A Ghost in the Machine Read online

  “How did you let him in?”

  “Key in the lock, Sarge.”

  Gresham’s questions continued, all entirely off the beam as far as Mallory could comprehend. At one point he was asked why he had called the police in the first place.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Most people under such circumstances, having dialled nine, nine, nine, would have asked for an ambulance.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “There are procedures to be followed, Mr. Lawson. The body has to be pronounced dead. It has to be removed.”

  “You don’t think of…I was all over the place. Christ—you’ve been in that room. How would you have felt?”

  Cool as a Cornetto, thought Palmer, giving his note-taking wrist a break. That’s how the sarge would’ve felt. Palmer thought he’d like to be as detached, as laid-back as Gresham one day. That is, sometimes he thought he would. Other times he wasn’t so sure.

  “So you didn’t feel there was anything…out of order?”

  “Out of order?” Mallory frowned at the sergeant, puzzled. Then the puzzlement became incredulity. “You can’t mean—”

  “Suspicious, sir, yes.”

  “Of course not. That’s…ridiculous. Unbelievable.”

  That was the sergeant’s opinion too but it didn’t hurt to stir the pot. All sorts of things had been known to float to the surface on these occasions. Not necessarily relevant to the case in point but often very interesting.

  At this stage in his reflections the doorbell rang again. Once more Palmer jumped to it and shortly afterwards Jimmy Cornwell came into the room. He went straight across to Mallory.

  “God, Mallory. This is just appalling, Dennis. What actually happened?”

  Mallory described what had happened. Cornwell listened, occasionally compelled to interrupt. He said, “Christ! Not Benny,” and, “That terrible place.” Then he went with Gresham to identify the body. Cornwell rolled Dennis over, glanced briefly at what was left of his face, nodded and walked quickly away. In the kitchen he filled a glass with tap water and, once more in the sitting room, opened his case.

  “Look, Mallory – I’m going to give you these tablets. And I want you—”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Believe me, you are not all right.” He turned to Sergeant Gresham.

  “How soon can he leave?”

  “Presumably Mr. Lawson will want to wait until the body has been removed. And the house secured.”

  “Of course, yes,” blurted out Mallory. The thought had never occurred to him, though he hoped it would have done when the time came.

  “What would be helpful is for us to talk to the last person to see Mr. Brinkley alive. Do you have any ideas in that direction at all, sir?”

  “Not really. It could have been someone in his office. Or maybe a neighbour saw him coming home.”

  Palmer noted Dennis Brinkley’s business address. Dr. Cornwell stood over Mallory until he had taken two of the tablets. Then he scribbled on the bottle and placed it next to Mallory’s nearly full tumbler before leaving. Meanwhile Sergeant Gresham, after having checked over the sitting room, could be heard moving about in the rest of the house.

  “What’s he doing?” Mallory asked Constable Palmer.

  “Checking for a note, Mr. Lawson.”

  “A note!” It took Mallory a moment to work out the connection. Then a manic desire to laugh seized him. The idea that Dennis, Dennis of all people, would decide to end his life at all, let alone by releasing a cannon ball, then laying his head in its path, was utter lunacy. Surreal, in fact. Uncontrollable like hiccups, the laughter forced its way out of Mallory’s mouth in little moaning shouts.

  Palmer watched helplessly. The usual method of dealing with hysterics was out of the question here. There was no way he was going to risk being up on an assault charge with only six months’ probation under his belt. Sergeant Gresham came in, summed up the situation, threw the remaining water at Mallory and sent Palmer for a towel.

  “Sorry about that, Mr. Lawson.”

  “No, no.” Mallory mopped his face. “You were…I mean, it’s all right.”

  The ambulance arrived and left a bare ten minutes later, bearing Dennis away. The small crowd, satisfied at being present at the final curtain, slowly dispersed. And not long after, the police prepared to do the same.

