Watching the Ghosts (16 page)

The cathedral café was housed in an ancient stone building once used by the clergy. She made her way past the glass cabinet full of fattening cakes and scanned the room for a familiar face. Sure enough Mrs Dodds was there waiting for her, sipping a coffee.

She looked up as Lydia approached. ‘I haven't eaten yet. Do you want . . .?'

They served Sunday lunch there but recent events had robbed her of her appetite. ‘Just a sandwich,' she said. Mrs Dodds said she'd have the same and Lydia queued up at the counter.

She ate quickly, sensing Mrs Dodds wouldn't reveal the purpose of the meeting until they'd finished. Once the plates were empty Mrs Dodds delved in her floral shopping bag, took out what looked like a ledger and passed it to Lydia.

‘After you'd left I went up in the attic and had a root through my father's things. My father went into hospital for an operation in early 1980 and it looks as if your grandfather acted as locum at Havenby Hall for a couple of weeks.'

A yellow Post-it note marked the appropriate page and Lydia opened it. There was her grandfather's signature against the notes. Dr Reginald Speed. The page was filled with his sloping handwriting: when she'd helped to clear her grandmother's house out after her death she'd found many examples, kept as treasured mementos by his widow.

As she began to read she realized that it was an account of the various treatments he'd given to patients, mainly antibiotics and painkillers. However, as she continued to read, things became more interesting. After the first few days at Havenby Hall her grandfather had no longer confined himself to matter-of-fact notes of medications he'd administered. He had begun to record his observations of various patients, even though he was supposed to adhere strictly to dealing with physical ailments. And there were observations about the staff too and comments on the way they treated the patients. Then a name caught her eye. Brockmeister. After the first three pages he featured a lot and it seemed that her grandfather had made a special point of observing his behaviour. When she turned the page she saw that several sheets of paper had been torn out. Whatever her grandfather had written there had been removed.

The rest of the ledger was filled with another handwriting, presumably that of Mrs Dodds' father, Dr Pennell. And he had confined himself to routine medical matters.

She looked up and saw that Mrs Dodds was watching her closely. ‘Why are you showing me this?'

‘Because I thought there was something unusual about the way your grandfather wrote about Havenby Hall. And those pages were torn out. I wondered if my father did that when he took over again.'

Lydia stared at the ledger. ‘You're right. I think my grandfather was worried about something. Something to do with this Brockmeister.' She hesitated. ‘I know who he was.'

‘So do I,' Mrs Dodds said almost in a whisper.

Lydia delved into her purse and pushed her share of the lunch money across the table. ‘I'm sorry, I've got to get back to work. Thanks for . . .'

‘You can keep the ledger if you like. It's no use to me.'

Lydia picked it up and slipped it into her large handbag. But as she walked out of the place she regretted her action at once. She didn't want to be reminded of Brockmeister or that clock. On the other hand, she was curious.

As she hurried out of the café, suddenly anxious to be out of there, she was startled to see Joe Plantagenet standing in the doorway. He wore what she presumed were his working clothes which reminded her that he was bound to be on duty after what had happened to Karl Dremmer. When he spotted her he smiled. He had a nice smile, slightly crooked, and all the darkness she'd sensed in him last night seemed to have vanished.

‘On your lunch hour?' he asked. But she sensed his mind wasn't on her as his eyes began to search the room as though he was looking for someone.

‘Yes, I . . . I've just found out something about my grandfather. He . . .'

‘Joe. Good to see you. How are you?'

She turned her head and saw a small bald clergyman bearing down on Joe. From his wide smile of greeting she could tell the two men knew each other well and she had the feeling she'd be in the way.

‘Look, I'll have to go,' she said.

‘I'll call you,' he said, touching her arm gently. ‘Take care.'

Joe watched Lydia as she walked away. Perhaps he should have made more effort to find out what she had to say about her grandfather. But time was tight. He grabbed a sandwich from the display, ordered a coffee and sat down opposite George who was about to tuck into a plate of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding – his weekly treat after Matins.

