Lady of the Shades (22 page)

‘Now you’d rather be mad?’ Joe sniffs.

I shrug. ‘No. But having searched for proof for so long without finding any, I can’t believe that it would drop into my lap in such astonishing fashion. Besides, even if my ghosts
are real, Andeanna was different. She was flesh and blood, not a phantom. Other people saw her.’

‘
I
never saw her,’ Joe reminds me.

‘Waiters saw her, cab drivers, Axel Nelke.’

Joe squints. ‘Maybe she found a way to come back from the dead and take physical shape, like the guy in
Spirit of the Fire
.’

I laugh harshly. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Hey, it’s
your
theory,’ he retorts. ‘We know that Andeanna Menderes burnt to death. What if she was a victim of spontaneous human combustion? She dies
traumatically, her spirit can’t rest, she returns in a new body, seeking revenge on the husband she hated . . . ’

‘That was a plot device,’ I growl. ‘I treated it seriously because when you write, you have to make the world of the story seem as real as possible. But I know what’s
real and what’s not. If you can’t tell the difference, maybe you should –’

‘Hold on,’ Joe interrupts hotly. ‘I never saw this dream lover of yours. For all I know, she never existed and you’re completely gone in the head. You say that waiters
and taxi drivers saw her, but maybe you imagined them as well. Hell, maybe
I’m
not real. You could be sitting here arguing with yourself and . . . ’ He grinds to a halt and
scratches an ear. ‘I lost the run of that, didn’t I?’

‘You were going good until you tried to write yourself off,’ I smile.

‘But you get my point. Logically I should disregard everything you say and call in the men in the white coats. But you’re my friend. I’d rather believe in a ghost than denounce
you as a lunatic.’

‘You’re right,’ I sigh. ‘Sorry for snapping. Truth is, I’m not so sure of my sanity. That’s why I want to keep things as level as possible. If I head down
crazy paths, I don’t know where I’ll end up.’

‘OK,’ Joe says. ‘I’ll lay off the ghost angle. But can I ask you one more thing before I let it lie?’

‘What?’

‘Did you . . . ’ His cheeks redden. ‘Did you have sex with her?’ I silently count to ten before replying. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Your ghosts are silent, ineffective, insubstantial things, but that doesn’t mean that every wandering spirit must be. I think a more advanced ghost could pass for human in all sorts
of ways, fake the look, scent, maybe even the feel of a person. But in the most intimate of couplings, when it’s just the two of you, everything’s been laid bare and you’re
exploring every last inch of your lover’s body? I can’t imagine a phantasm managing to be
that
convincing.’

I think of my asexual relationship with Andeanna. The lines she fed me about the Turk and her gynaecologist. How I never even saw her naked.

I call it a night.

FIFTEEN

I ask Joe to find out everything he can about Andeanna Menderes, her background, family, associates. I tell him to track down distant relatives, old friends, anyone who was
close to her. Try to find people who might have known the
new
version of her.

‘Start with that beautician, Shar, who was celebrating her birthday the night we met,’ I advise him. ‘Talk to your friends who were at the party. Take a photo of Andeanna with
you, show it round and ask if anyone remembers seeing a woman who looked like that.’

While Joe is exploring the Andeanna angle, I check out Dash’s safe house. It looks deserted. No car in the drive. Curtains open. I should stake it out for a day or two to be safe, but I
don’t feel like wasting time, so I slip around back and let myself in with the spare set of keys which I kept.

I move cautiously through the rooms. No clear signs that Dash has been here – the bed is stripped, the chairs stacked neatly against the walls, the heating turned off – but
there’s a slab of cheese by the bread bin that wasn’t there before, and a can of beans in a cupboard under the sink. Peculiar of Dash to leave behind even these slight reminders of his
stay. Maybe he left in a panic.

From the safe house I make my way north, where I spend the next three days doing the rounds of every seedy-looking pub and club, making contact with low-level gangsters. I call myself Edgar
Sanders and pretend to be a journalist doing a piece about Mikis Menderes. I buy drinks for anyone who’ll chat with me. Many are eager to add to the Menderes legend and be associated with him
in some small way, so most talk with me freely.

