Watching the Ghosts (24 page)

He sat in his flat waiting for the sound of Lydia putting her key in the lock of her front door. He listened for her every evening. He liked to think of her in there, unaware that only a thin partition wall separated them. He'd enjoyed listening to the sounds coming from her bedroom last night. Animal sounds of pleasure. Pity she'd chosen a policeman to share her passion with. Proud knew he could have given her so much more. Perhaps he still would.

There she was. He could hear her footsteps on the landing, soft and quick. Then voices. She was saying hello to that stupid, fat Beverley opposite, asking her how her mother was, making polite conversation. Then he heard the key in the lock and her door quickly opening and closing. Now she was inside the flat he was tempted to knock on the wall. How she'd panic and how he'd enjoy imagining her fear. She'd been so nervous of him since he'd made his first, ill-advised move and the thought gave him a thrill – although he realized now that he should have bided his time. He'd seen her in the Museum Gardens and he wondered how she would react if she knew his secret. What would she do if she came face to face with Peter Brockmeister?

He knew what he'd do next. He'd invite Brockmeister back to his flat and show him the rest of his collection. He was bound to be interested. And the thought that he'd entertained a killer in his humble flat would buoy up his spirits for weeks . . . even if that was only as far as it went.

Proud had never had the courage to emulate the actions of the men and women whose relics he collected and pored over so avidly. He venerated these mementos of their lives as the medieval believer venerated the relics of dead saints. But to Alan Proud, evil was so much more powerful than goodness. He packed Brockmeister's letters to Darren carefully in his briefcase and made sure everything was in place. The other letters – the more intimate and explosive ones – he'd keep for a further meeting. It would be an excuse to continue their relationship.

Only a few more hours and he would have what he wanted. This meeting was too important to mess up.

J
oe had always known that Jamilla had a quick mind. She'd passed her sergeant's exams first time and was waiting for a suitable opening. She'd turned down a posting in Northallerton because that would have meant moving away from her close-knit Indian family and Joe, unlike some others, could sympathize. He hoped something suitable would come up for her soon. But in the meantime, he was glad she was on his team. Especially when she waved him over to her desk, a look a triumph on her face.

‘I've cracked the first couple of pages. It's a list of names and dates. I've copied it out for you.' She pushed a sheet of paper towards him. Jamilla's neat, square handwriting was easy to read and a couple of names jumped out at him, making his heart beat a little faster.

The first that caught his eye was Dorothy Watts. He recognized the date beside her name as the date of her death. And then a time – four hours thirty-five minutes. Beneath Dorothy's name was another name, Frank Watts, and a sum of money: £5,000.

There were other names, amongst them that of Elsie Bentham along with her date of death. The time by her name was three hours five minutes but no actual cause of death. Her husband's name was beneath hers. Cecil Bentham: £4,000.

There were seven other names and all the entries followed the same pattern. The name of the deceased, the date of death, a time in hours and minutes, and, presumably, the name of the next of kin followed by a sum of money.

Now they had more names, they could delve further. And it struck Joe that that could be what Melanie Hawkes had been trying to do when she met her death.

He told Jamilla to keep working on the notebook and instructed one of the young detective constables to attempt to trace the relatives of the other people mentioned on the list. Presumably Dr Pennell had hidden the notebook from prying eyes and the more Joe discovered about Pennell, the more suspect his actions appeared to be. He'd heard it said that when doctors went bad, they did it very efficiently and with deadly consequences. He had a feeling that Dr Pennell had gone very bad indeed. But what he needed now was proof.

Joe was as sure as he could be that Judith Dodds had died because of something the killer thought she had or knew, possibly the notebook that was now on Jamilla's desk. But now they had it and he felt suddenly optimistic that they could be one step ahead of him at last.

