Watching the Ghosts (27 page)

Joe nodded. It was a delay but it wouldn't take long. He left Emily watching Sally conduct her initial examination and made his way down the drive to the main gate, now closed to keep the public out. He found Sunny near the abbey's undercroft, leaning against a patrol car with a cigarette in his mouth, talking to a burley middle-aged uniformed sergeant, chatting like two men in a pub putting the world to rights. As he saw Joe approach he hid the cigarette behind his back and made an attempt to look alert.

‘What's the verdict?' he asked as soon as Joe was in earshot.

‘Stabbing.'

‘Mugging gone wrong?'

‘The killer left his wallet.'

Sunny threw the cigarette to the ground and stamped it out before slinking off like a reluctant schoolboy to do his duty. Joe exchanged a half-hearted greeting with the sergeant before hurrying back to his car. He suddenly felt responsible for Lydia. He needed to make sure she was safe.

Alan Proud was dead and whoever had been in his flat might have been his murderer.

The noises had stopped a while ago so, presumably, the intruder had gone. Besides, she needed to know whether Beverley had seen or heard anything too.

She undid the latch on her front door and peeped out, relieved to find that everything looked quite normal. Just a carpeted corridor, wide, light and airy with a large window at one end and expensive-looking art deco wall lights. She normally left her door on the latch when she went across the corridor to see Beverley, but this time the thought of someone creeping into her flat while she was out made her step inside again to pick up her keys from the hall table and put them in the pocket of her jeans.

She shut the door behind her, checking that it was locked, and knocked on Beverley's door, all the time keeping an eye on Proud's flat.

When there was no answer she knocked again, wondering whether Beverley had nipped to the convenience store nearby as she sometimes did when she ran out of essentials. But she had a niggling feeling that something wasn't right so she gave Beverley's door a tentative push and, to her surprise it swung open slowly. She stared into the dimly lit hall with a sense of foreboding. What if Proud's intruder had turned his attentions to Beverley's flat? Could Beverley and her mother be there cowering at his mercy?

She clenched her fists and walked into the flat calling Beverley's name, and when there was no answer she made her way down the hallway pushing open each door in turn. She'd never actually been further than Beverley's living room before and most of their conversations had been held in the hall. But she knew the place was considerably larger than her own with at least three bedrooms and as she tiptoed from room to room she took in the old-fashioned decor which reminded her of her grandparents' house while she was growing up. Much of the furniture was large, dark and dated from the Victorian period, and there were fussy touches everywhere: ornaments and plants that gave the spacious rooms a cluttered feel.

She peeped into a bedroom that she assumed was Beverley's own. It was neat with a peach candlewick bedspread on the single bed and embroidered mats on the dressing table and, unlike Lydia's own room, there wasn't a thing out of place. She shut the door, suddenly guilty about prying uninvited into her neighbour's life.

When she reached the far door she knocked and when there was no answer, she pushed it open gently. If this was her mother's room, she didn't want to frighten the old lady.

Saying a soft hello, she stepped across the threshold and her eyes rested on the small shape in the bed. The old lady didn't move which probably meant she was asleep, but Lydia felt she should make sure she was all right.

She crept to the bed and looked down on the wizened face and the two stick-thin arms with mottled parchment skin that lay motionless on the coverlet. She stood for a few moments and listened for the old woman's breathing, watching for the rise and fall of her bird-like chest beneath the covers. And it was only when she was certain she was dead that she rushed from the room, out of the flat and down the corridor towards the entrance.

But before she could reach the front door she felt somebody grab her and hold her there, pinning her arms so that she couldn't move.

She struggled, twisting herself to see her assailant's face.

The last person she'd expected to see was Patrick Creeny.

J
oe sat beside Lydia on her sofa, his head bowed close to hers as though he was hearing her confession.

‘Thank God you turned up when you did,' she said quietly, her voice still shaking a little with the shock. ‘I don't know what would have happened if . . .'

‘Creeny claims you ran into him. He said he was just trying to find out what was wrong.'

