The Ghost in the Electric Blue Suit (21 page)

I nodded at the little girl who’d held my hand throughout most of the proceedings, indicating that Nobby might be a little more careful in what he had to say. It was a pointless gesture.

“You are, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. That’s who was in your room, wasn’t it?”

“No.”

“Oh yes, it was. Uncle Nobby knows. That time when you wouldn’t let me in. That’s who it was. You can tell me. I know the meaning of discretion.”

“Do you?”

“Oh yes. Oh yes.”

“No, it wasn’t Nikki.”

“Oh yes it was.”

“I’m not arguing with you, Nobby.”

“If it wasn’t Nikki, it was that Terri, wasn’t it?”

That went through me like a sword.

“It was, wa’n’t it? She’s a right blue blazer that one. Bing bang bong. Careful there my son, careful there. Remember Nigel? He who came before you? He had to leave in his socks when her old man found out Nigel had been poaching in his pond, oh yes. Chased him down to the pier with a scalping razor ho ho ho. You be careful where you park your Zephyr, my son. Uncle Nobby knows.”

I made a superhuman effort to ignore all of this by focusing on the happy little five-year-old girl holding my hand. She was a sweet thing with white-blond hair, tender cheeks, and startling blue eyes. “Are you going to have a go with the bow and arrow?” I asked her.

She beamed at me and said, “My dad says bollocks to that.”

NIKKI HAD MANAGED to pacify the silver-haired revolution and the Whist Drive had been restored to full operational efficiency. From what she told me the gray-haired Whist Liberation Front was ready to hang Nobby by the neck. It wasn’t clear what he’d done exactly. I was starting to feel sorry for him. It seemed he had enemies everywhere without knowing how he attracted such odium.

“He gets the blame for everything,” Nikki admitted. “He seems to set himself up for it.”

“He thinks you and I are an item,” I blurted.

“Chance would be a fine thing,” she said. “Anyway you’re seeing someone else.”

We’d gone up to the beach to have half an hour’s peace before our afternoon duties resumed. We sat on the great concave wall with our legs dangling over the gray-white concrete. A light breeze streamed in from seaward. It was a relief because, unless this light wind was a hint of a weather change to come, the heat still showed no sign of breaking. The breeze lifted at her hair.

Nikki turned to me and made a sun visor of her hand,
to look at me. It was stupid because the sun was behind her, and I was the one who was squinting, but she did it anyway. “I know,” she said.

“Know what?”

“Your little secret.”

“That being?”

“Your little friend.”

I felt as though I had just been given poison to drink. My guts churned.

“Who’s my little friend?”

“Oh come on, David.”

“No, you come on. Who’s my little friend?”

Nikki dropped her fake visor. She made a little shake of her head. Then she mouthed the name. Or just half the name. Or even just the last syllable. “Ri.”

“How did you know?”

“Have you ever seen people deliberately not looking at each other?”

She was smart, that Nikki. She was one of those women on whom nothing is lost. She was a much shrewder judge of human psychology than people gave her credit for. Though it was bad that she knew, I had an odd sense, from somewhere nine feet above myself, of staying calm.

“Who else knows?”

“What does it matter?”

“It does matter. Who else knows? I mean who do you know for certain who knows?”

“Calm down, David. If they do know they’re really not that interested. Not as interested as you seem to think anyway.”

I nodded. I looked out to sea. I was thinking hard.

“I was more surprised than interested, to be honest.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well I didn’t think she would be your type. She’s quite hard-faced. When you get to know her. Oh, am I speaking out of turn now?”

“No,” I said. “No, you’re not.”

“I was a bit taken aback. When I realized, I mean.”

“Right.”

“She just didn’t seem to be the sort of woman I would have expected you to go for.”

“What sort of woman would you have expected me to go for?”

“More feminine. More sophisticated, I suppose.”

“More like a dancer?”

“That’s the word I was trying to think of,” she said.

“I’ve been an idiot,” I said.

