Watching the Ghosts (13 page)

‘Nothing yet, sir,' said DC Jamilla Dal. ‘I'll get on to them.'

Joe thanked her and Emily pulled up a chair and sat down beside his desk. It was time they made some progress.

‘I'll send Jamilla round to have a word with the latest victim.' He'd have liked to go himself but with Melanie Hawkes' murder, he hadn't time. ‘And I'll get tests run on the note,' said Joe.

‘All bases covered then. Unless he decides to carry out his threat, in which case Lydia Brookes will be first on his list.'

Joe looked her in the eye. ‘I suppose we'll have to let Proud go.'

‘You're right. He might have the best alibi of the lot – for the burglary at least – but I still think he's up to something. I think his interest in Peter Brockmeister is . . .' She searched for an appropriate word.

‘Unhealthy?' Joe suggested.

‘That's the word. And he hasn't got a convincing alibi for the time Melanie Hawkes was abducted and murdered.' Her eyes focused on the large white board that covered one wall of the CID room. ‘So I'm not taking his picture down off that board just yet.'

Joe knew Emily was right. Alan Proud was hiding something. And the thought of him living next to Lydia made him uncomfortable. He remembered his date with her that evening – if he could call it a date. She'd obtained free tickets for the Playhouse from a friend and he could hardly think of a visit to the theatre as a romantic tryst. But he felt an unexpected frisson of anticipation whenever he thought about it.

‘Are you going to tell him he can go or shall I?' said Emily.

‘I think it would be better coming from you,' he said quickly. He didn't feel up to facing Proud so early in the morning. The man made his flesh crawl.

Jack Hawkes had told Janet Craig, the motherly, well-meaning family liaison officer with a permanently sympathetic expression, to go. He didn't need her. He wanted to get his life back to some semblance of normality and get back to work.

But now he realized that this had been a mistake and the police could well interpret it as indifference to his wife's fate. As for Daisy, the kidnapper hadn't been in touch since Melanie's death so they'd probably seen it on the news and were planning their next move. He imagined they wouldn't want the police to think they were involved in the murder so they'd release Daisy unharmed. It was best not to think of the alternative.

Patrick Creeny had called in first thing that morning but Jack hadn't been in the mood to deal with his anger. A man claiming to be a researcher in paranormal phenomena had been down in the basement of Boothgate House; aided and abetted by one of the more gullible residents, he'd even installed monitoring equipment and spent the night down there.

Creeny had reckoned that if there was something malevolent lurking in the building, it would be nigh on impossible to shift the remainder of the flats. It was bad enough that a few of the workmen claimed to have had strange experiences. One had mentioned going to an exorcist and it had taken a great deal of persuasion on Creeny's part to stop him going to the press. Several men had left without explanation too. And with half the population of Eborby knowing the history of the place, any extra adverse publicity would probably doom the entire project. Punters were squeamish and prone to all kinds of weird superstitious misgivings when it came to investing in bricks and mortar. Patrick Creeny had already taken steps to get rid of Dr Karl Dremmer. If that didn't work, he said he'd have to take things further.

Jack let him rabbit on. He'd sunk most of his money into the Boothgate House development but he'd realized long ago that the whole thing was cursed, most likely due to the prevailing economic conditions rather than some supernatural agency.

He sat in the large kitchen, staring at the dirty dishes he'd been intending to stack away in the dishwasher. His wife had met her death in a terrible way. He had no idea what had become of his step-daughter and he wasn't sure how he'd cope if she came back. Perhaps he'd be able to palm her off on her real dad. After all, he already had a family and he'd only accepted Daisy for Melanie's sake. The whole thing was a mess.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the telephone ringing. He picked it up, thinking it was Patrick calling to report some new disaster, then he suddenly remembered that his calls were still being monitored by the police so he pressed the button which alerted them and started the recording machine. Just in case.

When he heard the voice on the other end of the line he knew he'd done the right thing. He hadn't heard from Daisy's kidnappers since Melanie's death but now they were back. Making demands he couldn't fulfil.

