A Ghost in the Machine (13 page)

But by the time Benny returned with a huge amount of delicious raspberries Polly's mood had softened. After all, there was no special hurry. Wasn't hope deferred supposed to make the heart glad? The recollection was admittedly vague. Her mother had given her a diary one year with a quotation on every page from Shakespeare or the Bible or some famous novel or other. Tried to explain the beauty of the words and their context, hoping to lead Polly towards literature, to broaden her mind. Had even suggested she give figures a rest for a while. Fat chance. What had literature ever done for Polly's mother? Twenty-five years in the business and still only picking up peanuts. Polly had met jobbers and brokers, some hardly older than herself, earning as much in a month.

But then, not too long after this, when Benny was cutting some white bread and butter to go with the kippers (kippers!) for supper, Polly, previously fretting at the slowness of time passing, realised what an excellent opportunity had suddenly presented itself. No point in questioning her mother about the Parnells. Look how suspicious and snappy she'd been when Polly had merely suggested asking them around for a drink. But Benny, who had known the couple for as long as they'd lived in Forbes Abbot, Benny would not be suspicious. And she loved to talk. All Polly would have to say was something along the lines of: “How kind of Ashley to give you all these lovely raspberries, Ben. I must say they do seem to be awfully nice people.” So Polly tried exactly this, with immediate success.

“Oh – but he's always bringing salads and vegetables over for us, dear,” replied Benny. “Judith too. They are so kind.”

As the evening wore on Polly discovered more and more about the kindness and niceness of Benny's nearest neighbours. About how they always looked after Croydon and took in post and watched out for burglars when Ben and Carey had gone away. How, when Carey became seriously ill. Judith had driven into Causton to collect her prescriptions even though she had her own work and Ashley to care for. Poor Ashley, ill for months now and no one seemed able to find out what it was. Judith had tried everything under the sun, such expense. And she worked so hard.

When there was a bit too much of Judith, which honestly meant any mention longer than a couple of seconds, Polly skilfully directed the babbling stream back towards Ashley.

Benny chattered happily on. She welcomed the opportunity. It was the evenings when she felt most lonely – daytime could be easily filled—and she was really enjoying herself. And one of the nicest things about the conversation was how interested Polly seemed to be in everything she had to say. It was really heart-warming.

Benny branched out a little, touching on Dennis. Had Polly seen his war machines? They were really amazing, though rather frightening too. Benny had only seen them once and nothing in the world would induce her to go into the room again. Then, sensing Polly's interest waning, she began to describe various village worthies, all seemingly just as nice and kind and interesting as the Parnells.

Polly listened, hardly able to disguise her amazement. She had never heard a conversation like it. This woman seemed to think ill of absolutely no one. How could anyone remain so innocent in this day and age? And how on earth did she cope with life? You'd hardly trust her to post a letter.

Eventually dusk fell. Polly excused herself and went upstairs to use the phone in her great-aunt's bedroom to dial her mobile. It worked a treat. Running back downstairs, rootling about in her rucksack on the kitchen table she talked excitedly to a friend who'd come especially down. The call concluded, Polly cut short Benny's interested but slightly anxious questions, saying the first thing that came into her head.

“Someone I'm going on holiday with, Ben. To Crete, actually. They just want to sort out the final arrangements.”

Nearly all the buildings on Causton market square had been there since the nineteenth century and most from the eighteenth or even earlier. The local preservation society, which had strong moral if not financial support from British Heritage, was very hot on parity of historical detail. There had been several heated discussions when Fallon and Brinkley had applied to put up a simple brass plate next to the, by now, half-fake Tudor frontage of the Nat West Bank. It was gravely pointed out to Mr. Brinkley that the said offices were, in fact, over rather than adjacent to the bank and thus the plate would be rather misleading. Dennis, with admirable restraint, asked if his clients were supposed to leap twenty feet in the air to check that they had arrived at the correct address for their appointment. Despite such levity he had finally received permission, though it had been touch and go. Of course that had been years ago. Now the rot had well and truly set in.

One of the shops had been converted to a private dwelling and the new owners had painted the outside walls lime green. Furious, frothing correspondence ensued but the couple were adamant about cheering the old place up a bit. They were breaking no laws and were blithely indifferent to emotional blackmail along the lines of sceptred isles, thrones of kings and silver seas. When told by the rector's wife that if they remained firm no one of any standing would speak to them, hysterical cackles followed her all way back to St. Hubert's Close.

Then there had been Lovage and Cardoon, wide-ranging haberdashers, also selling fine linens and dusty-pink restraining garments to the middle classes since the 1950s. The remaining partner having finally retired, the business was taken over by a rather common cake shop. The new owners ripped out all the beautiful stained-oak fittings and narrow, glass-fronted drawers, put in cheap chairs with tartan seats and plastic tray attachments, then had the cheek to christen themselves Patisserie Française. An offence under the Trades Description Act, sniffed the preservation committee, the pastries being about as French as Colman's Mustard, and the “
café crème
” indistinguishable from gravy browning.

