A Ghost in the Machine (43 page)

“Mother has a psychical opening at the crown of her head.”

“With a myriad connections,” explained Mrs. Footscray, “going back to prehistoric times.”

There was no answer to this and wisely Barnaby did not attempt to make one. Just smiled at the old lady, rose and was preparing to take his leave when she suddenly cried, “The loop, George! The loop!”

The light in the illumined globe was weakening by the second. Fluttering too, like a huge trapped moth. George hurried to wheel a small table holding a portable television and video recorder to her side and pressed play. The Queen Mother appeared in all her cerise and gamboge glory, walking down a line of uniformed cavalry. Mrs. Footscray pressed the middle fingers of her right hand to the lamp, the flat of her left hand to the screen and started humming. Then she began crooning: “Divine love from me to you…divine light from me to you…divine strength from me to you…”

The others just stood there. George nodding gravely. Barnaby stolidly expressionless. Troy intently regarding the tea cosy – a lumpy tangle of pale brown string, strangely stiffened – and struggling to keep a straight face.

Suddenly the ectoplasmic intervention was over. Esmeralda beamed at everyone and said, “Healing completed. She'll be all right now.”

“Until the next time,” sighed George.

“It can't be helped, dear. At her age one must expect it. I do hope,” she raised her voice as Barnaby showed signs of edging towards the door, “we leave our earthly tabernacle on the same day. She'll need help settling in.”

“The hierarchy's different over there.”

“I'm a quid down on that gig,” said Sergeant Troy, driving away from number 15 Clover Street. In the hall he had been encouraged to take one of the newspapers from the butler's tray, only to have George blocking the way to the front door, clearing his throat and staring hard at the donations notice. Now he was stuck with the bloody
Psychic News.
“You couldn't make them up, could you, people like that?”

“Anyone who could,” said Barnaby, “is plainly in need of professional help.”

“Wish I'd got a spirit guide. I wonder what they actually do.”

“They tell you when to add the tonic.”

“A Chinese one would be brilliant.”

Troy's voice, delivering the wistful lead in, had a nudge in it. The DCI braced himself.

“Lo Hung Dong?” suggested Sergeant Troy.

Not a smile, not a flicker of response. Well, he'd done his best. And not for the first time. Maybe the moment had finally come to face the sad truth. He was working for a man who had no sense of humour.

 

Fortunately there were no passers-by to see the door to Appleby House flung open with such force it cracked on its hinges. Mallory Lawson came running out, his face frenzied with emotion. He flung himself at the Golf, tugging and wrenching the handle, then cursed and shouted, going through his pockets, slapping at them, pulling out the linings. Finally producing a key, he released the locks. The car screeched into reverse, shot out into the road and vanished.

 

Mallory had been thinking of nothing special when he picked up the telephone. His irritation with the police had disappeared. He'd had a vague idea of visiting the orchard, which had also come to nothing. Perhaps he might do a bit more unpacking. Perhaps he might read. Or he might just hang about perpetuating this state of easy indolence. He said, “Hello,” and when a woman's voice said, “This is Debbie Hartogensis,” recognised the name immediately. Saw the notice pinned to the basement flat door inscribed: “Fforbes-Snaithe. Hartogensis, Lawson.” His flesh cold and shrinking, he cried, “Polly?”

Now he was burning rubber doing a ton up the motorway, foul-smelling liquid brimming in the cup of his mouth and so hot he could have been melting away. He couldn't control his face, which kept shuddering and twitching. His hands, hot and oily, slithered all over the steering wheel. Terrified of losing control, he hung on till the knuckles almost pushed through his skin.

He had abandoned his daughter. He had not rung, he had not gone to see her. When he had gone he had not persisted. He had neglected her. Assumed she had gone on holiday simply because he heard it from Benny, of all people. Worst of all, he had forgotten her. Now she was…

That was the nub of his anguish—he didn't know. Debbie Hartogensis had talked on but he had been so paralysed with fear that all he could now recall was a jumble of key words. Flick-knife sharp they were too: dangerous terrible deep wasted reek tablets crying smashed tablets crying tablets.

