A Ghost in the Machine Page 29

  They went into the front room. Roy hovered, listening. He could see the woman putting her arms round Karen, holding her close, talking softly. They rocked, backwards and forwards for a little while. Karen started to cry and murmur, “What’ll I do without her? What’ll I do?” They were huddled together on the sofa when the other paramedic, whose name was Gordon Phillips, came downstairs.

  “You find her…erm…?”

  “Roy.”

  “Must have been a shock. You OK?”

  Roy shrugged. He had seen a dead person before. More than once. Last time was a couple of years ago. He’d been out with a gang in Mumps Turvey and they’d come across the body of a tramp lying in a ditch. The others had decided to have a bit of fun setting fire to it and called Roy chicken when he ran off.

  “And her name?”

  “Sorry? Oh – Ava Garret.”

  “Miss? Mrs.?”

  “Mrs., so she said.”

  “You live here?”

  “I’m the lodger.”

  “So you’d know something about her?” He paused. “State of health, for instance. Was she on tablets for anything? Heart, blood pressure?”

  “Dunno.”

  Gordon gave Roy a severe once-over. What did he think he looked like? Greasy hair standing in spikes. A T-shirt flashing a skull, slime dripping from its eye sockets over a “Satan Rules” logo. Ears smothered in metal rings plus one in each nostril joined by a silver chain. I wouldn’t like to be near that bloke when he starts sneezing, thought Gordon. They should put scum like that in the army. He had a pleasurable vision of Roy forcibly scoured, scrubbed and shiny-booted, marching in step.

  “Sometimes she took vitamins.”

  Roy had a pretty good idea what Gordon was thinking. He was often looked at exactly so and would have been disappointed if he hadn’t been. His own pleasurable vision was of the great god Set springing through the window, seizing Gordon’s round face and sparse hair in his massive jaws and biting his head off.

  “Next of kin?” asked Gordon.

  “Pardon?”

  “Is there a dad around?”

  “No.”

  “Brothers or sisters?”

  Roy shook his head.

  “Better get in touch with the social.”

  “The social.” The words were thick with disgust. Disgust and fear.

  “Well, she can’t stay here on her own.”

  “Someone’ll come…a relative…her aunty.”

  “Tell them, not me.”

  Roy followed Gordon into the sitting room. Karen was sitting up very straight, holding her knees. Roy would not have thought her milk-white skin could get any paler. But now it appeared completely colourless. On her high, bumpy forehead a twisted vein stood out, turquoise colour, like a wriggly worm.

  Gordon beckoned to the other paramedic, then whispered to Roy, “Keep this door closed till we’ve got her through, OK?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’ll need to collect the death certificate. Great Missenden Hospital.”

  “Will do.”

  “Better ring before you go. They’ll be doing a PM first.”

  Roy sat with Karen and neither spoke till they heard the ambulance drive away. Roy, though relieved to see Karen was no longer crying, was still alarmed by her appearance. She seized his hand in both of hers, squeezing and mangling it.

  “Look, Karen. I know this has only just happened—”

  “Roy, what shall I do, Roy?”

  “—but I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “How shall I manage? Roy, my head hurts.”

  “Listen. This is important. Before anyone comes round—”

  “Who’s coming? Who?”

  “Bloody listen, will you?”

  “All right.”

  “The ambulance man might just decide to let the social know. And they won’t let you stay here by yourself.”

  “I’m not by myself.”

  “I don’t count. What’ll happen—they’ll get a court order and you’ll be put into care.”

  “Care.” Karen dwelled on the word for a moment, wonderingly and with interest. It could have been the first step in a new language. She repeated it thoughtfully. “Care sounds good.”

  “Well, it ain’t. It’s very bad.”

  “Why is it called care, then?”

  “They got a warped sense of humour, the social.”

  “Oh, Roy.”

  “Don’t cry – I’ll get it sorted. Only we got to find you an aunty.”

  “I haven’t got an aunty.”

  “Not a real one, stupid. We just pretend one’s coming, like straight away.”