ALONG WITH GAIL, I was responsible for organizing the Glamorous Grandmother competition that afternoon. The previous week when I’d organized the Glamorous Grandmother I’d been an adulterer. Now I was wondering whether it was possible that I was a murderer’s accomplice. It hadn’t escaped me that maybe Colin had stuck a pig’s trotter or two in those bags of meat just to disguise any dismembered human remains. Of course, he might not have done, but all things were possible. I was moving in a world where I didn’t know what people were capable of.

I supposed that a murderer’s accomplice did trivial, quotidian things like anyone else. I mean, murderers peel potatoes and watch quiz shows on the television. But I think it must be quite rare that a murderer’s accomplice has to organize a Glamorous Grandmother competition.

And my mind was slipping from the job. I had command of the microphone and before a small audience in the ballroom I had to conduct, in turn, an “interview” with each of about fifteen ladies of a certain age. I would ask them where they were from and a number of stock questions. One of these questions was to ask the lady what is the best piece of advice she had ever received. Halfway through the show I was about to ask this question to contestant number eight and my mind went blank.

When I say blank, I don’t just mean I forgot my words. My mind drained. I stalled. My jaw became paralyzed. I was aware of the audience waiting for me. Contestant number eight turned toward me with an expectant expression on her face. Everything went silent. Someone coughed. Then there was a nervous laugh from somewhere. I actually had the microphone held to my lips, but it was as if time was passing for everyone except me. I couldn’t progress time in my own world, and therefore I couldn’t speak. A bead of sweat ran down the side of my face. Contestant number eight smiled awkwardly, turned away, and gently patted the hair at the nape of her neck, then she looked back at me again. Someone in the audience made a comment.

I saw Gail come toward me, her eyes huge. She gently took the microphone from my fingers. “There’s been a bit of a bug going round the staff,” she said into the microphone,
“and I think David’s got it.” There was a murmur of sympathy from the audience. “He doesn’t like giving up but if we can get him to sit down a minute then I’ll carry on.”

I took the cue. I patted my stomach a little theatrically perhaps, but enough to confirm for the audience that what she said was true. I made my way out of the ballroom and went to the gents, where I stood at the sink throwing cold water on my face.

I quickly pulled myself together and went back into the ballroom, ready to reclaim the microphone, but Gail indicated to me that she was fine. Pretty soon we had a winner: a sixty-three-year-old school-dinner lady from Mansfield who was not only a grandmother but a great-grandmother. And a big round of applause, please.

After the show I cleared the gear away with Gail so that the afternoon tea dance could start. I apologized to her for making a hash of the show.

“We’ve all dried up onstage,” she said. “It happens.”

“You were brilliant. Thanks for giving me a way out.”

“You’re sweet!” she said.

Sweet, I thought. But was that all that had happened? I’d dried up? Got stage fright? It felt like much more. It felt like something terrible was coming to get me. Some spirit or nemesis. We made the room ready for the afternoon tea dance, and as I made my way out I saw one of the barmen pointing in my direction. He was directing toward me a man in a scruffy beige suit. The man made his way to me across the ballroom floor, passing between dancers who had commenced a slow fox-trot.

“David Barwise?” said the man. He had sandy hair and
freckles and a sad-looking face. His suit was crumpled and his collar was a little grubby. He had an offbeat air about him. He stared out at the world like a herring on a fishmonger’s slab.

“Yes.”

“Could we sit down somewhere and have a chat? I’m Detective Constable Willis.”

“Of course,” I said. “What’s it about?”

He put a finger to his ear to suggest the ballroom music was making it difficult for him to hear, and gestured that we should go out into the lobby. There we found a couple of hard chairs and sat down. He pulled a small notebook out of his suit pocket. A pencil was inserted into the metal spiral binding the pages of the notebook. He took the pencil out and licked the lead tip. Then he leafed through the pages of the notebook, stopping when he appeared to find something interesting. His brow corrugated for a moment. Then he went back to flicking the pages until finally he arrived at a blank page. He laid the notepad on the table and wrote my name at the head of the page. “It’s about Terri Marchant.”

I blinked.

“She’s gone missing.”

“Terri the cleaner?” I asked.

“Yes, Terri the cleaner.”

“You should ask her husband, Colin.”

“We can’t find him.”

“Well, he got fired from here.”

