Watching the Ghosts (19 page)

Joe wondered which one to call first but, as there was no reply from the nurse, Betty Morcroft's number, the decision was made for him.

The Reverend Kenneth Rattenbury lived in a small terraced house in Hilton, a couple of miles down the road from Boothgate House. Rattenbury answered the door as soon as Joe had rung the bell, as though he'd been hovering in the hall waiting for him.

The former chaplain of Havenby Hall was a tall man in his mid to late sixties with thick white hair and clothes that hung loosely off his large frame as though he'd recently lost weight. He wore an open-necked checked shirt but no dog collar.

Once inside the house Joe was shown into a small lounge dominated by a pair of tall bookshelves either side of a pretty cast-iron fireplace and a large TV in the corner of the room. The former chaplain invited Joe to sit and made himself comfortable in the armchair opposite.

‘I must say I was intrigued by your call, Inspector.'

‘Sebastian Bentham, the playwright, said you'd helped him with his research.'

Rattenbury looked down modestly. ‘I think he's overestimating my contribution. I don't remember telling him anything much apart from my impressions. I had a parish back then you see, and I only visited Havenby Hall a couple of times a week . . . and I gave communion on Sundays of course.'

‘Do you know Cannon George Merryweather by any chance?'

Rattenbury's rheumy eyes lit up. ‘Yes, I believe I've met him.'

‘So you know all about his current role . . . the Deliverance Ministry?'

‘I had heard about it, yes.'

‘George and I are old friends. There was a time when I was considering joining the priesthood . . . Catholic that is.'

‘Lost your faith?'

Joe smiled. ‘Found a wife.'

Rattenbury's face clouded. ‘I lost mine five years ago.'

Joe hesitated. ‘Kaitlin died six months after our wedding. I know what it's like.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that,' the retired clergyman said softly. ‘Now what is it you want to know?'

‘Peter Brockmeister was a patient at Havenby Hall while you were working there.'

‘Yes, he was.' The answer was guarded and Joe suspected the mention of Brockmeister's name had disturbed him.

‘What can you tell me about him?'

Rattenbury considered the question for a few moments. ‘What do you want to know?'

‘Did he ever talk to you about his crimes?'

‘I never had much to do with him. I don't think he liked clergymen. The one time I had a conversation with him he ranted on about Satan being more powerful than my God. Satan was his master, he said. As you can imagine, I found the encounter . . . rather disturbing.'

‘He was insane?'

‘Some people – some experts – thought so but I think he knew exactly what he was doing and saying. I think he derived pleasure from evil. Mercifully people like that are rare but I'm sorry to say they exist.'

‘Do you know anything about a woman called Dorothy Watts?'

Rattenbury frowned, trying to recall the past. ‘Yes, I remember Mrs Watts. She used to come to communion every week. I seem to remember that she died rather unexpectedly.'

‘Did she confide in you?'

‘At times. She was an unhappy, unstable woman who was convinced her husband wanted her dead. A lot of people in that place had paranoid tendencies so I didn't set too much store by what she said.'

‘Did you ever meet her husband?'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘Dorothy Watts' sister asked a solicitor to investigate her will. She wanted to find out what had become of her money. She was quite a wealthy woman.'

‘I didn't know that.'

‘Your name was in the solicitor's file. Her name was Melanie Hawkes. Did she visit you?'

‘No . . . although I did receive a phone call from her. She asked me if I remembered Dorothy Watts and I told her exactly what I've just told you. I was sorry I couldn't be more help.'

‘Did anybody else die unexpectedly at Havenby Hall?'

‘As I said, I only visited the place a few times a week. You'd be far better asking any of the nursing staff. Or Dr Pennell – he was the Medical Superintendent. And of course there was Mrs Chambers.'

‘Who's she?'

‘She was the matron. If she's still alive you should ask her. I'm sure she'll tell you everything you'll need to know.' He looked Joe in the eye. ‘Nothing happened in that place without Mrs Chambers knowing about it.'

The call came as arranged. On the dot. Emily had decided to be there with Janet Craig, watching and listening to everything that was said.

