A Ghost in the Machine (34 page)

Barnaby put his head in his hands.

“Chief?”

“Go on, go on.”

“Radio Four should be our best bet. However, quite a few of their programmes are now made by independents. No one knew offhand if one on spiritualism had been commissioned but they're checking up. There's a guy called Christopher Laurence in Current Affairs. I've spoken to him and he's not our man.”

“No, he wouldn't be.”

“I also contacted BBC London Live, and World Service at Bush House—”

“You've been very thorough, Sergeant. Thank you.”

“Right.” Troy waited, ill at ease. “Think we're wasting our time on all this, Chief?”

“Yes, I do. But it's time that has to be wasted. I can't go upstairs until we've checked every single thing that's checkable.”

At the words “go upstairs” Troy struck a ridiculously exaggerated attitude of frozen horror and drew a thumbnail across his throat. The chief super was as mad as a hatter. No one entered his office without a wreath of garlic and two sticks crudely assembled in the shape of a cross. Or the twenty-first-century equivalent.

“But he did meet her at Broadcasting House, sir.”

“I've been thinking about that. Try and get hold of Roy for me, would you?”

“Roy French for king,” laughed Troy, flipping through his notebook for the number and punching it in. “Hello, there. Sergeant Troy, Causton CID…Yes, it is me again.”

“Ask him if she went out with a mobile.”

Troy asked, then listened. “She did, sir. And what's more they got the impression it was Chris's suggestion. She certainly gave him the number.”

Barnaby stretched out his hand for the telephone. “Roy, I was wondering if there was another photograph of Ava?…I see…No one's saying it's your fault…In that case we may have to call on you for a more accurate description. We need to know how she looked when she went to meet this man…No – I'm afraid money won't be changing hands on this one…Also, would you mind having a look for her mobile?…Thank you. We'll be in touch.”

“He's a lad.” Sergeant Troy laughed again. “What're you after, Guv? An E-fit?”

“That's right.”

“D'you think it'll come to that?”

“I wouldn't be at all surprised.”

So, how's it all going at the office, darling?”

Nobody ever said “darling” quite like Gilda. A mixture of indulgence, weariness and contempt. And the word was never spontaneous. Never tossed carelessly into the conversation but placed with great sharpness and delicacy, like a banderilla, in the recipient's shrinking hide.

“The office, darling?” replied Andrew, knowing how much she hated hearing her words repeated. Parroting, she called it. Not wishing to answer the question or even think about it, he simply sat, his face fixed in a polite smirk.

God, she'd really pushed the boat out today. Tastefully draped in a flamingo and lilac tarpaulin that would easily have covered a brace of camels, Gilda was wedged into a two-seater sofa. On the mother-of-pearl table next to her was a goldfish bowl of Maltesers. Andrew watched, mesmerised, as his wife's hand dipped into it. Watched the great white fingers scrabble, close on a dozen or so of the melting little balls and transfer them to her mouth. One vicious suck, a gulp and the whole process started all over again.

“What are you staring at?”

“I was just wondering, my angel, what the collective noun for a gathering of Maltesers might be.”

“Collective what?”

“You know, as in a murmuration of starlings. A pandemonium of porcupines.”

“A bagful.”

“A bagful!” cried Andrew, joyfully clapping his hands.

“Try not to parrot everything I say.”

“Everything you—” Andrew held it there. No point in pushing his luck. The hand that holds the purse strings writes the rules.

“Anyway, you haven't answered my question. How
is
everything going at the office?”

“Couldn't be sweeter.”

“That's not what I heard.”

Andrew refused to ask what it was she had heard. Or who she heard it from. He liked to display these tiny fragments of independence from time to time. She'd tell him anyway.

How things were actually going was bloody awful. Andrew, naturally thick-skinned, had inevitably developed an extra layer or two during the years of his present servitude. But the new situation at what was now being called, by everyone but himself, Fortune and Latham was already beginning to get him down.

Within twenty-four hours of the will being read, Leo Fortune, having come into, appropriately enough, the lion's share of the Brinkley bequest, had had his name inscribed on Dennis's door. This was kept open unless a client was present and people drifted easily in and out talking to Leo, asking questions and advice, just as they had always done. Perversely this annoyed Andrew more than if the man had become incredibly grand and started throwing his weight about.