They tell me all sorts of juicy stories, how Mikis drove out into the countryside every once in a while to chop the heads off sheep, the time he ate the prize poodle of someone who was slow to
repay a loan, his incredible sex drive. (‘He once had twelve women on the go at the same time,’ a pickpocket called Ernie tells me. ‘That’s what I call a dirty
dozen!’) Entertaining tales, but nothing about who killed him or why he might have been executed.

Finally, in the Star and Anchor, a grim, grey place that’s at odds with its name, I run into a member of Bond Gardiner’s gang, a youthful but grey-haired man called John Horan, who
shoots a mean game of pool. After letting him thrash me a couple of times, I ask if he’s heard any strange stories about how the Turk was killed.

‘What sort of stories?’ John snaps warily.

‘I heard it was suicide and someone made it look like an assassination to big up the Turk’s legend.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘I guessed as much,’ I sigh. ‘I mean, how can you trust a guy who builds a conspiracy theory out of a pair of shoes? I should have known he was –’

‘What’s that about shoes?’ John interrupts.

‘Some crazy shit about Menderes’s laces. I shouldn’t even have –’

‘Go on,’ John says tightly.

‘Well, this guy said he knew a journalist who works for
The Times
, and
he
said he saw a pair of shoes in a photo and the lace on one of them wasn’t tied.’

‘So?’ John sniffs, eyeing me beadily.

‘According to him, it’s something people do when they kill themselves, if they don’t want to leave a note. They tie the lace on one shoe but not the other. It’s a way of
letting people know it wasn’t an accident.’

John laughs, at ease again. ‘That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard all week.’

‘Yes,’ I chuckle ruefully. ‘But I figured I might as well ask.’

‘You should be careful,’ John warns me. ‘Loose talk like that can earn you a slap round here. If I was you, I’d keep shit about laces to myself.’

And after that, I do, since I know by his reaction that the laces were noted. I’m not sure what happened to Dash, whether he escaped or was taken down, but that’s unimportant.
It’s enough to know that Bond and his men have swallowed the bait. I can forget about Dash and focus on hunting for the ghostlike Andeanna.

Joe hasn’t discovered a secret sister or daughter. He’s done a remarkable job of assembling a family tree, filling half a scrapbook with names, dates of birth,
photographs and details. I go through the photos several times, with a magnifying glass, but none of Andeanna’s relatives is close enough in looks or age to pass for the woman I knew and
loved.

‘I called several of them,’ Joe says, ‘pretending to be a reporter, asking about her past, her life with the Turk. Most were happy to talk about her, but nobody had much
contact with her after she married Menderes.’

‘What about friends?’

‘Plenty from the past, but not a one from her London years. It seems like the Turk kept her locked away from everybody.’

I flick through the pages, admiring Joe’s research skills, then thumb back to the first page and the photos of Andeanna’s parents. Her mother died nine years ago. Her father is alive
and living alone. ‘Did you check if Deleena Emerson had any other children?’

‘There’s no record of it,’ Joe replies.

‘But did you ask?’

He shakes his head. ‘It’s not the sort of thing you can say to strangers. I asked if Andeanna had brothers or sisters and they all said she didn’t.’

‘What about her father?’

‘He wouldn’t speak to me. He doesn’t discuss his daughter.’

‘If anyone knows, it would be him.’

‘True. But if he doesn’t want to talk about it . . . ’

‘He’ll talk,’ I grunt.

Joe squints at me. ‘Ed, you wouldn’t . . . I mean, you aren’t going to do anything illegal, are you? I don’t want to be part of –’

‘Don’t worry,’ I stop him. ‘Violence isn’t my style.’

Joe snorts. ‘This from an assassin?’

‘Ex-assassin,’ I grin bleakly. ‘But even back then I didn’t rough anyone up. I killed, I didn’t torture.’

‘Interesting distinction,’ Joe mutters, but pushes the point no further. ‘There was one other thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Andeanna’s death. You know how the police say she veered off the road and crashed, the car burst into flames and she couldn’t get out?’

‘What about it?’

‘There were no on-hand witnesses, but a few drivers in the distance saw the car careen down the bank. One of them, Marian Fitzgerald, said she saw flames in the car
before
it hit
the trees and exploded.’

‘So?’

‘The forensic guys who examined the wreckage couldn’t explain why the car left the road in the first place. Given the Marian Fitzgerald evidence, I got to thinking that maybe . . .
’ He stalls.

‘Go on,’ I quietly urge him.

‘Could it have been SHC?’

