‘Do you ever get any trouble?’ Ramsay asked.
‘Nothing we can’t handle,’ the porter said. ‘ It gets a bit rowdy sometimes, especially if they have a rock group in, but not nasty. You know what I mean?’
Ramsay nodded.
‘They got a consultant in to make it vandal-proof-wire-mesh shutters on the windows, everything with locks on. It’s not foolproof-some bugger smashed the security lights last week-but I’ve never had any real bother. I’ve been here since the place opened.’
‘So you know most of the regulars, at least by sight?’
‘I suppose so, but there’s often something different going on-one-off shows or concerts, that bring in their own audience. I can’t keep track of everyone then.’
‘No,’ Ramsay said. ‘ Of course not. Was anything unusual happening tonight?’
Fenwick shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It was just a normal Monday night-the Youth Theatre rehearsing in the New Theatre, the Choral Society in the music room, and the Writers’ Circle in the small lounge.’
‘And all the activities started at the same time?’
‘Aye. They all run from seven until nine. It doesn’t always work out like that. The groups fix their own times.’
‘Did you know Gabriella Paston?’ Ramsay asked gently.
‘Oh, we all knew our Gabby!’ Fenwick exclaimed. ‘Such a bonny lass. It brightened my day to see her.’
‘Did you see her today?’
‘No,’ Fenwick said. ‘And I missed her.’
Ramsay paused and Hunter, impatient as always, hoped that he had finished with the old man. But Ramsay continued: ‘You can’t see the car park from here. Do you do any security checks out there?’
‘No! The trustees are worried about the building, not the punters’ cars.’
‘So you wouldn’t have noticed if Mr Lynch’s car was there all day?’
‘No,’ Fenwick said sadly. He would have liked to have helped them.
‘We’d like to talk to Mr Lynch,’ Ramsay said. ‘ Where can we find him?’
‘Upstairs in his office.’
‘Thank you,’ Ramsay said. ‘You’ve been a great help.’ He walked up the curving wooden staircase with Hunter at his heels.
Gus Lynch was drinking whisky from a large tumbler. His face was grey and the hand that held the glass was shaking. When they knocked at his door he was speaking, caught in mid-sentence, and when they went in his mouth was open, gaping and ridiculous. Ramsay introduced himself. Lynch half stood to greet them and finally shut his mouth.
‘I was just explaining to the policeman,’ Lynch said, nodding towards the constable who sat nervously in the corner clutching a notebook on his knee, ‘that I didn’t know anything about it. How could I? I would hardly have given my keys to anyone else if I were intending to dispose of a body.’ He looked around desperately. ‘Now would I?’
Ramsay ignored the question.
‘How long has your car been parked there, sir?’ he asked. The calm question seemed to reassure Lynch. He set the tumbler on the desk and made a visible effort to control his panic.
‘Since ten o’clock this morning,’ Lynch answered. ‘I don’t work office hours, Inspector. Most of my active work is done in the evening.’
‘And you’ve been in the Centre all day?’
‘All day. Certainly.’
‘You didn’t go out for lunch?’
‘Lunch?’ Lynch expressed surprise as if lunch were too trivial a matter for the Inspector to bother himself with. ‘Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry. I should have realized. Just to the Ship in Anchor Street for a sandwich. But I walked. I didn’t take the car.’
‘And on the way out did you notice that your car was in its usual place?’
‘No,’ Lynch said. ‘Not specially. My space is at the end of the car park, under the trees. I wouldn’t see from the front door or the street.’
‘Do you usually go to the pub for lunch, Mr Lynch? Was that a normal daily routine?’
‘Yes,’ Lynch said with some irritation. ‘ I suppose so. If I’m here. I have other commitments, of course. Radio. Local TV. But if I’m here I like to go to the pub, get some fresh air.’
‘When was the last time you looked inside the boot of your car, Mr Lynch?’ Ramsay asked.
Lynch answered immediately. ‘This morning. Before I left home for work. There was a programme I’d been working on. I put that in the boot.’
There was a pause.
‘Would that be a bulky manuscript?’ Ramsay asked at last.
‘Bulky?’ Lynch seemed astonished. ‘ No, of course not.’
‘Wasn’t it unusual then,’ Ramsay asked, ‘to open the boot specially? Wouldn’t it be more normal to take the paper into the car with you, to put it perhaps on the passenger seat?’ He paused again. ‘Unless of course you had a passenger with you.’ He looked up from the notes he was making. ‘ Do you live alone, Mr Lynch?’
‘Yes,’ Lynch said sharply. ‘ Of course.’ There was a silence which he seemed to need to fill. ‘I have been married, Inspector. When I was a drama student. We were both very young. It didn’t work out and we parted, quite amicably, twelve years ago. Since then I’ve lived alone.’ There was another pause before he continued. ‘My wife was a rather jealous woman, Inspector. She couldn’t cope with my success.’
Perhaps he expected then a question about his career in television because he seemed quite surprised when Ramsay said: ‘Tell me about Gabriella Paston.’
Lynch shrugged. How can I tell you anything, he implied.
‘How long has she been a member of the Youth Theatre?’
‘For four years. Since she was fourteen.’
‘You must have learned something about her in that time.’
‘Look, Inspector, we’re not friends, me and the kids. I never meet them socially. I run a workshop session every Monday night and then they go home. There’s no time to chat.’
‘You don’t meet for a coffee afterwards?’
‘No,’ Lynch said. ‘ The kids usually meet up in the cafeteria but to tell you the truth I’ve had enough of them by nine. I’m knackered and I want to get straight home.’
‘But not tonight?’ Ramsay interrupted.
‘What do you mean, not tonight.’
‘You didn’t go straight home after the workshop finished tonight. You were still here, in your office at nine thirty when Miss Paston’s body was found. What was different about tonight?’
‘I had a visitor,’ Lynch said reluctantly. ‘One of the trustees, Amelia Wood. She descends on me occasionally to make sure I’m running the place efficiently. The trustees think I need help with the administration.’
‘Was she still here when the body was found?’
‘I’m not sure. She might have been downstairs. She’d left my office by then.’
‘And there’s nothing more you can tell me about Gabriella Paston?’
‘You should ask one of the others, Inspector. Her aunt works in the cafeteria here. Her landlady’s my assistant. But I’ll tell you something about Gabby, I liked her. She was fun.’
During the interview Hunter had remained uncharacteristically unobtrusive. There was no fidgeting, no theatrical sigh to show that he thought the witness was a blatant liar. The stillness was unusual and Ramsay wondered what was the matter with him. He would have been surprised to discover that Hunter was thinking, with some regret after all, about Gabriella Paston.
He thought he had probably seen her three or four times in the night club in Otterbridge. Hunter went there regularly to impress new girlfriends and it was always packed. He had only spoken to Gabriella once. On the other occasions he had glimpsed her sitting at the bar with friends or on the dance floor under the flashing lights, but she had always attracted his attention. On the night he had spoken to her he was on his own, stood up by some woman, determined all the same to have a good time. She had been sitting on a tall bar stool, her legs crossed at the ankles, laughing. He had offered to buy her a drink, and she had laughed again and refused, saying she was waiting for a friend. That was all that happened. There had been no more contact than that, but Hunter felt the result of the encounter all evening. He was excited, suddenly optimistic about the possibility of good times ahead. He wasn’t sure what it was about her that had been so special and was trying to find a word to describe her when Gus Lynch provided it for him. Gabriella Paston was fun.