‘I have to ask,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do.’
‘She hasn’t passed her test,’ Prue said angrily.
‘But she has taken lessons? It would be possible for her to drive your car?’
‘Yes,’ she said reluctantly. ‘She only failed her test last time because of nerves. But it’s impossible. She wouldn’t do it. What motive could she have?’
‘None,’ he said. ‘ Probably none. But you do understand that it’s my job to ask?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘But it’s a shitty sort of job.’
They stood in silence, staring at each other. The hostility made her feel closer to him than she had in all their previous polite exchanges. There was an emotional charge between them. She wondered again whether she should pass on her anxieties about Gus Lynch but before she could make up her mind to speak Ramsay had apologized again for taking up her time and walked away.
When Ramsay knocked at Lynch’s office door the man was on the telephone. He shouted for the policeman to come in then, with his hand over the receiver said: ‘ Sit down, Inspector. This’ll not take a minute.’
‘Look, I’m sorry.’ Lynch spoke in a brisk, business like way into the phone, but his eyes flickered wildly about the room. ‘I’m busy now. I’ll call you later.’ He replaced the hand set and focused his gaze on the policeman. ‘I suppose this is about Mrs Wood?’
Ramsay nodded.
‘How can I help you, Inspector? I can’t give you much time. I’m very busy today.’
‘When did you last see Mrs Wood?’
‘On Monday evening. Just before Gabriella’s body was found.’ He spoke as if Ramsay was a fool.
‘She hadn’t been in touch since then?’
‘No. Why should she?’
‘I’ll need an account of your movements yesterday evening,’ Ramsay said.
‘Good God, man!’ Lynch said with an unpleasant laugh. ‘You know where I was. Your sergeant came to see me.’
‘Hunter arrived at your house at five o’clock and left at about half past,’ Ramsay said calmly. ‘I’d like some details of your movements after that please.’
‘There were no movements,’ Lynch said. ‘ How could there be? You’ve still got my car.’
‘But I understand from my sergeant that you had gone out earlier by foot.’
‘Oh that!’ Lynch said. ‘That was just to get some fresh air. I was only gone ten minutes. I didn’t go out again.’
‘Can anyone corroborate that?’ Ramsay asked quietly.
‘Of course not. I was in the flat on my own.’
‘Did you receive any phone calls, for example?’
‘No,’ Lynch said. ‘No.’
He got to his feet as if he expected the interview to be over, but Ramsay remained seated and he returned awkwardly to his chair.
‘I’d like you to tell me about your business dealings with Mr Wood.’ Ramsay said.
‘I have no business dealings with him.’
‘I understood that you’d bought your flat from his company.’
‘Oh. Yes, of course. But that was a very straightforward transaction.’
‘You never met him since then?’
‘I don’t think I even met him at the time,’ Lynch said. ‘One of his staff showed me around the property and all the negotiations were done through our solicitors or by post.’
‘They were lengthy negotiations? You questioned the asking price?’
‘Of course. Doesn’t everyone when they’re buying property? Look, Inspector, I don’t mean to be rude but I don’t understand what this has to do with Mrs Wood’s murder.’
No, Ramsay thought. Nor do I. But he knew Lynch was anxious about something and wished he knew what lay behind the fear.
‘Just routine enquiries,’ he said. Blundering around in the dark, he thought.
John Powell left Hallowgate Central Library and walked through the empty streets towards the square. At the Grace Darling he stopped and went into the lobby to use the pay phone there. Joe Fenwick looked up from his desk and stared at him.
‘It is all right to use the phone?’
‘Oh, aye,’ the man said. ‘That’s all right.’ But still he was staring and John turned his back to him and spoke softly so he wouldn’t be overheard. He dialled the Starling Farm Community Centre and asked to speak to Connor.
‘Are you on for tonight?’ he asked.
‘No.’ Connor’s voice was guarded. ‘Not tonight.’
‘Why? Is there a problem?’
‘You could say that,’ Connor said. ‘Haven’t you heard the news?’
‘What news?’
‘It’s our friend Mrs Amelia Wood. She was found dead this morning on St Martin’s Hill. She’d been strangled.’
‘I don’t see,’ John said, ‘what that’s got to do with us.’
‘No?’ Connor said shortly. ‘Think about it.’
Chapter Twelve
Prue Bennett left work early, irritated by Gus Lynch and anxious about Anna. She knew that in Otterbridge her daughter should be safe but she could not relax while she thought of her in the house on her own. When she arrived home she saw that Anna was already there. Her coat was hanging over the bannister in the hall and music came from her room.
‘It’s me!’ Prue shouted up the stairs. ‘I’m just making some tea if you want some.’ It was what she always said when she came in from work and the repeated words reassured her.
Anna was still wearing her school uniform. She looked very young and Prue thought again how absurd it was that Gus could consider her a suitable Abigail Keene. Abigail had to be sexy, sophisticated, confident of her ability to attract.
‘Amelia Wood’s dead,’ Anna said. ‘I’ve just heard it on the radio.’
Prue looked at her daughter for signs that she was upset but Anna’s words were calm, matter of fact.
‘I know,’ Prue said. ‘The police were at the Centre today.’
‘That Stephen Ramsay? Your old flame?’
Was she sneering? Prue wondered, but again it was impossible to tell. What’s wrong with us? she thought. Why can’t we communicate? Then she thought she was getting paranoid: they’d muddled along well enough in the past.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Stephen was there.’
‘Does he know who killed Mrs Wood?’
Prue shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Not yet.’
‘Will it make any difference to the production?’
Prue shrugged. ‘I wanted to cancel but Gus thinks we should go ahead.’
‘So do I,’ Anna said firmly. ‘It can’t make any difference to Gabby and Mrs Wood now.’
Prue was surprised by the strength of her words.
‘Gus thinks you should play Abigail Keene,’ she said.
‘Does he?’ There was no clue in the girl’s voice to what she thought of the idea. ‘Does he think I can do it?’
‘Apparently.’
‘And you?’ Anna asked quietly. ‘What do you think?’ Then before Prue could answer she cried: ‘You don’t think I’ll be anywhere near as good as Gabby. I’ve never lived up to your expectations, have I? You don’t want me to try in case I make a fool of you.’
‘No,’ Prue said, distressed, wondering if that was what she thought. ‘I didn’t mean that.’
As they stared at each other angrily, shocked by the unusual tension between them, the telephone rang.
After speaking to Connor, John Powell hung round the lobby of the Grace Darling, reading posters on the noticeboard advertising the Contemporary Dance Festival in town and Shakespeare at the Theatre Royal. He was putting off a decision about what to do next. The evening stretched ahead of him as a prospect of unendurable boredom. Sod Connor, he thought. This was no time to lose his nerve.
He was just about to leave the building when Joe Fenwick called him back.
‘Hey!’ he said. ‘You. Young Powell. I want a word with you.’