Walking with Ghosts (4 page)

Marie handed Sam the book she’d left on his desk. ‘You’ll enjoy it,’ she said. ‘Female PI.’

‘And that’s another thing,’ said Geordie. ‘Reading books by women. I’ve never seen you do that before.’

‘I’ve been working my way towards it slowly,’ said Sam. He looked at the book, held it at arm’s length. ‘This is the fulfilment of a life’s ambition.’

Marie laughed.

Geordie scowled. He didn’t like change. He didn’t like more than one thing to change at a time. And he certainly didn’t like anything to change at all after a sleepless night. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘What’s the score? You gonna tell us about this job?’

Marie poured the coffee, and Sam sat at his desk to outline the history of the case of Edward and India Blake. Marie sat in the clients’ chair, and Geordie perched on the edge of Sam’s desk, making notes as he listened to the story.

‘So, you want us to collect background information?’ said Marie, when Sam had finished. ‘See if we can come up with something new, something to tie the husband in?’

‘Yeah, or anybody else,’ Sam said. ‘We’re being paid to find Edward Blake guilty, but if we’re gonna be on the job anyway, and if Edward Blake’s innocent, it would be nice to nail the real kidnapper.’

‘That’s not gonna be easy,’ said Geordie. ‘Edward Blake, yes, if we can find something that ties him to, say, the allotment shed. But we haven’t got anything else to go on. No other suspects.’

‘That’s true,’ said Sam. ‘But if, for example, India Blake was having an affair, and her husband found out about it. That might explain why she was pregnant. And it might also be a motive for Edward Blake to kill her.’

‘I would’ve thought two and a half million pounds in insurance money was enough of a motive,’ said Marie.

Sam shook his head. ‘You never know,’ he said. ‘Murders are committed for all kinds of reasons. Something that one person would shrug off as insignificant, might easily make another man reach for a knife. And the two and a half million insurance money is chicken feed compared to what she was worth.’

‘She was some kind of heiress, wasn’t she?’ said Marie. ‘Furs,’ said Sam. ‘A great great grandfather started out as a trapper, and by the time India was born the family was worth something like ten million. Conservative estimates put Edward Blake around fifteen million better off since his wife went to heaven.’

‘So if he did it, and we can prove it, he’ll still get away with it,’ said Geordie. ‘So much money, he’ll hire the best lawyers in the world, and they’ll talk him out of trouble.’

‘You don’t wanna work on this one?’ asked Sam.

‘Yeah, I’ve been up all night thinking about it. Anyway, is that what you want us to do? See if we can prove she was having an affair?’

‘Just go through the motions,’ Sam said. ‘See where the investigation leads. I don’t know if she was having an affair. After you’ve talked to the husband, to people she knew, her friends, you’ll start to build up a picture of her, of their lives. Then you’ll feel yourselves being nudged in this or that direction. You’ll develop a nose for it, and you’ll find yourselves following a scent you never thought of before.’

‘I can’t wait to get started,’ said Marie. ‘It’s gotta be more interesting than serving process orders.’

‘Yeah, and checking credit references,’ said Geordie. ‘I hate that. And you never know if the stuff you get off computers is right. I’ve read about cases where people can’t get a mortgage, or whatever, because the computer says they don’t pay their debts. But it’s because the people who put the info in the computer got it wrong. Is that true, Sam?’

‘Yeah. It happens.’

‘So that means we could be stitching people up. We give somebody a bad credit ref, which is what the computer’s come up with. And then the guy can’t get a mortgage, has to spend the rest of his life in a cardboard box; dustbin liner instead of a duvet.’

‘Maybe you’re in the wrong line of work, Geordie,’ said Sam. ‘You could go into politics, or join the civil service.’

‘Hell, no, Sam. I like the job well enough. Don’t wanna do anything else. I’m gonna be a private eye for the rest of my life.’

Sam went home to relieve Celia. Marie went out on the job, and began the task of talking to friends of the dead woman. Geordie stayed in the office, wanting to finish up several odd jobs he’d been working on over the last few weeks. Get everything out of the way before he started on the murder inquiry.

