A Ghost at the Door (34 page)

‘But this afternoon, with that poor creature, I was so glad it was you. Not anyone else.’

He wasn’t sure where this was headed, stayed silent.

‘Harry, I wanted you to give me space because there were some things I needed to find out. About myself.’

‘And did you, Jemma?’

‘I think so. But, Harry, I couldn’t find the answers to those questions on my own.’ The tremble in her voice told him all that the words did not.

‘I didn’t assume you’d stay at home every night knitting, Jem.’

‘I don’t knit.’

‘I know.’

‘You . . . didn’t mind?’

‘Of course I minded, particularly when I saw you dancing out of the cinema hand in hand with Steve.’

‘You followed me?’

‘No, I was just passing. Coincidence.’

‘But I didn’t think we believed in—’

‘You know, every time I use that word I feel like I’ve swallowed old fish guts. Yes, but that’s all it was, coincidence. Seeing you with your old flame. Do you remember you
once told me you only ever went out with him for one thing?’

It was her turn to stay silent.

‘Mad as bloody hell I was when I saw you. But then I got drunk, and while I got drunk I got to thinking. I’d asked you to share our bed with another man. My father. I guess I can
understand you wanting to get your own back.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘Whatever it was like, so long as it’s over I can deal with it.’

‘The gentle Jones.’

‘No, the very practical Jones. I want you, Jem, and there’s a price we all have to pay for what we want.’

‘What price do you want me to pay, Harry?’

‘Help me finish what I’m doing.’

‘Kicking open coffins?’

‘That sounds a bit graphic.’

‘It’s what it feels like.’

‘It’s too important for me not to do it and too important for us not to do it together. I think we’re getting close, near the end. Then we can get back to the real world of you
and me.’

‘We don’t have to wait, Harry.’ She leaned forward, searching for his lips.

‘What will Abby think?’

She smiled even as she was kissing him. ‘Oh, I know what Abby thinks. She told me she’d kill me if I came back before breakfast.’

They had found it the next morning, less than half a mile beyond the turning that led to the pub. A small lay-by on the side of the B-road that in its summer grab seemed little
more than a slice of wayward grass verge. From the direction in which they came they could see nothing that gave any clue, but once they’d parked up and walked back they found the suggestion
of a track leading away through the overgrowth. From the road where they stood the track seemed to come to a rapid dead end but, as they forced their way through the tentacles of ferns and summer
grasses that reached out to grab at them, they saw that it turned and headed up the hillside in the direction of the thick woodland that dominated the brow. The day was young, fresh, the air still,
the path ahead of them untouched and filled with daisies and hogweed and the sound of foraging bees. As they climbed they could see behind them the extending vastness of the sea, while up ahead
they found nothing but trees. Then the earth dipped to form a fold, a crease in the hillside. That was when they saw it, nestling in the margin of the woodland. A small cottage hidden from the road
by the lie of the land, backed into the trees yet open to the sea views, the hillside that led to its door sheep-mown, its small windows squinting out to the endless stretches of Chesil beach and
the Channel beyond. Fat Finn’s place. As Harry led, the two women began to drop behind, cautious, a little afraid, reaching for each other and holding hands.

The brick-built keeper’s cottage was Victorian, one floor, built around a central chimney with a small room at either flank. It was of the greatest simplicity in design but showed signs of
recent attention: the roof had been patched with tiles that hadn’t weathered, one of the windows had been replaced, the solid door repainted. Harry felt foolish as he knocked. There was no
answer. He tried the handle but it was locked, top and bottom, bolted, and the windows had enough dirt to offer almost no view of the interior. He circled around the back. The trees crowded around
the rear of the cottage, protecting but also darkening, casting deep shadows in the morning light. A small extension had been built at some point in a different brick that jarred; it had a door
with old, blistering paint that Harry once again tested, but it, too, was locked. A large red propane gas cylinder stood to one side, which Harry instinctively rapped; it rang hollow and empty.
Beyond a crumbled stone wall whose purpose had long since been lost there was a small outhouse overgrown with ivy that at various points might have been privy or dog kennel or lock-up; now the door
swung open on a broken hinge to reveal a stack of firewood. Despite its signs of recent repair the cottage screamed desertion. He peered through the only window in the rear extension, wiping the
grime away with his hand. He found bottles lined up on the inside, impeding his view, although he could see signs of a kitchen area. A two-ring gas hob set in a wooden counter. Wall cupboards on
the far side. He thought he could hear a tantalizing buzzing sound; he stood still, his ear to the window, straining to identify the noise. It came from inside. Perhaps a fridge. He walked back to
the rear door, tried the lock once more, put his shoulder to it to test it. It rattled in its frame, less secure than the door at the front. The women watched from a distance, Abby seated on an old
tree stump, Jemma hovering protectively at her shoulder. Here, in the deep shade away from the morning sun, it felt dank, a place of shadows and dark thoughts.

