Hunter nodded sympathetically. He had always enjoyed the television series which Lynch had starred in, had been one of the few people to stick with it to the end. Although he tried to keep his cool it was something of a thrill to be here, talking to the actor who had played Wor Billy. His mam would want to know all about it.
The flat lived up to all Hunter’s expectations. It had a polished wood-block floor and deep rugs, a soft white leather sofa, and an expensive CD player. Without asking Lynch poured him a Scotch and Hunter felt it would be churlish to refuse. He was so taken with his surroundings that he did not notice Lynch replace the receiver on the telephone.
‘How can I help you?’ Lynch asked. He realized that he was shivering and bent to light a gas fire which was almost indistinguishable from the real thing. The flames leapt and were reflected on the shining floor. More composed, he stood and turned to face the policeman.
‘Do you know when I’ll get my car back? It’s rather inconvenient, you know, without transport.’
‘I should hire one,’ Hunter said pessimistically. ‘With forensic you’re talking weeks. We’ll need fingerprints from you and from anyone you’ve carried as a passenger recently. To eliminate from the prints we find.’
‘Yes,’ Lynch said absently. ‘Of course.’ He looked up from his drink. ‘Do you know yet who it was, who killed Gabby?’
Hunter shrugged mysteriously to show that he could not pass on sensitive information but that he was optimistic. ‘It’ll soon be over,’ he said. ‘These things are often more simple than they first seem. Most murders are domestic, you know. It’s usually the husband or the boyfriend.’
‘I didn’t realize Gabby had a boyfriend.’ Lynch tried not to sound too interested.
Hunter realized that he had said too much. He set the glass on a polished oval table.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m only here to tell you that we’ve finished with the Grace Darling Centre. You can open again tomorrow if you want to.’
‘Did you find anything?’ Hunter was surprised by the anxiety in the man’s voice but put it down to an honest man’s natural awe of authority.
‘No,’ Hunter said. ‘Nothing at all. They’ve been through it with a fine-tooth comb but they’ve found nothing, no murder weapon, no incriminating traces of blood…’ He was playing on Lynch’s discomfort and laughed to show he was teasing. The actor joined in uncomfortably.
‘I’ll have to go,’ Hunter said. ‘I’ve a meeting back at the station with the Inspector.’ At the door he stopped. ‘There is just one thing you could do for me,’ he said awkwardly.
‘Yes?’ The tension returned to Lynch’s voice.
‘Your autograph. For my mam. She’d be thrilled to bits.’
Lynch seemed to relax then. He smiled. Perhaps after all he was beyond suspicion. He found a publicity photo in a drawer and signed it with a flourish. Hunter took it gratefully. The man had aged a canny few years since the photo was taken but his mam would never know the difference.
When he had seen the policeman out Lynch stood by the window and watched until Hunter’s car had driven away. He picked up the telephone receiver and dialled. There was someone he had to speak to.
Chapter Nine
Evan Powell was not a member of the team working on the Gabriella Paston case. He had been too close to it because of his attendance at the Grace Darling Centre on the night of the murder. There was also the fact, unmentioned, that he had been involved in the death of her parents. Instead he continued to lead the auto-crime group and spent the day talking to witnesses of the ram raid on the Coast Road the night before. They were little help. The security guard had recorded all the details of the car which had smashed through the plate-glass window of the Coop Hypermarket, but it had been stolen from a pub car park in Tynemouth on the same night and dumped immediately afterwards. People living in nearby houses had heard the sound of breaking glass, the screech of tyres, but had been too frightened to go out on to the street to see what it was all about.
‘What about the men?’ Powell demanded of the security guard. The window had already been boarded up and the business of the shop continued around them. An instore disc jockey was extolling the virtues of Co-op frozen turkeys and suggesting that its customers should already be fully prepared for the Christmas festivities. ‘Good God, man, the car came through the window and landed within feet of your office. You must have some description of the gang.’
‘There were three of them, all in overalls,’ the guard said resentfully. ‘Navy overalls. Like a mechanic would wear. And hoods. I couldn’t see a thing.’
‘You must have heard them speak!’
‘They didn’t say a word,’ the guard said. ‘Man, it all happened so fast. They were in and out in minutes. The organization was magnificent. I’ve never seen anything like it. They must have known I’d press the panic button, but the break-in would have triggered the alarm anyway so they didn’t bother to stop me. They left me alone. They were cool, I’ll say that for them. You’d almost say professional.’
Evan, irritated by the note of admiration in the man’s voice, turned away. He was outraged that the general public regarded these ram raiders as almost heroic, modern day Robin Hoods, and he was beginning to see his battle against them as a personal crusade. It was a question of morality. The car thieves seemed to taunt him. He had been through it all before with Robbie Paston…
The news that Tommy Shiels from the Starling Farm estate had been found guilty in Hallowgate magistrates’ court of handling stolen goods was welcome but it reminded Evan too that he had only been capable of tracing the insignificant people involved in car thefts. He had interrogated Tommy Shiels himself but had been unable to persuade him to give any information at all. The man had claimed to have no knowledge about who was organizing the robberies and by the end of the interviews Powell had almost believed him.
Jackie Powell saw her husband and son out of the house and spent the morning waiting for the phone to ring. She knew that her infatuation for Gus Lynch was a madness. It was making her ill and was in danger of wrecking her marriage. But she could think of nothing else. In her saner moments she compared Lynch unfavourably with her husband. Evan was a good man, she told herself, kind, upright, decent. But boring! she cried then. Was it so wrong of her to want some excitement and passion before she grew too old to enjoy it? And she pushed the guilt away, knowing that if she allowed it to it would destroy her.
She had a shower to clear her head but left the bathroom door open, worried that she would not hear the phone. She dressed in black velvet ski pants and a long red jumper, then changed because the red made her face seem paler than ever and she wanted to look her best in case there was a summons from Gus.
She knew there was no logic to her affair with Lynch. Her mood changed daily. She wanted some commitment from him, some public sign that they had a future together, yet she was terrified that her husband would discover her infidelity. She no longer knew what she wanted. She was confused and exhausted and thought that she would only make sense of it if she could have more time with Gus.
She spent the morning in restless housework, ripping sheets and duvet covers from the beds, polishing the sink and bath to a dangerous shine, ironing everything in the linen basket, even towels and underwear. She had not eaten breakfast and stopped at midday only to drink a mug of black coffee and smoke a cigarette. By the end of the afternoon she could stand the waiting no longer. With trembling hands she dialled Lynch’s number but the line was engaged and, frustrated, she replaced the receiver.
John Powell had spent the afternoon on the Starling Farm estate. He was in no mood to return to college. He had taken to spending more time on the estate, attracted despite himself by the danger, the tension, the possibility of violence. A group of teenagers sat on a wall outside the Keel Row and stared at him with undisguised hostility as he walked past. He ignored them and walked on to find Connor. He had known Connor since infants’ school. He was one of the friends from the old street of whom Evan Powell so disapproved. John was almost certain that he knew where to find him. He would be in the Neighbourhood Advice and Community Centre, a square fortified building at the heart of the estate. Technically unemployed, Connor often worked more than a full week at the Centre, making tea for the old people, organizing activities for the kids, holding the whole thing together. Although only a year older than John he was an expert on welfare rights and dished out advice and mediated with the authorities with an immense confidence. He was a short, intense young man with a bony forehead and a prominent nose, obsessed with politics. As recreation he would sell the Militant newspaper in Newcastle outside the Monument metro station. He spent every Saturday there, shouting slogans, trying to convert passers-by to his point of view.