Watching the Ghosts (30 page)

‘I'm on my lunch hour,' she said. ‘I thought I'd have a look at those prints you mentioned. I see you haven't got rid of that thing yet.' She nodded towards the clock.

‘This gentleman's been asking about it. He used to be chaplain at Havenby Hall where it came from. He helped me with the research for my play.'

Lydia gave Rattenbury a shy smile. ‘My grandfather worked there as a locum for a few weeks, covering when Dr Pennell was in hospital. Maybe you remember him. Dr Reginald Speed.'

‘I'm sorry. I don't recall the name.'

Lydia's phone began to ring.

Rattenbury left the shop without another word.

‘I can't get through to Lydia,' Joe said. ‘Her phone's engaged.'

‘So?' Emily sounded uninterested, as though she thought he was fussing about nothing.

Joe shrugged. Emily was probably right. It was her lunch hour so perhaps she was talking to one of her friends. But he still felt he needed to warn her. Without knowing who the enemy was, she was vulnerable.

All patrols were on the lookout for Rattenbury. His description and the grainy photograph found in Proud's flat had been circulated widely. In all likelihood he had killed Melanie Hawkes, Judith Dodds, Karl Dremmer and Alan Proud. And if they found Beverley dead, that would make five – exceeding his previous score.

He tried to call Lydia again but all he got was her voice mail. He left a message telling her that if anybody answering Rattenbury's description tried to make contact she should call him at once. He left Rattenbury's house to the search team and climbed into the car beside Emily. There were things to arrange back at the police station . . . a manhunt to coordinate.

But he'd keep trying Lydia's number.

When Lydia's phone rang she found herself hoping it was Joe. But when she answered it she heard a female voice, speaking softly, almost in a whisper; it took her a few moments to realize who it was.

‘Beverley. Where are you? They've been looking for you.'

Beverley didn't answer the question. She carried on as though she hadn't much time – as though she was dreading the return of someone or something. She had a message to convey and she hadn't time for small talk.

‘Meet me at Boothgate House. Go past the graveyard to the back of the building – the part they haven't started work on yet. I'll meet you there. I'll explain everything when I see you.'

‘Shall I call the police?'

‘No. Don't call them whatever you do. I've got myself into a bit of a scrape and I really don't want to involve them. I've got to go.'

‘Look, I'm afraid your mother . . .' But before she could continue, the line went dead and she was left standing there, wondering what to do. In spite of what Beverley said, all her instincts told her to call Joe. She saw he'd been trying to get hold of her so she tried his number but it was engaged so she left a message on his voicemail, saying she was going to Boothgate House to meet Beverley. She'd be in touch later.

She walked to Boothgate House through the busy streets, hoping Beverley wouldn't keep her long. She had to be back at work in half an hour.

When she reached her destination the silence made her uneasy; she'd almost preferred it when the building had been buzzing with builders and policemen. She realized she'd never ventured round the back beyond the graveyard. The side wall of the yet-to-be-developed wing was sadly neglected and weeds trespassed right up to the brickwork. Her sandals were hardly suitable for tramping through the undergrowth but Beverley's instructions had been quite clear. She tried Joe's number again but when she couldn't get a signal she carried on.

The clinging weeds slowed her pace as she walked round to the back of the building. There was no sign of Beverley so she called her name, quietly at first, then louder. But there was no reply. She took out her phone. Still no signal and she was reluctant to go any further without at least telling Joe where she was.

The weeds and overgrown grass tickled her legs as she started to retrace her steps to the front of the building, the phone held in front of her. The grimy gravestones stuck out of the undergrowth to her right. All those sad souls sleeping beneath the earth, the ordeal of their final years over. There had been times in her life, times of pain and loss, when she would almost have envied them . . . but recently everything had changed.

The tiny bars on the phone screen that would tell her she had a signal still hadn't appeared so she walked on. Until she heard a noise somewhere behind her, a footstep muffled by grass. Then, before she could turn round, everything went black.

