Killjoy

Chapter Six

When John Powell got up his father had already left the house. John had had very little sleep and would have been late for college if his mother had not woken him. She came into his room, still in her dressing gown, bringing a mug of tea for each of them, then sat on his bed and tried to make him talk about Gabby.

‘I thought she was a special friend of yours,’ she said. ‘ She was in your English group at college, wasn’t she?’ She lit a cigarette and inhaled it deeply. She had taken to smoking when his father was out of the house.

‘She was just a friend,’ he said. She had woken him in the middle of a dream, in which he was Smollett the highwayman being chased by a gang of soldiers. He felt the light-headed exhilaration which comes from too little sleep. His mind was racing. He was surprised by his mother’s interest in the murder. His father had always protected her from the unpleasantness of his work.

‘But you knew her quite well,’ Jackie Powell persisted. ‘ I’ve seen you with her.’

John knew he would have to be careful. There was a rush of adrenalin and he found it almost impossible to lie still in bed. He breathed slowly, and reminded himself that if he was an actor this was just another performance.

‘She was Abigail Keene in the play,’ he said. ‘We had to work closely together.’

‘Did you see her yesterday?’

‘Not at the Arts Centre,’ he said, deliberately misunderstanding. ‘You know that. She didn’t turn up. She was dead.’

‘But earlier?’ His mother leaned forward and he could see the fine lines around her eyes and on her forehead. Without any make-up she looked old, desiccated. ‘ Did you talk to her earlier? At college?’

John considered carefully but could not decide what line to take.

‘I can’t remember,’ he said flatly. ‘She might have been there. Why do you want to know?’

Jackie Powell stood up.

‘I don’t want you involved in this,’ she said quietly. ‘The police will be asking questions everywhere. I don’t want you involved.’

There was a trace of hysteria in her voice. He thought she was going to cry. He sat up, irritated by the unwelcome emotional demand.

‘Look,’ he said, trying unsuccessfully to control his impatience. ‘What’s the matter?’ He had his own life to lead. What problems could she have? He viewed his parents almost as if they were a different species-respectable, untroubled, invulnerable.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She took a tissue from her dressing-gown pocket and blew her nose. ‘ I’m just upset…a young girl like that. It might have been you.’

He got out of bed and pulled a T-shirt over his head.

‘No,’ he said deliberately. ‘You mustn’t worry about that. I can look after myself. It wouldn’t have been me.’

John walked to the sixth-form college from Barton Hill. The prosperous streets of the estate were empty. Most of the families who lived there had two cars. The children would be driven to school or to the childminder. The parents would already be at work. Most people needed two incomes to support a mortgage on Barton Hill. John wondered how his father managed it.

When he left the estate he avoided the main road, and chose instead the narrow red-brick terraced streets, sauntering, his hands in the pockets of the leather jacket which had been last year’s Christmas present. He thought again about his portrayal of Smollett, a criminal, an outsider, trying to work out how he could give some depth to the character. He refused to see the play as a jolly jape, a pantomine. He wanted to be good. He ran over the lines in his head.

There had been a heavy frost and the cars still parked in the street were covered in ice. He watched irate motorists, already late for work, messing with kettles and de-icer spray. He saw how many of them left the keys in the ignition when they went back to their houses to replace the cloths and kettles and cans. Some of them even left the engine running. It would be child’s play, John thought, to steal a car like that from right under the bastards’ noses. Not that most of them were worth nicking. The majority were tiny Japanese hatchbacks or clapped-out family saloons.

He walked on, crossing Hallowgate Square to the grocer’s shop on the corner to buy a Mars bar for his breakfast. The car park of the Grace Darling Centre was still roped off and policemen were searching the garden in the middle of the square and the bushes by the drive. He pretended to take no notice and continued down Anchor Street, past the shop and Joe Fenwick’s flat, to the college. When he got there he felt fit and healthy and ready for anything.

His first lesson was history and everyone was talking about Gabby. They sat in a small group around the radiator, warming their hands as they waited for the teacher, speculating wildly about what might have happened to her. He was the centre of attention because he had been at the Grace Darling the night before.

‘Come on!’ they said. ‘Didn’t you notice anything?’

‘No,’ he said. He was beginning to enjoy the interest. He wished he had something to tell them.

‘Weren’t you there when they found the body?’

‘No,’ he said again, smiling, remembering. ‘I left early. I didn’t see a thing.’

The sense of excitement and wellbeing remained with him all morning.

