Watching the Ghosts

Table of Contents

The Joe Plantagenet Mysteries from Kate Ellis

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

SEEKING THE DEAD

PLAYING WITH BONES

KISSING THE DEMONS *

WATCHING THE GHOSTS *

*
available from Severn House

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First world edition published 2012

in Great Britain and the USA by

Crème de la Crime, an imprint of

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2012 by Kate Ellis.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Ellis, Kate, 1953-

Watching the ghosts.

1. Plantagenet, Joe (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

2. Police–England–North Yorkshire–Fiction.

3. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title

823.9'2-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-287-0 (Epub)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-027-0 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-529-9 (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

T
ick tock. The thing had eyes. And it was watching her.

It stood in the corner, taller than a man, and its deep insistent voice boomed out across the silent room – tick tock. The painted eyes swivelled from side to side as it beat away the time. Tick tock, tick tock.

It had a face, round and pallid, and its smiling lips were half parted to reveal a painted planetary scene which changed with the phases of the moon. But the strangest thing was those moving eyes that watched her and rejoiced in her fear.

Lydia's limbs were paralysed and she knew there was no escape from the horror to come. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. She could smell him now; a strange hospital smell, clean and threatening. She knew he would take her by the hand and lead her from the room and she knew the hand that held hers would be cold and clammy like a dead man's. Then she would glide down the stairs like a phantom towards that open door, towards the rectangle of bright light. And the clock with its tall, dark, oak case would follow her. Tick tock, tick tock. He was coming . . . and he was coming for her.

Now he had vanished but there was no way she could stop herself moving towards the door. She anticipated the horror she would witness when she passed beyond the light and she tried to scream. But no noise emerged. Tick tock, tick tock. The clock was still there watching as she inhaled the whiff of burning flesh and the metallic scent of blood.

Suddenly her eyes opened and she could see the grey dawn light seeping in through the blinds. But for a few moments she lay sweat soaked and shaking, hovering between nightmare and reality.

She forced herself upright and flicked on the bedside light, taking deep, calming breaths. It was only a dream but it had been disturbing her sleep every night since she'd moved into the new flat, leaving her jittery and exhausted.

And she knew that if it didn't stop soon, she'd have to do something about it.

Daisy loved the small park in the centre of Pickby so it was the least Melanie could do to take her there on the way home from school on the last day of term, the one day she'd managed to leave work early.

She'd told everyone in the office she was taking work home but that had been a half-truth; she hadn't told them that she'd felt a sudden urge to see Daisy so she'd rung the child minder to say she'd take care of school gate duty that day. The child minder had sounded surprised, which she thought said a lot. But why shouldn't she spend a little quality time – how she hated that term – with her daughter?

Daisy dumped her school bag at Melanie's feet and ran towards the swings with a six year old's enviable energy. Her fair curls bobbed as she ran, splashing in small puddles left over from yesterday's showers, while Melanie followed her, tottering on office high heels. The other mothers sitting around the fringe of the playground were wearing a summer uniform of jeans and T-shirts and Melanie felt out of place in her dark business suit and crisp white blouse. A couple of the women shot her suspicious glances as they gossiped on the wooden benches, and she felt like an intruder on their territory.

She picked up the bag, walked over to the swing and stood awkwardly as Daisy climbed on to the seat. The other mothers looked so at home there as they sat chatting, unaware of her need for some social contact, however slight. A smile, a comment on the improving weather. Anything would have been welcome.

‘Push me, mummy.' Daisy was sitting on the swing, jiggling her legs impatiently and Melanie forced out a
mummy
smile – the kind she had always imagined she'd give her children in the days when motherhood had been a vague future notion.

But as she positioned herself behind the swing her mobile phone rang. ‘Just a minute, darling,' she said in saccharine tones.

