Ghosts Know (10 page)

“See if you can come up with a few for our next meeting.” She takes a larger sip of wine than usual and says “Could I ask you one favour?”

“No need to stop at one.”

“I will for now. Could you keep all this absolutely to yourself until everything’s signed and we’ve announced it officially?”

“Can’t I even let my girlfriend know?”

“May I ask what she does?”

“She’s my producer at Waves.”

“Christine Ellis? She seems like an excellent producer. But in that case no, very much not even her.”

I can’t throw away this chance, and surely Christine will understand when I eventually tell her. “Here’s to keeping secrets,” I say and raise my glass again.

“Only ones that have to be kept.”

“Like Benny’s jokes,” I murmur with an apologetic grin at him in case he overheard.

I give Hannah my mobile number while we finish our drinks. “Expect to hear from me very soon,” she says and heads along Oxford Road. At the crossroads by the Palaces I look around, but nobody is watching me,
not even Jasper now that they’ve replaced his poster. I wouldn’t have minded seeing Wayne once more. My talk with Hannah seems to have given me extra strength, and if he should bother me on the way home he’ll be surprised how thoroughly I deal with him.

You ought to let Paula know, Graham.”

“Can’t she wait?” I complain and rub my ridged forehead as if this may speed up the action of the paracetamol. “How many people am I supposed to tell everything?”

‘Are you sure you’ve done that to anyone?”

“If you think I left anything out you tell me what it is.” This sounds irrational, but no more than I think Christine is being. We’re at her kitchen table, a rounded glass rectangle on elegant metal legs. Beyond the panes that sandwich air above the piebald marble sink, a bus crosses the junction at Princess Street with as little noise as a coach in a fairy-tale film. “I nearly had to twist your arm to make you own up,” Christine says.

“I won’t show anyone the bruises.” She doesn’t seem to think this is a joke, perhaps because after a series of frustrated questions she did indeed start pinching me as though she was determined to wake me up. “You know me,” I attempt to persuade her. “I don’t like to talk about things that aren’t definite.”

I don’t want to admit having promised not to talk about Hannah, especially since I still haven’t mentioned my novel. I rest my gaze on Christine’s face and then pick up my mug, which informs me that THE ANSWER IS THE QUESTION. Hers is inscribed THE QUESTION IS THE ANSWER. My mind can’t keep hold of either concept; they seem as evanescent as the zero that fades from the glass surface where the mug stood, and at least as meaningless. I jolt my innards with a gulp of black coffee before saying “Anyway, we were talking about Paula.”

“You should at least tell her you’ve had an offer. You don’t have to say who it’s from, just that you’re considering it. Waves might want to top it now they’ve got Frugo money to play with.”

She’s readier to direct my speech than she ever does as a producer. “I expect I could say that if I wanted to.”

“Or would you really rather not stay, Graham?”

“This isn’t about us, is it? There’s more to us than a radio show.”

“I hope there is, but if you won’t tell me—”

“This could be an opportunity for you to work with someone new as well. It won’t do either of us any harm to develop.”

Christine sips her coffee and puts down the mug with a muted glassy clank. “You think I’m too settled in my ways. I’m out of new ideas, you think.”

“I’m saying both of us, Chris.” I reach across the unyielding chilly surface and take her hand. “Wouldn’t you say we know each other too well?”

“I don’t believe I would.”

“At work, I mean, if it’s our job to keep coming up with something fresh.”

Christine doesn’t move her hand away from mine—in fact, it hasn’t moved at all. I’m unhelpfully reminded how participants in a seance hold hands to try and conjure up an illusion of contact. “Anyone who didn’t know you,” she says, “might think you want to work with someone who doesn’t know you at all.”

I pat her hand on the way to wobbling to my feet, and feel as if I’m being none too efficiently raised by a small dull hook embedded between my eyes. “All right, I’ll find out if Paula wants me to stay,” I tell Christine, “as much as you do.”

