Watching the Ghosts (6 page)

‘How does he know they're female and live on their own?' Joe said as he pressed the key with Lydia Brookes's name beside it.

‘He probably follows them . . . stalks them,' Emily replied.

‘That's worrying,' said Joe. ‘I'm just afraid that maybe one day he'll take it into his head to do more than pinch their cash and knickers.'

Emily felt a cold shudder pass through her body. She felt hungry again now but eating would have to wait.

She heard the buzzer and pushed one of the arched glass front doors open. The double doors, etched with the words ‘Boothgate House', lent a modern look to the building. Inside was a spacious hall with a checkerboard floor and an elegant staircase sweeping up to the first floor. It looked more like a stately home than a hospital. The Georgians just couldn't help themselves when it came to interior design.

Joe turned right, following the signs to Flat Three, while Emily held back a little, looking around. There was a new smell about the place which had obviously been gutted and refurbished to a high standard. Pity, she thought, that they hadn't concentrated more on security.

She followed Joe down a wide corridor which reminded her of an expensive hotel, and as she rounded the corner she saw a constable standing awkwardly by the door to one of the flats, shifting from foot to foot. When he spotted them he pulled himself up to his full and considerable height, trying to look efficient.

He cleared his throat. ‘Sir, ma'am. It's exactly the same as the others.'

She looked around. There were two more doors on the corridor, both shut. ‘Have you spoken to the neighbours? Did anyone see anything?'

‘I couldn't get a reply from either of them. Must be out. Actually, there's something you should see.'

‘What's that?' Joe said. She thought that his slight Liverpool accent made him sound impatient.

‘This time he's left a note.' He handed a plastic bag to Joe who studied it before passing it on to Emily.

‘Oh shit,' she muttered as she read the words.

I'LL SEE YOU NEXT TIME I CALL. BE READY.

Melanie had been gone for a long time.

The call had come at nine o'clock and she'd driven off to the drop at the Museum Gardens' car park with the holdall filled with money. She'd taken her mobile and after two hours had elapsed Jack had tried to call her but there'd been no answer. He'd left a message on her voicemail. Where are you? What's happening? But she hadn't called back.

He had tried to call Paul, her ex, to eliminate the unlikely scenario that Melanie had taken a newly released Daisy to see her father, but there'd been no reply.

Even though he knew he should keep a clear head in case he needed to drive, he helped himself to a scotch, trying to banish the bad feeling he was getting about the whole affair.

K
arl Dremmer knew that he should have obtained permission from the developer but when he'd met Patrick Creeny he hadn't liked the man. His instincts told him he wouldn't be sympathetic to his research. He'd caught a strong whiff of cynicism, maybe even disapproval. Creeny had been quite adamant that he didn't want Boothgate House to be associated with madness and death. And certainly not with spooks and all that nonsense. The apartments were hard enough to shift without that sort of thing. Karl hadn't mentioned the electrician who'd spoken to him about the strange experiences he'd had when he'd been working alone in the building because he hadn't wanted to get the man into any sort of trouble.

He'd persuaded the woman in flat two to let him down into the basement. Like many women of her age, Beverley Newson was susceptible to a bit of flattery. She had taken early retirement to look after her ageing mother and he'd singled her out because he reckoned she'd make a useful ally, one who would seize any sliver of vicarious excitement on offer. And he'd been right.

For a while he'd feared that the burglary at the flat next door to Beverley's and the resulting police presence might put paid to his plans, but instead it had proved a welcome distraction. Nobody had noticed when he'd returned to the building at nine thirty that evening and Beverley had released the door to admit him. By then the place had been quiet; the police had gone and Lydia, the burglary victim from Flat Three, had left to stay the night with a friend. Nobody had seen when Beverley met him in the hall and helped him carry his equipment down into the basement, bubbling with excitement at being involved. She'd brought down hot chocolate and biscuits at ten thirty and when he'd told her he didn't want to be disturbed for the rest of the night she'd looked disappointed. But he'd had no choice. This was a serious scientific investigation and it was something he had to do alone.