‘We still want the money. Ten grand as arranged.' It was an electronic voice just as before.

‘Is Daisy all right?'

‘She's fine. But she won't be if you don't pay up.'

‘Does she know about her mother?'

There was silence on the other end of the line.'

‘I want to speak to Daisy. How do I know she's OK if I can't speak to her?'

The silence continued. Then Jack heard a small voice. Daisy's voice. She said hello but nothing more because the phone was taken off her. It was hard to judge from that single word whether she was frightened or happy.

The police had told him to keep the kidnapper talking so that the call could be traced. But whoever was on the other end was obviously wise to this because they said they'd be in touch and ended the call abruptly.

Jack sat there for a while listening to the dialling tone. Even though the money had been found, the police were keeping it as evidence. He pressed the button to make another call. DCI Thwaite would know what to do. She might even give him his money back.

It was Lydia's turn to do the Saturday shift at the Tourist Information Office and she was late for work. Even though she knew Alan Proud was safely in the cells at Eborby police station she'd had a restless night. The dream had returned and she'd woken with a start at four in the morning. Then she'd drifted back to sleep and overslept by half an hour. As soon as she got out of bed she'd put the radio on and heard about the burglary in Bacombe. Then she'd switched the TV on, hoping to find out more from the local news bulletin and by the time she'd looked at the clock, she'd been running behind.

The phone rang and she answered it, hoping it wouldn't delay her any further.

‘Am I speaking to Lydia Brookes? It's Judith Dodds. Oriel House.'

In her tired state it took Lydia a few seconds to place the name. ‘Hello, Mrs Dodds. How are you?'

She didn't answer the question. ‘I've found something that might interest you. I didn't realize it was there until your visit made me curious and I decided to go up in the attic and look through my late father's things. Can we meet?'

Lydia did a rapid calculation and remembered that she had to work through her lunch hour that day because she needed to get away early for her visit to the theatre with Joe Plantagenet. ‘I'm busy today but can we meet tomorrow lunchtime? Is that OK? I know it's Sunday but . . .'

‘That suits me quite well,' said Mrs Dodds. ‘The cathedral café should be open. I'll meet you there at twelve o'clock?'

‘That's fine,' she said. ‘See you then.'

Lydia put the phone down, wondering what Mrs Dodds had found that was so important. And whether it had anything to do with the clock she saw in her nightmares.

Joe hurried into Emily's office. She'd just returned from a meeting with the Superintendent and as he walked in he saw that she looked harassed.

‘What is it, Joe? Tell me there's been a breakthrough.'

‘Jack Hawkes has had another call from the kidnappers. They put Daisy on the phone this time but not for long.'

Emily sighed. ‘Well, at least we know she's still alive.'

‘I've sent the family liaison officer back there. I don't care what he says, I think someone should be on the premises. They're going to call him back. And he'll need the money.'

‘I'll square it with the Super. I reckon dangling the bait of ten grand in front of the perpetrators is the only way we're going to make an arrest.'

Joe sat down, stretching out his legs, making himself comfortable. ‘I couldn't agree more.' He hesitated. ‘I've had someone checking out Jack Hawkes' background.'

‘That's been done already.'

‘I know he hasn't any convictions or even come to our attention, but I wanted to find out more about him.'

Emily sat forward, interested now.

‘I've found out that his father, Edward Hawkes, was a detective sergeant. And he was stationed here at the time of the Peter Brockmeister murders. He was on the investigation team.'

‘In that case we need to talk to our Mr Hawkes,' she said, folding her arms. ‘Let's pay him a visit.'

Jack Hawkes sat with his head in his hands, the picture of despair.

Emily had made them a cup of tea, playing the homely mother card. It was a performance that had lulled a lot of suspects into a false sense of security. She set the mugs of tea down in front of them and smiled.