‘Hell, what do you think, Barney?’ he asked his dog. ‘D’you think we could find out who done it?’

Well, why not? The woman, India - how the hell did somebody get a name like that? There’s probably people in the world called Australia, Africa, Greenland, maybe. But maybe not, Greenland. He’d heard of someone called Israel once, and the guy who lived next door to him and Janet was called Irish. The woman didn’t put herself in a box in an allotment and starve herself to death. Somebody put her in that box. Somebody did it to her, and left her there. So there was someone who knew all about it. Everything. Just because the police hadn’t been able to find him, or her - no, it would have to be a man. Just because the police hadn’t solved it, it didn’t mean that Geordie and Marie wouldn’t be able to do it.

There must be clues. The guy must’ve left something behind that tied him to the scene. If they could find whatever that was, and crack the case... ‘Wouldn’t that be something, Barney?’

Barney got out of his basket and walked over to Geordie, nuzzled against his leg. He didn’t understand about murder, he was only a dog. But he could take all the attention he was offered. If it meant appearing to be interested in a murder inquiry, so be it.

Geordie was filling out a job sheet. Working out the hours he’d spent trying to repossess a car, so that Celia could send out the invoice, when a tall guy with a full beard and tinted glasses walked into the office. ‘The boss Shamus about?’ he asked.

Geordie looked at him. He must be around forty years old. His suit and shoes were clean. He had a faded red shirt, and a string tie that was pulled down, the top button of the shirt unfastened; black wiry hair which had been combed at least once that day. If you looked at the details the guy was neat and tidy. But the overall effect was scruffy. Must be the beard. Yeah, that was it, the beard had never been trimmed. Somebody should tell him. Maybe he didn’t have any friends.

‘No,’ said Geordie. ‘You missed him. He was in earlier.’

‘Shit. OK, I’ll blow, catch him later?’

‘Is it important? If you tell me what it’s about I’ll probably know the answer.’

‘Yes. I mean, no. It’s not desperate. I don’t want to hire you. I was looking for a favour.’

Geordie made his eyes open wider. He’d seen people do it in movies. It was like an invitation to the other person to keep on talking. And it worked, too.

‘OK,’ the guy said. ‘My name’s J.D. Pears. People call me Jaydee. I’m a writer. Write mystery novels, and I’m looking to get a slant on the private dick business.’

‘Are you famous?’

The guy had a shy face, which he’d coloured pink and he brought it forward to cover the face he’d first arrived with. I m not Dick Francis, but I’ll brace him one of these days.’

‘OK, you can ask me about that,’ said Geordie. ‘The Private detective business. What d’you want to know?’

J.D. pulled out the clients’ chair and nodded towards it. ‘OK if I sit down?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘It’s not so much that I’ve got questions,’ he continued. ‘What I was hoping for was some hands-on experience. Like if I could be with one of you when you’re on a job. For a few days, a week, two at the most. Do you think that would be possible?’

‘I don’t know,’ Geordie told him. ‘I’d have to ask Sam. I mean, I wouldn’t mind if you followed me around. I’m gonna be involved in a murder inquiry for the next couple of weeks. But lots of stuff we do, it’s confidential. I don’t know what Sam’d think about a stranger following us around. Specially if you’re gonna write it down in a book.’

‘No, I wouldn’t do that,’ said J.D. ‘Not so’s you’d recognize it, anyway. I write fiction.’

‘I’ve read Raymond Chandler,’ Geordie told him. ‘And there was a book by Elmore Leonard, Sam lent me. D’you know them?’

J.D. smiled. ‘Not personally. I know their work.’

‘I’m reading
Omar Khayyám
at the moment.’

The writer shook his head. ‘Can’t say I’ve come across that one. Is it Chandler or Leonard?’

‘No,’ Geordie said. ‘It’s like a poem. Really old... poem...’

But J.D. Pears was laughing. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It was a joke. Bad joke.’

Geordie smiled. ‘Yeah,’ he said. But why did people make bad jokes? Geordie thought if you were gonna make a joke you ought to wait until you could make a good one. ‘Would I know any of the books you’ve wrote?’

