A Ghost in the Machine (36 page)

Mediumship was not on offer. They were here to commemorate the life of Ava Garret, now passed to spirit, though the reason and actual manner of this passing remained as yet unclear. Murmurings among the congregation had indicated an approval of this situation. Ava was so very far from being an ordinary person that it seemed only right and proper that her demise should be mysterious. The meeting opened with a rumbustious rendering of “Amazing Grace” as George took to the platform.

“Welcome to you all. Cheerfulness breaks in, dear companions, even at a moment of great solemnity for I have just received a message from my Assyrian guide. It appears that our late friend and healer has already linked up with Zacharia, her elemental counterpart.” Scattered applause. “Absorbed into the great firmament of light and love and abiding in crystal caves the great halls of learning will now open unto them. Transfigured henceforth they will live for all time.” George paused for a moment, a thin black bird cocking its head, alert, waiting. “Hamarchis has also been asked to send blessings to you from the Great Designer of all that was and is and ever shall be.”

Everyone sang: “Oh, great spirit. Earth, sun, sky and sea, You are inside and all around me…”

George had asked earlier for a corporate eulogy, not trusting himself to handle the matter in person without breaking down. Grateful recipients of Ava's consoling ministry stood up in turn to recollect their own specific condolence and generally praise her gifts. This took quite a long time. However, an observant listener might have noticed that only Ava's psychic skills were praised. No comment was passed on her qualities as a human being, mainly because no one at the Church of the Near at Hand could stand the sight of her.

As the final musical tribute: “Love is the reason for living,” came to an end, George Footscray, by now quite overcome with some indefinable emotion, pressed a handkerchief to his face, hurried from the platform and almost ran up the centre aisle, waving away concerned gestures and crying, “Tea…tea…”

Although no specific appeal had been made for donations, in Ava's memory a largish cardboard box covered with silver foil was prominent in the Doris Stokes suite among the sandwiches roulade and assorted cakes and pastries. A stuck-on label read: “Funeral Expenses” and most people put something through the slit in the lid. Doris slipped in ten pounds, though what Ernest would have said if he'd known didn't bear thinking of. Really, she did it for Karen.

Then she mingled and was not surprised to find the conversation generally leaning towards speculation and disappointment. There were a lot of “if only's” and “I wonder who's.” Ava's amazing revelations regarding Dennis Brinkley's death the previous Sunday, though uncomfortably received at the time, had subsequently generated an atmosphere of high drama. The newspaper headlines and radio interview fanned this excitable flame. The presence of television cameras on the big day had become a foregone conclusion. People definitely had something to look forward to. No one doubted Ava's promise that the guilty would be described in such detail they would be caught bang to rights within the hour. Equally no one now put into words the thought – perhaps that's why she died.

Sharing a plate of marzipan doughnuts with Mrs. Gobbett, keeper of the keys and flower rota – each week all arrangements had to be dusted – Doris put her own lesser anxiety into words.

“I didn't like the look of George, early on.”

“He thought the world of her. It's only natural.”

“Who d'you think'll take Ava's place?”

“They'll transfer somebody. Otherwise it'll be down to him.”

Both women pondered this idea in silence. George's mediumship was erratic, to say the least. Sometimes he was fine. Others he could be so uninspired you could sit through the whole service without hearing from a living soul. And he could be irresponsible. Once he'd brought up and named a man who was on holiday at the time in Cromer and had been threatened with a solicitor's letter.

“Do you know what arrangements have been made, Alma? Regarding the funeral?”

“They reckon her earthly shell's still sub judice,” explained Mrs. Gobbett, “because of the police.”

“It's just – they cost so much money. What's in that box won't come anywhere near.”

“She should've joined the SNU. We'd've looked after her.”

“George said she wouldn't pay the sub.”

“Who's sorry now?” asked Alma with regrettable satisfaction. “I saw little Karen this morning.”

“What – in the village?”