And whereas Andrew had always enjoyed having his own office where he could look out at the worker ants from a position of idling superiority, he now found this situation becoming unbearable. Frequently, glancing up from the
Financial Times
, he would find someone staring through the glass at him. It was like living in a bloody aquarium. The last straw had been when the office junior and Gail Fuller, heads together at the coffee machine, had gazed in his direction, plainly struggling to keep straight faces. Then Gail had whispered something behind her hand and the junior had burst into shrieks of uncontrollable laughter and run off into the loo. Plainly the whisper had been about him and Andrew had the terrible feeling it had to do with his sexual prowess. This made him very angry. The unattached Ms. Fuller had been glad enough of a quick shunt after hours. No doubt afraid lightning might never strike the same place twice, her knickers were off before he'd even put his fag out.

Well, this sort of thing shouldn't be difficult to put a stop to. He'd catch her before she left and make his displeasure known. By the time he'd finished she'd be so grateful to get away she'd keep her mouth shut for the duration. But when the time came someone from accounts was hanging around reception and they left together.

“It was that nice young man who has taken over Dennis's clients,” said Gilda now.

“What was?” Thank God it was Friday night. End of week.

“Who made me
au fait
with the office situation.”

“He's not young. He's forty-two.”

“Don't you have any clients
at all
?”

“I go in every day. I put the time in. I'm out from under your feet. For this you pay me a so-called salary. That was our arrangement.”

“It doesn't sound very satisfactory.”

Too fucking true, thought Andrew. The only thing that kept him going was that it could not last for ever. Because change was a condition of life, right? Also he had not been quite as supine as the little cockle of his heart supposed. From the moment the slave's collar had snapped around his neck he had been making plans. Wild plans, subtle plans, short- and long-term plans, plans so completely silly they had no hope of success but were simply designed to make him laugh. None had come to anything, but for the past few weeks he had been working on something that was beginning to look like a sure thing. Fingers crossed.

Alongside the making of plans, Andrew wrote and rewrote, then wrote again his farewell scene with Gilda. Dwelling on every tiny detail, polishing every insult, paring down the prose. She wouldn't be able to believe her eyes at first. Or ears either. Wouldn't be able to grasp that her poor, caponised fool of a husband, crushed underfoot for so many years, had put on flesh and muscle and bone and clad itself in shining garments and had taken up a spear in its bold fist and was flinging it towards her heart with all its might. Yes!

As for now, she was still droning on. Better respond. “Sorry, darling. I was miles away.”

“If only,” said Gilda.

 

Yesterday, after the police had left, for no sensible reason at all, Roy suddenly became much less anxious. It was as if the first big jump had been successfully cleared. He felt capable, able to handle things. He braved the Citizens' Advice Bureau, having reasoned that asking them what to do when someone dies was less of a risk than having various people coming round wanting to know why he hadn't done those things. Of course, they tried to get his name and phone number but Roy just made something up.

Then, around teatime, the plainclothes copper who had been round earlier rang back. Would he mind having a look for Ava's mobile? Roy already knew it wasn't in her handbag but promised to do his best.

“Roy?”

“What?”

“D'you think Karen's French for queen?”

“No.”

“It's got a ‘kuh' sound, though.”

“That's got nothing to do with it.”

“Why?”

Roy really didn't want to get into all this. He only knew about his own name because of a teacher at school. She had found him crying, heart-broken in the cloakroom. Two girls had told him their mothers knew his mother and she'd only dumped him because he stank and was absolute garbage. Then the teacher had said how could this possibly be true when he had been given a name that was one of the grandest and highest and most important in the world. And that was how he had discovered that Roy was French for king.

Karen, bored of waiting for an answer, had gone back to peeling a big, fat Jaffa.

“Don't oranges smell lovely, Roy?”

Actually Roy noticed that everything was smelling a lot better now that the reek of stale tobacco was disappearing. Not the furniture and curtains – they'd probably always pong a bit – but the air generally was much fresher.

“I'm glad you don't smoke, young Karen.”

“Ava wouldn't let me.”

“Quite right too.”

“She said I'd only end up pinching hers.”

Roy had not stopped worrying about Karen. He'd been watching her closely at times when he thought she wasn't looking. She'd stopped crying and now, apart from complaining about a nonstop headache, was pretending to be OK. But Roy knew she couldn't really be. Not already. He'd had first-hand experience of this sort of thing. There had been a boy in the home, only there temporary, whose mother died from a drug overdose. It had taken three care assistants to control him and his screaming had gone on for days.

“Would you like half?” She passed the orange over.

“No. We have a whole one each now, every day. And don't forget your milk.”

“It tastes nice. Nice but different.”

“It's fresh. See…” He turned the carton round, pointing. “Use by the nineteenth. If we don't, it'll go off.”

“Off where?”