Gordon Hunter arrived at Hallowgate Sixth-Form College at lunch time. He was met at the main door by a mute adolescent with greased black hair and acne and taken to the staff room. A maternal woman made him tea and introduced him to Ellie Smith, Gabriella Paston’s personal tutor. Hunter looked around him and thought that teachers had never been like this when he was a lad. Ellie had long red hair and wore a very short skirt and black tights. She sat in a low chair with her legs stretched ahead of her, crossed at the ankle, and ate coleslaw from a plastic tub with a fork. Perhaps, Hunter thought, there was something in further education after all.

‘Personal tutor?’ he asked. ‘ I don’t understand. What does that mean?’

‘I monitored her general progress,’ the teacher said, ‘ in all the subjects she was taking.’ She pressed the lid on the coleslaw tub and bit into an apple. Hunter saw the stain of red lipstick on the apple’s green skin. He was finding it hard to concentrate on the woman’s words. Ellie munched and continued: ‘In a college this size we felt it’s important that there’s a member of staff responsible for the pastoral care of the young people. We all supervise a small group of students. They’re not necessarily the people we teach, although Gabby was in my English group.’

‘And what was it like?’ Hunter asked. ‘Her general progress.’

Ellie shrugged. ‘She wasn’t a star academically,’ she said, ‘though I think with a lot of work she would have scraped through English and Art at ‘A’ level. Her real enthusiasm was drama and by all accounts she was outstanding at that. She was preparing to audition for RADA and the Central School. There was no guarantee, of course, that she’d be able to take up a place even if she was offered one. The grants for drama courses are discretionary. I tried to make her see that she might have to consider an alternative but she was so keen I don’t think she really took it in.’

‘How did she get on with the other kids?’

‘Very well. She was lively, popular, always at the centre of the action.’

I bet she was, Hunter thought.

‘She was very attractive,’ he said. ‘That didn’t cause jealousy?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Ellie said. ‘Not in this case.’

‘Did she ever talk about her family, her background?’

‘Not willingly.’ Ellie Smith became earnest. Hunter thought she would be competent, caring, too idealistic perhaps for her own good. ‘When I first became her tutor I asked about her parents. I try to get to know the kids as individuals. She told me that they’d been killed in a car crash when she was young and she’d been brought up by relatives. I never met her guardian. For the past year she’s been living with friends in Otterbridge.’

‘Yes,’ Hunter said. ‘Did she tell you why she left home?’

‘No. She was very quiet at about that time, rather withdrawn, but she never talked about problems with her family. I wasn’t too worried about her. I’d met Prue Bennett several times through courses at the Grace Darling and she seemed a perfect substitute. Gabby was obviously happy there so I never pried.’

‘You had no indication recently that Gabby had been worried about anything?’

‘No. But I’d say that experience had made her very good at hiding her feelings. In all the time that I supervised her she never confided in me.’ She paused. ‘I had the feeling she was acting,’ she said. ‘All the time. None of us really knew her.’

‘Wasn’t there anyone she might have got close to? Boyfriend?’

Ellie laughed. ‘She had lots of boyfriends,’ she said. ‘Half the Upper Sixth were infatuated with her. But I think she kept her feelings strictly under control. Unless…’ She paused again, uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. Hunter was momentarily distracted. He had never been out with a teacher.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘I think there might have been an understanding between her and one of the lads in the English group. There was nothing I could put my finger on. I never saw them walking arm in arm around the college. Nothing like that. But you get an instinct for these things. She always arranged to be sitting next to him at class and sometimes I’d see her hanging around waiting for him.’

‘So you think she was interested in him and not the other way round?’

‘There was nothing obvious,’ she said. ‘But yes, I’d say she was interested in John Powell and I’m not sure that he welcomed the attention. I got the impression he tried to keep his distance.’

‘What’s he like, this Powell?’

She hesitated, trying to find the right words. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Unusual, different. Bright enough if he puts the work in but you get the impression that he doesn’t really care, that it’s all beneath him. Arrogant, I suppose you’d call him.’

‘A troublemaker?’ Hunter asked.

‘Not really. Not in the accepted sense. But I always find his presence in a class undermining. It’s impossible to forget he’s there. You don’t feel you can treat him like all the other kids. He won’t be taken for granted.’

‘Friends?’

‘No,’ Ellie said. ‘I don’t think he’s any close friends. Not here at least. Admirers perhaps. He’s something of a cult figure. I’m not sure why.’

The staff room was starting to empty. There was a queue at the sink as the teachers rinsed their cups. Ellie looked at her watch.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I’ll have to go soon. I’m teaching next period.’

‘When did you last see Gabby?’ Hunter asked.

‘Yesterday morning. But not in a tutor group. There was an English lesson. From ten until eleven thirty.’

‘And she was definitely there?’

‘Oh yes. I remember quite clearly. We were doing Hamlet. She read Ophelia.’ She paused, shocked. ‘Quite prophetic,’ she said, ‘when you think of it.’