‘So what happened to Dr Dremmer?' George sounded concerned but worry didn't seem to have dampened his appetite, judging by the speed with which the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding was vanishing from his plate.

‘How do you know him?'

‘He contacted me. He was conducting paranormal research in Havenby Hall on Boothgate – it's been converted into apartments and renamed Boothgate House.'

‘I know. Dr Dremmer was found dead there first thing this morning. We think he was murdered.'

George put down his knife and fork. ‘He seemed a quiet sort of chap . . . an academic. Although I believe academics can make a lot of bitter enemies amongst their colleagues . . . professional rivalries and all that.'

‘We think his death might be connected with the building. You've heard of the other recent murder – Melanie Hawkes?'

‘Yes. That was terrible.'

‘Her husband was the architect who's been working on the Havenby Hall conversion. And the woman I spoke to earlier lives there. Her flat was broken into by this serial burglar.'

‘The Builder?'

‘That's right.'

George gave him a mischievous grin. ‘And there was me thinking you might have found yourself a woman.'

Joe decided to say nothing. If anything came of the relationship he'd tell George in his own good time. ‘I'm sure there's some connection to that place but I don't know what it is yet.'

George continued to eat and Joe waited until he'd finished before he asked his next question. ‘In view of what happened I need to know what Dremmer said to you.'

George took a sip of his tea. ‘He was a sceptic, a serious researcher. I try to take that attitude myself, of course. Most allegedly paranormal phenomena can either be explained away or they're the result of someone's overactive imagination. But now and again you come across the genuine article: something inexplicable or just plain evil.' He put his cup down and looked Joe in the eye. ‘That's what Dremmer thought he'd found in the basement of Boothgate House. He called me because he wanted a second opinion. He said his equipment had picked something up. And he said he'd found something down there, something he intended to investigate.'

‘Did he say what it was?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

‘You haven't been down there yourself?'

‘He was going to spend another night there and he said that if he hadn't come up with a feasible explanation, he was going to ask me to go down with him. Dremmer's not the first person to sense something amiss in that building; a few workmen have reported disturbing experiences. He said he'd encountered opposition from the developer but one of the residents was happy to admit him to the building.'

‘We've met her. She's a retired spinster with a sick mother and I think Dremmer's arrival was the most exciting thing that had happened to her for years. Everyone loves a good ghost hunt.'

‘True. But I didn't get the impression there was anything entertaining about this one. I think Dremmer was genuinely disturbed by what he experienced down there.'

‘I'm going back there now so I'll have a look for myself. And I'm sure we'll find someone to have a look at his equipment and interpret the findings.' He drained his coffee cup. ‘I'd better go, George. I'll be in touch.'

‘Have you given any thought to my suggestion . . . that work with the homeless shelter?'

Joe turned. ‘Sorry, George. Things have been a bit hectic. Maybe when things ease up a bit.'

He left reluctantly. He'd have liked to spend more time with George, who'd helped him through the worst time in his life: the time when he'd moved to Eborby after Kaitlin's death and his own injury in the course of duty. George had saved his faith and his sanity. He owed the man. Maybe when the case was resolved, he told himself. Maybe then he'd give George the attention he deserved.

As he walked back to Boothgate House he couldn't help wondering about Daisy Hawkes. There was something odd about the kidnapping. But that was only one of the things he had to worry about.

Janet Craig was bored. Being a family liaison officer was a difficult job, requiring a great deal of sensitivity, but she had never come across anybody like Jack Hawkes before. Even though his wife had been murdered and his stepdaughter kidnapped, he seemed determined to carry on as normal, spending much of his time in the large office at the other end of the house, conducting phone conversations and disappearing off to meetings. She'd even heard him laughing. She knew people dealt with grief in different ways but this was a first.

