Watching the Ghosts (3 page)

‘Do you want me to answer it?'

She nodded. She knew she was in no state to deal with anything resembling a negotiation. She knew she would just scream and plead like a hysterical child. Jack picked up the receiver and said hello, casually, as though he was expecting to talk to a friend or colleague.

He appeared to be listening for what seemed like an age and Melanie watched him, hands clenched and heartbeat rapid, lurching between hope and despair, fighting the urge to grab the phone. She heard him asking when. Then he asked where. Then she heard him say OK before he put the receiver down.

‘What did they say?' She clawed at the sleeve of his striped shirt, scrabbling for information.

‘She's fine. They want ten grand in cash and they're going to call tomorrow to tell us where to leave it. They say Daisy will be returned as soon as they've got the money.'

‘How? How are they going to bring her back?' She tightened her grip on his arm and he winced.

‘They didn't say. Look, we've got to get hold of the cash first. I'll arrange it first thing in the morning.'

‘Can't you do it sooner?'

‘They won't call back till tomorrow.'

‘Did they let you talk to her?'

‘No but . . .'

She fought an impulse to punch him, to shake him out of his complacency. ‘Then how do we know she's OK?'

‘They said she was.'

‘You should have insisted on speaking to her. If I'd answered I would have . . .'

‘Well you can speak to them next time then.' He almost spat out the words as if he was getting fed up with the whole situation.

But Melanie didn't care how he felt. She wanted Daisy back. ‘I'll have to tell Paul,' she said.

‘You always said he was a waste of space. What was it you called him . . . a doped-up drop out? I think the fewer people we involve the better.'

‘He's her father. He's got a right to know.'

‘He'll be stoned. He can't be trusted.'

But she wasn't listening. ‘Why did they pick on us? We're not millionaires. Why Daisy?'

Jack gave a shrug. ‘It could be someone who knows us.' He paused. ‘One of your clients maybe.'

She shook her head, fighting back tears and a vague, guilty feeling that maybe he could be right. ‘No way. I don't deal with criminals. Why are you trying to shift the blame on to me?' She could feel herself losing what little self-control she had left.

‘I'm not. It's just that architects don't usually encounter the criminal classes in the course of their work. Solicitors do.'

‘You're always saying that some of the developers you deal with are pretty dodgy.'

‘They might cut corners but . . .' Jack hesitated. ‘Are you sure there's nobody you can think of who . . .?'

‘Of course I'm sure.' She barked the words. She wasn't going to let him off the hook. She wasn't going to be the guilty one. ‘What about the bloke behind the Boothgate House development? Patrick Creeny.'

‘Patrick's all right.'

‘You said he was in financial difficulties.'

‘Just cash-flow problems, that's all. Half the flats are unsold and he's waiting for funds to start the second phase of the development. When things pick up . . . Anyway, it's one thing to delay payments to creditors, but kidnapping . . .' He walked over to the cupboard in the corner and opened the door. ‘I need a drink,' he said as he took a bottle of single malt and a glass from the depths of the cupboard. ‘Want one?'

Melanie didn't reply. She needed to keep a clear head. She watched as he poured the golden liquid into the glass and took a long sip. He was staring at the model on top of the cupboard. It had originally been in his office at the other end of the house but he'd moved it to the drawing room when he'd invited Patrick Creeny round for a celebratory drink and it had remained there ever since. On that occasion the decision had been made to change the name of the development from ‘Havenby Hall' to ‘Boothgate House'. Jack, as a native of Eborby had managed to persuade Creeny that any mention of Havenby Hall would remind people of the building's original function as an asylum for the insane. They needed, he said, to blot out the past. The politicians called it spin but it was really just a matter of perception.

Melanie went to the phone and dialled 1471 but the electronic voice told her that the caller had withheld their number. This was what she'd expected but she'd convinced herself that, in the drama of the moment, there was a chance that the kidnapper would have forgotten. She stood with the receiver in her hand for a while before making a decision.

