Watching the Ghosts (8 page)

She made herself a coffee, wishing she hadn't rung into work to tell them she was taking the day off. The clock on the kitchen wall told her it was only ten thirty and the hours stretched out before her like an empty sea. She needed something to take her mind off her intruder.

The address Seb Bentham had given her was still in her handbag and she took it out carefully and studied it. Seb – she supposed it was short for Sebastian. There'd been something interesting about him, perhaps even something a little dangerous. He reminded her a bit of her ex husband; the man who hadn't been able to bear the grief when they'd lost the baby and had decided to run rather than live with the pain. He'd taught drama to sixth formers and harboured ambitions to write. She'd lost touch with him so she didn't know whether these ambitions had come to anything.

The address Seb had given her wasn't far away, just up the road. And at that moment the prospect of a walk in the fresh air seemed irresistible. She could think about what she was going to say to the clock's former owner on the way.

She slung her bag over her shoulder and left the flat, pushing the door to make doubly sure that it was locked. From now on she knew she was going to be paranoid about security. At least, she thought as she strode across the entrance hall and out into the fresh air, she hadn't dreamt about the clock while she'd been staying at Amy's. She'd been half afraid that she would wake up screaming and bring Amy – or, worse still, Steve – hurrying in to see what was wrong. Perhaps now she'd seen the clock in reality, the nightmares would stop.

She walked down Boothgate, heading out of town. There were no tourists here; they all congregated in the centre like wasps around a jam jar. As she crossed the railway bridge and Boothgate turned into Hilton Road, the Georgian houses gave way to newer properties. This was the Eborby the visitors didn't see; if they were approaching by car or coach down Hilton Road, they'd be scanning the horizon for their first sight of the cathedral towers. This wasn't to say that Hilton wasn't an attractive place with its tall trees and its little green surrounded by Victorian cottages.

Oriel House stood on one of the side roads; stone built, detached and Victorian, all gables and gothic windows. Lydia stood with her hand hovering over the gate latch, suddenly apprehensive. What if the woman didn't want to discuss her sale of the clock with a stranger?

But she told herself firmly that she had nothing to lose and pushed the gate open. Her heart was pounding as she walked up the path between the neat flower beds and rang the doorbell. She was preparing to make a hasty retreat when the door opened a crack and a suspicious female voice said ‘Yes?' as if she was expecting some con man or pushy salesman.

‘I'm sorry to bother you. I'm looking for Mrs Dodds.'

The door opened a little wider and Lydia saw that the woman had silver-blonde hair cut in a neat bob. Her white trousers and denim blouse flattered her tall, slim figure. She must have been in her early sixties but she'd taken care of herself. ‘I'm Judith Dodds.'

Once Lydia had explained the reason for her visit, the woman seemed to relax. She invited her in and led her into a room of understated elegance, all duck-egg blue and cream. When she sat down Mrs Dodds sat opposite, back straight and legs neatly arranged. Lydia noticed that her hands were clasped tightly in front of her like a defensive barrier.

‘So you've met Mr Bentham?'

‘Seb?'

‘Is that his name? Elderly gentleman . . . longish grey hair. Really looked the part.'

‘I met his nephew. He's looking after the shop while Mr Bentham senior is ill. I hope you don't mind me coming like this but there's something I'd like to ask you. It's about the grandfather clock you sold.'

Her eyes widened. ‘You've bought it?'

‘No but I was wondering about its history.' She hesitated, wondering how she was going to explain the inexplicable. Eventually she decided to approach the subject head on. ‘I know this might sound strange but when I saw it in the shop I thought I'd seen it before. And I wondered whether that's possible.' She'd decided that any mention of the nightmares might mark her out as disturbed. And she needed this woman to trust her and talk freely.

Mrs Dodds stared at her. ‘What did you say your name was?'

‘Lydia Brookes. I'm not from Eborby but my grandparents lived here and I sometimes came to stay with them when I was young. Is that any help?'

‘Where did they live?'

‘Bacombe.'