‘I thought we’d dismissed that theory,’ I snap impatiently.

He shrugs. ‘I know there’s probably nothing to it. I was tossing out wild ideas the first time I brought this up. But when I read the report, it made me wonder. I started thinking
about something you’d said, about how the impostor had known you were an assassin.’

‘People knew,’ I mutter. ‘Not many, but a few. One of them must have told Andeanna or whoever hired her to con me.’

‘More than likely,’ Joe says. ‘But if we admit the possibility that she might be a ghost — I’m only saying
might
, don’t lose your temper!’

‘Go on,’ I sigh wearily.

‘If she spontaneously combusted and came back as a ghost,’ Joe continues, ‘maybe she was drawn to you by the research you were doing. Your mind was fixated on the subject. She
might have been able to tap into that. Or . . . hell, Ed, I know this is a long shot, but maybe
you
brought her back to life.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I gawp.

‘If Pierre Vallance has the power to channel mental waves and convert them into voices, maybe
you
have a similar talent. Maybe you unwittingly gave form to Andeanna, the way you
gave limited form to your other ghosts. She dies horribly, some residue of her circles the streets of London all these years, you hit town, her spirit gravitates towards you, you somehow give her
back her body, she seizes her opportunity and uses you to take revenge on the man she hated.’

I consider Joe’s crazy proposal. Because he’s my friend and I know he means well, I treat it seriously. ‘What was the state of her corpse when they found it?’

Joe checks his notes. ‘Burnt beyond recognition.’

‘It hadn’t been reduced to ash?’

‘No.’

I smile thinly. ‘There you are.’

‘But SHC victims don’t always burn away entirely,’ Joe presses. ‘And even if she didn’t die of that, maybe you gave form to her spirit regardless. We should bear it
in mind. If we can’t find a plausible explanation – if there isn’t a lookalike – we’ll have to explore other angles, won’t we?’

‘I suppose,’ I mutter, too tired to argue.

‘I’m not being obtuse,’ Joe says. ‘I’m not confusing the world of the book we were working on with the real world. But if we eliminate all other possibilities and
only this remains . . . ’

‘Then I’ll investigate it. But I won’t have to. Because she wasn’t a ghost.’

Saying it firmly, wanting to mean it. But not one hundred per cent positive. My gaze flickers to the seven supernatural shades in the room with us, and I wonder if Joe has hit on the answer to
the riddle I’ve been picking at all these years. If I’m not crazy . . . if my ghosts are more than just the product of a deluded mind . . . then maybe I have the ability to give shape
to disconnected spirits. Perhaps I’ve subconsciously brought about my own haunting. If that’s the case, and these seven ghosts gain their power from something in me, why
shouldn’t
I be able to go even further and create a physical body for another?

Andrew Moore lives in Birmingham. He’s a loner who rarely entertains visitors. I make the long drive up early on Friday morning, locate the house, then call him from my
car. I don’t go with the Edgar Sanders approach, since Joe has already tried the faux-journalist gambit.

‘Andrew Moore. How may I help you?’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Moore. My name is Edward Sieveking. I’m a novelist, doing some research. I’d like to meet you, if –’

‘What’s this about?’ he snaps. ‘Are you a reporter?’

‘No, Mr Moore, I’m an author. I write books.’

‘What sort of books?’

‘Fiction. Horror, mostly.’

He pauses. ‘What’s your interest in me, Mr Sieveking?’

‘I’d like to talk with you about a new book I’m working on.’

‘Is it about Mikis Menderes?’

‘Not directly, no.’

‘But he’s the reason you want to talk to me?’

‘Yes,’ I confess. ‘But mostly I want to ask about your daughter.’

‘My apologies, Mr Sieveking, but I have nothing to say about either of those people.’

‘But –’

‘Good day, Mr Sieveking. Good luck with your book.’ He hangs up. I wait ten minutes before ringing again. Despite the delay, he’s waiting for the call and answers on the second
ring with a curt, ‘Mr Sieveking?’

‘Please, just give me a chance to –’

‘My no
means
no.’

End of conversation. When I ring a third time, he doesn’t answer. I wait half an hour before trying again — no luck. Leaving the car, I march to the front door and ring the bell. It
takes him a while to appear. When he does, the curtain covering the side window swishes aside and I glimpse a pair of angry eyes. ‘Sieveking?’ he snaps, dispensing with the
formalities.