‘I'm calling Paul,' she said. ‘He has a right to know.'

Before Jack could raise any further objection, she'd pressed the keys. Jack sat there watching and she could sense his hostility as the phone rang out at the other end.

W
hen Jack felt he couldn't stand the strain any longer, he'd retreated to his office with the single malt. Melanie was glad of the solitude for once. She needed to think.

Emily Thwaite had been on her mind since it had happened. She'd met her a few times at PTA meetings and school functions and, if it weren't for this tentative acquaintance, she'd have obeyed the kidnapper's orders about not contacting the police without question. But she needed to confide in someone. She had to know the right thing to do. She couldn't afford to make mistakes.

She knew Emily was a Detective Chief Inspector. When she'd found out about her job she'd been rather surprised because she seemed the motherly type, a little overweight with wavy fair hair and freckles. She had three children at the school and she looked remarkably ordinary for a woman who spent her working days investigating murder and robbery. She also looked the type of woman who could be trusted to be discreet when dealing with a sensitive matter like a kidnapping.

She made a search of the phone directory before picking up the telephone.

They called him The Builder.

Emily knew how the press loved to invent names for criminals whose work followed any sort of pattern. In her opinion, this only encouraged them by giving their sordid crimes a spurious glamour. And she saw nothing glamorous about breaking into lone women's houses and barricading the front door with piles of furniture before pinching cash and their most intimate items of underwear and escaping through a back door or window.

She looked up and saw that DI Joe Plantagenet had just returned to the office. He'd been interviewing The Builder's latest victim and he looked serious, as if he'd found the experience disturbing. When she'd first arrived in Eborby, she'd been struck by his black hair, blue eyes and pale, freckled complexion inherited from his Irish mother. Since that time a few grey hairs had appeared at his temples; with the cases they'd had to deal with over the past couple of years, she was surprised that he didn't have more. He was good looking and from time to time Jeff had made tentative jokes about him when she was working late, almost as if he was seeking some kind of reassurance that Joe wasn't after her slightly overweight body. At first she'd blushed and protested too much but now she didn't even bother to comment. Joe was a colleague, that's all, and she had no time to bother about Jeff's insecurities.

She stood up, curious to know whether he'd discovered anything useful, anything that might help bring the bastard to justice. But as she moved towards the door the phone on her desk began to ring so she retraced her steps and picked up the receiver.

The woman on the other end of the line introduced herself as Melanie Hawkes and when she said they'd met at her children's school it took Emily a few moments to place her. Then she remembered: a smartly dressed woman of medium height, slim to the point of emaciation with shoulder-length brown hair and a slightly receding chin. She also recalled Melanie's husband, who occasionally came to meetings with her; he was in his forties with a permanent tan, well-cut hair and expensively casual clothes, the type who emanated smooth prosperity from every pore. Melanie Hawkes was nothing more than a passing acquaintance but the urgency in her voice intrigued her. So much so that she agreed to meet her the next day.

The Builder had been watching the house. He always watched before he acted.

It was only a day since his last intrusion but he saw no reason to wait. Not when it was all going so well. Everything was planned down to the last detail as usual. He'd toyed with the idea of changing his method but he knew that would take courage. Courage to do it while they were at home; courage to trap them there inside their safe refuge so they couldn't escape him.

Often at night he lay awake, imagining what it would be like to have them at his mercy, to look into their pleading eyes and feel the power he'd have over their life . . . and maybe their death.

Perhaps one day he'd find out. One day very soon.

S
unlight was streaming through the thin blinds at the bedroom window and Joe opened his eyes to look at the clock on the bedside table. It was time to get up but he closed his eyes again. He hadn't managed to drop off to sleep until the early hours of the morning because the old bullet wound in his shoulder had started throbbing. It sometimes happened when he felt under pressure at work and, with The Builder stepping up his activities, he knew they had to catch the man fast before things escalated and somebody got hurt.

He showered and dressed in record time and grabbed a slice of toast before setting off for work.