Mrs Dodds shook her head. ‘The clock belonged to my father and when I inherited the contents of his house I asked Mr Bentham to deal with their disposal.'

‘Perhaps my grandparents knew your father. My grandfather was a doctor. His name was Speed. Dr Reginald Speed.'

‘My father was a doctor too.'

All sorts of possibilities were passing through Lydia's head. ‘My grandfather died in an accident when I was three but perhaps he visited your father sometime and took me along.'

‘My father wasn't a sociable man.' Mrs Dodds' expression was hard to read. But Lydia sensed that her memories of her father weren't happy ones. ‘My parents divorced when I was a baby and I hardly saw him when I was growing up. My mother never wanted me to have anything to do with him. I didn't know him well but I really can't see him entertaining colleagues and their children.'

Lydia sensed an untold story, a tragedy, maybe, or something more sinister. She was intrigued and she longed to discover the reason behind the estrangement. But good manners made her hold back.

‘I certainly don't remember the clock,' Mrs Dodds continued. ‘I would have remembered it because it's a horrible thing. I was glad to get it out of the house.'

Lydia wondered whether to mention the nightmares, then she thought better of it. She knew it came from an antisocial doctor in Eborby and, in spite of what Mrs Dodds said, her grandfather could well have visited the man for some reason, social or professional, with his small granddaughter in tow. The clock might have frightened her then and stayed in her subconscious for all those years. Like a dormant seed.

Mrs Dodds suddenly interrupted her thoughts. ‘I think he might have brought it from where he worked. He lived in for a while . . . had a flat on the premises.'

‘Where did he work?'

When Mrs Dodds told her, Lydia's stomach lurched. This was something she hadn't expected. But it made a kind of horrible sense.

Dr Karl Dremmer sat at his tidy desk in his office at the university, glad for once of the mundane, modern surroundings, of the stark brick walls and the Scandinavian chairs.

He tried to read a departmental memo but he couldn't get the muffled sobs and the half-seen dim shapes out of his mind. He'd almost managed to convince himself that he'd imagined everything; that the atmosphere of the place had altered his perception somehow. He was a man of science and he wouldn't accept such things without solid proof. And so far the proof had eluded him.

Down in that basement the air had seemed thick, like an ice-cold smog with a faint whiff of the grave. And he had felt a pain within him close to grief. It had seemed very real at the time but in the light of morning he'd told himself that the brain could play powerful tricks. But he still didn't feel up to talking about what had happened. The truth was he felt vulnerable and maybe a little foolish.

He abandoned the memo and began to watch the recordings he'd made, hoping they'd prove that some earthly agency was responsible for his night of fear; faulty plumbing maybe, or someone playing a practical joke. But as he watched the computer screen he experienced an unfamiliar feeling of dread.

After a while he tapped his keyboard to bring up his list of email addresses. He'd been in touch with the clergyman who dealt with the diocese's deliverance ministry several times before. Canon George Merryweather was a down-to-earth character. Self-effacing, balding and a little tubby, George seemed like some comfortable country doctor or solicitor rather than a seeker of ghosts. But even so, Karl felt slightly embarrassed about asking for his opinion.

And yet he'd experienced something strange down there in that basement so he sent the email anyway. A chat would do no harm.

E
borby Rowing Club took their sport very seriously and the two boats were neck and neck as they sped along the glittering surface of the water, the coxes yelling their instructions to the sweaty rowers. The rowers were too preoccupied to notice the onlookers watching lazily from the banks where the Museum Park swept down to the water's edge. Nor were they aware of the corpse caught up in the overhanging branches of a large willow tree until one of the rowers hit it with his oar, letting out a flow of expletives which were drowned out by the cox's amplified orders.

Soon the cox, realizing something was amiss, abandoned his megaphone and peered over the side.

She was floating face down in the shallows, her naked flesh pale against the dark water and her hair spread out like dull gold snakes.

And she was definitely dead.