  “I can’t pretend. I shan’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything. I’ll do the talking—OK?”

  “Won’t they come back and check up?”

  “Then we’ll just have to duck and dive.”

  He tried to sound confident. Fortunately there was so much trouble in the world that if the social worker thought you were properly fixed chances were you’d be left in peace while she got to grips with the next load of human misery. On the other hand, there’d been some terrible stories in the paper lately where kids had actually died and when this happened everything tightened up for a bit. So, chances were, they’d probably want to see this aunty. Talk to her. Find out if she was a suitable person and all that. Ah, shit.

  “Roy…?” Karen’s hand crept into his like a small mammal seeking shelter. “It will be all right, won’t it?”

  Roy looked down at her. It’d have to be all right. Somehow he’d make it all right. The thought of her shoved in a home – skinny, frightened, small for her age, friendless. Born to be knocked about and made use of. There’d be somebody’s hand in her knickers before the door slammed shut. Roy had been there. He had lived that. It shouldn’t happen to a dog.

  “No worries, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be absolutely fine.”

  A village worthy had drawn Ava’s recent broadcast to the attention of Brigadier Gervase Wemyss-Moleseed and his wife Marjorie, leaders of the Parish Council. Though highly indignant on receipt of the information, they were not at all surprised. The Council had always considered the Church of the Near at Hand a blot on their exquisitely maintained landscape. They were constantly sending letters to the organisation’s representatives, informing them that their rusty shingles were a disgrace and asking when the broken window would be replaced. Now, as if that wasn’t enough, one of their congregation was deliberately drawing attention to herself in a most unpleasant way. Pretending to have made contact with a recently deceased inhabitant of Forbes Abbot was bad enough. But to start dispensing messages of unspeakable vulgarity via his so-called spirit…

  Thank God, as the vicar said at a hastily convened emergency meeting, the excellent Mr. Brinkley was not alive to hear it. It was agreed that the brigadier should write a strongly worded letter to the Causton Echo dissociating the undersigned, a disappointing eleven signatures in all, from such “flaunting, brazen exhibitionism.” He delivered the letter personally within the hour, urging publication at once, if not sooner.

  But then, the very next morning, Ava was found to have died. While this was all round Swayne Crescent in ten seconds flat, it took a while to filter through to the smart end of the village. The brigadier was proudly showing off his letter in the early edition of the Echo to the landlord of the Horse and Hounds, only to be informed that the mystical Mrs. Garret was no more. An unpleasant silence followed him out of the pub. At St. Anselm’s Rectory he was also rather coolly received. The vicar who, in his role as impartial shepherd had declined to add his name to the list of dissidents, said it was all very unfortunate. He went so far as to add that writing the letter made them all sound like heartless snobs.

  Furiously the brigadier protested that he had been a heartless snob all his life and it had never seemed to trouble anyone before. Perhaps the vicar would prefer someone else read the lesson at morning service?

  Dori
s heard the news just after breakfast from Pauline next door, whose daughter, married to Fred Carboy, had seen the ambulance. Her immediate thoughts were for Karen. Would someone be with her? Someone, that is, apart from that gormless lad who lodged there. Doris’s first impulse was to go straight round to Rainbow Lodge but she was afraid how that might look. It’s not as if she was a relative. Or even a family friend. She put a voice to her worries.

  “I don’t want people thinking I’m one of them ghouls like you see on the telly, Ernie.”

  “You worried about the kiddie, you check ’em out.”

  “D’you think I should?”

  “I know one thing. Neither of us’ll have any peace till you do.”

  So Doris did. Ignoring the twitching curtains and saying a pleasant “good morning” to anyone out and about, she went up to Rainbow Lodge and knocked firmly on the front door.

  Roy, who had heard the gate go, seized Karen’s hand and dragged her under the table. The cloth nearly touched the floor so they couldn’t be seen from the windows. Whoever it was knocked again, waited a couple of minutes then walked away.

