A Ghost in the Machine (42 page)

“What are you doing here?”

About to explain, DCI Barnaby realised the question was not addressed to him but to Latham, who immediately launched into some rigmarole involving a Psion organiser, a client, a cancelled appointment, a stupid assistant and a lost file. Good lies always have a spice of truth and these sounded quite convincing but even Troy could see there was at least one too many of them.

In any case the woman now ignored him, introduced herself and asked if they had come about “poor, darling Denny.” She answered all their questions, verifying what they already knew about Brinkley's character but adding little that was fresh. She had never met Ava Garret.

“One's world is hardly likely to collide, Chief Inspector. From what I read in the
Echo
it appears she lived in a council house.”

Asked to confirm her husband's presence at home on the night of Wednesday, 8 August she declined.

“All I can say is he was here when I got back from my aromatherapy training.”

“And that was?”

“Tennish.”

“And what time did you leave for this…um…training, Mrs. Latham?”

“Around seven. I always arrive early. I need to sit quietly and recharge and direct my energies. It's pretty high-powered stuff.”

That was when Barnaby and Troy took their leave. Before they were in the car she had let rip. Starting at fortissimo and climbing.

“I've seen things launched smaller than that,” said Sergeant Troy, driving off.

The car paused at the great bronze gates and Barnaby regarded the happy couple in his rear-view mirror. Latham standing there, shoulders slumped, staring at the flagstones like a naughty schoolboy. Mrs. L. bawling and windmilling her great windsock arms about. A clatter of rumbustious laughter ruptured the sweet summer air. He must be getting some bloody sizeable handouts to put up with all that.

“See that look she gave him, Chief?”

“What sort of look?”

“The sort Joe Pesci gives a guy that's dropped ash on his shoe.”

“Let's stick to facts,” said Barnaby. “As far as timing goes we now know Latham could be our ‘Chris.'”

“That wimp?” The gates swung open and Troy drove thankfully away.

“He could have rung Garret around five – sensibly, from a call box. Mrs. L. leaves home at seven. He goes off to keep his appointment with Ava. Spends an hour or so dangling various promises, maybe a contract, leading her on over a nice dinner. Slips the stuff into her wine, gives some excuse as to why he can't escort her back to Uxbridge and puts her in a cab.”

“More likely the Tube, given his finances.”

“Whatever. Then back to the ghastly Dallas ranch house for a bit more grovelling.”

“It all sounds…I dunno, unbelievable.” Troy had thought the bungalow quite splendid. “Like some stupid play.”

Inevitably, given his daughter's profession, Barnaby had seen a lot of plays and one or two had been pretty stupid to his way of thinking, but none had been quite as unbelievable as the case with which he was presently wrestling.

Only forty-eight hours since the first briefing on the double murder inquiry and the incident room was a very different place. A babble of voices answered busy phones. Information was recorded. Questions were being put. Maps and photographs relating to both crimes were pinned around the walls, together with large detailed drawings of the interior of Kinders.

Half an hour earlier DCI Barnaby had received and absorbed SOCO's full report on Dennis Brinkley's house. Gathering his team about him at the quieter end of the room he chose to open the briefing by describing the salient points.

“Some prints found were those of his cleaner, others of Mallory Lawson. The rest, identical to those on the Lexus and all over the flat we have to assume are Brinkley's. The prints on the trebuchet are a bit of a mess. Only his are plain, but they were made on top of some blurred smudging, which Scene of Crime say was probably left by someone wearing gloves. So far, so expected.

“Footprints give slightly more away. We know, having talked to his cleaner, that Brinkley had some special soft tweedy slippers he always wore when going to look at his machines. They were left, side by side, at the entrance. Prints from these were pretty well all over the floor but not all of them were the same.”

“How d'you mean, Chief?” asked Inspector Julie Lawrence.

“A few had been made by someone with slightly bigger feet.”

“He must have guessed what the slippers were for,” said Troy, “and taken advantage.”

“The kitchen showed nothing, not even on the door handle. SOCO think the murderer's shoes were left on the outside step.”

“And it seems he didn't enter the flat proper.”

“Do we have SOCO's report on that?”

“Yes. Also Troy and myself went through the place.” And what an experience that had been. The word tidiness didn't even come close. Pens and pencils on his desk, shoes in the wardrobe so closely aligned you couldn't have slipped a hair between them. Ornaments equidistant each from the other to the nearest millimetre. Anally retentive wasn't in it.

“I examined his bank statements going back several months. No huge amounts either way. Some modest direct debits, probably council tax. Unfortunately his phone bills weren't itemised but the telephone company will be able to produce details of calls for us.”

“Not much of a result, is it, sir?” asked Colin Jarvis. “Just tells us what we knew already.”

“Yes, thank you, Jarvis. So.” Barnaby gave his team a somewhat aggressive stare. “Who's got something to tell me that I don't know already?”

A lot of stuff had come in, nearly all of it useless, but that was nothing new. Barnaby picked up one of the E-fits and waved it about.

