A Ghost in the Machine Page 39

  He left them all to it and set off to interview the man who had been described to him yesterday by Doris Crudge as “knowing Ava inside out.” Apparently it was George Footscray who had started the medium off on the psychic circuit, supported her through the training and, once established, chauffeured her between various meetings. He also ran the spiritualist church in Forbes Abbot single-handed. George, explained Mrs. Crudge, was also quite a sensitive himself, being born with a gift for piercing the lower ether no matter how black and dense.

  All this had entertained Sergeant Troy no end. Now, driving along the A413 towards Chalfont St. Peter, he was quite looking forward to meeting Footscray, whom he pictured as the sort of bloke who grew his own clothes. A mung-chewing airy-fairy ponce in beads and a raffia hat. But that didn’t mean the guy couldn’t pass on a few tips about ether piercing. Also Troy half hoped for an update on his stars, which were bitching him about as usual.

  As if reading his sergeant’s mind Barnaby said: “We’ll keep the questions to the point, OK?”

  “Fine by me.”

  “I don’t want you running off at a tangent over some esoteric quiddity.”

  “Thought they were a rock group.”

  Troy was laughing already in anticipation. He spotted The Three Tuns where they were supposed to turn. Manoeuvre, signal, mirror. And there they were in Clover Street, Camel Lancing. Evens on his side.

  “Could you look out for fifteen, Chief?”

  Troy was not quite sure what he expected. Perhaps a tiny hunched-up hovel with a witch’s hat on the roof, like one of the drawings in Talisa Leanne’s storybooks. Or a grey, castle-shaped construction, sinisterly shrouded in mist. Number 15 Clover Street was a small, semi-detached house of outstanding dullness. Even the garden was so drab as to be almost invisible.

  “This is it,” said Barnaby. “Park by that laurel.”

  Troy, quite overcome with disappointment, parked. But then, ringing the bell, he cheered up somewhat. First the door mat seemed to be covered in all sorts of mysterious signs and symbols and also the bell itself was in the form of a pregnant goat with green glass eyes.

  “Chief Inspector Barnaby?”

  “That’s right. Mr. Footscray?”

  “We’ve been expecting you. And this is…?”

  “Sergeant Troy,” said Sergeant Troy, producing his warrant card and having it waved away.

  “Enter, please. Come and meet Mother.”

  They stepped into a tiny hall on to a large rug featuring a lion and a unicorn, a crown and a begirdled woman holding a thistle. There was also a butler. He was a life-sized wooden cutout, badly if carefully painted and somewhat removed from the normal run of butlers in that he had full-feathered, floor-length wings with golden tips. There were some neatly folded newspapers on his tray and a notice reading “Donations: Thank You.”

  “They’re here, darling.” George opened a door, then flattened himself against it so the two policemen could squeeze through. Then, to Barnaby: “I expect you’d like some refreshment?”

  Neither man replied. Just simply stood and stared. They had entered a shrine dedicated to the worship of one of the most revered deities of the twentieth century. Every inch of the walls was covered with plates, mugs, tins, photographs, drawings and paintings reflecting her image. Bookshelves held china figurines in her likeness. She adorned biscuit barrels and gestured from coaches of golden filigree. A glass case held a hairdresser’s block supporting a lime-green, fur-trimmed brocade hat dripping with feathers.

  In an armchair, peering from a swaddle of airy blankets, sat a tiny old lady. Little puffs of hair like cotton wool seemed to have settled on her pale scalp at random. Not a scrap of her face was clear of wrinkles but her eyes were blue as periwinkles, bright and sharp.

  “Welcome,” she said. “Please sit down.”

  The voice was a shock. It was quite loud and had a clackety rattly delivery, like a stick being drawn across railings. She was indicating a sofa, draped with a tapestry illustrating various royal residences. Barnaby sat on Windsor Castle. Troy got the mausoleum at Frogmore. Neither knew quite what to say.

  “Hello,” said the old lady. “I’m Esmeralda Footscray.”