But Mr. Allibone, the fresh fish and game merchant, was a shining jewel in this crown of struggling conservation. The facia of his lovely shop had been installed by his grandfather, Albert Allibone, in the 1930s and remained unimproved to the present day. Heavy black calligraphic script impressed on a background resembling crumpled silver paper described the business. In the front windows crabs and shining mackerel, mussels, orange-speckled dabs, fresh monkfish and undyed smoked haddock circled a huge turbot. All this lay on great slabs of ice garlanded with real seaweed. The game was kept in cold storage.

Dennis enjoyed a nice piece of fresh fish, and it was fresh at Allibones. Bright-eyed with sparkling scales and smelling of the sea. Rather pricey, but his customers never minded that. Were inclined to boast of it, in fact; make remarks along the lines of: “You'd be lucky to find quality like this at Tesco's. Or service either.”

There was a queue, three women clutching old-fashioned wicker shopping baskets. Dennis patiently tacked himself on the end, exchanging greetings.

“So what's your fancy today, Mr. Brinkley?” asked Brian Allibone, winking at nothing in particular and tipping back his boater. “A nice pair of herrings? Wing of skate?”

“To tell the truth – though I hate to spoil such perfection – I really fancy a bit of that turbot.”

“Then turbot it shall be, sir.”

The fishmonger heaved the huge creature off the slab, wiped his hands on his blue-and-white-striped apron and picked up a sharp knife. The saucily tipped straw hat, rosy cheeks and glossy black moustaches gave a first impression of jovial warmth and humour. But the twinkling eyes were cold and his nose was white with a pointy, pinched tip. All the better for poking into other people's business, folk said. And they were not far wrong.

“Working late again the other night, Mr. Brinkley?”

“Late?” Dennis looked puzzled.

“Tuesday, I believe. I only took a casual glance but your little snake lamp was on well past midnight.”

Mr. and Mrs. Allibone lived above the shop that faced Dennis's office across the cobbled square. It was rumoured that his casual glances were reinforced by a set of powerful field glasses kept on the sitting-room window seat for just that purpose.

“It couldn't have been.” Dennis knew what Mr. Allibone meant by “again.” A couple of weeks ago he had been kind enough to point out a similar occurrence, though the hour was somewhat earlier. And once last week too.

Dennis had assumed a light left on and had made sure every evening after that to switch off before leaving. He had even written a little stick-on note, “Remember Switch,” and attached it to the outer doorframe.

“Oo-er,” shuddered Mr. Allibone, adding fresh parsley to the turbot and wrapping the lot in thick white paper. “Dirty work at the crossroads.”

Dennis watched the man's nostrils flex and twitch, sniffing a mystery. All this was most distasteful.

“I've…er…got one of those time things,” he said, handing over a five-pound note and receiving a few pence in exchange. “Can't be too careful these days.”

“Ah, that explains it.” Mr. Allibone put the parcel into a plastic carrier showing a plaice dancing on its tail. It wore a top hat and a bow tie and was twirling a cane. “Shan't need to tell you next time it happens then?”

“That's right,” said Dennis. What else could he say? He left the shop realising the momentary satisfaction gained from squashing Mr. Allibone's prurient curiosity had been dearly bought. Now he had no way of finding out if the light was ever switched on again after the business was closed. Not unless he sat in his car night after night and watched on the off chance, which was plainly ridiculous.

Instead of getting into the car and driving home, Dennis put the fish in the boot and returned to his office. He walked over to the window and watched Mr. Allibone winding back his dark green awning in preparation for closing. Then he flung himself into the comfortable armchair facing his desk and prepared to think.

First – and most important – no one had broken in. Second – someone had been in this unviolated office late at night and more than once. When it first happened, or rather when it was first reported, for Mr. Allibone could hardly be at his post every second after sunset, Dennis had been quite disturbed. Only himself and Latham had keys and, after checking that his own spare was safely on its hook in his garage, he asked Andrew if perhaps he had returned to the office for some reason. But even as he mentioned the actual dates Dennis realised how unlikely this would be. It was hard enough getting the man to put in a few daylight hours, let alone turn up after dark.

Andrew had been quite indignant. Explained that he and Gilda had been at a Lions' charity dinner for multiple sclerosis in the first instance, where he had become so tired and emotional that the Lathams' solicitor, a fellow Lion, had driven them home. He'd stayed on for a bit to make some black coffee and help Andrew to bed. Why on earth, Andrew asked surlily, would he then go out again purely for the pleasure of sitting in an empty office? In fact, if you asked him, this whole conversation was beginning to sound bloody insulting. Six days later when the same thing was supposed to have happened again the Lathams had gone with another couple to the theatre.

There was no cash in the office worth mentioning. It was possible someone could be so desperate to know the details of another's financial affairs that they would break into his money man's office and look them up. Possible but extremely unlikely, not to mention difficult. The passwords to all the accounts except his own were on a separate disk that was kept in the combination safe. And at least half of Dennis's clients were private, which removed any suspicion of industrial jiggery-pokery. Private but pretty substantial—two of them were millionaires several times over.