  “D’you think it was the social, Roy?”

  “Maybe. Whoever it was—they’ll be back.”

  When Doris arrived home she couldn’t settle. Even though she now knew that Rainbow Lodge was empty and Karen presumably being looked after, the little girl was still on her mind. She was always so lost-looking. So thin and lonely. A motherless child should have very special care. And lots of love.

  To take her mind off all this Doris toyed with giving Benny in London the news of Ava’s death. But then, remembering Mrs. Lawson’s earlier scepticism and the dumping of the Echo in the rubbish bin, she thought she might get her friend into trouble. And, in any case, they’d probably already left to follow the removal van down.

  Doris got through the rest of the day, having a good house clean. All the nets went into the washing machine. Then she polished the windows, waxed everything waxable, beat all the rugs and chivvied poor Ernest to such an extent that in the end he went off to feed the ducks and get a bit of peace.

  Early evening Doris thought she’d try Appleby House and was delighted to see Benny outside on the pavement. With her hand shading her eyes against the sun Benny was scanning the far horizon like a mariner seeking land. Doris called out and Benny turned round.

  “I’m watching out for the removal van.” Then, sounding very excited, “Doris, you’ll never guess. I sold some furniture. Did a ring round – you know? Yellow Pages.”

  “Listen, Ben.” Doris took her friend’s arm and walked her a little way from the gate. To the low wall in front of the church, in fact. “There’s some bad news.”

  Benny did not look nearly as alarmed or distressed as Doris expected. She did not appreciate that having recently received the worse news of her entire life, and in the most appalling manner imaginable, anything that followed for Benny must be a far lesser evil.

  “Let’s sit down.”

  “Heavens,” said Benny. It had only been twenty-four hours since she’d last seen Doris. What on earth could have happened in such a short time to make her look so grave? “It’s not something at home?”

  “No, no. Please…” She pulled at Benny’s sleeve and they bumped down on to the low wall together. “The thing is, Ava’s died.”

  Benny stared, incredulous. Seconds passed, then a whole minute and she still seemed incapable of speech.

  “Ben?”

  “What happened? I mean…how…?”

  “No one seems to know.” Doris, genuinely regretful at the skimpiness of the detail on offer concluded, “Probably some sort of heart attack.”

  “That’s terrible,” said Benny. “We were going to hear the second half of the prophecy on Sunday.”

  “What prophecy?”

  “Surely you remember?” Benny sounded really put out. “Last week she got up to just before Dennis died.”

  “Of course I remember that.”

  “This week she was going to describe the actual murder.”

  Here we go again, thought Doris.

  “She said so on the radio.”

  “That wouldn’t be for sure, though, would it, love? I mean – you can’t swear on these things in advance.” Doris spoke hesitantly.

  Benny was looking crosser by the minute. She didn’t seem at all upset that the medium had passed away. Just thwarted. Doris felt some expression of sympathy might have been in order.

  Perhaps thinking to provoke one she said, “I’m a bit concerned about her little girl.”

  “What am I supposed to do now?” replied Benny, getting up and walking away.

  Doris hesitated. She felt bewildered and uneasy. She wanted to continue the conversation, mainly to find out what that last remark meant. Why on earth should Benny have to do anything just because of this woman’s death? It wasn’t as if there was any connection between them. So far as Doris knew they hadn’t even met. Consumed with curiosity, and knowing she couldn’t bear to go away with it unsatisfied, Doris decided to follow Benny into Appleby House. She could say she had come to offer help. An extra pair of hands was always useful.

  Journalists on the Echo may not have been in the same league as Fleet Street’s finest but they recognised a startling coincidence when it stared them in the face. A tip-off from someone working at Great Missenden Hospital, once properly confirmed, gave them the headline: “Mysterious Death of Local Clairvoyant.” Their own fervid imaginations supplied the following paragraphs, the gist of which was, did some human hand intervene to prevent the medium spilling the celestial beans?

