Watching the Ghosts (9 page)

‘She fits the description of a woman from Pickby who was reported missing by her husband,' said Emily. ‘Name of Melanie Hawkes.' There was a short pause before she spoke again. ‘Her six-year-old daughter's missing too.'

Sally looked up, shocked. Then she swore under her breath.

Jack Hawkes looked stunned. There were no tears but Joe knew only too well that the shock of losing a loved one hit different people in different ways. When he'd lost Kaitlin, he'd been unable to cry at first but once the tears came, he hadn't been able to stop them.

Hawkes kept on shaking his head in disbelief. Who'd want to do that to Melanie? She was a high-street solicitor, for God's sake. She hadn't an enemy in the world.

Melanie's unlocked car had been found in the Museum Gardens' car park. There had been nothing to indicate anything suspicious; just a neatly parked VW Golf, newly valeted and shiny. Her handbag and phone had been found inside which was a tribute to the honesty of the citizens of Eborby . . . or maybe just luck. But there was no sign of any ransom money.

But what had happened to Daisy? That was a question they all needed answered.

After half an hour of gentle questioning and tactful words, Emily caught Joe's eye. They had learned all they could for the time being and they both knew they should leave the bereaved husband in the capable hands of the family liaison officer who'd take him through all the procedures and arrange for him to identify the body.

In a case of murder the spouse is always the first to be eliminated from enquiries, so Jack's statement was being checked and double-checked. His alibi for the previous night had already been confirmed: Patrick Creeny had called round and stayed till after midnight.

In the meantime there were other avenues to explore. There had once been another man in Melanie Hawkes' life – her ex-husband who was also Daisy's biological father, Paul Scorer. They could have sent someone to break the news and conduct an initial interview but Joe and Emily both wanted to see the man for themselves.

Emily sat in the passenger seat as Joe drove out towards the small village of Berrow, a few miles north-west of Eborby. After leaving the city suburbs they reached a rolling landscape of sheep-filled fields and dry stone walls. From time to time they passed clusters of mellow stone cottages, their gardens bursting with bright flowers. If Paul Scorer lived here, Joe thought, he was a lucky man.

Berrow was more of a hamlet than a village, although it did boast a small medieval church with a squat tower. There was no sign of a pub. Scorer's address wasn't easy to find so they had to ask one of the neighbours. From the guarded reaction to his question, Joe sensed that Scorer wasn't Berrow's most popular resident and he wondered why. He followed the directions and found the house at the end of a rutted track.

The place had probably once been a farm labourer's cottage but, unlike many similar dwellings in the area, this one hadn't been modernized to within an inch of its life. The windows were still the originals with flaking paint and layers of grime and part of the roof was covered in thick blue polythene to keep out the rain. Someone had painted a garish orange flower on the front door and there were bright Indian hangings at the windows.

‘Reminds me of my student days,' Emily muttered. ‘No wonder Melanie didn't want Daisy to come here. Let's see if they're in, shall we.'

Joe followed her as she picked her way across an expanse of naked soil cluttered with rubbish; scraps of wood, old tyres, a couple of redundant fridges and a rusty microwave.

Emily reached the front door first and rapped on the rough wood with her knuckles. When there was no answer she knocked again and eventually the door was opened by a man wearing tattered shorts and a faded T-shirt with a string of wooden beads around his neck. His hair was long and fair and he hadn't shaved for several days. The amused expression on his face vanished as soon as Emily showed him her warrant card.

‘What's this about?' He sounded worried now.

‘We're looking for Paul Scorer?'

‘You've found him. What is it?'

‘Can we talk about this inside,' said Emily.

As he stood aside to let them in, Joe caught a faint whiff of cannabis. But what this man did in his spare time didn't bother him. Murder and kidnapping trumped illegal substances any day.

They were invited to sit but as the only available seating was a pair of brightly coloured beanbags, Emily decided to stand to emphasize the serious nature of their visit and Joe did likewise.

‘It's not about Daisy is it?' Scorer looked worried. But then, she was his daughter. ‘Melanie called to tell me about the kidnap and . . . I've been worried sick. Is there any news?'