And the last thing she felt was the cold damp vegetation on her bare flesh as she fell to her knees and oblivion came.

‘B
everley's called. I'm meeting her back at Boothgate House. Just thought you'd like to know she's OK.' The message was terse, as most voicemail messages are, but Joe felt a wave of relief as he listened to it. He tried Lydia's number but he couldn't get through, which meant that either she was somewhere with no signal or she'd switched the thing off.

When he told Emily about this new development she ordered him to get round there and see what Beverley had to say for herself – and to break the news about her mother's death . . . if she didn't already know. There was always the possibility that Beverley had ended the old woman's life herself as an act of mercy or frustration. Perhaps that was why she'd fled.

Emily also wanted to know about any dealings Beverley may have had with Brockmeister. But Joe pointed out that she might not even have known Brockmeister had her in his sights. The only important thing now was that Beverley was safe.

His phone rang and when he answered it he heard Jamilla's voice on the other end of the line. The man calling himself the Reverend Rattenbury had been spotted near Cecil Bentham's house.

Emily took the phone off him and, after a quick conversation, she announced she was going back to the station to supervise the hunt for Brockmeister, leaving Joe to look after things at Boothgate House.

Joe drove there, exceeding the speed limit as he hurtled down the old, straight Roman road into the city. He parked in front of the building and slammed the car door loudly before dashing to the entrance and pressing the key beside Lydia's name. When there was no answer he tried Beverley's but again he heard no disembodied voice coming from the grille beside the row of metal buttons.

There was no police presence at the building now; just some remnants of tattered blue-and-white tape around the graveyard signalled the fact that there had been a crime here. But Joe felt that the place should have been swathed in the stuff. This was the epicentre. Everything stemmed from the days when Boothgate House was home to the disturbed and vulnerable and, in Peter Brockmeister's case, the evil.

He tried all the other occupied flats but there was no answer. There was no sign of Creeny's builders either so Joe began to dial his number. At least Creeny would have a master key.

Creeny sounded remarkably cooperative and promised to be there in fifteen minutes. Joe just hoped that was soon enough. Standing at the entrance to the silent building, he had a bad feeling. Something was very wrong.

Lydia's head was pounding and when she tried to put her hand up to see what was causing the pain, she found she couldn't move. Something was restraining her arms and it took her befuddled brain several moments to realize that there were straps around her wrists and her ankles. Everything hurt: her brain, her limbs, her stomach. And a brilliant light filtered through her closed eyelids.

Through half-opened eyes she could see that the light was huge and round like the sun. It was focused on her face, blinding her to her surroundings, and she guessed that it was the kind she'd seen before in operating theatres. She was lying on some sort of couch and when she shifted the leather creaked under her weight. And she sensed that she was naked and that she wasn't alone.

‘What do you want? Who are you? Where's Beverley?' The words came out slurred and incoherent, probably the effect of whatever had been done to her. She feared that whatever was happening to her had already happened to her neighbour. Beverley might have been forced to make that call to lure her there. Wherever
there
was. And if that was the case, Beverley might already be dead.

Somebody was moving beyond the light. Why didn't they speak? What were they waiting for?

Sunny and a couple of uniformed officers broke down Cecil Bentham's door and, once inside the house, they discovered him cowering in a corner of his small kitchen like a terrified animal, huddled in fear, his emaciated limbs drawn up to his chest. When they tried to help him up he babbled incoherently, his eyes staring in terror as if they had witnessed the horrors of hell. Sunny was lost for words for once but, after summoning an ambulance, he raised the old man up gently and sat him in a chair.

Bentham grasped his arm so tightly that he winced, surprised at the strength in the bird-like limbs. ‘Don't let him in,' he hissed in Sunny's ear. He's outside but don't let him in. He said he's coming for me . . .'

Sunny frowned. ‘When did he tell you that?'

His eyes suddenly widened and met Sunny's. ‘I need to confess. I don't want him to have power over me any more.'

‘Who are you talking about?' Sunny asked, suspecting what the answer would be.