The details of the former Havenby Hall patient Sebastian Bentham had interviewed were unfolded on the desk in front of him. He felt slightly apprehensive as he made the call, aware that he was probably about to resurrect unhappy memories for Dennis Younger, memories of a time of despair. But when Dennis answered the phone, to Joe's relief and surprise, he sounded quite cheerful. No, Dennis hadn't minded being interviewed by Sebastian at all, that unfortunate part of his life was over and done with long ago and he was happy to talk to Joe if it helped. No, he'd not been contacted by Melanie Hawkes – he sounded a little disappointed at this omission.

Joe looked at his watch. Six o'clock – a time when most people were arriving home from work. The delivery of Daisy's ransom was to take place later so the night would be a long one for his team. He poked his head round Emily's office door and told her where he was going, promising to be back in time for the hand over. She nodded and returned to her paperwork.

Dennis Younger lived out in the suburbs and Joe was glad the rush hour was over as he steered the car out of the city. He felt a thrill of optimism that sooner or later he'd find the piece of information that would make everything fall into place.

Mr Younger's semi-detached house was small and neat with a front garden filled with roses. It was an elderly person's house with green paintwork, snowy lace curtains and a proper garden gate while most of the neighbours had opted for double driveways.

The door was opened almost immediately by a small, round woman with grey curls. She invited Joe in and asked if he'd like a cup of tea. He said yes.

Dennis emerged from the kitchen and shook his hand before leading him into a small sitting room and inviting him to make himself at home.

‘I'm sorry if all this brings back unhappy memories, Mr Younger.'

Dennis shook his head, a determined smile on his lips. ‘Don't worry yourself about that.' His accent was pure Yorkshire. ‘At one time the subject was off limits but at my age . . . I had what they called a breakdown caused by the stress of losing my first wife and my job at the same time.' He straightened his back. ‘But I got over it and everything's been fine and dandy since. In fact I quite enjoyed helping that lad with his play. Didn't think much to the finished result though. Left at the interval.'

Joe smiled and gave him a conspiratorial nod. ‘I was tempted to do the same myself. What was Havenby Hall like in those days?'

‘Well it certainly wasn't as bad as it was made out to be in that play. Mind you, I was in the blue wing – that was for the cases that weren't considered so bad. I was in three weeks but I know some were there for years. The serious cases were in the red wing and we never had anything to do with them.'

‘Did you come across a patient called Peter Brockmeister?'

Dennis shifted forward and looked round, as though he was afraid of being overheard. ‘I knew he was there 'cause I overheard one of the nurses talking – she said he was very charming but he made her flesh crawl because she knew what he'd done. He was kept well away from us so I never actually saw him . . . well, not that I'm aware of.'

‘Do you recognize the names Dorothy Watts and Elsie Bentham?'

He shook his head. ‘They might have been in one of the other wings.

‘Dorothy had suffered a breakdown so I would have thought she might have been treated on the same wing as you were.'

‘Sorry. I don't remember the names. Of course, we might have been there at different times.'

‘Do you remember the chaplain?'

‘Oh yes. Nice man.'

‘The Reverend Rattenbury?'

‘I can't recall his name but he used to come in and chat sometimes.'

‘What about Dr Pennell?' he asked.

‘Now I didn't like him one little bit. Cold fish he was. The actual psychiatrists were OK but Pennell was the Medical Superintendent and he lived on the premises. Between you and me, I think he ran that place.'

‘When he went into hospital for an operation he was replaced by a locum – a Dr Speed. Do you remember that?'

‘Can't say I do. Maybe it was after my time.'

‘You'll remember the matron, Mrs Chambers?'

‘Oh aye. I heard her and Pennell were thick as thieves.' He gave Joe a theatrical wink.

‘Did anything unusual happen while you were there?'

‘That depends what you mean by unusual.' He hesitated. ‘I don't know what's normal in a place like that. There were some sad cases in there, you know. I sometimes heard screams. Terrible screams. Like souls in torment. But like I said, there were some very sick people in there.'

‘What about the basement?'