‘I'm sorry. Not yet.'

Emily spoke. ‘I believe Melanie Hawkes is your ex-wife. You're Daisy's father.'

‘Me and Melanie met when we were at uni in Leeds; married in haste and repented at leisure.'

Joe noted the bitterness in his voice.

‘Look, what are you doing to find Daisy?'

‘We've only just been told she's missing,' said Joe, suddenly feeling sorry for the man. ‘It's early days but we're doing all we can.'

‘So what are you doing here? Why aren't you out looking for her?'

‘Because Melanie Hawkes was found dead earlier today,' said Emily bluntly.

Tears began to form in Scorer's eyes and he shook his head in disbelief. Joe watched him carefully. Either the man was a good actor or the news had come as a complete shock.

‘We believe she was murdered,' Emily continued.

‘How . . .?'

‘Her body was found in the river near the Museum Park in Eborby. There are indications that she was strangled.'

‘What about Daisy?'

‘Sorry. There's no sign of her . . . and nothing to indicate she's come to any harm.'

Paul put his head in his hands.

‘When did you last see Melanie?'

He looked up. ‘Around Easter. I wanted to see Daisy more often but Melanie . . . She didn't want me to have anything to do with her. I got a few drug convictions when I was younger and she reckoned I was a bad influence. Not like bloody Jack.'

‘So you didn't get on with Melanie and her second husband?'

‘Jack thought I was shit and Melanie went along with it.' He looked Joe in the eye. ‘Let me tell you about me and Melanie. We were both studying law at Leeds and when she found out she was pregnant we got married – old fashioned, I know, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I would have stuck it but she made the choice to go it alone soon after Daisy was born 'cause by that time I'd decided to drop out. I ended up living in a squat and that wasn't the kind of lifestyle Melanie wanted at all. She was always a bit of a material girl, whereas me . . .' He gave a shrug. ‘Anyway, she took up with Jack who was a successful architect and she married again – he was already married with three kids when they met, by the way. This time it was all very bourgeois. She was very into her career and her posh house in the suburbs and if it hadn't been for Daisy we would have gone our separate ways years ago. Although since Jack came on the scene she hasn't liked me doing the dad bit.'

‘You must have resented that,' said Joe.

Another shrug. ‘I don't do resentment. I just made sure that Daisy knew who I was. Every couple of months we'd meet in parks and places like that. I've not got the funds for all the estranged-daddy Disneyland stuff so we made our own entertainment and I think Daisy liked that. She'd had all the material stuff off Jack and her mother . . . what she needed was a bit of attention for a change.'

Joe caught Emily's eye. ‘You don't think Melanie and Jack gave her much attention?'

‘They were busy with their jobs and the poor kid got pushed to the sidelines. I offered to have her more . . . to let her stay at weekends and all that. Una, my partner, was up for it – she loves kids – but Melanie objected . . . or maybe Jack did.'

‘Is Una here?'

‘She's down in Somerset. Drumming retreat near Glastonbury. Look, my only crime was not wanting to join the rat race and spend every day in a suit dealing with people's divorces and wills. I didn't hate Melanie. If you must know, I felt a bit sorry for her.'

‘Why?'

‘'Cause I don't like Jack. 'Cause I don't trust him. But maybe I'm just prejudiced. Look, I'm really sorry she's dead but I can't help you, I'm afraid. It was obviously some maniac or . . .'

‘Or what?'

He hesitated. ‘I don't think everything in that particular garden is rosy, let's put it like that.' He stepped forward. ‘I'll do anything I can to help find Daisy. You don't think she could have come to any harm?'

‘There was a ransom demand. Melanie had the money and was going to deliver it to the kidnappers but it seemed she never turned up.'

Paul thought about this for a few moments. ‘So she could have been robbed?'

‘It's a possibility,' said Joe, thinking of the mouth stuffed with rotting flowers. ‘Or she might have been killed by whoever's got Daisy.'

‘Why should they kill her?' Paul asked.