‘You might. There’s a series about a policeman who’s a food connoisseur.
Bloody Broccoli
was the first one. The last one was
The Camembert Killer.
Just published this month.’

Geordie shook his head. ‘Can’t say they ring any bells,’ he said.    ,

J D- looked miffed, made a pout inside his beard. ‘They’ve had good reviews,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ said Geordie, taking pity on the guy. ‘I don’t read many of those kinds of books. Sam reads ’em, and Marie, they’re always swapping them. They’ll’ve heard of all yours. Me and Celia read more poetry, classics, literature, know what I mean?’ J.D. nodded.

‘I’ll make a bargain with you,’ said Geordie. ‘I’ll get one of your books for Sam’s birthday, and if you sign it at the front I’ll give Sam a bell and ask him if you can get some hands-on experience by following me and Marie around on the murder inquiry. How’s that grab you?’

5

Sam moves across the darkened room. He draws back the curtains. Holding it in one hand, his long fingers gripping the rim, he brings the loaded tray to the bed. He looks younger than he should. He wears a T-shirt tucked into the waistband of his jeans. You try to sit up in the bed and he helps you with the pillow, kissing your cheek in the same spot that Dylan Thomas’s lips might have been.

‘You’re smiling,’ he says.

‘I’m happy.’ Your voice is like dry dough. It is not easy to be young and beautiful when you are old and ugly. You make a sour face at the cracks in your voice.

Sam pulls the cardigan around your shoulders, and you wonder what happened to that pale-blue nightgown, quickly doing sums in your head. He was still in his teens the night you wore it for Arthur.

‘Can you manage this?’ he points to the tray. It is loaded with cornflakes, toast, marmalade and coffee.

You clear your throat before answering. The coffee is the best thing you have smelled in your life.

‘You should eat,’ he says. ‘Try the toast.’

You nibble a crust. He is right. You should eat something. Though your body only wants the coffee and a cigarette. Sam pours milk and cornflakes into the bowl for himself, and he eats, watching your face over the rim of the bowl. He offers you a spoonful and you suck the milk and leave the wet cornflakes behind. He shakes his head, his lips pursed, his eyes wide and twinkling. You open your mouth and take the cornflakes. You-cannot resist him. You are an old fool to fall for a man his age, but you like being an old fool. It is better than being a young one.

There is a searing pain under your arm and you catch breath. The tendons on each side of your jaw strain and lock against the spasm. A few of the cornflakes fall on to your chest.

‘What is it?’ Sam is on his feet. His hands on each side of your face, but it is over.

You tell him. ‘A false alarm. Just a twinge.’ Your voice is a croak. You smile at him and he sits. He collects the flakes from your chest and eats them. He doesn’t like wasting food. There are people starving in Africa.

The coffee is good. Not too hot. It tastes better because it’s forbidden.

You point to the pot and Sam pours another cup. You ask him for the cigarettes and he makes his disapproving face, but gets one anyway. He lights it for you and passes it over. He strokes your face with the palm of his hand, and lets it run on, over your neck. You feel something move beneath the skin, like a small egg, and you watch Sam’s eyes, because he felt it too, but he does not let on. Your body is covered with those eggs now. You are no longer surprised by them. You hate them, but they no longer shock you.

‘Did you sleep?’

‘Yes.’ You lie with a smile on your face, knowing that Sam knows you are lying, and knowing that he knows that you know... He pinches your cheek between forefinger and thumb and shakes his old-young head, his face weighted with irony.

‘Do you want to try again?’

‘No, Sam.’ You won’t sleep. Not what you regard as sleep, not the bottomless ocean which is a kind of freedom. Sleep now is like a wet bog; you lie on the surface of it, and it sucks and blows, unable to claim you.

Sam’s eyes are tired. Has
he
slept? ‘I’ll get the chair ready,’ he says. He places it by the window and smothers it in blankets. Then he pushes the curtains back, draping one of them over the sideboard so you can see the entire street. He carries you across the room effortlessly. Lifts you from the bed like a small child, cradled in his arms. You were never heavy, Dora, but, dear God, look at you now.