  Mallory was left then in sole possession of Kinders. His first act was to ring Appleby House but there was no response. Presumably Kate was still at the hospital. He would find out which one, but first there was the clearing up to do. Mallory’s stomach heaved at the thought but there was no way he could decently leave it for anyone else.

  He took a large paper towel roll and a black bin liner and went back into the war room, putting all the lights on and leaving the door wide open. He scooped up most of the vomit and other mess, filled the bag with stained towels, knotted it tightly and threw it in the dustbin. He wiped the ball as well as he could, then washed it clean in the kitchen sink. Then he filled a bowl with hot water, mixed in some Dettol and washing-up liquid, found a scrubbing brush and some old dusters and went back to finish the job. When he had finished he scoured his hands at the kitchen sink until they looked like newly boiled lobsters.

  Securing the house was relatively uncomplicated. He pulled the garage door down from the inside and locked it, then locked the entrance to the kitchen and pocketed both the keys. The main door had an extremely solid double Yale. Mallory removed its key and stepped outside, slamming the door behind him.

  Having seen Benny properly admitted and put safely to bed, Kate had to find her own way back. Fortunately there was a cash machine at the hospital. She drew out fifty pounds and hoped it would cover a taxi home.

  She found Mallory deeply asleep on a couch in Carey’s sewing room. A small lamp threw a soft light on his face, which was grey with exhaustion. She bent closer and could see he had been crying. His breath smelled sour. His shirt was filthy. Tempted to let him sleep on, oblivious to the dreadful happenings of the night for a little longer, she could not bear to think of him waking alone. So she took his hand and shook it gently. Waking, he smiled. Then she saw recollection flooding his mind.

  “Come and rest, darling,” said Kate. “Come to bed.”

  11

  The death of Dennis Brinkley made the local breakfast news. Though sparse, the information “Found dead at his home in the village of Forbes Abbot” was still pretty shocking. Yet the very words concealed as much as they revealed. How, dead? everyone was asking. An overdose, a fall, a stroke, a heart attack, food poisoning, an accident? Was an intruder perhaps involved? Being ignorant of the details was utter anguish, especially as far as the village itself was concerned. It felt, as Dennis’s very own community, it had a right to know. And before anyone else too.

  The Parnells, who listened with half an ear only to Radio 4 in the morning, remained ignorant of the news until Judith went out with her bundle of letters to catch the postman. Although neither she nor Ashley had known Dennis, except by sight, the proximity of sudden death was most distressing. Judith seemed especially upset and Ashley had the pleasantly satisfying experience of looking after her. He even made the breakfast, grinding coffee beans, buttering toast and boiling some eggs.

  At her semi-detached bungalow in Glebe Road, Doris Crudge was lying down. Ernest made three phone calls on his wife’s behalf, apologising for her inability to come to work that day. He explained that she was not very well, which seemed the simplest and most straightforward thing to say. In truth, Doris was flat out on their best recliner. There was a bag of ice cubes on her forehead, a bottle of her nearest neighbour’s tranquillisers to hand and a mug of sweet tea so strong it was nearly black. She was moaning gently.

  Ernest regarded her with sympathy but not undue concern. Doris had always been one to give of her emotional best in situations that called for a dramatic response, and today was plainly no exception. But he was doing her an injustice in assum
ing this was all display. Doris had grown quite fond of her Mr. Brinkley. Apart from his weird hobby he was an ideal employer. Always courteous and kindly, asking after her relatives from time to time. A nice Christmas box and, on the very rare occasion when she had been unable to work, still paying her wages.

  Ernest decided not to pass on the information from Mrs. Lawson that poor Benny Frayle had discovered the body and was now in hospital suffering from shock. He reckoned Doris had enough to be going on with for a while.

  At the Lathams’, Andrew was in the shower when a piercing shriek from downstairs caused him to slip on the soap, grab the sequinned curtain and only just save himself from a nasty crack on the head against the tiled floor.

  Pausing only to shroud himself shoulder to heel in a thick towelling robe – even at seven in the morning Gilda was not averse to a jump or two – and belt up, he raced downstairs.