Mallory's exit was coming up. He tried to slow down. He remembered the mirror. What use would he be to her dead? The traffic streamed and screamed behind him as he entered the slip road too fast.

He breathed slowly, braked hard, tried to calm his churning mind. It was a terrible time to be crossing London, but when was a good time and anyway it was the only time he'd got. What he simply must not do was get caught up in any provocation. No arguments. No cutting in or cutting up, no matter how desperate his awareness of time passing.

He was reminded of the last occasion he had driven in frantic worry to see Polly at Cordwainer Road, only to find she was absolutely fine when he got there. Why hadn't he listened properly to what this flatmate had to say? Asked some sensible questions, found out exactly what the situation was.

In the street where she lived everything looked exactly the same. Mallory realised he had been dreading the sight of an ambulance or police car. He skewed the Golf any-old-how on to a double yellow and ran down the basement steps.

The moment the door moved Mallory pushed it hard and bolted into the flat. Picking herself up from the hall floor where she had fallen on to her bicycle Debbie Hartogensis righted the machine and followed him.

“You pushed me over.”

“What?” Mallory was coming out of the bathroom and staring round. All the doors he could see stood open except one. He crossed to this last, started hammering on it and shouting: “Polly!”

“Mr. Lawson.”

“Polly, are you all right?
Polly.
”

“Don't do that!” Debbie seized his arm. “What are you trying to do—frighten her to death?”

An image of Polly behind the door, cowering, stopped Mallory straightaway. He stared at the girl. This must be her, the person who had rung. He couldn't even remember her name.

“Come and sit down.”

“What shall we do?”

“If you'll just listen—”

“Why is she in there – shut up like that?”

“I tried to explain.” Debbie pulled him towards an easy chair and pushed him into it.

“Yes, I know. I just…couldn't take it in.”

“I came back from vacation two days ago. I knew Amanda would still be in Majorca. Polly's door was locked so I thought she'd gone off somewhere as well. Then, in the middle of the night, I heard somebody in the john. Boy, was I scared.”

“Who was it?”

“Jesus—you think I
checked
? I was shitting myself. I'd just crawled under the divan when they went into Polly's room and locked the door.”

“So it was her?”

“She was kinda moaning, then it all went quiet. Next day, when she realised I was back, she wouldn't come out. I had to go get bagels and milk and stuff. When I got back she'd used the bathroom then locked herself away again. I heard her crying.”

Crying! He could never remember Polly crying. Even when very small she had screamed rather than cried. And if there were tears they would be tears of rage.

“Did you talk to her?”

“I tried.” She shook her head. “Zilch.”

Mallory went over and laid his head against the doorjamb. Listening, frowning.

“It went on like this – her only coming out when I wasn't here. Then I got kinda worried. Maybe she was really sick, you know?”

“You said something about tablets.”

“I'm coming to that. So, next time I went out – I didn't. Just slammed the door, came back inside and hid. After a while Polly got up and went to the kitchen. She looked really freaked out. I snuck into her place and it was just gross. Like that room in
Seven
? She must have been holed up there for days. I saw my sleeping tablets by her bed—”

“Oh God.” Mallory left the door but couldn't sit down again. Just shifted and moved about. “Had she taken any?”

“Some.”

“Did you get a doctor?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She wouldn't let me in. You think she'd let a stranger?”

“But stuff like that…an overdose…”

“She'd been taking them to get to sleep.”

“How do you know? How do you know she didn't take them all at once? Christ, with no one looking out for her—”

“If no one's looking out for her, how come you're here?”

“You should have got in touch straightaway. I would have—”

“Hey, hey! Now you listen to me. I have run my ass off trying to help your daughter. I biked all the way to Parsons bloody Green. I knocked on every door trying to get your new address. I finally got the estate agent who sold your house. His solicitor gave me your number. Straightaway I ring you—and not collect, in case you hadn't noticed. Next thing you're crashing in here and knocking me over. And not even a fucking ‘sorry,' never mind a fucking ‘thank you.'”

