Watching the Ghosts (10 page)

‘Same as our Builder?'

‘Exactly. I pointed it out to the boss but she just said that someone's been reading true-crime books and decided to copy the MO. Anyway, Brockmeister graduated to murder a couple of years later when he broke into a house and the woman who owned it was having a day off work – she had flu and she was in bed. He tied her up and strangled her and she was found naked but she hadn't been sexually assaulted. Her mouth had been stuffed with flowers from a vase in the living room. Carnations. She lived alone and she wasn't found for a few days.'

‘Why the flowers?'

Sunny gave a dramatic shrug. ‘Who knows? Maybe just because he was mad. After that he didn't bother burgling houses when the occupant was out and he killed three more women. The shrinks reckoned the murders were sexual, although his victims weren't raped. He always picked on women who lived on their own and the killings all followed the same pattern, including the flowers. He was convicted in 1970 and sent to prison. Then in 1978 it was decided that he was insane and I don't know how he wangled it but he was sent to Havenby Hall.'

Joe stood up. ‘Why has nobody connected Brockmeister with The Builder?'

‘Brockmeister was a long time ago . . . and he's dead. Also, The Builder hasn't killed anyone.'

Joe thought of the note left in Lydia Brookes's flat and experienced a feeling of dread, like icy fingers gripping his heart.

‘All this stuff's common knowledge, you know,' said Sunny. ‘Apart from the flowers. The police kept quiet about the flowers at the time.'

‘You mean it was never made public?'

‘It certainly wasn't at the time but . . .'

‘True-crime books?'

Sunny nodded. ‘There's always some ex-copper or witness ready to fill in the gaps for a free drink or a few quid. Anyway, Brockmeister's dead so it can't be him.'

‘Is that certain?'

‘He was found in the sea off Scarborough in October 1981 and identified from documents in his pocket. This was a week after he'd been released from Havenby Hall which was in the process of closing down by then. He'd been staying in a B and B on the sea front and his belongings were still in his room. It was him all right. Positive ID from the landlady and all.'

‘For the sake of argument, let's imagine he's still alive.'

Sunny raised his eyebrows. ‘If he is, he'll only be in his mid sixties. Still young enough to kill. But like I said, he's dead.'

Sunny had always had an optimistic streak.

When Karl Dremmer returned to Boothgate House he pressed Beverley Newson's buzzer. After a few minutes, he saw her through the glass door, tiptoeing towards him like an overweight ballerina in her wide floral skirt, a smirk of suppressed excitement on her face. When she opened the door, she looked round as if they were fellow conspirators on a dangerous assignment. This was probably the most exciting thing that had happened to her in ages, he thought. That and the burglary in Lydia Brookes's flat.

‘Well?' she said. ‘Did you see anything on the tape?'

‘It was inconclusive.' He knew he had to keep up his scientific detachment. ‘But I'd like another look down there while it's still light. There might be something I've missed.

‘Shall I come with you?' Her eager smile made his heart sink.

‘That won't be necessary. I know how busy you are with your mother. How is she, by the way?' He asked more out of politeness than interest.

She sighed. ‘As well as can be expected at her age.'

She stood there with him at the cellar entrance for a while, shifting from foot to foot as though she was reluctant to leave. But when he made no move to open the door she turned and retraced her steps, tripping delicately down the passage towards her flat. When she was out of sight he drew back the two strong bolts on the cellar door and pulled until it creaked open. He wondered why the bolts had been placed there. To keep something in, perhaps. He took his torch from his pocket and picked his way down the stone steps. He'd brought a stronger torch this time and, as he shone it round, he could see the grubby painted walls and the flagstone floor. And something else. Something he'd noticed last night.

As he began to cross the floor he heard a voice at the top of the stairs. Not Beverley's girlish, high pitched tones, but a deep male voice with a faint local accent. He spun round and saw Patrick Creeny standing there, blocking out the light from the hall.

‘What the hell are you up to?' he asked.

And Karl couldn't really think up a convincing answer.

