Ramsay 04 - Killjoy by Ann Cleeves Page B

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