She seems disappointed in some way I can’t define. We’re silent as she follows me along the hall, which is decorated with prints from the gallery up the road—posters for imaginary British destinations. Reminiscence-by-the-Sea consists of centuries of seaside memories merging in a summer haze, while Greater Thorp Than You Think is a village where the cottages grow larger as they recede into misty distance. Beside a poster for Longsleep-in-the-Dell, where a luminous fog is so dense that it’s hard to distinguish the shining white edifices from it or to establish their nature, the open bedroom door shows me that the bed we shared last night is as smooth as a blank page. Christine gives me a token kiss that feels wifely if not less than that before opening the door of the apartment. “I’ll be along to take care of you,” she says.

“Always the professional.” I mean this as a compliment, but I’m not sure how it sounds. “I’ll tell you everything that happens,” I feel driven to promise.

She has half the top floor of the converted office building. A bird is faintly outlined on the Victorian fanlight above the street door, although just now the sun on the scalloped pane blots out the gilded shape. Today is Ignore An Insult Day, and I imagine some of my callers may feel insulted by the notion. Some of the queue for An Evening Of Spiritual Healing at the Palace look as if they might have to ignore an insult if not several. Other people I encounter on my way to Waves seem likelier to hand out a few insults in honour of the day or simply because that’s their nature, and I don’t suppose the monolithic heat will help.

The automatic doors slip aside, expelling a chill almost as welcome as a drink. For a moment the heat dogs me into the lobby like a fierce breath on my neck. “It’s a jungle out there, Charlie,” I tell the guard behind the desk, though I just have the tropics in mind. I’m stepping into the nearest lift when a gust of hot wind crosses the lobby, and two policemen make for the desk.

I shut my eyes while the lift sails upwards, because the red-hot digits above the doors feel capable of snagging my hangover. At last the indicator finishes playing with its splinters and the cage wavers to a standstill. I give Shilpa a smile and drag out my badge. As I fumble to cover the plaque on the wall with my photograph the other lift opens, and the two policemen approach Shilpa. “Is Graham Wilde on the premises?” one says.

“That’s me.” I swing around rather too vigorously—the hangover drills between my eyes again, making me squint—and let my badge recoil on its wire. “How can I help?”

The policemen aren’t much older than I am, but they look resolved to seem it. Both are thin and keen-eyed. One has a long sharp nose, while his colleague’s lips are so prominent I could fancy they’ve been thickened in a fight. The beaky man’s mouth forms a line as neutral as his gaze before he speaks. “We’d like a word with you about Kylie Goodchild.”

Of all the thoughts that feel like my headache transformed into language, one is so painful that I have to spit it out. “Don’t tell me Frank Jasper sent you.”

The beaky policeman gazes at me—Nosey from Beak-on-the-Dial, I might dub him. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private, Mr Wilde?”

I’m anxious to learn what they want, however much my headache tugs my brows together. “Is the conference room free, Shilpa?”

“It should be.”

“Let me find out,” I say and unlock the newsroom door with my badge, only for Lippy from Labia-upon-the-Puss to follow. “I’ll come along,” he says. “Make sure it’s suitable.”

Some of my colleagues seem unsure whether I’m in custody as I lead him across the newsroom. I open the door beside Paula’s and watch him appraise the conference room, where the long table is attended by a dozen straight barely padded chairs, one more of which has been sent to stand in a corner. A sign on each double-glazed window declares they won’t open more than six inches, and could Lippy be ensuring I’ve no way out? The thought provokes me to go for a quip. “Looks like a good spot for the last meal, don’t you think?”

Lippy lets me glimpse a frown as fleeting as a line of invisible ink. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He needn’t think I was condemning myself. “It could be the room for the last supper.”

If his face could grow blanker it’s clear that it would. I can’t tell whether I’ve offended his beliefs or just his sense of humour. “If you’ll wait here, Mr Wilde,” he says.

I should tell Paula about the situation—the little I can tell, at any rate. As Lippy heads for Reception I knock on her door. “Advance and be recognised,” she calls, which is presumably one of her few jokes—I’ve certainly heard it before. She gazes over the bowl of sweets as if she thinks I’ve come to earn one. “Ready for all comers?” she says.

“Just a couple for the moment. I’ll be next door having a chat with the police.”

“Police.” She gazes past me, which seems to attract their tread along the office. “What’s brought them here, Graham?”

“I suspect Frank Jasper.”

“Well, please keep me up to date.”