Hunter, who did not understand what she was talking about, kept quiet.

‘Did you see where she went when she left the class?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘ She rushed off as soon as the bell went. As if she were in a hurry. It wasn’t like her. She often stayed behind for a chat.’

A bell rang and Ellie Smith looked at her watch again. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’m really sorry. I’ll have to go. But if you want to come with me I can introduce you to some of Gabby’s friends. I’m teaching the same group as I was yesterday morning.’

The classroom was in a different block and she led Hunter outside, across a yard where the frost still lay in the shadow. The building was 1960s glass and concrete with rusting window frames and noisy corridors. She opened a door and stood aside to let him in. The room was full of sunlight so Hunter blinked, then felt foolish, at a disadvantage. He saw twelve young people dressed in costumes which ranged from the bizarrely flamboyant to the threadbare. Ellie followed him into the room and sat on one of the desks. He stood, uncomfortably, intimated by their stares. He was not sure how to speak to these bright young people who spent all day reading Shakespeare. He felt he had more in common with the joy riders he pulled in on a Friday night.

‘You’ll all have heard by now,’ Ellie Smith was saying, ‘that the body of a young woman was found at the Grace Darling Arts Centre last night. The police have identified the victim as Gabby Paston.’

She paused. A girl had started to cry and turned to be comforted by a friend. Ellie went on.

‘Of course it’s an awful shock and terribly upsetting but the police obviously want to ask questions about Gabby and they especially want to trace her movements yesterday. This is Detective Sergeant Hunter. He’ll ask you some questions now. If you have any other information about Gabby and there are details you’d prefer to remain confidential you can always arrange a private meeting with him through me.’ She looked around. ‘You do see,’ she said, ‘that this is a serious matter. Whatever views you might hold about the police generally, you must co-operate with them now.’

There was a silence and she turned to Hunter. He cleared his throat nervously.

‘I understand that Gabriella attended the English class with you yesterday morning,’ he said. ‘According to Miss Smith she left in rather a hurry. Does anyone know where she was going?’

A skeletally thin girl with black spiked hair and huge eyes, blackened at the rims so she looked like an anorexic panda, raised her hand. She was wearing a long black dress which reached almost to the ground and the ubiquitous Dr Martens.

‘Gabby had a date,’ she said. ‘Someone was taking her out to lunch.’

‘Did she tell you who she was meeting?’

The girl shook her head.

‘Does anyone know?’

Again there was silence.

‘I know where she was going.’ The girl who interjected was plump, quietly spoken, dressed in denims and a hand-knitted sweater. ‘To the Holly Tree at Martin’s Dene. She was teasing, you know, about the canteen food. How we’d have to put up with that while she was sitting down at the Holly Tree to something delicious.’

‘When did she tell you that?’

‘First thing in the morning. While we were all waiting for Miss Smith to come in.’

Hunter considered. The Holly Tree was expensive, well out of the range, he would have thought, of the average sixth former. It was unlikely that Gabriella’s date had been with one of her schoolfriends. But if she had been there for a meal someone would have remembered her. At lunch time it would be full of business people who had driven out of Newcastle to do their entertaining. In her black leggings and boots Gabriella Paston would have stuck out like a sore thumb. Someone would haved noticed her companion too. Suddenly Hunter began to feel more hopeful. He resisted the temptation to leave immediately for the Holly Tree and went on, turning to the plump girl. ‘ Did she tell you anything about her plans for the rest of the day?’

‘No. Nothing.’

‘How did she seem to you?’

‘Excited. Really high.’

‘She didn’t tell you why?’

Sadly the girl shook her head. Hunter considered the information. It was vague, subjective, but he would have put the girl down as a reliable witness.

‘Yesterday morning Gabriella told her landlady that she had been invited to a friend’s house after college. Was anyone here expecting Gabby to come home with them for a meal?’

There was no reply.

‘Did anyone see her yesterday afternoon?’

Again there was silence.

‘Is anyone here a member of the Youth Theatre at the Grace Darling Centre?’

The teenagers turned to face John Powell, who slowly raised his hand. Hunter looked at a tall boy with untidy hair and strong features, who stared back at him.

‘And your name is?’

‘John Powell.’ The boy was slouched in his chair, his legs stretched in front of him. Without being overtly rude he managed to convey insolence. Hunter disliked him immediately. This then was the lad in which Gabby had shown a special interest. Hunter’s antipathy towards the boy made him authoritative. He was no longer intimidated.

‘I’d like to speak to Mr Powell on his own,’ he said. He turned to the teacher. ‘I take it you’ve no objections?’ Ellie Smith shook her head helplessly. ‘Then we won’t take up any more of your time. Mr Powell!’