She shook her head. ‘He was here all the time. He must have been.'

‘He's the developer so that's not surprising.' He hesitated. ‘Let's talk about Mrs Newson. You say you couldn't get an answer and the door was ajar so you went in to check she was OK?'

‘That's right. Has anyone found Beverley yet?'

‘We've got people out looking for her. Don't worry.'

‘I can't help worrying,' she snapped at him as though his questions were starting to annoy her. ‘Her mother's dead and she's gone off . . . disappeared.'

‘She might be upset . . . in shock. She might be wandering around somewhere.'

‘Why didn't she call someone?'

‘People do strange things when they're in shock. If she'd found her mother like that . . .'

‘Was it . . .' She paused as though she was gathering courage to ask the question. ‘Did her mother die of natural causes or . . .? Only I was thinking if it was Proud's murderer who was searching his flat and he went across to Beverley's . . .'

This was something that had crossed Joe's mind – but he had no evidence yet so he didn't want to make Lydia panic. ‘There's no reason to believe it wasn't natural causes. Our doctor's due here any minute so she'll probably be able to tell us for sure.'

‘Do you think Proud's killer's got Beverley? Do you think she's in danger?'

Joe said nothing. It was a question he couldn't answer. He had a sudden vision of Beverley, floating in water with flowers bursting from her mouth. An overweight Ophelia festooned with grim garlands.

When he heard Sally Sharpe's voice outside in the corridor. He gave Lydia's hand a squeeze and went out to greet her.

Killing is easy. Once done, it is so simple to kill again. But the murder of Alan Proud, that swift thrust of metal into flesh, didn't satisfy like the others. It was always best when he took his time. When he took them to his private place where he could bind their wrists and ankles and watch them suffer before he slowly squeezed the life from their earthly bodies.

He enjoyed watching for that elusive point between life and death. He had always thought that killing was the ultimate thrill but it wasn't until Pennell had introduced him to the real pleasure of suffering that it had become an addiction. And that addiction had never left him.

Proud had been dangerous, as obsessives often are. Dangerous to him and dangerous to those close to him. He'd known too much. That's why he'd had to die.

Now that Proud was out of the way there were others he had to deal with. And he knew they'd never catch him. They hadn't a clue.

‘I can't keep up with all this.' Emily stood in the centre of Alan Proud's living room with her arms folded like some Northern soap-opera harridan. ‘You've been in here, Joe. Can you remember what was in those frames?'

‘They were letters Peter Brockmeister wrote to a man called Darren Carter. He'd shared a cell with him in prison before he was transferred to Havenby Hall. Carter died in a prison brawl and one of the prison officers nicked the letters and sold them on the Internet to the highest bidder. They ended up with Proud.'

‘And he could have been killed for them?'

Joe shrugged. ‘Well they're not here now and they weren't on his body so . . . I managed to read a couple of them but they didn't contain anything earth shattering as far as I could see. Carter had written to Brockmeister to beg him to take the blame for the murder he was inside for so he could appeal his conviction. But in the letters he wrote back Brockmeister told him he wasn't going to accept responsibility. Brockmeister didn't deny he was guilty but he didn't admit it either. I think he was playing with Carter.'

‘Could he have committed the murder the lad was inside for?'

‘It didn't bear any of his hallmarks . . . and Brockmeister was a sadist so he probably enjoyed keeping his former cell-mate dangling.

Emily shook her head, frowning, lost for words for once. Her blonde curls flopped over her eyes. ‘That notebook you found . . . you really think Brockmeister tortured people while he was a patient here?'

‘It was him and Dr Pennell as far as I can tell.'

‘Do you think it happened in that basement?'

Joe said nothing. He was thinking of what Dennis Younger had told him about the screams he'd heard and about what George had said about the place. At least it seemed that his friend had had the good sense to stay away tonight. He'd been worried that he'd be tempted to follow Karl Dremmer's example and put himself in danger. And that was something Joe didn't like to contemplate.