As I shut her door I’m aware of having neglected to mention Hannah Leatherhead’s approach. The suppressed information might be struggling with the painkillers to expand my headache. I dodge to the water cooler and fill a paper cup as the policemen reach the conference room. “Is it drinks all round?” I try offering.

“We don’t need anything,” Beaky says, and they stand like guards on either side of the doorway until I’m in the room.

When I sit at the head of the table they take the nearest seats on each side. The direct sunlight falls short of my chair, and the air conditioning more or less holds back the heat, but I swallow a mouthful of water that chills my teeth before I feel ready to speak. I’m nervously amused by the idea of blurting out the monikers I’ve invented for the policemen, and so I say “Can I know your names?”

Beaky looks not far from affronted but says “Rudd.”

“Linley,” says his colleague.

I’m disconcerted by how much this resembles the name I found for him; some of my listeners might think it proves I’m psychic after all. I don’t know what kind of team the duo sounds like—comedians or undertakers? “I always like to know who I’m talking to,” I say. “I don’t know if you’re wondering what I meant about Frank Jasper. He’s the character from round here who pretends he’s a psychic from America.”

“Go on,” says Rudd.

“He had a photo I signed for Kylie Goodchild. I couldn’t tell you how many I signed for her class when they came for a visit, but he tried to make out it meant something.” The policemen are keeping their thoughts to themselves, and I have a sudden unwelcome one of my own. “Is his father still with the police?”

Neither man appears to want the question. After a pause Linley says “Who do you mean?”

“Right enough, his name was never Jasper. It’s Patterson.”

“Chief Inspector Patterson.”

Presumably that’s a yes to my question, and it could be a warning too. My headache jabs me between the eyes as if to prod out a response. “I don’t suppose you’re here to talk about him,” I say. “Just tell me how I can help.”

Linley sits forward and rests his elbows on the table, but it’s Rudd who says “Can you tell us where you were on the night of the twelfth of last month?”

He could almost be reverting to a script from more old films than I can count or name. “I couldn’t even tell you what day it is without looking.”

“It was a Thursday,” Linley lets me know.

‘Any particular time?”

“Between nine and eleven in the evening.”

“I was working here.”

What kind of silence greets this? In a moment Rudd says “You’re sure of that.”

“I am now I’ve been reminded. It was the day before Better Luck Day and I was doing some research for my show.”

“What sort?” Linley says.

‘Just about how many good things have happened to people on Friday the thirteenth. We don’t need superstition.”

Surely this can’t trespass on anyone’s beliefs here, but the policemen give me time to wonder before Linley says “How were you doing your research?”

“How does anyone these days? Online.”

“Why weren’t you doing it at home?”

“I’m not online at home. No need when it’s free here.”

Whatever they think of that, I’m not expecting Rudd to ask “Are you with anyone, Mr Wilde?”

“In a relationship, you mean? She produces my show.”

“‘Doesn’t she have access either?”

“To the Internet, you mean?” I’m increasingly less sure what they’re trying to discover, and the uncertainty has lodged between my eyes. “She’s got it at her place,” I say, “but we don’t live together. I wasn’t looking at anything I wouldn’t want her to see if that’s what you’re after.”

Perhaps they weren’t, in which case I’ve put the notion in their heads. I could invite them to check my computer, or would that sound like a bluff? They can check it if they like—I’ve nothing to hide—but it’s well past time I asked the question my hangover has been obstructing. “What’s all this to do with Kylie Goodchild?”

“We have reason to believe,” Linley says, “that she was here when you were.”

I’m instandy convinced that the source is Frank Jasper, and my headache swells behind my eyes, so fiercely I feel close to going blind. I don’t know whether I’ll be in control of my words until I hear my voice demand “What reason?”

“She told one of her school friends she was coming to see you.”

My headache digs deeper as I see the explanation. “Let me guess. It was Wayne.”

Linley produces a notebook but doesn’t open it. “Who was that, Mr Wilde?”

“Kyiie’s boyfriend. He’s obsessed with me, and I blame Frank Jasper.”

Linley puts away the notebook as if that’s an alternative to listening to me. “He has nothing to do with this. The informant was a girl in Kyiie’s class.”