  Barnaby introduced himself and Sergeant Troy. There was some more silence broken by the sound of cutlery, off stage, as it were.

  Eventually Troy, gesturing, said, “Quite a collection.”

  “From the moment of her birth.” She indicated several rows of box files stacked beneath shelves crammed with photograph albums.

  “Must be worth quite a bit.”

  “Money?” Esmeralda’s disdain knew no bounds. As Troy said afterwards, he felt like he’d been caught farting in church. “All these artefacts are saturated with sublunar energy to be transmitted whenever an urgent need arises. As you can imagine she needs constant recharging, especially after that last operation.”

  “Sublunar energy, yes,” repeated the sergeant, just as if this was an everyday conversation. He stared out of the windows, which were heavily barred, and noticed that the door too had a quite an elaborate lock.

  “This is our guidance source.” She stretched forwards with some difficulty and laid her hand upon a milky white globe. It glowed, the interior pulsating gently like an illumined heart. Troy looked around for the flex but could see none. “Formulated and constantly sustained by my guide, Hu Sung Kyong.”

  “That’s very…er…”

  Barnaby closed his eyes and shut his ears. He had had enough arcaneries, enough giddy convulsions of the spirit already in this case to last him a lifetime.

  Troy became intrigued by some grey fluff at the corner of Mrs. Footscray’s mouth. Assuming it to be the beginnings of a moustache a closer look revealed small feathers. He found this rather disturbing. Surely she didn’t eat birds. He’d always thought spiritual-type people were vegetarians. She was talking at him again.

  “You must remember the last time she took the salute at Clarence House?”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “As she left the dais she stumbled?”

  “So she did!” cried Sergeant Troy.

  “I had become distracted – only for a moment, but it was enough. I apologised immediately, of course.”

  “Was it sorted then?”

  “Naturally. The power line was still open, you see.”

  George came in, pushing a trolly. Fearing some witchy brew from entrails sown at dead of night ’neath a gibbous moon and nourished by the sweat of hanged men, the Chief Inspector declined.

  “Sainsbury’s Breakfast or Earl Grey, Sergeant?”

  “Well, just a cup,” said Barnaby.

  Troy was admiring the biscuits. Star shapes, about as big as ginger nuts, covered with white powder. He accepted one gratefully and took a bite. He had never tasted anything quite like it before. As he chewed he tried to name the strange spice that was now lingering in his mouth. Ginger it wasn’t.

  George, having fed and watered the visitors and seen his mother settled, now spoke.

  “You wanted to talk to me about Ava Garret?”

  There was a snort from Esmeralda as Barnaby replied, “I believe you knew her quite well, Mr. Footscray?”

  “Indeed. I was Ava’s mentor and the first person to appreciate her remarkable gifts. I oversaw her tutelage and accompanied her, for the first few months at least, to church meetings.”

  George’s voice was also unexpected. Very weak, it came out all quavery and wavery, as if he was a crotchety old man. Perhaps Esmeralda had made him like that over the years. Sucking his strength to nourish her own. Other people’s lives, thought Barnaby, newly grateful for Joyce and Cully. And even Nicolas.

  “You never doubted that she was genuine?”

  “Not for a moment,” said George. “After every service people would be waiting to talk to her, to say thank you. Often in tears.”

  “What about seances? Private sittings?”

  “As to that, she couldn’t be persuaded. Ava believed she
was born to be on stage.”

  “And were you there the day Dennis Brinkley…um…?”

  “Punctured the heavenly matrix? Certainly. And I can tell you, Mr. Barnaby, it was a daunting experience.”

  While George expounded on this Sergeant Troy made one or two brief notes. Truth to tell his mind was not really on the business in hand. It was dwelling rather on the strange confectionery he had recently swallowed. For no reason at all the film Rosemary’s Baby came to mind. He recalled some strange root ground up by witches and fed to Mia Farrow that had been called something like aniss. Now, to Troy’s alarm, a discreet burp was releasing the definite flavour of aniseed balls.