The instructions were terse and the call only lasted a few seconds. The kidnapper was clearly wise to the fact the police might be listening in and he wasn't taking any chances, although they already knew the call had come from an unregistered mobile situated somewhere in Eborby city centre . . . which really wasn't much help.

Daisy was well, the electronic voice said, and Hawkes would receive more instructions in the morning. Emily knew the kidnapper was stalling and, in her opinion, this wasn't a good sign. There must be some reason why they were playing for time and the only one she could think of was that the kid was dead. The very thought made her feel sick.

But she wasn't going to give up hope. And tomorrow – as they said in Emily's favourite film of all time, the one she always watched on her birthday with a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine – was another day.

A
s soon as Joe left Rattenbury's house, he tried Betty Morcroft's number again. This time she answered her phone and explained that she'd been at an afternoon social in the communal lounge of her retirement flats, adding that she'd won a bottle of vodka in the raffle. Even over the phone Joe detected a twinkle of mischief in her querulous voice and he was rather looking forward to meeting her.

Betty lived in sheltered housing in Hasledon, half a mile down the road from the university campus and well away from Boothgate House. It was a new complex set in well-tended gardens. When Joe opened the double doors he could see into a thickly carpeted communal lounge where four elderly women with identical grey perms sat at a baize-covered table playing cards with the intense concentration of seasoned gamblers. The glazed inner door was locked so he looked for Betty Morcroft's name on the entry phone panel to his left. The voice that answered sounded excited, like a little girl anticipating a treat.

As he pushed the inner door open the card players didn't look up and he turned left down a corridor, following the signs for Flat Twelve. When he arrived at his destination, he found the flat door standing wide open and his eyes travelled downwards to focus on the woman in the doorway. She was small with fluffy grey hair and a large nose and she reminded Joe of a bird perched on a state of the art electric wheelchair that engulfed her thin body. But her blue eyes were bright and inquisitive and his instincts told him that this visit wouldn't be a waste of time.

She invited him in and fussed about, making tea. When it was ready he helped her by carrying the tray over to the tiled coffee table and sat down on a sofa so soft that he feared getting out of it might prove difficult.

‘Have you seen Sebastian Bentham's play?' he asked as she poured the tea.

She shook her head vigorously. ‘He offered me free tickets but I didn't fancy it. I didn't want to spend an evening thinking about that place.' She looked directly at him. ‘Besides, it sounded a miserable sort of play and at my age you want something a bit more cheerful, if you know what I mean.'

Joe nodded. He knew what she meant all right. When you'd been surrounded by death and suffering all your life you hardly want to be reminded of it in your leisure hours. ‘I went to see it but I found it a bit heavy going.' He gave her a conspiratorial grin. ‘In fact I needed a stiff drink afterwards.'

She chuckled sympathetically. ‘Now what did you want to talk to me about?'

‘Havenby Hall.'

‘Why is everyone so interested in that dreadful place all of a sudden?'

‘You worked there?'

‘Two years. And that was two years too long. But jobs were short and my late husband couldn't work 'cause he'd had an accident so I had to take what I could get.'

‘You must have worked as a psychiatric nurse before. You knew what to expect.'

The old woman bit her lip, as if something was bothering her. It was a few moments before she spoke. ‘Oh yes, I'd worked in various hospitals and I'd always enjoyed the work but . . . Havenby Hall was different. It wasn't a nice place, Inspector.'

Joe had a feeling that he was about to discover something important. He asked her what she meant and she drained her tea cup before she spoke, as though she needed time to consider her words.

‘Odd things happened. Patients died unexpectedly. As far as I knew there were never any post-mortems but the doctor – Pennell his name was – always signed the death certificates.'

‘What about the relatives? Didn't they kick up a fuss?'

‘They just seemed to accept it. I think Dr Pennell and the Matron, Mrs Chambers must have . . .'

‘Must have what?'

She shook her head, a little unsure of herself. ‘I don't know. Sweet talked them into not asking any awkward questions? I'd seen those patients and there'd been nothing wrong with them. I asked Dr Pennell, of course, but he just came up with some story about them dying of heart attacks or strokes. Another odd thing is that I was never allowed to see the bodies. Whisked away they were. Now I'm not saying there was anything untoward . . . nothing I could prove anyway. But I felt something wasn't right.'

