Watching the Ghosts (7 page)

‘Who?' Proud's mouth was hanging open as he adjusted the belt on his dressing gown.

‘Your neighbour in Flat Three. Lydia Brookes . . . the one who's just been burgled.'

‘Just to say hello to.'

‘You haven't been in her flat?'

‘Never been invited.' He sounded disappointed.

‘Where were you yesterday afternoon?'

‘I was visiting someone. It was to do with work.'

‘What do you do?'

The man hesitated, as though he was wondering whether to share a confidence. ‘I deal in memorabilia.'

‘What sort of memorabilia?' There was something cagey about the man's replies to his questions that aroused Joe's curiosity.

‘Crime memorabilia.'

‘Do you mean things like Dr Crippen's toupee and Jack the Ripper's false teeth?' Joe couldn't resist lightening the mood.

Proud stared at Joe as if he wasn't sure how to react. ‘As far as I know Dr Crippen never wore a toupee. And the Ripper was never identified . . . for certain.'

Joe knew his attempt at humour had fallen on stony ground. He walked slowly over to the framed letters and peered at them, trying to decipher the spidery handwriting. ‘What are these?'

‘Letters.'

‘I can see that. Who wrote them?'

The secretive smile that played on Proud's thin lips made Joe uneasy. ‘Ever heard of Peter Brockmeister?'

Joe caught his breath. ‘They're from him?'

He stared at the one of the letters. The handwriting was almost illegible but he could make out a few words. From the little he could read the author seemed to be complaining about the quality of the food and enquiring about someone called Darren. But he didn't know what he'd expected – a detailed confession perhaps or a description of where he'd left other bodies?

‘They put him in here, you know, when it was a hospital.'

‘From what I've heard he should never have been released from prison.'

‘He was transferred here in 1978 after he'd served almost ten years for his alleged crimes. The authorities decided he was mentally ill – mad not bad. He might have spent the rest of his days here if the place hadn't closed down. Mind you, the psychiatrists reckoned he was cured by then so . . . And he died a few weeks after his release so he didn't get to enjoy his freedom.' He sighed, as if the killer's death was a matter of great regret. ‘I got these letters from a relative of the man Peter shared a cell with in prison. They kept in touch after Peter was transferred here . . . until Darren got killed in a fight with a fellow inmate. Sad.'

Joe opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it.

‘Look, I can't help you. I didn't see anything. And I've got things to do.'

‘I'm sure you have, Mr Proud.' He walked to the door and turned round. ‘What do you think of Lydia next door? Would you say she's attractive?' He wanted to see the man's reaction.

‘Can't say I've noticed.' The reply was quick and Joe didn't believe a word of it.

‘I'll need the name of the person you visited. To eliminate you from our enquiries.'

Proud recited a name and address. And from his confidence, Joe guessed that his alibi would stand up. Perhaps this one wouldn't be so easy after all.

‘Where's the money? Don't you want Daisy back?'

According to the caller with the robot voice, Melanie hadn't delivered the money he'd given her. Which meant that the ten grand he'd placed carefully in the holdall had vanished into some black hole. He dismissed his earlier nagging suspicion that she'd found out about his relationship with Yolanda and the liberties he'd taken with their bank account and staged Daisy's abduction, absconding with the money as some sort of twisted revenge. He didn't really think that was Melanie's style.

He sat on the sofa and put his head in his hands. He'd had his reservations about involving the police but now he knew that he was out of his depth. And the longer he delayed, the worse it would look. His father had been a policeman and he knew how their minds worked. At the time he'd been glad that Melanie hadn't kept her appointment with Emily Thwaite, but now he just hoped that the woman had a forgiving nature.

F
orensic hadn't found anything useful in Lydia Brookes's flat. The man they called The Builder had been careful as usual. Joe reckoned the bastard had been watching too many cop shows – everyone with a TV was an expert in avoiding detection these days.

‘I'm worried about that note he left,' Joe said as he and Emily got into the car.