When Lydia arrived home she made herself a cup of tea, although she was longing for something stronger, and she stood staring out of the window as she sipped the hot liquid from her mug. She could see small white clouds scudding across the blue sky like boats on a river driven by invisible oarsmen, and the thick foliage of the surrounding trees shifted as the breeze disturbed the branches. She could see one corner of the graveyard from her window, the headstones standing at crazy angles, black like rotted teeth. Memorials to the dead; memorials to the mad . . . or the supposedly mad. The plan had been to remove the graves and rebury the occupants elsewhere but recently nothing had been said, probably because of the halt to the renovations. She'd heard that the developers had run out of funds, although she suspected that the existing residents would be the last to learn of any problems.

Now she knew that the clock had actually come from Havenby Hall, that it had once stood ticking the hours away in the Medical Superintendent's quarters, somehow it made everything worse. Judith Dodds' father, a Dr Pennell, had lived and worked there tending to the physical sicknesses of the inmates, although Mrs Dodds had been keen to point out that he had nothing to do with their psychiatric treatment. But he'd been there and he must have sent some of the inmates on their final journeys to that neglected graveyard. At least now it seemed more likely that her nightmares weren't the result of some suppressed childhood memory. This was a building she'd never have entered back then. Why would she?

The sound of knocking on her front door made her jump, spilling a little of her tea on the wooden floor. The burglary and the discovery about the clock had taken their toll on her nerves. She put her mug down and hurried to the door

She'd hardly had anything to do with Alan Proud, apart from the occasional nod of acknowledgement when they met in the corridor, but now he was towering over her, smiling a smile that made him look vaguely menacing.

‘I thought I'd call to see how you were after . . .'

‘I'm fine. Thank you.' She prepared to shut the door.

‘Would you like to come round for a coffee . . . or something?' The suggestion in the words made her uncomfortable.

‘Sorry. I've got lots to sort out. Another time maybe.'

‘I've got some letters that might interest you.' His gaze focused on her breasts and she put up a defensive hand to hide the bare flesh revealed by her low cut T-shirt. ‘They're from a murderer,' he continued. ‘He was in here when it was a hospital.'

Lydia began to close the door, suddenly determined to get rid of him.

He stepped forward, almost crossing the threshold. ‘Have you ever heard of Peter Brockmeister?' The question was asked with relish, as though it excited him and there was a hungry gleam in his small eyes.

‘No. Now if you'll excuse me . . .' She shut the door and stood in the hallway, aware that only a piece of wood separated her from her neighbour. She'd lied. She had heard of Peter Brockmeister. And she knew what he'd done.

Joe stood on the concrete path which ran alongside the river. The forensic tent had already been erected and when the body had been pulled from the water, it had been taken there to lie on a plastic sheet. As it was being photographed, filmed and examined he felt a little sick. Fish had attacked the dead woman's eyes. He hadn't imaged fish could do that much damage. When the body had been turned over he'd seen that the mouth had been stuffed with flowers, now sodden and brown. Silenced with sweetness.

Emily was already inside the tent, clad, like Joe, in what she always referred to as her ‘snowman suit'. It was true, the white crime-scene suit did rather emphasize her bulging waistline but it wasn't the most flattering garment for anybody. Apart from Dr Sally Sharpe, the pathologist, who was one of those fortunate women who looked good in anything. Sally had just become engaged which put paid to his tentative plans to ask her out. He knew now that he should have been more decisive when he'd had the chance.

He took a deep breath and stepped into the tent. Sally was kneeling beside the naked corpse, taking samples while the photographer circled, capturing the scene from every conceivable angle.

‘Anything to tell us yet, Sally?' Joe asked.

The doctor looked up at him, her face solemn. ‘I won't know for sure until the post-mortem but it looks as if she's been strangled . . . some sort of ligature. She was probably put in the water after death. What does all this flower stuff mean?'

‘Do you think the flowers were stuffed in her mouth before she died?'

‘Not sure.' Sally shifted one of the limp, pale arms and examined the wrist. ‘I think she's been restrained at some point . . . you can just make out faint bruising on both wrists.' She looked up at Joe and he saw a hint of anxiety in her eyes. ‘And there are other marks and cuts. I don't know yet whether they were done post-mortem or . . . Do we know who she is yet?'