  He stared accusingly at George, who was now describing his stewardship of the Church of the Near at Hand. Stared at his face. Long and oval like a stretched egg, it reminded Troy of that bloke holding his head and screaming that you saw on all the T-shirts. He stared at George’s greyish yellow strips of hair darkened by brilliantine. At his skin that looked as if it had been reclaimed from the sea. At the back view of his trousers, which fell directly from his waist to the heels of his shoes without obstruction. Troy remembered a bit of advice given to a female cousin by his mother when she started playing the field. Never trust a man with no bottom. Could there be anything in it? He also noticed that Footscray never quite closed his lips when he spoke and you could hear the tiny shift and click of his false teeth. It sounded like a mouse tap-dancing. Troy tuned back into the conversation, which had now become a three-handed affair.

  George was saying, “Mother’s quite looking forward to going to spirit, aren’t you, dear?”

  “I am,” agreed Esmeralda. “I shall know a lot more people over there than I do over here.”

  “But we shall be in constant touch,” said George. “It’s not generally known but there is an excellent telegraphic system— Ariel Cobwebs plc from outer space to planet earth.”

  “Really?” said Barnaby. He could never understand why people called it planet earth. Could there be another earth somewhere in the universe that was not a planet? George was still clicking on.

  “Mother has a psychical opening at the crown of her head.”

  “With a myriad connections,” explained Mrs. Footscray, “going back to prehistoric times.”

  There was no answer to this and wisely Barnaby did not attempt to make one. Just smiled at the old lady, rose and was preparing to take his leave when she suddenly cried, “The loop, George! The loop!”

  The light in the illumined globe was weakening by the second. Fluttering too, like a huge trapped moth. George hurried to wheel a small table holding a portable television and video recorder to her side and pressed play. The Queen Mother appeared in all her cerise and gamboge glory, walking down a line of uniformed cavalry. Mrs. Footscray pressed the middle fingers of her right hand to the lamp, the flat of her left hand to the screen and started humming. Then she began crooning: “Divine love from me to you…divine light from me to you…divine strength from me to you…”

  The others just stood there. George nodding gravely. Barnaby stolidly expressionless. Troy intently regarding the tea cosy – a lumpy tangle of pale brown string, strangely stiffened – and struggling to keep a straight face.

  Suddenly the ectoplasmic intervention was over. Esmeralda beamed at everyone and said, “Healing completed. She’ll be all right now.”

  “Until the next time,” sighed George.

  “It can’t be helped, dear. At her age one must expect it. I do hope,” she raised her voice as Barnaby showed signs of edging towards the door, “we leave our earthly tabernacle on the same day. She’ll need help settling in.”

  “The hierarchy’s different over there.”

  “I’m a quid down on that gig,” said Sergeant Troy, driving away from number 15 Clover Street. In the hall he had been encouraged to take one of the newspapers from the butler’s tray, only to have George blocking the way to the front door, clearing his throat and staring hard at the donations notice. Now he was stuck with the bloody Psychic News. “You couldn’t make them up, could you, people like that?”

  “Anyone who could,” said Barnaby, “is plainly in need of professional help.”

  “Wish I’d got a spirit guide. I wonder what they actually do.”

  “They tell you when to add the tonic.”

  “A Chinese one would be brilliant.”

  Troy’s voice, delivering the wistful lead in, had a nudge in it. The DCI braced himself.

  “Lo Hung Dong?” suggested Sergeant Troy.

  Not a smile, not a flicker of response. Well, he’d done his best. And not for the first time. Maybe the moment had finally come to face the sad truth. He was working for a man who had no sense of humour.

  Fortunately there were no passers-by to see the door to Appleby House flung open with such force it cracked on its hinges. Mallory Lawson came running out, his face frenzied with emotion. He flung himself at the Golf, tugging and wrenching the handle, then cursed and shouted, going through his pockets, slapping at them, pulling out the linings. Finally producing a key, he released the locks. The car screeched into reverse, shot out into the road and vanished.