‘If she saw them. If she could identify them.'

Paul shook his head, as though he couldn't quite believe it.

‘As I said before, we've only just started working on the case. But don't worry, Mr Scorer, we'll find your daughter.'

‘You better had.' The words were half hearted, as though there was something else on the man's mind. He stood up, walked over to the window and stared out at a back garden which, in contrast to the front, was well tended and filled with healthy-looking vegetables. ‘This is a bloody mess,' he said softly.

‘What do you mean?' Joe asked.

‘I can't believe Melanie's dead.'

When they announced they were leaving he didn't look round so they left him there with his memories.

‘I thought it sounded familiar.'

Joe looked up and saw DS Sunny Porter standing by his desk, his thin, prematurely lined face miserable as usual. From the way he was fidgeting, Joe guessed he was longing for a forbidden cigarette.

‘What does?' He knew he sounded impatient but he hadn't got time to decipher Sunny's riddles.

‘The MO. Melanie Hawkes. It's identical. Peter Brockmeister. The serial killer.' Sunny looked round as though he was afraid of eavesdroppers.

‘He's dead.'

‘I know, but maybe someone's decided to copy him. Maybe there's a new keeper of the flame.

K
arl Dremmer had watched the recordings he'd made down in the basement three times . . . just to make sure. A small orb of light moving through the darkness of the basement had been caught on the night vision camera along with a faint, barely audible sound like a muffled sob. And the temperature had definitely dropped; the instruments had recorded it all.

Karl had given in to temptation and shared his findings with research fellow, Dr Tatiana Chenakova, who'd been sceptical. But she hadn't been down there in that atmosphere of cold despair.

As a scientist, Karl knew that he mustn't allow himself to get carried away. Tatiana could well be right about dust particles and equipment malfunction. Science dictated that the experiment needed to be repeated.

George Merryweather had already replied to his email, expressing interest and offering help if needed. George mentioned that a couple of the workmen who'd been carrying out alterations to the building had been in touch with him to report several incidents that had bothered them: things being moved; sudden blasts of cold air; weird noises when they were working after dark; and an inexplicable feeling of deep fear and melancholy. Karl had told him about the electrician who'd contacted him but George had raised the possibility that the workmen knew the history of the building and were being over-imaginative. Or perhaps it was a case of mass hysteria. Such things had been known to happen. George claimed that his job was to eliminate all earthly possibilities before considering any alternatives. He was a canon at the cathedral and a busy man so Karl needed something more definite before he bothered him again.

It was a case of assembling the evidence.

When Sunny said Peter Brockmeister's name, Joe felt himself shudder. His name had come up only yesterday. Lydia Brookes's neighbour, Alan Proud, had a collection of letters the killer had written and, if Sunny was right about the similarity to Melanie Hawkes' murder, this was too great a coincidence to ignore. If they were looking for a weirdo who broke into women's houses and stole their underwear, Proud had to be top of his list to be interviewed. But he knew he shouldn't allow his prejudices to affect his judgement. He'd seen officers leap to conclusions before and find themselves mistaken.

‘Sit down, Sunny. Tell me all about it.'

Sunny pulled up a chair and made himself comfortable. ‘It was way before your time in Eborby but I remember it from when I was a kiddie.'

Joe nodded. He'd been brought up in Liverpool, not arriving in Eborby, the city of his father, until he was well into his twenties. The Brockmeister case had obviously become part of Eborby folklore, spoken of in hushed voices so the children wouldn't hear. But children catch on quicker than parents think and, from the expression on Sunny's face, it looked as though he had chapter and verse.

‘You know the basics, of course?'

‘I remember he killed four women back in the late 1960s,' said Joe. ‘Wasn't he a lawyer or something?'

‘Yes. He was the son of a Yorkshire girl and a German prisoner of war who'd decided to stay on after 1945. Peter Brockmeister was a clever man; he'd studied law at Cambridge but he never qualified and he ended up doing casual work. Then in 1964 he began to burgle houses he'd worked at. He piled stuff against the front door so he could escape through the back if the householder came back.'