‘Peter Brockmeister. Mrs Chambers made the arrangements but he was in charge. He was the one who did it.'

‘Did what?' Sunny asked.

‘Killed my wife of course,' the old man replied before bowing his head in exhaustion.

Whoever it was had moved again, shifted a little, all the time watching. And waiting.

‘Who are you? Where's Beverley?'

There was a sound that sounded like a sigh. Then a shadowy figure stepped forward.

P
atrick Creeny emerged from his BMW, casually, as if he had all the time in the world. ‘You realize you've dragged me out of a meeting,' he said. He sounded annoyed as he shut the car door slowly, making a point. ‘This had better be important.'.

Joe suddenly felt unsure of himself. He might be panicking for nothing. Lydia and Beverley might have walked into Eborby for a coffee. Beverley might have been upset about her mother and decided to go off on her own for a couple of days. People do.

‘I want to check that someone's OK,' he said with confidence. ‘I've got reason to believe they could be in danger.'

Creeny didn't look impressed but he took his key from his pocket, opened the front door and stood in the hallway while Joe rushed down the corridor and pounded on Lydia's door before trying Beverley's.

He shouted over to Creeny. ‘Do you have pass keys to all the flats?'

Creeny followed him slowly, like an old man panting with the effort. He took out a bunch of keys, sorted through them and handed one to Joe who felt his hand tingling with nerves as he opened Lydia's door, dreading what he'd find inside. But there was no sign of Lydia . . . and no sign of Beverley either when he entered the Newsons' flat which looked as though nothing had changed there since the night of Katharine Newson's death. Or had she really been Christabel Chambers? Maybe they would never know for sure.

He felt rather sheepish as he returned the keys to Creeny who wore an expression of martyred patience.

‘I'm going to have a look down in the basement,' he said, hurrying towards the door.

‘Be my guest,' Creeny mumbled, following behind.

Joe opened the door to the basement and took out the small torch he usually kept in his pocket, shining it around. The room looked the same as when he'd last seen it, right down to Karl Dremmer's sleeping bag and equipment. He walked over to the far wall and shone the beam at the place where the mortar had been scraped away. Again, nothing had changed since his last visit. He felt disappointed. And frustrated. There was nothing here. He took out his phone but there was no signal. So much for the wonders of technology.

‘Seen enough?'

Joe turned and saw Creeny watching him from the top of the steps. ‘If we could have a quick search through the rest of the building . . .'

Creeny gave a mock salute, resigned to the delay to his schedule. ‘No problem.'

They walked round the building; round the empty flats and then through the veil of plastic sheeting into the unmodernized wing with its dark green walls and its institutional corridors. The old asylum hadn't been a huge establishment so the search didn't take long. Joe asked about the old staff quarters – the flats where Mrs Chambers and Dr Pennell had lived. The reply surprised him – the matron's flat was now Beverley's and the Medical Superintendent's was Alan Proud's. Lydia's had been occupied by another, more junior, member of staff.

‘Is that all?' Joe asked as their tour ended. ‘Is there anywhere else we haven't looked?'

Creeny shook his head and looked at his watch.

‘What about round the back?'

‘We've just checked that wing . . . there's nothing there. Remember?' He sounded exasperated but Joe wasn't going to be put off.

‘Can I see the plans?'

‘They're back at the office. Besides, there's nothing on them you haven't seen.'

Joe suddenly wanted to see those plans, to check for himself that he'd seen everything. He wasn't sure he trusted Creeny. But, on the other hand, why should he be lying? ‘Can you get them for me?'

‘I suppose so.'

Joe could tell he was annoyed, as if this request was a step too far.

‘Leave the keys with me,' said Joe.

Reluctantly Creeny slouched out of the building and when he'd gone Joe decided to have one more look down in the basement. Dremmer had sensed something there, as had George Merryweather, and Joe wondered whether, once he was alone, he'd be able to sense it too. An atmosphere. A presence. He realized he could be wasting precious time but something made him open the basement door and venture down there again, torch in hand.