He had to do it. Harry nudged the door once again, more firmly this time, then took a step back and with his sound side flew at its painted wooden panels. It retreated but wasn’t yet ready
to surrender. Three good kicks with the heel of his boot around the lock produced sounds of splintering wood and tumbling screws, and with one further kick it was done. The door lurched open, still
reluctant, scraping the floor in complaint as he gave a final push, and at last Harry stepped inside. What he saw, and sensed, and smelled, made him reel in horror.

He bent over in the fresh air and leaned on his knees, panting, trying to scrub his lungs clean. Jemma began to move towards him in concern but he waved her back. ‘Just winded
myself,’ he lied, coughing, spitting. ‘Stay there. Don’t come any closer.’

She knew he was lying. Not anything as simple as a simple fib but a dark, hideous falsehood that he’d concocted to protect her. So she stayed where she was, holding Abby’s hand.

It had taken a hell of an effort to kill Fat Finn. Overweight, often underscrubbed, didn’t take care of himself. And suddenly, during one of their reunions, it seemed as
if a switch inside him had been thrown. He looked older, still more bedraggled, complained about having been beaten up, almost killed. He couldn’t control his drink or his tongue any longer,
kept repeating himself, blurting out confidences in the presence of waiters, said he was writing a book about it all. The situation couldn’t go on. Fat Finn couldn’t go on.

Getting Finn drunk almost to the point of unconsciousness a few weeks later hadn’t been difficult and a bottle placed in the front of the car kept it that way as he’d been driven
home. Scrambling up the wretched track had been the most difficult part, at their age and with Finn’s weight. He’d stirred as they’d made it to the rear door but he’d been
given another drenching of whisky, most of which went down his shirt, quietening him once again. He’d known nothing. When eventually his legs had given way he’d been dragged across the
threshold into the tiny kitchen, recently renovated, with none of the draughts of most nineteenth-century rural hovels, and so proved brilliant for the purpose. Windows shut tight, two gas rings
lit, the door locked just in case Finn came round, the empty bottle of whisky lying at his side to tell wicked tales. Gloves, no prints. And Finn’s tiny study ransacked, his laptop and papers
squashed into a bag, just in case.

Propane isn’t itself poisonous but when it burns it produces carbon monoxide, which most certainly is. Gentle, painless, deadly. By the time it had killed Fat Finn his murderer was already
miles away.

It took some while before Harry felt up to returning to what lay inside. He gazed up to the sky as though trying to drag its light back into his life, then took one step inside.
He needed no more.

On the floor of the cramped kitchen was a body, although it was difficult to recognise it as such. The soles of the shoes that pointed towards him gave the first clue. The stench was hideous.
The buzzing sound Harry had heard from outside was caused by a swarm of engorged flies that circled like a storm system above the body, and on it. They had called him Fat Finn but the body now
seemed shrivelled within his clothes, had leaked away in hideous stains, and even though Harry knew his facial features there was no way to tell that this was Findlay Francis. The rats had seen to
that.

Once more Harry returned outside, grabbing for the clean air. He crossed to the two women and found Abby silently weeping, her cheeks smeared with tears. She knew.

‘Abby, I’m so sorry.’

‘Can I . . .?’

‘No.’ He said it firmly, perhaps too much so.

She looked up at him, her damp eyes pleading. ‘How?’

‘I don’t know. A heart attack, perhaps.’

‘Like your father?’

Her question had an edge that struck him like a bull-whip, unleashing thoughts he had been trying to suppress. Of all the members of the clique of old friends who had died, Johnnie had been the
only one who’d had the dignity of dying from natural causes. Or had he? Harry stood blinking, as though fighting a storm.

‘Abby, forgive me, I hate to ask you this, but I have to. Was there any chance your father was somehow . . . depressed?’ He searched for the word, trying to soften the blow. There
was no need:she was entirely up to pace.

‘Killed himself?’ She shook her head doggedly. ‘He was scared, not suicidal. Anyway, do suicides bother to lock the door?’

‘That’s a very good point.’ She had kicked something in his mind, got his ear burning. ‘Give me a moment.’ With considerable reluctance he returned to the kitchen
door. The stench was less virulent, diluted with fresh air, but the vampire flies still swarmed and circled. He inspected the inside of the battered door. The key wasn’t in its lock, nor had
it spilled to the floor. And every instinct told him he wouldn’t find it in Findlay’s pockets, not that he had any desire to check. Which meant the door had been locked from the
outside. He remembered the empty gas tank. There was no room to move around the body so with great care he stepped over it in order to get to the gas rings. He tried the taps. Both were open. No,
not a heart attack, then. And not suicide, not if the door had been locked from the outside.

He stepped back out into the summer light and fresh air, wondering if the sweet sickly smell of Death would ever leave him. All his adult life Death had had a habit of tracking him down, even
when he wasn’t looking for it, even to the depths of the West Dorset countryside on a day that was glorious with life. He led Abby and Jemma round to the front of the cottage, where they
found a grassy knoll surrounded by daisies and overlooking the hillside and distant sea. He put his arm around Abby’s shoulder. ‘You OK?’