Dennis sighed and tried not to think of his turbot sweating away in the Lexus instead of at home in the Neff, along with some white wine, cream and a fine sprinkling of minced shallots. He supposed what he should really do was examine each account in detail to see if anything was amiss. Given the impenetrability of the passwords he felt this to be rather pointless, though it seemed irresponsible not to check.

He switched on his Apple, brought up John Scott-Abercrombie and got stuck in.

Two hours later Dennis was scrutinising Harris-Tonkin (Light Aircraft) when an alarming thought exploded in his mind. Directly beneath his feet were the rear premises of the bank. The strongroom, to be precise. Could it be that a gang of robbers was even now engaged in early reconnaissance?

“Don't be ridiculous,” muttered Dennis to himself. Then: “They is what comes of writing fiction.” All the same, it momentarily entered his mind to give the police a ring. Then he started to anticipate the interview.

A disturbance at your place of business, sir? Not a disturbance, as such. A break-in? No—that is, someone did
get
in…Was much taken? Nothing's really been taken, no. So what actually is the problem? An…er…acquaintance saw my office lights on late at night when I know I'd switched them off. More than once, actually. I see. Could we have this person's name, sir?

And, of course, Dennis couldn't give it. First, because he'd stupidly told Mr. Allibone that the light only came on because of a time switch. Second, because he couldn't bear to see the man salivating with pleasure at the thought of being part of a drama involving his, Dennis's, discomfiture.

Damn and blow and blast and bother! Dennis put his head in his hands and groaned. He hated,
hated
, mess and muddle. Why did the nosy blighter have to pass on such anxiety-causing information? But even as he thought this Dennis recognised how unreasonable he was being. He was thankful enough for his own Neighbourhood Watch back in Forbes Abbot.

This recollection of the village, quiet in the evening twilight, soothed him. Home, that was the ticket. Things would look different from his favourite armchair with a glass of Laphroaig, some walnut bread and a nice piece of Double Gloucester. He could lose himself pleasantly in Xenophon. The
Economics
, for choice. All was in wonderful order there. A place for everything and everything in its place. A few words with dear Benny as well, perhaps, if it wasn't too late. The turbot could go on ice for a weekend treat. She might like to come and share it with him.

Sitting behind his car's padded steering wheel, glancing up at the unillumined windows of his office, Dennis realised how close other windows were. Those of the flats on either side, for instance. Chances were old Allibone had simply made a mistake. On the other hand, he had seemed pretty definite…

Enough was enough, decided Dennis. And there wouldn't be any more. First thing Monday he would organise a man to come and change the locks.

 

Earlier that same day Judith was seated at the kitchen table bagging up runner beans as quickly as Ashley could top and tail. She thought how wonderful it was that he was still able to work in the garden and had said so, unfortunately referring to it as pottering. He'd been quite sharp with her. Making him sound like an old man with nothing better to do. He always said sorry after he snapped but he didn't this time so she said it for both of them.

Scribbling the date any-old-how over a large sheet of labels Judith recalled their first harvest. Redcurrants from bushes already established, carrots, perpetual spinach and a few courgettes. A small yield but she had been determined to freeze some. After transcribing the labels she had bought some coloured pens and decorated them carefully with fruits and berries. Making chutney had been another pleasure. She'd snipped at circles of gingham cloth with pinking shears, then tied the caps over the lids with ribbons. Ashley had laughed, called it her Trianon period and produced a Laura Ashley poke bonnet as a joke. Ten years ago. Now it was all just one long chore. Judith would be glad when summer came to an end.

“When's my next hospital appointment?”

“Three weeks. You're not worried, are you, Ash?”

“No. I'd like to be worried. It'd bring hope into the equation.”

“Oh – don't say that. I'm sure things will—”

Judith stopped herself. She was doing that more and more these days: chiding him for not being more positive or jollying him along with helpings of pie in the sky. I'm sounding, she thought, like one of those inane self-help books:
You Too Can Dance Like Darcey Bussell
;
Look Like Michelle Pfeiffer
;
Write Like Woody Allen
;
Rule the World.

How long it seemed now since this whole sad frightening business started. It had been so gradual. General tiredness. Limbs aching slightly for no reason that Ashley could discern. Mild skin irritation. Gradual loss of appetite. First, meals not finished. Then smaller meals, which soon were also left unfinished. His teeth had begun to ache, though a visit to the dentist found nothing wrong. He would feel cold in any temperature under twenty-five degrees. His heartbeat quietened.

Investigation at the hospital had been ongoing and thorough. First were blood tests, all showing no disorder. His immune system had not broken down. He was not anaemic. His liver and kidneys were functioning properly. He also had a stomach endoscopy. A colonoscopy. A CT scan (very unpleasant). An MRI scan (worse). A few days ago he'd had yet another blood test. Poor Ash.

In tandem with all this had run every alternative therapy under the sun. They had worked through the lot with only Ayurvedic medicine still untried. Nothing helped physically but sometimes Ashley seemed a bit brighter, a little more confident afterwards. The money spent was astronomical, and didn't include the hours, days and weeks surfing the Net, for there were hundreds of rare diseases, or the sending and receiving of e-mails.