  “What is it, moon of my delight?”

  “Dennis is dead,” said Gilda.

  “What?”

  “It was on the telly.”

  “Our Dennis?”

  “Who else’s?” She watched him for a moment, then started to laugh. “Your face.”

  “But…” He fell into the chair facing her. The one with the back like a huge seashell and wooden mermaids supporting the arms. “How? I mean…what did they say?”

  “Nothing. Just found at his home. There’s bound to be an inquest—there always is in these cases. We must go.” She made it sound like a nice day out. “Hadn’t you better give thingy a buzz?”

  “Who?”

  “That chap who’s in charge when Denny’s not there.”

  “Fortune.” Andrew was still staring at her, dazed. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I don’t see why. Happens all the time. Middle-aged bloke, fit as a fiddle, always at the gym, out jogging, keels over at the side of the road—”

  “Dennis was jogging?”

  “I’m giving you an example, stupid. Catch me near a gym.” She shifted her huge bulk from side to side; tried in vain to ease her bolstery legs apart. “I suppose that means another funeral outfit.”

  “But you’ve already—”

  “More greedy rip-offs for some hideous hat. People seem to think I’m a walking gold mine.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t die on purpose,” murmured Andrew, paying for it over and over again during the next half-hour.

  For the first and only time in his life Andrew Latham was first at the office. Only just, though. As he unlocked the street door Leo Fortune appeared at his side. Politely attempting to conceal his surprise, Fortune murmured: “Good morning.”

  Andrew responded with a curt nod. He had no interest in forming any sort of relationships with the male contingent at Brinkley and Latham. Female staff were something else.

  Entering the main office, he retreated to his cubbyhole and watched through the glass as the rest of the crew arrived. He saw those who had heard the news about Dennis pass it on to those who hadn’t. Noted their expressions of shock and disbelief. Then, in total silence, each of them turned and stared in his direction. Andrew felt quite uncomfortable. It was like being under observation by a group of the living dead. He gave it five, adjusted his features and walked out to join them.

  “I see you’ve all heard the bad news.” A pause, giving it ten, this time, to emphasise the solemnity of the occasion. “I’m afraid I don’t have much information for you about what happened. But I believe there’s to be an inquest and I expect more details will be available then.”

  “I’m not sure I want any more details,” said one of the clerks.

  To Andrew’s surprise he sounded almost angry. There were several murmurs of agreement. One of the girls started to cry. A definite air of sadness pervaded the group and gradually seemed to spread outwards, filling the room.

  Andrew remained totally puzzled. Whoever would have thought it? All over a dry old stick like Dennis Brinkley. Wonders would never cease.

  “I suggest we continue as usual today.” He noticed one or two cynical smirks at this, no doubt directed at his own indolence. “But if anyone feels they really aren’t up to it, by all means feel free to take a break.”

  Silence, then Leo Fortune said, “I think Dennis would have wanted us to carry on.”

  God, Mr. Sanctimonious. Pass the sick bag, Edna.

  “By the way, Latham, the locksmith is due at ten o’clock. I presume we honour Dennis’s wishes and have the work done?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Also I shall need to make use of his office. I presume you’ve no objection?”

  “Why should I have?” said Andrew. “You’re his ‘second in command’ after all.” He made it sound like lickspittle to some reptilian trader in living flesh. “No doubt you can’t wait to get started.”

  He returned to his cubicle with a satisfied smile, watching as two of the girls hovered comfortingly round Fortune, who was plainly extremely upset. Brenda, Dennis’s secretary, glared across at him. Andrew smiled broadly back. What an excellent day it was turning out to be. And still barely ten o’clock.

  At Appleby House Kate and Mallory moved slowly and carefully about, saying very little. Mallory still seemed devastated and withdrawn. Kate got on with necessary tasks. She made their bed – the discovery of Benny’s lavender bags carefully placed beneath the pillows was most upsetting – and prepared a breakfast that neither of them ate.