  It was still not a criminal story so normally would never have been brought to DCI Barnaby’s attention. But his bag carrier, laying siege to a divinely pretty policewoman in reception, spotted the newspaper, recognised the link with Benny Frayle’s visits and took it straight upstairs.

  Barnaby sat behind his desk, glowering. His domestic life, contentment unlimited in nearly every aspect bar the culinary, had suddenly taken a turn for the worse. Joyce, the wife of his bosom and he would have no other, had suddenly taken it into her head that they should become vegetarian. It had taken a good twenty years before she had been able to produce a piece of meat that you could break up and swallow without the aid of a Black & Decker and now she wanted to give this hard-acquired talent up. Already Barnaby was looking back almost wistfully to the time when he had rejected charcoal grilled chops, convinced he had been served the charcoal by mistake because last night, last night had been the absolute end. Elephant’s ears made with scooped out aubergines stuffed with semi-raw chestnuts and garlic. If they’d been from a real elephant, Barnaby had protested, they couldn’t have tasted worse.

  And now here was Troy, placing a paper on the desk and standing back almost quivering with pride, like a gun dog delivering a pheasant. The word “pheasant” cut Barnaby unpleasantly to the quick.

  “What is it?”

  “The Echo, Chief.”

  “I can see it’s the Echo. Why are you giving it to me?”

  “You remember the old biddy who kept coming in about this bloke and his weird machines?”

  “Only as I’d remember a plague of boils.”

  Blimey. Better watch your step today, Gavin. “That medium she was on about’s been found dead.”

  “So?”

  Troy wondered aloud if perhaps the chief hadn’t heard about Ava Garret’s radio interview? The sergeant only knew of it himself because Maureen and her mother had still been pulling the programme to pieces when he arrived home. Troy was furious at the sight and sound of Mrs. Sproat. There had been a definite agreement between himself and Maureen that she would only visit when he was out. Mrs. Sproat’s novel take on personal hygiene (if it don’t smell why wash it?) was only one of the reasons. Troy drank his tea to the accompaniment of his mother-in-law’s screaming falsetto and thought Anthony Perkins hadn’t known when he was well off.

  Barnaby said that he did know about the interview
. Joyce picked it up on the car radio and had talked about it after supper. They had been together in the rose arbour in the late sunshine. Joyce in the hammock with her legs up, Barnaby in a wicker chair grumbling over an article on heavy-handed policing in The Independent and getting up from time to time to zap greenfly with a foul-smelling spray.

  “She sounded strange,” Joyce had said. “Bragging nonstop but kind of sad as well.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Do you think any of this spiritual trancey stuff is true?”

  “For God’s sake…” Barnaby was disbelieving. Almost contemptuous.

  “It could be.”

  “No, it couldn’t.”

  “She also said she’d been engaged by the Almeida – you know, Cully’s company – as advisor on Blithe Spirit.”

  “Mad as well as sad then.”

  Joyce went off in a huff after this, saying he had spoiled everything, what with making the roses smell of disinfectant, and sneering. Barnaby went on drenching the Ena Harkness, ending up with an irritable sinus and the beginnings of a headache. So he was hardly now in the mood to indulge in yet further discussion of such ludicrous twaddle.

  “But don’t you think, sir,” persisted Troy, “that it’s a mysterious coincidence? Just days before she was going to give the murderer away.”

  “You been watching Poirot again?”

  This was one of the chief’s favourite gibes. Troy had only ever seen one episode and that was round at his mother’s. He had been a fool to mention it. And even more stupid to follow up with a lumbering joke about having enough little grey cells in his life as it was, thank you. Being a policeman, ha ha ha. Yes, he had laughed as well but he had laughed alone.

  “She died in her sleep.” Barnaby, having glanced at the story, pushed the paper aside. “What’s mysterious about that?”

  To be honest Troy had always thought such a happening was incredibly mysterious. People were always going on about how terrible death was but it seemed to him that it couldn’t be all that dreadful if it could happen while you were asleep without waking you up. Also, if death was such crap, why were skulls always grinning?