“Any luck with these?”

“Yes, Chief,” said DC Saunders, who had covered Uxbridge station. “The man who sold her a ticket remembered her straightaway. She asked for a single to Piccadilly.”

“Do we have a time?”

“He'd just come on shift and reckons about ten past six. I checked the next couple of departures. First out was a Metropolitan. Then a fifteen-minute wait for the Piccadilly Line.”

“Let's hope, once these are widely circulated, we'll discover which train she took. And, with a bit of luck, where she got off.”

Barnaby knew that was asking a lot. Even though the carriages would be largely empty when they left the terminus, the nearer the train got to town the fuller they would become. If she really had left it at Piccadilly Circus the chances of her being spotted were as good as nil, even on the cameras.

He said, “What about the car?”

Quite a bit of feedback there as well. Most of the likely sounding tips had been followed up, but though the vehicles in question were all red Hondas they were not Ava's Honda. Unfortunately Barnaby's hopes that she had left it in the NCP lot near the station proved short-lived. Another two sightings had come in late last night and would be followed up this morning.

He left them all to it and set off to interview the man who had been described to him yesterday by Doris Crudge as “knowing Ava inside out.” Apparently it was George Footscray who had started the medium off on the psychic circuit, supported her through the training and, once established, chauffeured her between various meetings. He also ran the spiritualist church in Forbes Abbot single-handed. George, explained Mrs. Crudge, was also quite a sensitive himself, being born with a gift for piercing the lower ether no matter how black and dense.

All this had entertained Sergeant Troy no end. Now, driving along the A413 towards Chalfont St. Peter, he was quite looking forward to meeting Footscray, whom he pictured as the sort of bloke who grew his own clothes. A mung-chewing airy-fairy ponce in beads and a raffia hat. But that didn't mean the guy couldn't pass on a few tips about ether piercing. Also Troy half hoped for an update on his stars, which were bitching him about as usual.

As if reading his sergeant's mind Barnaby said: “We'll keep the questions to the point, OK?”

“Fine by me.”

“I don't want you running off at a tangent over some esoteric quiddity.”

“Thought they were a rock group.”

Troy was laughing already in anticipation. He spotted The Three Tuns where they were supposed to turn. Manoeuvre, signal, mirror. And there they were in Clover Street, Camel Lancing. Evens on his side.

“Could you look out for fifteen, Chief?”

Troy was not quite sure what he expected. Perhaps a tiny hunched-up hovel with a witch's hat on the roof, like one of the drawings in Talisa Leanne's storybooks. Or a grey, castle-shaped construction, sinisterly shrouded in mist. Number 15 Clover Street was a small, semi-detached house of outstanding dullness. Even the garden was so drab as to be almost invisible.

“This is it,” said Barnaby. “Park by that laurel.”

Troy, quite overcome with disappointment, parked. But then, ringing the bell, he cheered up somewhat. First the door mat seemed to be covered in all sorts of mysterious signs and symbols and also the bell itself was in the form of a pregnant goat with green glass eyes.

“Chief Inspector Barnaby?”

“That's right. Mr. Footscray?”

“We've been expecting you. And this is…?”

“Sergeant Troy,” said Sergeant Troy, producing his warrant card and having it waved away.

“Enter, please. Come and meet Mother.”

They stepped into a tiny hall on to a large rug featuring a lion and a unicorn, a crown and a begirdled woman holding a thistle. There was also a butler. He was a life-sized wooden cutout, badly if carefully painted and somewhat removed from the normal run of butlers in that he had full-feathered, floor-length wings with golden tips. There were some neatly folded newspapers on his tray and a notice reading “Donations: Thank You.”

“They're here, darling.” George opened a door, then flattened himself against it so the two policemen could squeeze through. Then, to Barnaby: “I expect you'd like some refreshment?”

Neither man replied. Just simply stood and stared. They had entered a shrine dedicated to the worship of one of the most revered deities of the twentieth century. Every inch of the walls was covered with plates, mugs, tins, photographs, drawings and paintings reflecting her image. Bookshelves held china figurines in her likeness. She adorned biscuit barrels and gestured from coaches of golden filigree. A glass case held a hairdresser's block supporting a lime-green, fur-trimmed brocade hat dripping with feathers.

In an armchair, peering from a swaddle of airy blankets, sat a tiny old lady. Little puffs of hair like cotton wool seemed to have settled on her pale scalp at random. Not a scrap of her face was clear of wrinkles but her eyes were blue as periwinkles, bright and sharp.

“Welcome,” she said. “Please sit down.”

The voice was a shock. It was quite loud and had a clackety rattly delivery, like a stick being drawn across railings. She was indicating a sofa, draped with a tapestry illustrating various royal residences. Barnaby sat on Windsor Castle. Troy got the mausoleum at Frogmore. Neither knew quite what to say.

“Hello,” said the old lady. “I'm Esmeralda Footscray.”

Barnaby introduced himself and Sergeant Troy. There was some more silence broken by the sound of cutlery, off stage, as it were.

