A Ghost in the Machine (52 page)

“How can that be?” Leo looked really sick. Terrible though things were, he had thought at least the police had a name. A point of entry to start searching for the money. “I don't understand.”

“Do you remember when we talked here a couple of days ago? When Andrew Latham joined us and became extremely disturbed.”

“Of course.”

“And at what point in our conversation it happened?”

“You were talking about the fishmonger. How he'd identified the person Dennis saw breaking in here as Polly Lawson.”

“Why do you think that brought about such an extreme reaction?”

“How should I know?” Fortune put his elbows on the desk, covered his eyes with his hands and groaned. “I don't know anything any more. I don't even know what day it is.” Then he looked up sharply. “But I do know I haven't got time to play stupid games. So get on with what you want to say in a straightforward manner. Or just go.”

 

Latham was found before the day was out. The photograph helped. A happy smiling one of him and his wife taken years earlier. Gilda neatly excised, the police had it circulated within the hour. The lunchtime edition of the
Evening Standard
featured it on the front page. The black cab too had been quickly traced. Its driver had taken Latham to South Ruislip; the nearest Tube station to Bunting St. Clare that connected with the main line.

There he was clearly remembered, having tried out his charm to poor effect on the female booking clerk. He had bought a ticket to London via High Wycombe. Apparently he was in exceptionally high spirits. You would have thought, suggested the clerk, he'd won the lottery.

Latham's complete ignorance as to any interest of the police in his whereabouts led to him travelling openly and, alas for Sergeant Troy's romantic imaginings, with no attempt at disguise. He was detained around four o'clock at Waterloo, attempting to board the boat train for Southampton. By six he was seated in an interviewing room at Causton police station, having rejected, with an air of complete bewilderment, the suggestion that he might like to have a solicitor present. Two plainclothes officers were also at the table, on which was a folder and a large, somewhat bulky envelope. They were the same two officers, he recognised sourly, that had turned up at the bungalow only days ago and dropped him in it.

If they'd known anything then they would have arrested him then. So what did they know now? What could they know? There were one or two details skilled ferreting could no doubt discover. But you had to know what you were looking for and they knew bugger all.

His rights had been read. He knew he could not be compelled to speak, which meant he was the one with the power. And there was nothing like the power of silence.

“Off on your holidays, Mr. Latham?”

Andrew smiled.

“All on your own?” Barnaby paused. “Perhaps you were meeting up with someone later?” Nothing. “In France, perhaps?” Nothing.

“Where did you get the money?” asked the skinny red-haired one.

“None of your business.” Damn, that was a mistake. He should have said, “What money?” How quick they were to trick and provoke.

“Enquiries have led us to believe that you earned no regular salary.”

“And that it was Mrs. Latham who held the purse strings.”

“I believe she gave you an allowance every week.”

“A very small allowance.”

“So where did you get the money?”

“What money?”

The big man opened a folder and took out some papers, which Andrew immediately recognised. They had taken his travelling bag when he arrived, giving him a receipt as if that somehow made it acceptable. Obviously it had been searched. Surely that wasn't allowed without some special warrant. If they had bent the law didn't that mean any evidence so discovered would be inadmissible? Andrew wished now he had agreed to their suggestion of a brief.

He said, “Are you allowed to do that?”

“There is a balance here of over four hundred thousand pounds.” Nothing. “Did you have any special reason for opening an overseas account?” Nothing. “Protection from the Inland Revenue, perhaps?”

Andrew shrugged. Having absorbed the initial shock of seeing the details of his recently obtained wealth made public he recognised anew the importance of silence. What he must not do was slide into some question and answer loop with them hammering away, looking for a slip or contradiction to pounce on. He would dig his heels in and keep shtum. God knew he'd had years of practice.

“What made you choose today to disappear, Mr. Latham?”

“It was a disappearance, wasn't it?”

“Not just a trip to gay Paree.”

Gay Paree? Do me a favour. It was Cherbourg and a car, and motoring down to Provence and then across to Italy. Sorrento, Positano, Capri. All the places he had once pretended to own and manage property in. Except now the villa would be for real.

“Perhaps the investigation of Ava Garret's death was getting a little too close to home?”

“The
Causton Echo
was full of it.”

“How she met her murderer at Northwick Park.”

Andrew allowed an expression of utter stupefaction gradually to possess his features. This was difficult because it had, of course, been exactly this series of events that had provoked his flight.

“Sooner or later a witness will come forward who saw you.”

“Or your car.”

“Stands out, a yellow car.”

At this point a wondrously pretty uniformed policewoman came in with a tray of tea and a plate of shortbread biscuits. God – what a sight for sore eyes. Briefly Andrew's concentration slipped its moorings. He gave her a warm smile but she had locked on to the younger of the two investigators, who was giving her an even warmer smile. He said, “Abby Rose, you're a star.”

Abby Rose! Andrew stored the lovely name away. He could afford her now. A girl like that.

The tea was boiling hot and tasteless. Ignoring it, the detectives shifted tack. Now it was Dennis who occupied their attention. Dennis the menace as he was turning out to be. If he had minded his own business he would be alive today. With a million missing quid to account for, true, but alive.

What was this? Andrew was being handed some sort of printout from British Telecom. His number featured along with a few others. As did the time and date of the call. But that wouldn't tell them what had been said. And without knowing that, such information would be meaningless. He smiled politely and handed the paper back.

“Quite a coincidence, Mr. Latham.”

“Perhaps you remember discussing this very same evening with us recently in your office?”

“When you had that rather unpleasant turn.”

“Knocked bandy, as I recall. Sir.”

“You didn't mention this telephone conversation then.”

He hadn't been able to resist ringing, Dennis. Vindicated at last. Able to prove his fuss about the snake lamp had a sound basis in fact. Not triumphant – Dennis could never have managed that. But chuffed in his mild way. Silly, silly man.

