

‘Na!’ Ellen Paston said. ‘It’s not like a real school is it, the sixth-form college. They’re in and out of it all the time.’

‘Did you see if she met anyone?’

She shook her head. ‘I was too busy keeping my eye on the lad who was serving me. They give you all the shite from behind the counter if you don’t watch them.’

She sat back in her chair, her feet planted firmly on the floor, her legs slightly apart remembering her weekly triumph in the battle with the market salesman. Perhaps the thought of the victory gave her courage because she went on: ‘ Well, if that’s all I’ll be off. I’ve been here two hours longer than I’m being paid for and I doubt if Mr Lynch will want to cough up the overtime.’

Ramsay was surprised by the woman. He would have expected more reaction. Even if she and Gabby had lost touch shouldn’t there have been some grief, the pretence at least of sadness? She seemed not to care what impression she was making. He decided that her lack of response was caused by shock, and her gracelessness touched him and made him sympathetic. He would have taken her address and arranged to speak to her in the morning then let her go. But Hunter wanted to stamp his authority on the interview. He thought she should have more respect and thought he would show her who was in charge.

‘This is a murder enquiry,’ he said sharply. ‘A serious matter.’

‘Go on then,’ she said, not intimidated in the least. ‘Get on with it. I live with my mam. She’s an old lady. She’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.’

Hunter paused. Having made his point he was having difficulty coming up with a relevant question.

‘There is something,’ he said. ‘Probably not important but I’m interested all the same. Why Gabriella? Why choose a name like that? Not a common name for a Hallowgate lass.’

‘Her mother was Spanish,’ Ellen Paston said, as if the word was an insult. ‘Our Robbie met her when he was working the fishing boats. He had a season down in Spanish waters and brought her back with him. She never settled. I don’t know why. Our Robbie spoilt her rotten. I doubt if it would ever have lasted. Mam and I could never take to her. All show.’

She was jealous, Ramsay thought, of her brother’s wife. Is that why she expressed so little grief at Gabriella’s death? Had her ugliness made her resent the beautiful young girl?

‘And they were both killed in a car crash?’ Hunter said.

‘Aye.’ Ellen paused, leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. For the first time Ramsay sensed real pain. She had loved her brother. She seemed lost in thought, then stared up at Hunter defiantly. ‘ Look,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you because you’ll find out anyway. Or perhaps you already know. They were in a stolen car. Robbie was a bit wild when he was a lad and that wife of his only egged him on. They were coming out of town down the Coast Road when the police saw them and started chasing them. They drove into the back of a lorry. They didn’t have a chance.’ She snapped her mouth shut as if she had already given away more than she had intended.

‘Did Gabby know how her parents died?’ Hunter asked.

‘Not the details,’ Ellen said flatly. ‘Not from us.’

So, Ramsay thought, despite what the politicians and the media said, joy-riding wasn’t an invention of the nineties. Since the invention of the motor car there had always been foolish young men who drove too fast.

‘We won’t keep you,’ he said to Ellen. ‘If you wait in the lobby I’ll arrange for someone to give you a lift home. My sergeant will come with you and make sure we have your details.’

He was left alone then, in the cold impersonal room, with Prue Bennett and her daughter. He wanted to say something which would establish some real contact between them, to ask about Prue’s parents, to tell her about Diana and the divorce. But Prue had taken his last words as a general dismissal. She helped Anna to her feet and left the room without a word.