‘Were the dead patients buried in the graveyard at the side of the building?'

She shook her head. ‘Oh no. That hadn't been used for years. They were all cremated as far as I know.'

‘How many died like that while you were working there?'

She frowned. ‘I'm not sure . . . six or seven perhaps.'

‘You never reported this to anyone?'

‘Havenby Hall was a private concern, not part of the NHS. And besides, I had absolutely no evidence, did I? And I didn't live in. I only worked days because of my husband not being well so I didn't know what went on the rest of the time.'

‘What about the rest of the staff?'

‘There were some odd people working there, I can tell you. Worse than the so-called patients, some of them.' She hesitated. ‘And a few of them seemed very close to Mrs Chambers – like her chosen circle. They never had much to do with the rest of the staff.'

‘What happened to them after the place closed?'

‘I've no idea. I never kept in touch.'

‘And Mrs Chambers, where did she go?'

Betty shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘Who knows? I never heard of her again. But I do know that Dr Pennell retired. He died about eighteen months ago. I read his obituary in the local paper.' She shuddered. ‘I didn't like that man.'

‘Did Mrs Chambers have a family?'

‘Not that I know of.'

‘Do you remember a patient called Dorothy Watts? She died unexpectedly.'

Betty's expression changed, as if a cloud had passed over the sun. ‘Oh yes,' she said softly. ‘I remember Dorothy. Dot she liked to be called. Poor woman. I told Dr Pennell she was on the wrong medication but he gave me an earful for my trouble. Threatened to get me sacked for questioning his medical judgement. I needed the job so I kept quiet but I feel bad about it now. I always believed as a nurse that my first duty was to my patients and I fear I let Dot down badly.'

Joe leaned forward and touched her bony, liver-spotted hand. ‘There was nothing you could have done.' He could see tears were starting to form in her eyes and he felt an overwhelming desire to reassure her. ‘Pennell called the shots in that place so don't blame yourself. Dot's sister has been trying to find out what happened to her. Her son hired a solicitor called Melanie Hawkes to make enquiries.'

‘I know. She came to see me. Very nice she was.'

‘I've got some bad news, I'm afraid,' he said gently. ‘She's dead. She was murdered.'

Betty's hand fluttered up to her mouth. ‘Oh dear God,' she muttered.

‘Do you remember a patient called Peter Brockmeister?'

Betty sat there, her mouth agape. From her reaction Joe knew that she remembered Brockmeister all right. And that memory disturbed her.

‘I hardly had anything to do with him and I didn't want to, thank you very much. He gave me the creeps, the way he looked at you. But of course I knew what he'd done. Maybe if I hadn't known . . . He was very charming, you see. Very plausible. He charmed some of them, I can tell you.'

‘Who?'

‘The staff. After he'd been there a while he really got his feet under the table, had the run of the place and spent a lot of time with Dr Pennell and Matron. I reckon it suited him to be there. He'd been transferred from prison because they said he was insane. But the insane can be cured and the theory went that once he'd had treatment and taken the right medication he wouldn't be a danger any more. Only I'm sure the whole insanity thing was all a ruse to get out of prison. I don't think he ever took any medication.'

‘Surely he was supervised.'

‘By Dr Pennell. And I reckon Brockmeister had him in his pocket.'

‘How?'

‘Who knows? And Pennell's dead so we can't ask him, can we? But I do know one thing: when one of the night staff started asking questions she disappeared.'

Joe held his breath and waited for her to continue.

‘Jean Smith her name was. I met her in town one day and she looked worried sick. Anyway, she asked if she could speak to me and we went into a café. She said she'd found some tablets hidden in Brockmeister's room – the patients all had private rooms, you see. She was certain he hadn't been taking his medication and she wondered whether she should tell someone but she didn't trust Dr Pennell or Matron. I said she should report it, that's when she told me she was really scared. She'd heard things, she said. Screams. And patients had died unexpectedly. She said something about the basement then she seemed to lose her nerve. I said we should meet again and talk about it away from work and she said maybe. Then . . .'