Eventually Troy, gesturing, said, “Quite a collection.”

“From the moment of her birth.” She indicated several rows of box files stacked beneath shelves crammed with photograph albums.

“Must be worth quite a bit.”

“Money?” Esmeralda's disdain knew no bounds. As Troy said afterwards, he felt like he'd been caught farting in church. “All these artefacts are saturated with sublunar energy to be transmitted whenever an urgent need arises. As you can imagine she needs constant recharging, especially after that last operation.”

“Sublunar energy, yes,” repeated the sergeant, just as if this was an everyday conversation. He stared out of the windows, which were heavily barred, and noticed that the door too had a quite an elaborate lock.

“This is our guidance source.” She stretched forwards with some difficulty and laid her hand upon a milky white globe. It glowed, the interior pulsating gently like an illumined heart. Troy looked around for the flex but could see none. “Formulated and constantly sustained by my guide, Hu Sung Kyong.”

“That's very…er…”

Barnaby closed his eyes and shut his ears. He had had enough arcaneries, enough giddy convulsions of the spirit already in this case to last him a lifetime.

Troy became intrigued by some grey fluff at the corner of Mrs. Footscray's mouth. Assuming it to be the beginnings of a moustache a closer look revealed small feathers. He found this rather disturbing. Surely she didn't eat birds. He'd always thought spiritual-type people were vegetarians. She was talking at him again.

“You must remember the last time she took the salute at Clarence House?”

“I'm not sure—”

“As she left the dais she stumbled?”

“So she did!” cried Sergeant Troy.

“I had become distracted – only for a moment, but it was enough. I apologised immediately, of course.”

“Was it sorted then?”

“Naturally. The power line was still open, you see.”

George came in, pushing a trolly. Fearing some witchy brew from entrails sown at dead of night 'neath a gibbous moon and nourished by the sweat of hanged men, the Chief Inspector declined.

“Sainsbury's Breakfast or Earl Grey, Sergeant?”

“Well, just a cup,” said Barnaby.

Troy was admiring the biscuits. Star shapes, about as big as ginger nuts, covered with white powder. He accepted one gratefully and took a bite. He had never tasted anything quite like it before. As he chewed he tried to name the strange spice that was now lingering in his mouth. Ginger it wasn't.

George, having fed and watered the visitors and seen his mother settled, now spoke.

“You wanted to talk to me about Ava Garret?”

There was a snort from Esmeralda as Barnaby replied, “I believe you knew her quite well, Mr. Footscray?”

“Indeed. I was Ava's mentor and the first person to appreciate her remarkable gifts. I oversaw her tutelage and accompanied her, for the first few months at least, to church meetings.”

George's voice was also unexpected. Very weak, it came out all quavery and wavery, as if he was a crotchety old man. Perhaps Esmeralda had made him like that over the years. Sucking his strength to nourish her own. Other people's lives, thought Barnaby, newly grateful for Joyce and Cully. And even Nicolas.

“You never doubted that she was genuine?”

“Not for a moment,” said George. “After every service people would be waiting to talk to her, to say thank you. Often in tears.”

“What about seances? Private sittings?”

“As to that, she couldn't be persuaded. Ava believed she was born to be on stage.”

“And were you there the day Dennis Brinkley…um…?”

“Punctured the heavenly matrix? Certainly. And I can tell you, Mr. Barnaby, it was a daunting experience.”

While George expounded on this Sergeant Troy made one or two brief notes. Truth to tell his mind was not really on the business in hand. It was dwelling rather on the strange confectionery he had recently swallowed. For no reason at all the film
Rosemary's Baby
came to mind. He recalled some strange root ground up by witches and fed to Mia Farrow that had been called something like aniss. Now, to Troy's alarm, a discreet burp was releasing the definite flavour of aniseed balls.

He stared accusingly at George, who was now describing his stewardship of the Church of the Near at Hand. Stared at his face. Long and oval like a stretched egg, it reminded Troy of that bloke holding his head and screaming that you saw on all the T-shirts. He stared at George's greyish yellow strips of hair darkened by brilliantine. At his skin that looked as if it had been reclaimed from the sea. At the back view of his trousers, which fell directly from his waist to the heels of his shoes without obstruction. Troy remembered a bit of advice given to a female cousin by his mother when she started playing the field. Never trust a man with no bottom. Could there be anything in it? He also noticed that Footscray never quite closed his lips when he spoke and you could hear the tiny shift and click of his false teeth. It sounded like a mouse tap-dancing. Troy tuned back into the conversation, which had now become a three-handed affair.

George was saying, “Mother's quite looking forward to going to spirit, aren't you, dear?”

“I am,” agreed Esmeralda. “I shall know a lot more people over there than I do over here.”

“But we shall be in constant touch,” said George. “It's not generally known but there is an excellent telegraphic system— Ariel Cobwebs plc from outer space to planet earth.”

“Really?” said Barnaby. He could never understand why people called it planet earth. Could there be another earth somewhere in the universe that was not a planet? George was still clicking on.