On hearing that was indeed the case Doris gathered up her things and hurried away. As she passed the gents' in the vestibule she heard a strange choking sound followed by some bubbling chortles. These were muffled as if strained through a sort of gag or padding. Then a single squawking cackle broke free and was quickly stifled.

Doris hesitated. Was someone ill in there? Were they telling funny stories? It seemed an inappropriate occasion. An inappropriate place too, come to that. Could they be having a fit? One thing was certain, someone else would have to deal with it. Doris had never been in a gents' toilet in her life and had no intention of starting now.

 

Roy was sanding the walls in Karen's bedroom when there was a knock on the front door. Immediately frightened, he knew it must be them. All that they stood for, all they had put him through, flooded his mind. He had to grip the ladder not to fall. They might be different people now but they were still the social. The ones with the power to tear everything apart. Hatred bubbled into the fear, so strong it almost made him sick. All this took only a few seconds but it was long enough for Karen to open the door. He heard her talking to someone, then she called his name up the stairs.

Roy struggled to pull himself together. He had done nothing wrong. Not only had he done nothing wrong he had done everything right. He was seventeen now, with a job where he turned up on time and behaved himself. In the present emergency he was looking after things the best way he knew how. And anyway, what could they do to him that they hadn't done already? So when Roy finally braced himself and got downstairs it was a bit of a setback to find only Mrs. Crudge from the church.

Doris was quite set back too. In fact, she didn't realise at first that it was Roy. He certainly cleaned up well. But the house was a disappointment. She had been expecting something more exotic, Ava being so well travelled. Tiger-skin rugs and souvenirs from round the world. But everything was cheap and shoddy and dull. When Roy invited her into the lounge she couldn't help noticing how the settee was stained and the recliner covered in cigarette burns.

“Well, my loves.” Doris sat down, putting her handbag by her feet. “How are you coping?”

“We're cool,” said Roy. “We got all we want. Food – everything.”

“Roy's painting my room, Doris. Princess Pink. And I've got lots of new clothes. And a Barbie. She's an astronaut. She's got a helmet and silver space suit and everything.” Karen paused for breath. “We went to Byrite. We had to come home in a taxi we had so many things.”

Doris looked slowly across at Roy. He read that look and shrank as from a savage blow. He must have been blind or stupid or something but that aspect of it had never occurred to him. He'd have his hand off before he'd touch a child that way. Any child but most of all Karen.

“I didn't buy them,” he said quickly. “We found some money upstairs.”

“I came before.” Doris spoke gently, directly to Karen. “When nobody answered I thought you'd gone away. Like, you were being looked after.”

“I am being looked after.”

“Hasn't anybody been round from the council?”

“Not yet,” said Roy. “Any minute now, eh?” He gave a strained laugh. You could see her mind working. See her – oh God – perhaps taking Karen with her when she left.

“Do you know what's happening regarding the funeral, Roy?” Doris felt a bit awkward asking in front of the child but someone had to get it sorted.

“Nothing so far, Mrs. Crudge. You have to register the death first and I'm still waiting for the certificate from the hospital.”

Doris glanced anxiously at Karen on the word “death” but she seemed not at all distressed. A bit unusual after such a short time, but then Ava had never been much of a mother. At least Roy seemed to know what to do and was trying to get on with it.

“They had a collection after the service this morning. I expect George or someone'll bring it round. But it won't be nearly enough to cover the cost.”

Roy gave a helpless shrug. He didn't know what to say. Someone must pay for poor people to be buried – tramps, the homeless – otherwise there'd be bodies lying all over the place. Probably the bloody council again. One way or another he would get drawn back into the net. Be asked all sorts of questions to which he had no answers. They would take the rent book away, which meant his home as well. Then they would take Karen. Roy felt a swell of panic so strong he felt sure to drown. Now she was staring at him, old Mrs. Crudge. Giving him a real funny look, actually. Sending Karen away.

“Good girl. You make us a nice cup of tea.”

As Karen ran off Doris said, “Got a lot on your plate, son.”