It was a summons and he waited while the boy uncoiled himself from his chair and followed him out into the corridor. Hunter had intended to find some empty classroom where they could talk but most of the rooms were occupied. Besides, the classrooms, with their books and maps and reminders of his ignorance, disturbed him. In the end he led the boy out into the open air and they talked as they walked past the playing fields where beefy young men ran in a line practising rugby passes, their breath coming in clouds in the cold air. A row of beeches threw shadows over the field and they walked alternately in bright sunlight and shade. As he followed the boy across the grass Hunter realized that something about the boy was familiar. He had not recognized it in class. It had more to do with the way Powell moved, the silhouette against the bright orange sun, than with his features.

‘Aren’t you related to Evan Powell?’ he demanded abruptly, and the boy turned, more hostile than ever, and nodded.

It was a complication he could do without, Hunter thought. He would have to treat the boy carefully. He didn’t want any more bloody lectures from Evan Powell. John regarded Hunter warily.

He felt suddenly very tired, drained of energy. The sleepless night was beginning to tell. He knew he would have to concentrate.

‘Tell me about Gabriella Paston,’ Hunter said. It was one of Ramsay’s tricks, the open question which could not be answered with a monosyllable. Ramsay had his faults as a detective but Hunter was prepared to learn from him. Now they were walking side by side and Powell answered without breaking his stride.

‘She was a bloody good actress,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Even Gus Lynch admitted that and he usually liked to think he was the only one with talent.’ He stopped speaking suddenly, as if it were some sort of weakness that he had responded at all. If he weren’t so tired, he thought, he’d be able to make a show of it, turn on the charm a bit. As it was all he could do was make sure he gave nothing away.

‘Fancied her, did he?’ Hunter said.

‘What!’

‘I’m asking you if Gus Lynch fancied Gabby.’

‘No…at least I don’t think so. She never said.’

‘What were you doing yesterday afternoon?’ Hunter asked conversationally.

‘History,’ Powell said. ‘All afternoon.’

‘You didn’t take Gabriella to Martin’s Dene, to lunch?’

‘Are you joking? I couldn’t afford that place. I was here. You can ask anyone.’

‘And after college,’ Hunter said. ‘Where did you go then?’

‘To the library to work.’

‘The library here in college?’

‘No. They close the library here at five. To Hallowgate library. It’s just off the square. It’s handy for the Grace Darling. I often work there on Mondays.’

‘Were you with anyone?’

‘No.’

On the rugby field the team was forming a scrum. Hunter, who had always been a football supporter, watched the swaying buttocks with distaste.

‘What about Gabriella Paston?’ he said. ‘Didn’t she come to the library to work with you before rehearsals?’

‘Sometimes. She came sometimes. But not last night. I didn’t see her after English in the morning.’

‘But you expected her to be at the rehearsal? She hadn’t told you that she wouldn’t be there?’

‘No. The last thing she said before she ran off at lunch time was “See you tonight!”’

They walked on in silence.

‘Tell me about you and her,’ Hunter said at last. ‘Everyone says you were special friends. Tell me. How special was she?’

John Powell stopped and turned towards the policeman, irritated by all the questions, losing control for a moment.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.’

‘Try me,’ Hunter said.

‘All right!’ Powell said angrily. ‘ She fancied me. She really fancied me. Only I wasn’t interested.’

‘Why not?’

Powell shrugged. ‘I suppose she wasn’t my type.’

‘What is your type?’ Hunter demanded, goading. ‘Got a girlfriend at the moment, have you? You’ll have to introduce me so I can see what your type is.’

Powell swore under his breath and walked on, kicking up the beech leaves with his boots.

‘Come on!’ Hunter said. ‘ Don’t be shy. Have you got a girlfriend?’

‘No,’ Powell shouted, losing his temper. ‘I haven’t got a girlfriend. Is that a crime? I’m busy. I’m studying for ‘A’ levels. I haven’t got time for a girlfriend.’

Hunter did not believe him. Even brainy eighteen-year-olds had hormones. There weren’t many lads who would turn away a girl like Gabriella Paston.

‘Look,’ he said, trying to sound friendly, approachable, to imply that after all they were much of the same generation. ‘Is it your father? Did he disapprove of Gabriella? This conversation is confidential. I’m not going to say anything to him.’

‘No,’ John Powell said. ‘It’s not my father. You can say whatever you like to him. You don’t understand anything at all.’ He turned to face Hunter, blocking his path. ‘I know my rights,’ he said. ‘ I don’t have to answer any of these questions. You haven’t arrested or cautioned me. You’ve no business prying into my private life. So you can sod off and leave me alone.’

And he walked away, not back to college, to his English lesson and a discussion of Hamlet as a tragedy, but over the frosty playing fields towards the Starling Farm estate.