The equipment was set up. Cameras, digital recorders, the latest gear. He had placed his camp bed and sleeping bag in the corner of the dank underground room with its brick walls, painted a shade of dull cream, and mysterious wooden bunkers ranged along one wall. From there he had a good view of the flickering red light on top of the night vision camera and he found that pinpoint of warmth rather comforting.

As the dawn light crept in through the barred and dirt-veiled window at the top of the wall, casting a sickly grey glow around the room, he squinted at his watch in the gloom and saw it was just past seven o'clock. Time to return to the university and examine the results of his vigil. He had to make sure he hadn't imagined the events of the night.

Melanie hadn't come home and she wasn't answering her phone. She had disappeared. So had Daisy. And so had his money.

During the wakeful early hours, it had crossed Jack's mind that Melanie might have set the whole thing up as a trick, a way to get her hands on the money. After all, he'd sunk everything they had, including everything she'd earned as a solicitor over the years, into his business ventures so perhaps this was her way of recouping what she thought he owed her. He thought back, examining in his mind every nuance of his marriage to Melanie, from the time he'd met her at a drinks party and decided to abandon his wife and children to be with her to the recent cooling of their relationship. She had begun to annoy him in so many ways, and Daisy's presence hadn't helped. Things had been difficult lately, especially once he'd become involved in the Boothgate House development. And of course there was Yolanda, although he didn't think Melanie had any suspicions in that direction.

He knew how much she begrudged his relationship with his children by his first wife. According to her, Daisy should have taken priority. But Daisy wasn't his own flesh and blood – not like his own kids. He'd done his best to act the good stepfather but he wasn't sure whether the act had been convincing. But was their marriage in such a parlous state that she would pull a stunt like this? And wouldn't she have demanded more than ten grand?

He had risen early after a night of fitful sleep and now he was in the kitchen sipping a strong coffee. After half an hour sitting there with the phone in his hand, trying her number every few minute, he rang Paul's again but got no reply.

Then, as he stared helplessly at the phone, he began to wonder whether he should call another number, one that Melanie had rung yesterday. She hadn't kept the appointment with Emily Thwaite but at least the woman might be able to give him some guidance.

But while he was still contemplating his options his phone began to ring. His heart pounded as he pressed the key with trembling fingers.

It was a mechanized, robot voice, the voice he'd heard before. ‘Your wife didn't turn up. But I'll give you one more chance. I'll call later with further instructions and if you pull another stunt like that you won't see Daisy again.'

Jack opened his mouth to explain. But the caller rang off before he could get the words out.

Joe didn't live far from Boothgate House. When he'd moved back to Eborby twelve years ago, he'd known the place simply as Havenby Hall, a derelict place of fear hidden behind high, soot-blackened walls. Most people in Eborby knew of it second-hand; the place where family members who were considered strange, over-nervous or downright antisocial vanished from sight, only to be spoken of in loud whispers by tactless aunts. In less enlightened times, but still within living memory, girls who transgressed the moral codes of the day had disappeared into the forbidding edifice, only to see the light of day again as pale elderly women, released blinking into the light of a brash modern day world where their supposed sins had become the norm.

When he'd gone there to investigate the burglary last night he'd sensed an atmosphere of deep melancholy in the place in spite of its recent transformation. Or perhaps it had been his imagination. There had certainly been no hint of its former function as he'd walked into the entrance hall and stood admiring the twinkling central chandelier and the tasteful decor.

It had been ten o'clock before he'd arrived home and there had been a message from Maddy waiting on his answering machine. She had asked how he was and for a few seconds he'd felt rather gratified that she still cared. He resolved to call her back . . . when he had the time.