Mallory stared at her. At Debbie Hartogensis who had gone to so much trouble to make the phone call that had practically put him into cardiac arrest. She was young. She had on combat trousers and a tight pink top with shoulder strings and little glasses with blue lenses.

Some of the panic drained out of Mallory. He was here and he would not leave. Whatever happened, there would be no more terrible messages out of the brazen, heartless blue. Now only sorrow and gratitude remained. Sorrow for his daughter, whatever her plight. Gratitude towards this young girl who had done so much and could so easily have done nothing.

“I'm so sorry. Forgive me, please. I was distraught.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“I know Polly's mother also would wish to thank…to say…”

“That's OK, Mr. Lawson.” Christ, he looked as if someone had pulled his insides outside and stamped on them. No kids, vowed Debbie for the millionth time. Absolutely no kids.

“Look, I gotta split.” She had picked up a black helmet and a pair of roller skates and was making for the door.

“Split?”

“I'm meeting someone. There's tea and stuff in the kitchen if you want.”

Surprisingly, when she had gone, Mallory found he did want. After knocking softly on Polly's door and getting no response he made some tea in two mugs and took it back to the sitting room. Then he tried again.

“I've made us a hot drink. Will you come out or shall I come in?”

In silence he waited. In silence he sat down again, drank his tea and waited some more. He was prepared to wait for ever to find out what had happened to Polly. To wait – how did the song go? – till all the seas run dry.

 

What had happened to Polly was this. After those final astonishing moments in Billy Slaughter's flat she had danced home. Gambolled like a child. Grabbed the vertical rail on a moving bus and whirled around, swinging over the road. Couldn't stop even when the conductor told her off. Pelted down the road to the flat and let herself in, still feverish with exhilaration. Unable to keep still, she had put on a Nineteen Gazelles CD and danced violently about, heedless of the insider information rattling around her mind like primed sticks of dynamite.

“‘…Oh, fire flash of love…'” sang Polly, swirling and twirling, “‘burn me away…burn me away…'”

There was a lot of time to kill. Hours, actually. There was no way she could enter the offices of Brinkley and Latham in the bright early evening. A curse on British Summer Time, cried Polly, but without rancour. She couldn't just hang around the flat. She would explode. She decided to go to see the latest Coen Brothers movie at the Curzon and buy something special at Oddbins on the way back to celebrate.

Polly finally set off around eight thirty for Baker Street, there not being a convenient Green Line. She caught a Metropolitan train to Amersham and was pleasantly surprised at the spacious, high-roofed carriage. It was more like a proper train than the Tube. Still simmering with happiness Polly gazed out of the window and, once Harrow-on-the-Hill had been left behind, became more and more charmed by the prettiness of the landscape.

She decided that she would buy a house in the country and that Buckinghamshire would be ideal. Such fresh, healthy air, so close to town. It would be a modern house, naturally. An airy structure of spun steel and glass. She would commission an architect. Not one of the stuffy old school. Chadwick Ventris, perhaps. Or Giles Givens. The house would almost certainly win an award. Polly saw herself at the ceremony in something backless and glittering, the architect at her feet.

Variations on this pleasant fantasy lasted until the train drew into Chorleywood. There were several taxi cards in the station phone box and a cab arrived quickly. Causton was about ten miles away. It was almost dark by the time Polly alighted in the market square.

Approaching the street door to Brinkley and Latham, she had deliberately refrained from looking over her shoulder but slipped the key into the lock, turned it and entered the building as casually as anyone with a genuine right to be there. Once in Dennis's office, just to be on the safe side, she drew the blinds down.

While finding her Market Maker and setting up her screen Polly thought about her father. She remembered the lie she had told after he had agreed to release some of her money. Her pretence that these disastrous speculations had really been for him all along. So that he could abandon a job that was killing him and be free. Mallory had believed her and was touched, Polly could see, almost to the point of tears. But what if…what if…this time
it was really true
?