Lady of the Shades (26 page)

‘You can’t know that for sure,’ I disagree. ‘Nobody was in the car with her. You want it to be suicide, so you don’t have to blame your father.’

‘It’s not a theory,’ he replies softly. ‘It’s the truth.’

‘How can you know?’ I huff. ‘Only one person really knows, and she’s . . . ’

‘ . . . dead,’ he finishes calmly. ‘But the dead can talk, and this came straight from the horse’s mouth.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

Greygo looks me calmly in the eye. ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Mr Sanders?’

I take a step away from him and glance at the seven shades huddled around me. I expect them to snicker and mock me, as Nelke’s ghost has been doing, but they only stare at me accusingly,
still and serious. I almost run, for some reason afraid of what Gregory Menderes has to tell me, but I’m compelled to hear him out. I have to know the truth, or at least
his
version
of it.

‘This used to be a haunted house,’ Greygo says. ‘People have often asked me what it’s like to lose your mother at such a young age. I’ve never been able to tell
them, because until recently, I hadn’t truly lost her.’

He starts to walk again. I trail after him, listening numbly. The ghosts follow in a line, like mourners at a funeral, Nelke slipping into place among them, the sad little girl at the head of
the procession.

‘Her spirit came to me the night of her death,’ Greygo says. ‘I awoke to darkness, scared, somehow certain that my mother was dead, only to find her by my bed. She didn’t
speak, but in my head I heard her telling me it was OK, I had nothing to fear, she wasn’t going to leave me. I fell back into a deep sleep. When my father came to break the news to me in the
morning, I took it serenely, knowing she wasn’t really gone.

‘She’s been patrolling the halls of this house ever since. Always at night. It’s hard to describe her. She looks real, like when she was alive, but at the same time
there’s something insubstantial about her.’

‘This is madness,’ I croak.

Greygo shrugs. We’ve come to Andeanna’s room. He stands in the doorway, gazing in. ‘My father kept this room as she left it. She spent much of her time here, seated in her
favourite chair or lying on the bed.’ He closes the door gently, lovingly. ‘I don’t know if anyone else saw her. Our servants sensed something – so many refused to work
nights that eventually we employed them only in the day – but I never heard them discussing her. I think my father knew. I suspect that’s why he never married again.’

‘And Axel Nelke?’ I ask sceptically. ‘Does he hang out here too?’

‘No.’ Greygo frowns. ‘It’s only ever been my mother. I don’t know who the person you spoke with could have been, how he knew about her or why he told you what he
did. Where did you meet him?’

I open my mouth to answer, then shut it sharply. What can I tell him, that I met Nelke
here
? That I also met with his dead mother? Oh, and by the way, I’m the guy who killed his
father, but it’s OK, I did it because Andeanna told me to?

‘Show me your mother,’ I say instead, challenging him to back up his wild story with proof.

Greygo’s face softens. ‘She doesn’t come any more. Not since my father died. I like to think she was waiting for him, that they’re together now and have moved on to a
better place.’

‘Very romantic,’ I scoff. ‘Or perhaps she was hanging around to see him die. Maybe she was waiting for revenge. Maybe
she
set up his murder.’ Greygo stares at me
as if I’m mad. Maybe I am. Right now I don’t know where this world stops and all the other worlds begin. I’ve criticized Joe for jumping to phantastical conclusions, but now I
find myself leaping higher than he ever did. ‘An eye for an eye, a life for a life. Perhaps she found a way to materialize outside of this house. Maybe she hired the assassin who . . .
’

Gregory Menderes bursts out laughing. ‘That’s insane.’

‘You’re the one who claims to have lived with a ghost,’ I remind him.

‘A ghost, yes, the shade of a woman who died of extreme unhappiness. Not some zombie who arranges assassinations. Besides, as I said, my father didn’t kill her, so there was no call
for revenge.’

‘You’re back to that again. How do you
know
? How can you stand here and claim to –’

‘Does the name Etienne Anders mean anything to you?’ he cuts in.

I’m about to tell him it doesn’t, when I recall the mystic the fake Andeanna encouraged me to see when I was researching
Spirit of the Fire
. ‘Yes,’ I say
cautiously.

‘Do you know how to contact her?’

‘I have her number.’