Dennis's eyes widened. ‘We were told never to go near it – something to do with delicate equipment. I thought that maybe the ECT machines were down there but they weren't – they were on yellow wing. I don't know what they kept down there but . . . Well, I think that's where the screams came from. But I couldn't swear to that. When I asked one of the nurses she just said the place was haunted. I thought she was joking.'

‘Probably,' said Joe.

At that moment Mrs Younger came in with two bone-china cups and saucers filled with lukewarm tea. Joe drank it gratefully.

The kidnapper had been in touch with detailed instructions and they had two and a half hours before the drop. Emily was sure she had everything covered but she felt too restless to sit there in her office pushing paper round her desk. Besides, there was somebody she wanted to visit before all hell broke loose and she just had time to fit it in.

Daisy's biological father, Paul Scorer, had been the model of patience throughout the whole thing, keeping in touch by phone but not overreacting in a way that might put the operation in jeopardy. She reckoned he deserved a quick visit, just to reassure him that they were doing everything they could.

As she drove out to his cottage, she wondered what would happen once Daisy was safely returned. She couldn't bring herself to contemplate the possibility that she wouldn't be returned. As a mother herself, there were some things she couldn't bear to think about.

The drive took twenty minutes and when she arrived at Scorer's cottage at six thirty there was no sign of life and she cursed herself for not ringing ahead. However, she had longed to get away from the office . . . and besides, some instinct had told her that it might be better to take him by surprise. According to Scorer his partner was still away in Somerset and she wondered how she had reacted to the news that Daisy had been abducted. She would have expected her to return from whatever hippy retreat she was at to provide her partner with some support. But other people – particularly those with an unconventional lifestyle – didn't always think the way she did.

She knocked at the door but there was no answer so she walked round the cottage, looking into windows.

She pressed her face up to the grimy panes and she could make out the interior of the living room; the beanbags and the old rugs and the shelves crammed with books and an eclectic assortment of objects d'art. It looked cosy and she imagined what it would be like in winter with the dusty wood-burning stove lit.

Then she saw the child lying face down on a bean bag in the corner, her arm dangling to the floor and her head bent to one side. She couldn't see the face but it had to be Daisy.

And from the position of the body she looked as if she was dead.

E
mily had called for back up and as soon as Joe found out he drove out of the city – too fast – to join her at Scorer's place.

When he got there he found two middle-aged constables leaning against an untidily parked patrol car as if they were waiting for something to happen.

‘Where's DCI Thwaite?' he asked as he emerged from his car. ‘What's going on?'

‘She's round the back of the house . . . told us to send you round as soon as you arrived.' The constable, a big man with sagging jowls who looked as if he might not pass his next medical, looked solemn.

Joe didn't hesitate. He rushed round to the rear of the house, almost tripping over a discarded watering can. His heart was pounding. How could they have got this so wrong?

As he rounded the corner he found Emily standing next to the open back door with another uniformed constable. He saw that one of the French windows had been smashed.

‘They said you'd found Daisy,' he said as he hurried towards her.

She gave him a bitter smile. ‘As soon as I made the call I broke in. Turns out I've been a bloody idiot. Come and have a look.'

The constable stood to attention like a flunkey. ‘Careful of the glass, ma'am,' he said, standing back to let Emily enter the house first.

Joe followed her in, walking on tip toe. He gasped when he saw the child lying perfectly still on the floor. Emily took a step towards her, picked her up by the hair and began to laugh.

‘I only saw it in the gloom. Bloody realistic.'

Joe looked at the small figure and immediately saw what she meant.

‘I should have known cause my Sarah's got one just like it.' She propped the doll upright against a chair. It was as big as a six-year-old child and startlingly lifelike from a distance with its fair hair and soft plastic face lit up by a permanent half smile, as if it was harbouring some delicious and sinister secret.

‘My Sweet Friend, they're called,' said Emily, the expert. ‘Horrible things in my opinion but kids seem to love them.' She pointed to a label dangling round the thing's neck like a noose. ‘This is brand new and they're not cheap.' She turned to the constable. ‘False alarm, I'm afraid.'