Walking down Gallowgate, he saw a young man slumped against the doorway of a discount shop, mousy haired and pale as a ghost with a mongrel lying loyally by his side. Joe stopped and squatted down in front of the lad who watched him with wary eyes as the dog stood up, ears pricked, suddenly alert.

‘You OK, mate?' Joe asked. He could see the boy's eyes were sunken and dark rimmed.

‘Have you got a quid for a cup of tea?' he said in a low whine.

Joe delved in his pocket and pulled out a ten pound note. The boy's eyes lit up.

‘There's a shelter in Tarngate . . . near the superstore. Promise me you'll go down there. They'll give you a bed and a hot meal.'

The boy nodded and stretched out his hand eagerly for the money. Joe handed it over, knowing he was taking a gamble: it might be used for food and shelter but on the other hand it might buy drugs or booze. But he couldn't pass by and do nothing. Recently he'd been toying with the possibility of helping out occasionally at the shelter run by the cathedral. Work had got in the way as usual but a voice inside him insisted that he should make more effort. Maybe one day.

He left the boy, glancing over his shoulder to see that he hadn't shifted, and as he walked away down the street his phone rang.

It was the station. A woman had returned home earlier that morning after spending the night with a friend, only to find that her front door was blocked with furniture.

The Builder had paid another house call.

Lydia had heard crying in the night. Distant heartbreaking sobs. She knew Beverley's mother often became distressed in the night. But when she'd passed Beverley in the corridor, she made no mention of it as they exchanged the usual empty pleasantries. She probably found the subject embarrassing and the truth was that she herself found the thought of the confused and frightened old lady in mental distress uncomfortable.

Last night she'd met her old friend Amy for a drink. Amy worked in the box office at the Playhouse and Lydia had asked about the latest play,
Mary
. According to Amy it was by a new writer and concerned the eponymous young woman who had been locked up in a mental hospital in the 1950s purely for offending against the morals of the day. From Amy's description, it didn't sound the sort of thing she'd be able to recommend to visiting tourists as a fun night out.

The sun was already burning through the high white clouds as she walked to work down the wide street towards Boothgate Bar, the old city gate which stood like a truncated castle, guarding Eborby's ancient centre as it had done for centuries. She passed beneath the gate, glancing upwards at the massive slots where a wooden portcullis had once been suspended to keep the city safe from the attentions of hostile armies. She had plenty of time so she decided to take a quick detour down one of the shopping streets that lay beyond the city walls.

It was only eight forty-five in the morning so the shops were still shut and window shopping was her only option. When she reached the small side street off Pottergate where the antique shops congregated, she moved from one shop to the next, checking her watch at regular intervals, putting her face close to the windows and shielding her eyes so that she could see inside. There were a few small items to tempt her into a return visit in her lunch hour: a small nineteenth century bedside cupboard – she'd been looking for one for ages; a pretty bracelet which she could buy with her birthday money; and a cheerful floral jug made by a Clarice Cliff wannabe. Some friends who favoured the more modern look turned their noses up at her treasures. But her father had been an antique dealer and she liked to think she had a good eye for such things.

She reached the last shop in the row, a small establishment with dusty windows. Inside she could see bare, splintery floorboards and dusty furniture piled in inaccessible heaps. Then she spotted it standing at the back of the shop, half hidden by a massive oak corner cupboard.

As she peered through the glass she could make out its painted eyes and its round, pallid face. She could even see the mouth half open to reveal something inside that she knew would be a group of painted planets.

It was the clock of her nightmares. She'd found it at last.

Melanie called into work to say she'd be late but she wasn't sure whether she'd be in any fit state to go at all. She hadn't eaten anything that morning, not even her usual single slice of toast topped with a smear of honey. The very silence of the place was a constant reminder of Daisy's absence. And she blamed herself for what had happened. If she hadn't been distracted. If she hadn't turned her back to concentrate on her phone call. At that moment her world was full of regrets.