Ramsay 04 - Killjoy by Ann Cleeves Page A

might have made the invitation?’
    ‘No,’ Prue said. ‘ None. And she didn’t mention it to me. Perhaps for some reason she thought I wouldn’t approve.’
    ‘Tell me about Gabby,’ he said. ‘What was she like?’
    ‘She was an extrovert,’ Prue said. ‘Lively, fun, an instinctive actress.’ She paused.
    ‘Yes?’ he prompted.
    ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I suppose I’ve got a superstitious feeling that it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead. Besides, I can’t quite put it into words.’
    ‘Try.’
    ‘She had no sense of morality,’ Prue said. ‘ I don’t mean that she was wicked. On a personal level she could be immensely kind, generous. But she didn’t have an intellectual’—she groped for the right word—‘ an abstract perception of right or wrong. She wouldn’t hurt anyone deliberately but if she wanted something badly enough she would go for it without considering the consequences. She had no code of behaviour to live by.’ She paused again. ‘I’m not explaining very well. And perhaps most young people are like that.’
    ‘Is that why she didn’t bother with her family?’ he said. ‘ Because she couldn’t see the point? Because she had no idea of duty or responsibility?’
    ‘Yes,’ she said, pleased that he had understood. ‘ Yes, I think that’s a good example of what I mean.’
    She looked over his shoulder to the kitchen clock on the wall.
    ‘Look,’ she said. ‘If you want to look at Gabby’s things would you mind doing it now before Anna comes home? I really don’t want her upset.’
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘ Of course.’ He stood up, wondering if she was bored by his presence. Perhaps she just wanted to be rid of him.
    Away from the kitchen the house was cold, and smelled a little damp. Ramsay supposed that the job in the Arts Centre paid peanuts. Prue led him up two flights of stairs to a room in the attic with a sloping roof and a small bay window. It was a big room, the width of the house. There was a sofa, a heavy old desk marked with ink stains, shelves full of teenage clutter. The single bed, in one corner, was almost hidden by cushions.
    ‘It was Anna’s playroom,’ Prue said. ‘Then as she got older I turned it into a sitting room for her. I thought it would be somewhere she could bring her friends, play her music without disturbing me, but until she met Gabby there were no friends to bring.’
    ‘Anna didn’t mind Gabby taking it over?’ Ramsay asked carefully. Giving up the room was hardly a motive for murder and he did not want to offend Prue.
    ‘Not at all. And Gabby didn’t take it over. Anna was always welcome here. Lots of the things are hers.’ She looked around at the clothes piled on a chair, the desk spread with tapes and magazines. ‘I suppose I should sort it all out,’ she said helplessly.
    ‘Not yet,’ he said more sharply than he had intended. ‘If you don’t mind. I’d prefer not to have anything touched until we’ve checked it.’
    ‘Yes,’ she said. She was shocked as if a guest had committed some rudeness. ‘ Of course. I expect you’d rather I left you to it…’ And he heard her leather slippers flapping on the wooden stairs as she disappeared to the ground floor.
    It was hard to know where to start. Every surface was covered and many of the objects could have belonged to Anna. There were the remnants of childhood—soft toys, a bookshelf full of Arthur Ransomes, coloured felt-tip pens which must long ago have dried up. But, Ramsay thought, Gabby Paston had been a private person. She had given nothing of herself away. Still no one knew what she had really thought or felt. A girl like that wouldn’t have left anything personal around where Anna might read it.
    He began with the desk. There were files with Gabby’s name written on in a decorative script holding essays on a variety of subjects. The comments on the bottom were encouraging but the marks were hardly impressive. There was a pile of text books which