‘Arrange a meeting. Tell her I sent you. Ask her to put you in touch.’

‘
In touch?
’ Now it’s my turn to stare at him as if he’s the mad one. ‘In touch with who?’

He smiles thinly. ‘If you can’t figure that out, you’re not half the detective you think you are.’ He offers his hand, and in a daze I take it. ‘Good day, Mr
Sanders. I should show you to the door, but I’d like to be alone for a while. I’m sure you understand.’

‘But the ghost . . . your mother . . . the truth . . . ’

‘Etienne can explain better than I can,’ he promises. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Go see her. Call me when you’re finished, if you like, though I
don’t think you’ll need to.’ He nods curtly, wheels away and heads back to his study.

I stand on the landing, brain cranking creakily. Then, with the ghosts following, still in a sombre line, I shakily make my way down the stairs and stumble away from the house of madness and
death, into the shadowy mysteries beyond.

EIGHTEEN

I dial Etienne Anders’s number while sitting in my car. My hands tremble so much that it takes several efforts to press the right buttons. Finally I hit the correct
combination, her phone rings six times then cuts to voicemail. I leave my name and number and ask her to call me as soon as she can.

My heart is pounding and my thoughts are circling faster and faster, like goldfish on speed. If Gregory Menderes has told me the truth, and the mystic can prove it, then I fell in love with a
ghost, one who was able to pass herself off as a member of the living. If that’s the case, life as I knew it just ceased to exist. How can I trust anything in a world where ghosts can walk
among us and not be known for what they truly are?

I never believed that ghosts might be real. All the years of research were mainly an attempt to keep madness at bay. The search for supernatural proof was a way of evading what I felt sure was
an undeniable truth, that my ghosts were nothing more than evidence that I had suffered a mental breakdown. I didn’t think there was a God, or life after death. If I was wrong . . . if
Andeanna was the proof that I’d been sceptically seeking . . . then everything has changed. On the one hand, that thrills me. On the other, it terrifies me, as every belief I once held true
will have to be re-evaluated. I’ll have to try to make sense of the world all over again.

I think back to the storyline of
Spirit of the Fire
. I’d started to feel far removed from the novel, as if it was some leftover relic from an earlier life. Now I find myself
running through the plot again. Was I closer to the truth than I thought? Could my bumbling efforts to weave together a decent ghost story have nudged me over some unseen edge, into a very real,
supernatural corner of the world? Did I inadvertently invite the ghost of Andeanna Menderes into my life, bring her into being or open a door through which her spirit could slip and physically
form?

Joe rings while I’m considering the impossible. He wants to know how my meeting with Greygo went. I lie and say I learnt nothing new, then tell him I’ll be in touch in a few days,
that I’m chasing up leads. Not wanting to expose Joe to the labyrinthine terrors of this mad new world. Not wanting to drag him down into the darkness with me, where the dead can catch hold
of you and do as they wish.

Hours tick by. I try not to think about Andeanna and Axel Nelke. I fail.

Finally my cell rings again. I answer hoarsely, ‘Hello?’

‘Edgar Sanders?’ a woman asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Etienne Anders. Sorry it took so long to get back to you, love. It’s been a hectic day.’

‘No problem. Thanks for returning my call.’

There’s an awkward silence. She’s waiting for me to say something but I don’t known how to begin. When she realizes I’m stuck, she comes to my rescue. ‘Were you
looking to have your fortune read?’

‘No, I . . . ’ Want her to materialize the spirit of the dead woman I fell in love with? Unpick the lock of a mystery that defies description? ‘Gregory Menderes told me I
should call.’

‘Greygo?’ I sense her smile. ‘He used to be one of my favourites, bless him, though I haven’t seen much of him lately. How is he? I heard about his father and sent a
condolence card.’

‘He’s good. He . . . ’ I go for it. ‘I rang about his mother, Andeanna.’

‘Oh?’ Cautious now.

‘I’m writing a book. There are things I want to learn about her. Greygo told me to get in touch with you. He said you knew more about it than he did.’

‘I don’t think so, love,’ she replies. ‘I’ve channelled for Greygo a few times, but I don’t . . . Do you know what channelling is?’

‘That’s when a mystic acts as a conduit for the dead.’