  At mid-morning she rang the hospital and was told Miss Frayle had spent a comfortable night and would be seen by a doctor quite soon. It was suggested she rang back at lunchtime. Asking how soon she could visit, Kate was told between two and four that afternoon.

  Though the sky was overclouded, Kate returned to the walled garden. She wandered aimlessly about, marvelling now at her innocent pleasure the previous evening. Even as she had watered the parched ground and turned her face happily to the evening sun, Dennis was lying dead. She still didn’t know how and, at least for now, didn’t want to know.

  Disturbed by voices, then shocked by a sudden burst of laughter Kate hurried down the brick path to the blue door that led to the orchard. She opened it and stepped through. At first glance, the place seemed full of people. Then she looked again and realised there were barely a dozen.

  A few were up on ladders, attending to the growing apples. Others were picking up early thinnings—wizened tiny fruit, falling to give space so the rest might grow. Kate had noticed the knobbly bumps under her feet when she had explored the orchard shortly after Carey’s funeral.

  Watching them in their bright shirts and jeans, listening to their unselfconscious chatter, Kate’s indignation quickly subsided. Why shouldn’t they laugh? The passing of a local middle-aged man meant nothing to them. They had probably never even heard of Dennis Brinkley.

  She vowed then to try to keep the tragedy that had overtaken them all at some sort of distance. She would have neither the time nor energy to get caught up in grieving or constant emotional speculation. There would be Benny to comfort and support – Mallory too. And sooner or later, no matter how much later, no matter what obstacles fate threw in her path, Kate would be overseeing the launch of the Celandine Press. Because it was her turn now and no way was the dream going to be lost in the shuffle.

  Almost time to check with the hospital. Kate made her way back to the house, only to find that Mallory had already made the call. It seemed Miss Frayle had been seen by a doctor and was now able to be collected and go home. Relief that there was nothing seriously physically wrong was tempered with anxiety as to Benny’s mental state. The memory of the figure stumbling, bolt upright and blind with fear and shock, was still startlingly fresh in Kate’s mind. She wondered just how much difference a few hours’ sleep – and that almost certainly drugged – could have made.

  Mallory cried off driving to the hospital but promised to pick some peas and mint and make soup for lunch. Also to buy fresh bread and a newspaper from the village store. He kissed Kate goodbye som
ewhat absently and wandered off across the croquet lawn.

  I’m on my own with this one, thought Kate. Again. Then chided herself for meanness. God knows what Mallory had found at Kinders last night. Found and somehow handled in whatever awful way it had to be handled. Just be grateful, Lawson, she muttered as she swung the Golf round, that you got the better half.

  Returning to the house with a colander of bursting pea pods and a bunch of pineapple mint, hardly ideal for soup, Mallory made directly for the telephone.

  From the moment he set off for Dennis’s house the previous night until he was running his bath this morning the sensational and shocking nature of the discovery he made had driven all thoughts of his daughter from his mind. Now they returned, energised by their absence, tormenting him anew.

  He recalled his earlier convincement that Polly had been inside the Dalston flat when he rang the bell. Though this idea was without any logical foundation Mallory couldn’t let it go. He regretted bitterly now that he had not, in fact, pushed past the elderly woman on the front step and got into the house. There might have been an alternative way down to the basement. Or he could have slid a note under the door of whoever lived over it. They would know if anyone was still in there. However quiet a person might be, you could always hear some sounds of occupation – taps running, a lavatory flushing, a window being opened or closed.

  Mallory recognised there was no way he could return to London at the present. Apart from his wishing to support Kate – and Benny too, of course – the police had indicated that he might well be called at the inquest. So all he could do was keep phoning. Over and over again.

  Kate had been annoyed by the suggestion that Benny could now be collected. It made her sound like a parcel. A thing, inanimate. Dumped somewhere until whoever could be bothered came along and took it away. She knew this was unreasonable. They must answer hundreds of enquiries every day and it was only a word, for heaven’s sake. She did this when nervous—latch on to something completely trivial and worry away at it to distract herself from the heavy stuff.