‘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.