“I can handle it.”

“George said it was you who found her.”

“That's right. I kept the kiddie well away. There was a woman paramedic – she told her what had happened. And Karen never saw them take Ava.”

“That was good, Roy. I can see you've been doing your best—”

“I have! I have!”

“But you can't stay here on your own…”

And then Roy completely lost it and what he lost Doris, devastated by the emotional onslaught, mown down by the force of violent anguished memories, unwillingly and sorrowfully found.

He'd been dumped in a phone box, he told her. Then adopted. New mum died, dad didn't want him. Fostered twice, handed back twice, dumped in a home. Tough kids, violent kids, kicked him, tried it on, laughed when he cried. Cut his clothes up, did it to him in the shower, over and over. He tried to be in a gang. If you were in a gang you'd be all right. But no one wanted him. Even the crap gangs – all the kids nobody else'd have – didn't want him. He tried to run away – sleep rough – but the police found him and took him back. Then when he was sixteen he got a real home and someone who needed him, someone to care about even if it was only a little kid. But now it was going wrong like everything else in his rotten life but he'd never let the social take Karen. She'd never go through what he'd been through. They'd run away where no one would find them…

Roy, his eyes bunged up with tears, snot running into his mouth, ran into despairing silence. He sobbed, knowing he was kidding himself. How far would they get, him and Karen? What chance would they have? Old Mrs. Crudge had got up. Blinded, he couldn't see her but sensed her moving about. She'd take Karen now—there wouldn't be anything he could do. That would be an end to it. He could handle that. He'd been handling shit like that all his life. It was hopes and dreams that broke you. The settee gave; a weight settling beside him. It eased closer. An arm enclosed his shoulder. A hand gently stroked his hair.

When Karen came in with the tea she was shocked and a little disturbed by what she saw. Because Roy was the strong one, the grown-up who would always know what to do and never be worried or anything. So why was he being rocked in Doris's arms, howling and crying like a baby? Karen put her tray down and sat quietly, waiting. And as she waited and the tea got cold she gradually came to understand that what was happening was not a bad thing. Not something to worry or frighten. And that when it was over Roy would be himself again.

 

Over the following few days DCI Barnaby, having offered up all the evidence pertaining to the deaths of Dennis Brinkley and Ava Garret waited to hear from the Top Floor that permission had been granted to set up a murder investigation. On the third day he met formally with Chief Superintendent Bateman. It was an experience with which he was very familiar but one he always hoped never to have to repeat.

He was irascible at the best of times, and the worst of times brought out the beast in the superintendent. He was a man boiling like a pudding inside his own skin. His neck bulged and rippled with purple veins. His eyes, brown marbles flecked with crimson, fastened on DCI Barnaby's tie. His fingers twitched as if eager to seize it and wrench it round and round until its wearer fell senseless to the floor. Yet his opening remarks were mild enough. Tuning up, the Station called it.

“I can't quite get the hang of this, Chief Inspector. You'll have to bear with me.”

“Sir.”

“Am I to understand that we're talking about two murders here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“
Two?
”

“That's right.”

“And the first one was written off as an accident?”

“There was no reason—”

“Is there a body?”

“No. Mr. Brinkley was cremated.”

“Not many prints from ashes, Chief Inspector.”

“No, sir.” And none from a cadaver weeks in the grave either.

“And this happened…?”

Barnaby had more sense than to even murmur during the deliberately contrived hiatus. Just watched the sinewy, powerful hands rustling the papers. They were like wolf paws, the backs felted with blackish grey hair. The nails curved and yellow.

“On the twenty-fourth of July? Crime scene pretty much lost to us, I should think.”

“Not necessarily. I believe—”

“
I
believe we're looking at some monumental cockup. I believe I'm surrounded by fuckwits who couldn't spot a murder if it was happening in their own back yard. And for why?”

“Sir?”

“Because they'd be lying in their hammocks, guzzling Canadian Club, wanking off and singing. And what might they be singing, do you suppose?”