  Mallory had been thinking of nothing special when he picked up the telephone. His irritation with the police had disappeared. He’d had a vague idea of visiting the orchard, which had also come to nothing. Perhaps he might do a bit more unpacking. Perhaps he might read. Or he might just hang about perpetuating this state of easy indolence. He said, “Hello,” and when a woman’s voice said, “This is Debbie Hartogensis,” recognised the name immediately. Saw the notice pinned to the basement flat door inscribed: “Fforbes-Snaithe. Hartogensis, Lawson.” His flesh cold and shrinking, he cried, “Polly?”

  Now he was burning rubber doing a ton up the motorway, foul-smelling liquid brimming in the cup of his mouth and so hot he could have been melting away. He couldn’t control his face, which kept shuddering and twitching. His hands, hot and oily, slithered all over the steering wheel. Terrified of losing control, he hung on till the knuckles almost pushed through his skin.

  He had abandoned his daughter. He had not rung, he had not gone to see her. When he had gone he had not persisted. He had neglected her. Assumed she had gone on holiday simply because he heard it from Benny, of all people. Worst of all, he had forgotten her. Now she was…

  That was the nub of his anguish—he didn’t know. Debbie Hartogensis had talked on but he had been so paralysed with fear that all he could now recall was a jumble of key words. Flick-knife sharp they were too: dangerous terrible deep wasted reek tablets crying smashed tablets crying tablets.

  Mallory’s exit was coming up. He tried to slow down. He remembered the mirror. What use would he be to her dead? The traffic streamed and screamed behind him as he entered the slip road too fast.

  He breathed slowly, braked hard, tried to calm his churning mind. It was a terrible time to be crossing London, but when was a good time and anyway it was the only time he’d got. What he simply must not do was get caught up in any provocation. No arguments. No cutting in or cutting up, no matter how desperate his awareness of time passing.

  He was reminded of the last occasion he had driven in frantic worry to see Polly at Cordwainer Road, only to find she was absolutely fine when he got there. Why hadn’t he listened properly to what this flatmate had to say? Asked some sensible questions, found out exactly what the situation was.

  In the street where she lived everything looked exactly the same. Mallory realised he had been dreading the sight of an ambulance or police car. He skewed the Golf any-old-how on to a double yellow and ran down the basement steps.

  The moment the door moved Mallory pushed it hard and bolted into the flat. Picking herself up from the hall floor where she had fallen on to her bicycle Debbie Hartogensis righted the machine and followed him.

  “You pushed me over.”

  “What?” Mallory was coming out of the bathroom and staring round. All the doors he could see stood op
en except one. He crossed to this last, started hammering on it and shouting: “Polly!”

  “Mr. Lawson.”

  “Polly, are you all right? Polly.”

  “Don’t do that!” Debbie seized his arm. “What are you trying to do—frighten her to death?”

  An image of Polly behind the door, cowering, stopped Mallory straightaway. He stared at the girl. This must be her, the person who had rung. He couldn’t even remember her name.

  “Come and sit down.”

  “What shall we do?”

  “If you’ll just listen—”

  “Why is she in there – shut up like that?”

  “I tried to explain.” Debbie pulled him towards an easy chair and pushed him into it.

  “Yes, I know. I just…couldn’t take it in.”

  “I came back from vacation two days ago. I knew Amanda would still be in Majorca. Polly’s door was locked so I thought she’d gone off somewhere as well. Then, in the middle of the night, I heard somebody in the john. Boy, was I scared.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Jesus—you think I checked? I was shitting myself. I’d just crawled under the divan when they went into Polly’s room and locked the door.”

  “So it was her?”

  “She was kinda moaning, then it all went quiet. Next day, when she realised I was back, she wouldn’t come out. I had to go get bagels and milk and stuff. When I got back she’d used the bathroom then locked herself away again. I heard her crying.”

  Crying! He could never remember Polly crying. Even when very small she had screamed rather than cried. And if there were tears they would be tears of rage.

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “I tried.” She shook her head. “Zilch.”

  Mallory went over and laid his head against the doorjamb. Listening, frowning.

  “It went on like this – her only coming out when I wasn’t here. Then I got kinda worried. Maybe she was really sick, you know?”