Because he had seen who it was. He knew the woman. The family lived in Forbes Abbot. The matter, Dennis gave earnest assurances, could be safely left in his hands. But that was the last thing Andrew could allow to happen. There was far too much at stake. Money, naturally. Love too (though not for him). And most important of all, freedom, without which the first two were as ashes in the mouth.

Now he cursed his indolence over the past month. There had been time to plan his departure carefully. He could have got himself another passport. Another name. Created a totally different persona. But how was he to know that Dennis would decide to play Sherlock Holmes? Or that some stupid woman—and, boy, had she been stupid—would have a clairvoyant experience that would put the whole enterprise at risk.

The questioning had started off again; the hefty one repeating himself. Andrew frowned, cocked his head, faking a willingness to participate.

“And we believe that late telephone call—”

“Which you did not see fit to mention—”

“Led directly to his death.”

Prove it. Go on, I dare you.

“I suggest that after Brinkley left for work the following morning you entered the house and sabotaged one of the machines.”

Andrew couldn't help himself. “Walked through the walls, did I?”

“No. We think you used these.”

The envelope was tipped upside down. It held a bunch of picks from the days when he was a petty thief. Gilda, having no idea what they were, had found them in an old box. Thought them “all spiky and thrilling” and wanted them turned into a necklace.

Should he deny they were his? There seemed little point, for he hadn't been able to conceal a start of alarm when they had been tossed on to the table. Still, proving they were his was one thing. Proving he had entered Brinkley's house with them was something else. Andrew began some slow and calm breathing. The red-haired one replaced the picks in the bag using a clean handkerchief.

“They haven't been to Forensics yet.”

“We have high hopes of Forensics.”

“Apparently the lock on Kinders kitchen door had been oiled only a couple of days earlier.”

Now that was entrapment. Because it simply wasn't true. He'd been sure to check for anything that could transfer. On the handle too. And they wouldn't be able to come up with a surprise witness either. After parking on the very edge of the village overlooking an empty field he'd sat on a bench opposite the house, sheltering behind
The Times
till the coast was absolutely clear. Then in like lightning and doubly cautious coming out.

“Not a complicated business, modifying the machine, Mr. Latham. You had, I understand, seen it before?” Silence. “But what I did find difficult is how on earth Dennis Brinkley was persuaded to pull on the rope and release the weight that killed him.”

“Yeah – that really puzzled us.”

“He must have seen the trebuchet had been dragged out of place—”

“Marks all over the floor.”

“A mysterious, one might even say a suspicious thing to happen. Yet before any attempt was made to investigate—”

“When the alteration to the ramp might well have been noticed.”

“He reached out and tugged on the rope.”

“Now what on earth would make him do that?”

Andrew sighed and solemnly shook his head. It was plainly just as mysterious and suspicious to him. If only he could help…

Actually the key to the whole stratagem was Dennis's obsession with order, his compulsion to straighten and tidy. Andrew had left the rope caught up in a half-knot, the end hanging loose. Dennis would have been compelled to undo it. And to reach the knot he needed to lean directly over the machine and pull. It had been very precisely placed; just too high to get at any other way. Andrew was rather proud of this literally clever twist. The police would never work it out. And if they guessed, so what? When has a guess ever stood up in court? Solid evidence was what was needed and so far they'd got sweet FA. Which meant they'd either have to let him go, period, or release him on bail. In which case, Sorrento here I come.

There was almost another hour of this then they took a break.

 

His two interrogators having left the room, Andrew was offered something to eat. They had to do this apparently after a certain time. Sadly it was not brought by the gorgeous Abby Rose but by a spotty young constable who put the tray down and walked off, leaving the door of the interview room open. Andrew could just see him sitting on a chair in the corridor. The food was quite tasty: shepherd's pie with garden peas and a custard slice. He asked to use the toilet, small and windowless. So much for the great escape. Then spent the rest of his time alone, recapping on the story so far and bracing himself for the questions to come.

The Brinkley side of things looked pretty watertight. His only possible connection with the case – that final late-night phone call – the police had already discovered and it had availed them nothing. But Ava Garret?

He could still remember with absolute clarity the moment in the radio interview when she started describing the death scene. The shape of the room, the tall narrow windows, the machines. She even knew what Dennis was wearing; the colour of his hair. If that child hadn't started crying…

Until then Andrew, sitting on a stool sipping his Lavazza, had been having a good laugh at the woman's expense. Then came the shock. So powerful it was as if a great fist had crashed into his chest. He fell backwards, gasping. Coffee flew; burning his legs, staining the floor. His fingers trembled so much they couldn't turn the radio off.

He picked up the broken cup and put it in the bin, then stood helplessly amid puddles of brown liquid, unable to get his breath. It was as if something large and fierce had entered the room and was eating up all the air. Clearly drawn before him as on a map, he saw the end of everything. Goodbye money and sun and sex and sand. Farewell golden, shadowless landscapes and licentious living happy ever after.

A genuine medium. He had never believed there was such a thing. But a little while later, when he began once more to think coherently, Andrew started remembering all sorts of instances when such people had helped the police with their inquiries. Had even found bodies.

Filling the washing-up bowl, getting bleach out of the cupboard to scrub the floor, he tried to subdue the panic that shock had left behind.

As Andrew saw it, his hands, morally speaking, were clean. Yes, he had tinkered with the giant catapult and nudged Brinkley into a dangerous situation but the final step had been taken by the man himself. Even obsessives had free will and he had made the wrong decision. No reasonable person would call that murder.

Even so this woman could put him away, perhaps for years. Years he hadn't got, thanks to the decade of spineless grovelling that Gilda's father had purchased with his scrap metal swag.