One of her duties was to monitor the phone in case Daisy's kidnappers called with more demands. She'd never dealt with a kidnapping case before but, again, she sensed this one was unusual. Something about Hawkes didn't add up. And she'd said as much to DCI Thwaite.

Hawkes was in his office, a spacious room with the model of Boothgate House, once known as Havenby Hall, at its centre, recently returned there after a spell in the drawing room. In his absence she stood up and wandered around the room, wishing something would happen; that Daisy's abductor would make contact or that there'd be some breakthrough in the murder enquiry that she could convey to the not-so-grieving widower. After staring out of the window at the quiet street outside for a while, her natural curiosity got the better of her and she opened the glazed doors of the large mahogany bookcase that stood against one wall. When she pulled out a couple of books and examined them, hoping to find something interesting to read to pass the time, she was surprised to see another row of books behind the first. And these looked far more interesting with their garish covers.

She removed some of the books in the front row carefully – she didn't want Hawkes to know she'd been prying – and found that the second, hidden row was made up of true crime books, all about one particular subject. There were a couple of box files too, tucked away in the corner. With one eye on the door, alert for Hawkes' return, she took them out and when she opened them she saw that they were full of notes.

And they, like the books, were all about Peter Brockmeister and his crimes.

J
oe knew that Emily was expecting him back at the police station but he called her to say there was something he had to do. She told him not to be long.

When he arrived at Boothgate House, the place was still buzzing with police officers. He knew that Alan Proud had already been interviewed and had sworn that he knew nothing and that he hadn't been aware of anything out of the ordinary the previous night. Proud had already complained of police harassment so Joe's instincts told him it would probably be best to take it easy until they had some reason – however slight – to put the pressure on.

There was no sign of Beverley Newson. According to one of the constables guarding the scene, she was in her flat with her mother, recovering from her ordeal. Of all the residents, Beverley had had the closest dealings with Dremmer so Joe thought it might be worth having another word. But there was something he wanted to do first.

The heavy wooden door beneath the staircase which led down to the basement had been dusted for fingerprints and, when Joe had opened it, he brushed the fine grey powder off his hands. He took his torch from his pocket, wondering why no electric light had been installed down there, and retraced his steps, calling to a uniformed constable who was stationed at the front door.

‘Any chance of getting some proper lighting down here?'

The gangly young constable, who looked as if he should still be in the classroom, gave him a blank stare for a few moments then said he'd ask someone. Passing the buck, Joe thought. But fifteen minutes later a pair of arc lights were carried down to the basement and Joe felt a little guilty about misjudging the lad.

Joe walked down the cold stone steps into the brightly lit cellar and took in the scene. A pair of cameras had been set up on tripods, presumably night vision models as the darkness in this place would have been impenetrable at night despite the tiny barred window at the top of one wall which now let in a trickle of watery light.

A sleeping bag lay against one wall, with only a thin foam mat to protect its user from the cold stone flags. Joe marvelled at Karl Dremmer's dedication. Or perhaps he'd become so obsessed with his research that such hardship had become irrelevant. Obsession, in Joe's experience, could lead to danger – and in Dremmer's case it had probably led to his death.

He noticed a plain white mug containing the muddy dregs of what was probably hot chocolate standing beside the sleeping bag. A battery powered lantern stood next to the mug and the sleeping bag looked as if its occupant had climbed out of it in a hurry. He put on a pair of plastic gloves and tested the lantern but nothing happened. It had probably been left switched on since Dremmer had abandoned his post for whatever reason and the batteries had run down. A rucksack lay near the makeshift bed and Joe began to examine its contents. Two sets of spare batteries, a chocolate bar, a banana, a towel, a spare pair of socks, a notepad and a pen. Dremmer had scribbled a few words on the pad: 12.32 orb; 1247 voice; 1.23 temperature drop; sobbing. Then a single word in large scrawled capitals – WALL.