‘Yes. I let them speak through me. Well, I channelled for Greygo, but I didn’t hear what was said. Sometimes a spirit takes over and tunes me out, so that it can converse with its
loved one in private.’

‘But he told me to phone you,’ I bleat.

She makes a soft sucking sound with her teeth and lips. ‘Do you mind if I call you back, love? I’d like to check with Greygo before taking this further. Not that I don’t trust
you, but you’ve got to be careful, haven’t you?’

‘Sure. But if you can’t get through to him, will you let me know? I don’t want to sit around like a fool all night.’

‘Will do, love. Hold tight. I won’t be long.’

I think about our short conversation while I wait. A channeller. Is this how Greygo learnt about his mother’s death? I’ve visited lots of mediums over the years. Most were blatant
charlatans. A few left me wondering if there might be something to them, but not even the best could provide concrete proof that they were in touch with the dead. None could answer a direct
question to my satisfaction, in a way that proved beyond doubt that they could communicate with spirits.

Etienne is back within ten minutes. ‘Sorry about the delay, love. I got chatting to Greygo about his father. He’s awfully upset. They still don’t know who did it. I told him he
should come in and try making contact. His father might be able to shed light on the subject.’

That’s a twist I hadn’t taken into account — the ghost of Mikis Menderes returning to point the finger at me. Even surrounded by madness, my self-protective drive kicks in and
I ask how Greygo reacted to her suggestion.

‘He pooh-poohed it. He wants to get over his father’s death, not wallow in it. I understand that. It’s better not to rush these things. The dead can wait, that’s for
certain.’

‘What about me? Did he OK our meeting?’

‘He was ambivalent. He regretted telling you about his secrets, but given the fact that he had, he agreed that you might as well learn the rest, seeing as how you know so much
already.’

‘When can you see me?’

‘Right now’s fine. Do you have a pen? I’ll give you directions.’

Etienne Anders operates from a small apartment in a block of flats in the East End. She lives elsewhere, she tells me as I make myself comfortable in a cramped living room, but
never reveals her home address, even to her most trusted clients. ‘One of my quirks, love. I’m full of them.’

She’s a middle-aged woman with straggly grey-brown hair which she doesn’t take care of. Light brown skin. Her striking cheekbones make me think she might have been a looker once, but
now her face is dark with wrinkles and moles. She walks with a stoop, her left shoulder hanging lower than her right. She wears crisp white gloves but otherwise is dressed casually, baggy jeans and
a faded sweater with a picture of Bob Marley sprayed across the front.

‘I look a fright, don’t I?’ she laughs, collapsing into a soft, springy chair. ‘I don’t normally, but this has been a long day. I’m usually finished by now.
I’m no nightbird, love. In bed by ten more often than not.’ She glances at a digital clock hanging on the wall above my head, and sighs. ‘But not tonight. Let’s crack on,
shall we?’ Taking my hands, she looks at me directly. ‘I won’t feed you a load of guff, love. If customers come to be charmed and amused, I charm and amuse them. But I can turn on
the real stuff when asked.’

‘You can speak to the dead?’ I ask dubiously.

‘Not
to
them, love.
With
them. I can’t contact anyone who doesn’t want to be contacted, or find someone who doesn’t want to be found. I open up my mind
and invite them in. If they come, they come. If they don’t, they don’t. If Andeanna wants to speak with you, she will. If she doesn’t . . . ’ Etienne shrugs.

‘I understand.’

‘Good.’ Settling back, not letting go of my hands, she closes her eyes. ‘Ever been to one of these before?’

‘Quite a few, actually.’

‘Then you know the routine. Keep still, say nothing, don’t disturb me. It might take a while. There’s nothing either of us can do to speed things up.’

She takes deep breaths and relaxes. Her head is soon tossing from left to right and her lips move, forming barely intelligible words. At one point she cries out, a young boy’s voice, and I
fear I’m going to be stuck with a whimpering child, but the youth’s voice fades and she resumes her search.

My ghosts drift around her as she rolls her head, making crude gestures, mocking the both of us, as they often have at seances. If she could truly do what she claims, surely she’d be aware
of the seven malevolent spirits in the room. The fact that she isn’t disheartens me, and I ready myself for the usual mumbo-jumbo that I get fed by those of her ilk.