“No, he didn’t. He got suspended. But he’s gone missing, too, and normally that wouldn’t be a cause for concern, but Terri’s brother says she’s taken nothing with her. Nothing
from the flat she shares with Colin, no money, no clothes. All her things have been left behind. Which is odd. Do you know where she might have gone?”

I kept flashing on the night we had dumped the condemned meat, and the fact that Colin had worn gloves while I hadn’t. I wondered if I was being carefully set up. “Why would I know?”

“Well, you’re a friend of theirs. So people tell me.”

“I’m their friend? Who says that?”

“Look, you’re a member of the same political party as Colin and Terri, right?”

“You’re crazy. They are the National Front. Or rather he is.”

“Look, I’m not interested in your politics, son. But I’m told you’re in the same party.”

“No, I’m not! He’s like a fascist!”

“I’ve told you, son. I don’t care if you’re in the Chairman Mao Party. It’s of no interest to me.”

“Chairman Mao?” I said. “I think that’s the other end of the spectrum, isn’t it?”

“You’re not listening to me: I’m not here to talk politics. I just want to ask if you have any thoughts about where she might be.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“But you went to some meetings with her?”

“No. Who have you been talking to? I went to one. One meeting, but with Colin, not Terri. And I didn’t even know what that was.”

“You went to a National Front meeting without knowing what it was?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Exactly.”

He smiled. If you could imagine a dead fish smiling, that was how it looked. “There are some National Front members in the police force. One or two. But I’ve never been to one of their meetings by accident.”

“Really? Well that’s what happened.”

“So you’re saying you don’t know Terri Marchant.”

“No, I do know her. She used to work here.”

“Still does.”

“Yes. I mean I know her. And I know Colin, her husband. But I’m not his friend. He’s a nasty piece of work.”

Willis chewed his thumbnail and stared hard at me for what seemed like a long time. “Was there anything between you and Terri?”

“Why on earth would you suggest that?”

“Don’t get excited.”

“Excited? I’m not excited.”

He smiled. “Perhaps you have a guilty secret.”

“Is that a joke?”

“You tell me, David. You tell me.”

I was determined not to look away from his beady-eyed gaze. He weakened first. “Right,” he said. “Is there anyone else I might talk to?”

“There are a couple of lads in the kitchen who were at that meeting you just referred to. Though Terri wasn’t there. I don’t think she’s a party member.”

“She is.” Willis consulted his notebook. “Pete Williams and Dan Hanson?”

“Yes. That’s them.”

“I’ve already spoken to them. Anyone else?”

I thought about mentioning that Tony was a party member, but I guessed Willis already knew that. “No. What do you think has happened to her?”

Willis got up from the table. “They had a violent row. After that, no one seems to have seen her, though according to the brother Colin is still around. So we’re guessing.”

“Who is the brother?” I asked him. I didn’t even know that Terri had a brother. I wondered if that was who had told DC Willis that Terri and I had a relationship. Perhaps Terri had confided in him.

“John Talbot. I think he’s another of your Blackshirt chums.”

I ignored the jibe. I remembered John Talbot. I’d met him when Colin introduced me to Norman Prosser at the meeting. He was also the man who’d seen me coming out of the pub with Nikki the day we’d gone into town. So that was Terri’s brother. It was a tight circle.

A couple of young girls in halter tops and tiny shorts waddled by on high-heels carrying glasses of lager. Willis watched them go. Then he looked at me. “You have an easy life,” he said. I didn’t know whether it was a description or an instruction. He nodded, almost microscopically. “So you had nothing to do with her?”

“Who?”

“Terri.”

“Look,” I said, “I barely knew her. If I were you I’d be asking myself who exactly suggested that I was her boyfriend when I’ve had nothing to do with her. Who would want to deflect your interest onto me, I mean. If I were a detective, that’s the question I’d be asking myself.”

“I don’t know why you’re getting steamed up,” DC Willis said. “I’m just trying to work out what’s gone on here, that’s all.”

“But you’re saying I’m her boyfriend!”

“I’m not saying that at all. I’m just asking a few questions. I’m just looking for help. That’s all. You’re reacting like someone with a guilty conscience.”

“In that case,” I said, “it must be possible for people who are not guilty to behave as if they are guilty. Have you thought of that?”