After a while he spoke, quietly. ‘I think Brockmeister and Pennell were probably kindred spirits, although Pennell might not have realized it until they met.'

‘Is Brockmeister still alive? Is he carrying out these killings?' Joe had never heard Emily sound so unsure of herself before.

‘I don't know,' he said with honesty. ‘But I'm wondering why Patrick Creeny turned up when he did. He's already admitted that he'd had Dremmer beaten up and intimidated in order to warn him off. It obviously didn't work so what if he decided to take things a step further?'

‘Well he's not Brockmeister. He's the wrong age for a start.'

‘Did Brockmeister have any relatives? Children?'

‘There's no record of it. You think Creeny might be . . .?'

‘I'm clutching at any possibility here, Emily. We don't even know if Brockmeister's alive or dead.'

‘We know what he looked like forty years ago from old photographs. Although I can't think of anyone we've met in the course of this investigation who bears even the slightest resemblance to him. Can you?'

Joe began to picture the men he'd questioned who'd be around the right age: Cecil Bentham; the Rev Rattenbury; and Dennis Younger, the former patient. None of them fitted the bill and, in Rattenbury's case, he had George Merryweather to vouch for his good character. ‘No. Which makes me think that if he is around we haven't met him yet.'

Joe looked round the room and his eyes focused on the empty desk in the corner. ‘Proud's laptop's missing.'

Emily rolled her eyes. ‘Surprise, surprise. I'll get this place searched thoroughly and you'd better make sure what's-her-name's OK.'

‘Her name's Lydia. I don't think she should stay here tonight.'

‘She must have a friend who can put her up.'

‘I'll see to it,' Joe said before leaving the room and making for Lydia's flat. He knocked on the door and she opened it cautiously. When he stepped inside and suggested she call Amy, she looked disappointed. She hesitated. ‘Last time I stayed there I got the impression her boyfriend wasn't exactly delighted. I'd feel safer staying at yours.'

‘No problem,' he said, hoping she couldn't sense his reluctance. After that first impulsive night, the misgivings had been crowding in and Kaitlin was increasingly haunting his thoughts and his heart. He couldn't help feeling that things were moving too fast, out of his control.

But the situation was urgent so he gave Lydia a lift to his flat and told her to make herself at home. He hadn't had a chance to clean the place that week so the bins were overflowing and the bathroom was verging on unsanitary but Lydia didn't seem to notice as she undressed and curled up in his bed. He had to go back to Boothgate House so he left her there, content that at least she was safe.

‘You will find Beverley, won't you?' were her last anxious words before he left.

He didn't answer. He'd never liked making promises he couldn't keep.

When Joe had returned in the early hours Lydia had still been awake and he lay beside her, their bodies hardly touching. She'd whispered in the darkness that she thought she was cursed. Perhaps he shouldn't have anything to do with her. Even her beloved grandfather – that gentle, harmless doctor – had died violently in a hit-and-run accident. Perhaps she was unlucky for all who came into contact with her.

Joe had murmured words of comfort into her ear. It was nonsense, he said. None of what happened had been her fault. She was just going through a bad patch in her life; everyone had them at some time. But he knew his assurances hadn't convinced her. And a small, nagging inner voice told him that he wasn't altogether convinced himself.

She'd dropped off to sleep but had awoken a couple of hours later, shaking with tears coursing down her face. It was the nightmare again. The clock. At that moment Joe felt tempted to march to Cecil Bentham's shop and take an axe to the ugly thing. But he was a police officer, a responsible member of society, so vandalism wasn't an option.

The following morning she went to work because she reckoned it was better than sitting in Joe's empty flat brooding on recent events. Before she left at eight thirty Joe called the police station to ask whether there was any word of Beverley, careful not to mention that Lydia had spent the night at his flat – he'd never hear the end of it from Emily if she found out. But Beverley hadn't turned up. He'd broken the news to Lydia as gently as he could but she'd said nothing, almost as though she was resigned to the worst happening.