There'd also been a message from his sister reminding him of their mother's imminent birthday – she'd sounded distant, almost businesslike, but things had never been the same with her since he'd abandoned his vocation for Kaitlin, a woman his family considered alien because they came from different worlds. The days when they'd looked to him for some sort of guidance had long gone. He'd left the fold, taken a different path.

He'd settled down to eat his microwaved spaghetti bolognese and switched the TV on, more for company than entertainment. There were times when he envied Emily her hectic family life and this was one of them. If Kaitlin had lived . . . if they'd had children . . . if Maddy hadn't chosen to go to London . . . His life was full of ifs. He opened a bottle of Old Peculier to wash down his food and sat back listening to the forced laughter of the comedy show that had just replaced the news. It almost seemed as if they were laughing at him.

The following morning he left the flat and went straight to Boothgate House to interview Lydia Brookes's immediate neighbours in the hope that someone had seen something relevant at the time of the break in. The officers conducting the door-to-door enquiries hadn't been able to get hold of them the previous night and he wondered whether they'd been trying to avoid the police for some reason. But his job had given him a suspicious mind.

He'd already spoken to the man who'd been with Lydia when she'd discovered the break-in. He was an academic from the university, a researcher in paranormal phenomena, and Joe had found his presence there intriguing. From what he knew of Havenby Hall's history, it was likely he'd find lots of material there: memories of grief and distress; agitated ghosts in mental pain. Some didn't believe in such things but Joe kept an open mind. He knew the power of the unseen and unprovable. He was only too aware that he would have made a lousy priest but some things had never left him.

His first port of call was Flat Two, which belonged to a Beverley Newson who, according to Lydia, lived there with her elderly mother. Beverley was a large, strongly built woman and most would have called her plain, but her greeting was almost gushing and he refused her offer of coffee as tactfully as he could, staying at the door, ready to make a quick exit. If he'd settled in Beverley's living room with coffee and biscuits, he knew he'd find it hard to get away; he knew her type.

She explained that she'd seen nothing yesterday because she'd been out taking Mother to the hospital for a routine appointment. They'd stopped for something to eat in a café on the way back and hadn't arrived home till eight. The police had left by then but one of the other residents had told her what had happened. It was awful for poor Lydia, she said. Such a nice girl. Then she asked whether much had been taken.

Joe gave non-committal answers and after five minutes he managed to make his escape. It looked as though the thief had only taken items of underwear and a ten-pound note that had been lying on the hall table and he suspected that the underwear had been important and the cash had just been a bonus. But it was that note that made him uneasy.
I'll see you next time I call. Be ready.
This was a new departure. An escalation. He had seen the fear in Lydia's eyes and he'd felt for her.

In spite of her eagerness to help, Beverley hadn't seen or heard anything. But there was another neighbour on the corridor and this one interested Joe far more. Flat One was occupied by an Alan Proud and, from the brief check he'd made when he returned to police headquarters the previous night, he knew that Proud had served six months for threatening behaviour when he'd stalked a former girlfriend. If they were looking for a stalker, this one was already there on the premises.

Proud's door was opened by a bleary-eyed man wearing a grubby towelling dressing gown. He was in his forties, Joe guessed, with thinning brown hair, blotchy skin and a body that looked as if it had consumed too much junk food over the years. As Joe held up his warrant card, the man rolled his eyes but he stood aside meekly to let him in.

‘You've heard that your neighbour's been burgled?'

‘Yeah. Why?' He sounded defensive – like a man with something to hide. Perhaps this one would be easier to clear up than they'd feared.

The hallway was wide so he didn't have to make physical contact with Proud as he passed him, made his way into the living room and sat down uninvited. It was a spacious flat and although the room was neat there were no homely touches; no cushions, no ornaments, nothing unnecessary. The only thing approaching decoration was an array of framed letters, almost filling one wall. Proud stood hovering in the doorway as though he was preparing for a swift getaway.

‘I take it you know Ms Brookes?'