‘You must be worried sick, Mr Hawkes,' she said. ‘But don't worry. Someone will be here with you day and night until we get Daisy back safely. The call you received earlier was made from a call box in a village three miles south-east of the city. No CCTV I'm afraid. But the abductor's bound to slip up soon.'

Joe took his first sip of tea. It was too hot and he put it down on the worktop again. ‘At least we know Daisy's alive. As soon as they give you instructions we'll get the money to you and you can deliver it as arranged. Then, fingers crossed, they'll let Daisy go and we can make an arrest. You must miss her.'

Joe watched Hawkes as he nodded and swallowed as if he was trying to choke back a sob. He could tell it was an act. And the man wasn't a particularly good actor. Now that Melanie had gone, it might be that he didn't want to have to bring up another man's child. He already had three children of his own from his first marriage so perhaps he'd never bonded with Daisy. There was no predicting these things.

Emily caught his eye. It was time to change the subject. ‘You never mentioned your father was a policeman, Mr Hawkes,' Joe said casually, as though he was making conversation.

‘I didn't think it was relevant.'

‘It probably isn't. But you are aware that there are certain similarities between your wife's death and the murders committed by a man called Peter Brockmeister – he killed four women back in the late 1960s?'

Hawkes opened his mouth to speak but no sound emerged.

‘Your father worked on the Brockmeister case.'

A flicker of panic appeared in Hawkes' eyes, there for a second then gone as he composed himself. ‘He never talked much about his work.' He looked straight at Emily. ‘Surely you understand that. You don't want to bring all that nasty shit home with you.'

‘Is your father still alive?' Emily asked.

‘He died two years ago.'

‘And he never talked about Brockmeister?'

Hawkes shook his head.

But Joe was sure he was lying.

J
oe managed to slip away from work at six, feeling a little guilty about abandoning his post. He'd left Emily sifting through paperwork but she'd told him to go and enjoy himself . . . and find out anything he could about Alan Proud and the set up at Boothgate House. She'd expect him in early in the morning, she said with a knowing wink.

He walked back to his flat in the small, stone-built block in the shadow of the city walls. It was a warm evening with just a hint of light rain in the air and as he passed beneath Canons Bar, one of the city's great medieval city gates, the smell of garlic wafted from a nearby Italian restaurant, making him hungry.

He didn't know why he felt a little nervous about the evening. Maybe it was the fact that Emily regarded it as work. Was he just using Lydia? And if he was, would she realize? He didn't know the answer. But sometimes you just have to see what happens.

When he reached his flat he closed the door behind him and stood for a few moments in the silence. The light on the answering machine was flashing so he pressed the key. There were two messages: the first from his sister saying that his mother was worried that she hadn't heard from him for a while, the second from an old university friend who was coming up to Eborby in a couple of weeks' time for a stag weekend. He wondered if Joe would like to join him, but, with murder and an abducted child on his mind, enforced enjoyment was the last thing he could face. He'd call the friend back and say it depended on his work commitments. Work always provided a good get out if one was needed.

He looked at his watch. If he was going to make the theatre by seven, he'd have to get a move on. He didn't know much about the play as he'd been too preoccupied with work to pay much heed to Eborby's artistic life, but as Lydia had obtained free tickets from a friend, at least they'd have no worries about sneaking out if it was bad. He made himself something to eat and flicked through the evening newspaper that had been lying on his doormat. Melanie Hawkes' murder had made the headlines again but the news blackout meant that there was no mention of Daisy's abduction. And half way down the page he saw the words ‘The Builder: serial burglar strikes again. Could this be a copycat?' It seemed some observant journalist had picked up on the similarity between the recent burglaries and Peter Brockmeister's MO. But there was no mention of Brockmeister in the reports of Melanie's death – the detail of the flowers was something the police had been careful to keep to themselves.

He put on a fresh shirt and jeans and looked at himself in the mirror. He had thick, black hair that badly needed a trim and there were shadows beneath his blue eyes. His face looked pale, which was hardly surprising, given that he'd spent most of the recent good weather stuck in the police station, his desk piled with work.