‘Yes, it's a departure from his previous MO. And when criminals start branching out, I start getting worried.'

‘I might call on Lydia Brookes later to see how she is, give her a bit of reassurance and check her security while I'm at it.'

Emily gave him a knowing wink. ‘Yes, she's a good-looking lass.'

‘I didn't mean . . .'

‘I'm a woman of the world, Joe. I know about these things. It's about time you had a bit of female company.'

He felt a stab of irritation that she felt she had the right to interfere. His private life was none of her business, provided it didn't affect his work. On the other hand he knew she was probably right. He wasn't the type who flourished in isolation. Maybe that's why he felt annoyed. Because the truth hurts.

‘Is something the matter?'

He turned to her and saw that she had put her head to one side, waiting for a response. ‘No. Why should it be? What did this Jack Hawkes say?' It was safer to return to work matters. Love and sex were things he'd rather not think about at that moment. He'd lost everything when his wife, Kaitlin, had died soon after their wedding so he knew love could be bad news. On the other hand, so could loneliness.

‘I'm not sure why I'm rushing there at his beck and call. His wife bloody stood me up yesterday.' It was the third time Emily had mentioned this; Melanie Hawkes' cavalier attitude to her valuable time clearly irked her. ‘He said it was urgent but I'm just not sure whether I believe him. I've met him a few times at PTA meetings and he struck me as the sort who's full of himself . . . the sort who likes playing games.'

‘What sort of games?'

‘Power games.'

Joe didn't answer. Emily had obviously taken a dislike to Jack Hawkes on scant acquaintance and he suspected her animosity wasn't only due to his wife's no-show at their appointment. But he'd wait till he met the man before he decided for himself.

Emily drove through the busy streets, keeping the grey stone city walls to their left and soon they reached Picklegate Bar, one of the four medieval gates that guarded the old city. Centuries ago the heads of traitors were displayed on top of the city gates, Joe thought as he watched it in his rear view mirror. You could still see the spikes there if you looked carefully enough.

They turned on to the main road out to the southern suburbs and travelled in silence until they reached the suburb of Pickby, an affluent area of detached houses, near to the place where criminals had once met their death at the end of the hangman's rope. That particular site was now a racecourse which Joe supposed was progress of a sort. Emily herself lived here, surrounded by Eborby's professional classes.

Jack Hawkes lived in a detached Edwardian villa set in a large, neat garden. It had gables, gleaming paintwork and a glossy oak front door set with elaborate stained-glass windows. A desirable residence. Emily pressed the doorbell and waited.

Hawkes opened the door; he had a worried frown on his tanned face. ‘Thanks for coming,' he said humbly as he stood aside to let them in. He checked outside before he closed the door, as though he was making sure nobody was watching.

He led them through to a large drawing room, immaculate in shades of blue with a fancy plaster cornice and a large crystal chandelier hanging from an equally fancy ceiling rose.

Emily sat down heavily on the sofa without waiting to be invited. ‘So what's your problem, Mr Hawkes?'

He looked from one to the other, as though he was making a decision. ‘My wife's disappeared.'

‘She arranged to meet me but she never turned up.'

‘I know. She thought it might be a good idea to ask your advice but she changed her mind.'

‘Why?'

Hawkes hesitated. ‘My stepdaughter's been kidnapped.' He paused to let the words sink in. ‘The kidnapper told us not to tell the police so . . .'

‘Don't worry, we can do discreet.' Joe had been standing there but now he sat down beside Emily, fearing that this was going to be a long story. ‘You'd better start from the beginning.'

Hawkes inhaled deeply. ‘My wife picked Daisy up from school yesterday and they went to the playground in the local park on the way home.'

‘Is that Lovett Road Park?' asked Emily, the local.

‘I think so. She just said the park but . . .'

‘What happened?' Emily was leaning forward now with professional interest, all resentment gone.