There was an atmosphere of shock at the offices of Cuthbert, Prideaux and Parkland, Solicitors. When Joe and Emily had visited the converted Georgian house on Sheepgate to break the news of Melanie Hawkes' death, the universal reaction of her colleagues was disbelief followed by puzzlement. Who on earth would have wanted to kill Melanie who was a nice person, a good solicitor and a valued member of the team? The idea of her killer being anybody but a random madman was unthinkable. And the madman option meant that everyone, especially any woman out on her own, was at risk.

They had been shown into Andrew Parkland's comfortable office and given a cup of tea. Parkland, the senior partner – Cuthbert and Prideaux having retired and died respectively – was a big man in his fifties, well built rather than fat with a physique that suggested a youth spent on the rugby field. His thick hair was peppered with grey and he had a tan redolent of sunnier climes.

He was keen to be of any help, he said as he leaned forward, his hands arched as if in prayer to emphasize his sincerity.

‘Melanie hasn't been in work since the day before yesterday,' he said. ‘We were expecting her and I did try to ring her but there was no answer. I must say I was afraid something might have happened.'

‘What made you think that?' said Emily quickly.

‘Melanie was usually so conscientious and not turning up like that . . . Well, it was out of character and I was worried.'

‘Did you know her daughter had been kidnapped?' Joe watched the solicitor's face for any tell tale signs that he was lying.

‘No. Goodness me, if I'd known . . . I thought you said Melanie had died. Are the two things connected?'

‘That's what we're trying to find out, sir,' said Emily.

‘The child . . .?'

‘Hasn't turned up yet.'

Parkland shook his head. ‘What a mess. It's unbelievable. Poor Melanie. How did she . . .?'

‘We're treating her death as suspicious.'

‘You mean she was murdered?'

‘We won't know the details until after the post-mortem but it does look like murder, yes. That's why we need to know everything we can about her. And that includes her work here. Did she deal with any criminal cases?'

‘No. She specialized in wills and inheritance matters.'

‘Are there any disputes that you know of? Could anybody bear a grudge against her?'

‘Not that I'm aware of. She was a very well-liked and respected member of staff and there have never been any complaints about her work.'

‘We'll need to see her files.'

The man looked as if he was about to argue but he thought better of it. ‘Very well. I can arrange that.'

‘What do you know about her private life?'

‘Her husband is an architect and she had a daughter from a previous marriage . . . not that she allowed domestic matters to interfere with her work here.' He suddenly frowned. ‘One of the secretaries did mention that one of her clients had been making a bit of a nuisance of himself. A man who was trying to trace what happened to a relative of his . . . an aunt, I think. He kept calling Melanie, wouldn't leave her alone.'

Emily caught Joe's eye. ‘When did he call last?'

The solicitor caught on fast. ‘I'm not sure but I don't think he's been in touch for a couple of days.'

‘We'll need this man's name and address,' said Joe.

An hour later, after they'd spoken to all Melanie's colleagues and learned very little, they set off for the home of Christopher Arnold Torridge.

Lydia had to face spending the night at her flat sooner or later. Amy had offered to put her up for as long as she wanted but, sensing Steve's horror at the suggestion, she'd declined.

Coming home that evening, she half expected to find the furniture piled up in the hallway again. But she told herself not to be so ridiculous. And she couldn't help smiling to herself when she remembered how DI Plantagenet had moved it for her once the Forensic people had done their bit.

In view of the note the burglar had left, he'd promised to make sure that more security measures were put in place. Somehow she hadn't expected such kindness from a policeman and she hoped she'd get the chance to thank him. She wondered whether he was married. Men like that were usually married . . . or maybe gay.

On returning to the flat she found she'd run out of bread and milk so she headed for the convenience store on Boothgate, hoping she wouldn't bump into Alan Proud. The thought of him living next door made her uncomfortable, like knowing there is only a thin membrane of material between you and a poisonous snake.

As she left the building she noticed that the door beneath the stairs was standing slightly ajar and she heard a faint scraping sound; maybe the builders had started work again and they were getting in a bit of overtime. She walked down the drive and out on to Boothgate.