Roy explained what “sour” meant. He thought being with Karen was great. It was like having a kid sister. She looked up to him; asked all sort of questions. Roy hardly ever knew the answers but he always pretended he did and would give them confidently so she would know she could rely on him.

There was a lot to learn, no doubt about that. They'd already tried cooking vegetables. Last night Roy put broccoli and potatoes in a pan and boiled them till the potatoes were soft, by which time the broccoli had completely dissolved. But the fish had instructions on so that was fine.

What they planned to do next was tackle Ava's room. It seemed a bit soon to Roy but Karen had suggested it. She said it wasn't right that he should be sleeping in a cupboard when he paid all the rent. And while they were in there they could look for the mobile, which certainly wasn't anywhere else in the house.

Roy said he would start and Karen could help but only if she felt OK about it. They'd got a few boxes from the Spar shop to put things of any value in. As for the rest—Roy had promised a bonfire.

He started by emptying the wardrobe, folding the clothes in neat piles and putting them out on the landing. The chest of drawers didn't take long, crammed with fusty old jumpers and whiffy underwear. He filled a bin liner in no time. The wigs and jewellery and handbags, all empty, went into a Walkers crisps box.

Roy left the bed till last. He really didn't want to touch it. The vivid sight of Ava lying there, eyes and mouth wide open, staring at him, was disgustingly present. Spillage from her mouth had run over the pillowcase and dried into a yellow stain. Roy wondered if he should be wearing rubber gloves but hated to seem poofy, even to himself. Anyway, they hadn't got any so that settled that.

He would burn the bedding. Duvet, sheets, pillows, mattress – the lot. He decided to throw them through the window, which faced the back garden. It'd make a grand start to the bonfire.

There was a really stupid pattern on the bedclothes. Women in funny stick-out skirts dancing on their toes and men jumping through the air, wearing sort of Robin Hood costumes. Everything was grubby. Ava had told Roy once, just after he'd moved in, that her outstanding gifts put her above housework and that anything Karen didn't do got left. This ultimately became anything Karen and Roy didn't do.

It was a job shoving the duvet through. The window, small to start with, was the old-fashioned sort that would only open in two separate halves. The mattress was going to be even worse. Roy decided the best thing to do was drag it on to the landing, down the stairs then round the side of the house. He heaved it off the bed and on to the floor. Lying underneath, on top of the box springs, was an envelope. Roy picked it up by the tips of his fingers and looked inside. It was full of money. Automatically he stuffed it into his pocket, then straightaway took it out again. He would have to start thinking differently from now on. Living life a new way. There wasn't just himself to consider.

He tried to count the money, which wasn't easy. The fifty-pound notes were damp and stuck together. He peeled them off carefully. There were nine. Four bundles of two made one hundred pounds four times. And there was one note left over.

“Karen?” He could hear her washing up. She was talking to herself as she often did. Chattering away like an old washerwoman. He called again. “Karen?”

“What?”

“Come and see what I've found.”

 

That same Saturday morning Doris was having a quick whizz through the
Echo.
She thought there might be a bit more information about Ava's death but it was the usual light-weight weekend stuff. Sport, horse racing, profiles of local characters, a few recipes. Doris cut out the only one that sounded tasty – a ham and cheese sandwich fried in butter with an egg on top – and passed the rest of the paper to Ernest.

She was keeping an eye on the time. Cheated yesterday of any conversation in the muddle and rush of unpacking, Doris had decided to try to catch Benny at her flat this morning. She was aiming for 9:30, when Benny should have finished breakfast but perhaps not yet gone over to the main house. Just in case, Doris took a note to leave. But she was in luck. Benny was at home but looking terribly upset. She was actually shaking as she opened the door. Doris was immediately concerned.

“Whatever's the matter?”

“I've been reading this book. They asked me – Kate and Mallory. I was so pleased – to be taking part, you know?”

“Yes,” said Doris, going inside. “Is it awful?”

“Terrible. Oh! Doris – I really don't think I can bear to read any more.”

“Don't then.”

“It's about this sword…so amazingly sharp—like magic. It has to cut through leather and flesh and bones and muscle. It can slice a soldier in half. And there's jousting and horses and heads rolling everywhere…”

It sounded like a jolly good read to Doris. “Listen, love, the last thing in the world Mallory would want is for you to get into this sort of state, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“This where it goes?” She pushed the heavy pile of paper back into a large Jiffy bag. “Now you take that back to the house and tell him you think it's a real belter.”

“It doesn't seem a very good start,” said Benny. “Telling lies.”

“You're in business now. Better get used to it.”