‘Daisy – that's her little girl – was playing on the swings or . . . Anyway, Melanie had a phone call from her boss and turned her back for a minute and . . . and when she turned round Daisy wasn't there. She rushed round asking people if they'd seen her but nobody had. Anyway, while she was out – before she'd even called me to tell me what had happened – I had a phone call from someone who said they had Daisy.'

‘Man or woman?' Joe asked.

‘I couldn't tell. The voice was disguised through one of those electronic things.'

‘Go on.' Joe caught Emily's eye. If this was a case of kidnapping they'd have to hand it over to a specialist team, people more used to delicate negotiations than themselves. There'd be a news blackout to arrange and other things to be set in motion. But first they needed the facts.

‘They asked for ten grand in cash.'

‘And what happened?'

‘I got the money.'

‘Where from? Your bank?'

‘Er, no. From a business associate who owed me money.'

‘Name?' Emily was leaning forward, notebook at the ready.

‘Patrick Creeny. He's been working with me on the Boothgate House project.'

‘Havenby Hall?'

‘Boothgate House. We're hoping people will forget about . . . It's not good for business. Patrick gave me the cash from his safe and when I got home the kidnapper called again and told Melanie to take the money to the car park behind the Museum Gardens. They said she'd receive further instructions when she arrived.'

‘She went alone?'

‘I . . . we thought it was best if someone waited here. In case . . .'

‘And did she receive further instructions?'

‘I don't know. After she left I never heard any more. I've been trying to call her but her phone's switched off. I've left messages but . . .'

‘I presume she wanted to see me about the kidnapping,' said Emily, more sympathetic now.

‘Yes. I didn't think it was a good idea but . . . I didn't want to do anything that might put Daisy in danger but now Melanie's missing too and . . .'

‘When did she leave with the money?'

‘Yesterday evening. Around eight. There's been no word from her since.'

‘We'll need to trace the phone calls you received. And put a trace on any future calls,' said Joe.

Hawkes nodded meekly and looked up. ‘There's something else,' he said quietly. ‘Something I haven't mentioned.'

‘What's that?'

‘I had a call from the kidnapper this morning asking why Melanie hadn't turned up.'

Lydia had forgotten when she'd first met Amy but she knew their friendship dated from the time when she used to stay with her grandparents in Eborby during the long school holidays. Amy's own grandparents had been close friends of her grandmother's and, as the two girls had been the same age, Amy had been roped in to play with the friends' lonely little granddaughter. Fortunately the two girls had hit it off back then and they'd stayed in touch ever since . . . even after Lydia had lost her baby; even after her divorce.

Amy had given her a bed for the night after the burglary. She lived with her boyfriend, Steve, in a terraced house in Bearsly, not far from the huge, red-brick chocolate factory that provided so much employment in the town. It was a small house with a dingy yard backing on to the railway line and, in spite of Amy's protestations to the contrary, Lydia couldn't help feeling she was getting in the way. Besides, she'd have to return to Boothgate House sooner or later. Although she found it hard to get that note out of her mind.
I'll see you next time I call. Be ready.

The detective who'd called – DI Plantagenet – had told her to contact him if she was worried and a crime prevention officer was due to visit later that day, as was someone from Victim Support. She couldn't complain that the authorities weren't taking the violation seriously. She'd kept Joe Plantagenet's card in her wallet with her precious photos and her credit cards and from time to time she took it out and looked at it, deriving comfort from the memory of him. The dark hair, the watchful blue eyes, the mouth that turned up slightly at the corners. A sympathetic face. But she had known faces like that to hide a darker nature. Sometimes appearances deceive.

First thing that morning Amy had gone back with her to Boothgate House to help tidy up. By the time she'd had to leave for her shift at the theatre everything in the flat had been returned to its proper place, dusted and disinfected to blot out all trace of the man who'd intruded on her life. Once Amy had gone, Lydia had opened the windows to let some air in and sat in her living room listening to the faint hum of traffic noise from nearby Boothgate, feeling uneasy and alone. But it was something she knew she'd have to get used to. She'd got used to worse in her time.