‘Hello. Lydia isn't it?'

She'd been so engrossed in her own thoughts that the male voice made her jump.

‘Did you have any luck with the woman who sold the clock?'

When she'd seen Seb Bentham before in his uncle's shop, she'd had a vague impression that there was something a little dangerous about him. But here on Boothgate in the watery sunshine he looked harmless, an ordinary, rather attractive man, walking towards the city, minding his own business.

‘Yes, I did call on Mrs Dodds and I think the mystery's been solved.'

‘Really?' He paused as if he was waiting to hear the explanation.

‘Her father was a doctor and so was my grandfather so he probably visited him and took me along. If it had scared me when I was tiny it might have stayed there in my subconscious. I take it you haven't sold it yet?'

Seb shook his head. ‘I wouldn't give the thing house room.' There was a short silence before Seb spoke again. ‘I saw you come out of the gate to Havenby Hall.'

‘Boothgate House,' she corrected. ‘I've got a flat there.'

He fished in the pocket on his shorts and pulled out a sheet of brightly coloured paper. Lydia recognized it at once as a flyer for the new production at the Playhouse.
Mary
. He handed it to her. ‘Sorry, but I'm obliged to publicize it.'

‘Why?'

He gave a modest smile. ‘I wrote the thing, that's why?'

She wondered why his name had seemed vaguely familiar and now she knew why. She took the flyer and studied it. She must have seen it written in small letters underneath the title of the play.
Mary
by Sebastian Bentham.'

She looked up at him accusingly. ‘You never said you were a writer.'

He shrugged. ‘It's not something I tell everyone on first acquaintance. It's my first play, or rather the first I've had produced. It's set in the 1950s but I got the idea because my aunt was admitted to Havenby Hall in the late 1970s. I started reading up on what happened in institutions like that in the earlier part of the century.' He gave a coy smile. ‘I had to exaggerate a little but that's art for you.' He tilted his head to one side. ‘I'm sure the place is quite unrecognizable now it's been gutted and done up. I've heard the apartments are very . . .' He searched for a suitable word. ‘Nice.'

‘Yes, they are.' She looked down at the flyer. ‘I might go and see your play. A friend of mine works at the theatre box office and she keeps offering to get me free tickets.'

‘Story of my life. I've been wondering how many tickets they've actually sold rather than given away.'

She gave him a nervous smile, feeling a little guilty. ‘I'd better go.'

She began to walk away, hardly daring to turn to see if he was still watching her. She continued on towards the convenience store on the corner. The encounter with Seb Bentham had lifted her spirits unexpectedly and almost made her forget about Alan Proud. And maybe, having met the author, she fancied seeing the play after all.

But when she returned to the flat, the plastic bag containing her milk hooked over her arm, she glanced at Proud's door warily as she passed, realizing that she was walking on tip toe. The last thing she wanted was another encounter.

Whenever she entered her flat now she experienced a stab of apprehension. The words of that note haunted her.
I'll see you next time I call. Be ready.

And when she heard a knock on the door, she almost jumped out of her skin.

Christopher Torridge lived in the Pickby district, not far from Jack Hawkes but in a street of much smaller semi-detached houses. As Emily rang the doorbell she breathed in the strong aroma drifting across the city from the chocolate factory and the very smell made her feel hungry.

As soon as the doorbell sounded they could hear a dog barking. Emily liked dogs in general but this one sounded a brute. When Torridge opened the door he was holding the collar of a fat boxer dog, pulling it back. However Emily's instincts told her that they were more likely to be licked to death than savaged. She put her hand out to pat the dog's head and it began to jump up, grateful for the attention. Torridge dragged it away and locked it in a back room before inviting them in.

‘Nice dog,' said Emily. ‘They run some good obedience classes these days, you know.'

Torridge looked sheepish. ‘She's only a puppy. Maybe I'll get round to it.'

But they weren't there to discuss animal training. Emily saw Joe take his notebook from the inside pocket of his linen jacket, his eyes fixed on Torridge.