But children have an instinct for when they're being fobbed off. As Melanie answered the call Daisy slipped off the swing and ran off in the direction of the climbing frame – a large contraption of wood and ropes that, if she hadn't been so preoccupied, Melanie would have considered too challenging for a slightly built six year old like Daisy. But it was a call from one of her senior partners so Melanie had no choice but to answer and watch helplessly as her daughter ascended the ladder and vanished into the house-like structure six feet off the rubber-matted ground. She held her breath, her mind half on the phone call and half on Daisy. She was out of sight now but the senior partner – a pompous man who loved the sound of his own voice – was droning on about some meeting scheduled for the next day. Melanie attempted to make intelligent and professional-sounding interjections, trying to suppress the mother and bring the solicitor to the fore, but all the time her eyes were searching for Daisy, wishing she wasn't wearing the dull, navy-blue uniform that made her so hard to spot in the shadows.

She walked round to the other side of the climbing frame, hoping for a glimpse of her daughter, aware that her replies to the senior partner's questions were becoming more absent-minded.

But it was all right. Daisy was there, smiling and waving from the unglazed window of the play house and Melanie felt as if a weight had been lifted from her heart as she waved back. When the little face disappeared from the window, she turned her back. Daisy was safe and it was time she concentrated on work.

Holding the phone tight to her ear, she stared out across the park. It was filling up now as people on their way home from work mingled with those strolling at a more leisurely pace with children, lovers or dogs in tow. At last the senior partner was saying goodbye and it was with considerable relief that Melanie pressed the key to end the call.

She slipped the phone back in her handbag and when she turned she saw a man walking purposefully towards her, his eyes fixed on hers. She looked round, searching for Daisy. But there was no sign of her.

He was a few yards away now, just outside the playground, his dog straining on the leash as though it was anxious to reach her. It was a big dog – a Boxer possibly, although she didn't know much about dog breeds – but it looked reasonably friendly.

‘I see you've knocked off work early,' he called across to her, his thick lips curling up in a smile. He was short and wiry but there was a suggestion of strength in his tattooed arms. He wore shorts, revealing a pair of pale and hirsute legs and a sleeveless T-shirt of the kind she had once heard referred to as a ‘wife beater'. She wondered if he had a wife to beat – but then she realized she knew very little about Chris Torridge apart from what he'd told her during their meetings in her office.

‘Have you made any progress?' he asked and it struck Melanie, not for the first time, that his deep and cultured voice belied his appearance. ‘You do remember, don't you? Dorothy Watts?'

Melanie walked over to him. This wasn't the sort of conversation you could hold from a distance. She resented the note of reproach in his voice, as though he was accusing her of neglecting her duties. She remembered, all right. Discovering what had become of Dorothy Watts was one of her more interesting cases – an intriguing change from the usual round of wills and conveyancing – and she had put a good deal of effort into finding witnesses and uncovering the truth. ‘Of course I remember, Mr Torridge. I've made some progress since our last meeting. In fact I think I've made a breakthrough. If you'd like to make an appointment . . .'

‘Can't you tell me now?'

‘The file's back at the office. Sorry.' She turned her head to look for Daisy but again, she was nowhere to be seen. ‘Look, I've got to go. I'll speak to you soon.'

She saw him hesitate and when the dog began to bark she felt like thanking the creature for coming to her rescue. Without another word Torridge walked away, tugged by the dog, and she stood for a few moments, watching as he vanished into the trees that separated the park from the suburban gardens beyond.

She looked at her watch. It was time she got home. She picked up the school bag which she'd dumped on the ground when she answered the phone and went in search of her daughter.

She hurried to the heart of the playground, calling Daisy's name softly, one eye on the group of gossiping mothers who seemed to be absorbed in their own affairs. She couldn't see Daisy on the climbing frame or on the swings and as her search became more frantic panic began to well up inside her, making her heart thud and her legs feel like jelly. After a while, all dignity and reticence abandoned, she rushed up to the group of mothers who looked up at her as if they resented her intrusion into their conversation.

‘Have you seen a little girl? Six years old, fair curly hair, wearing a navy-blue school uniform?'

The mothers all shook their heads but a couple of them, suddenly sympathetic, offered to help her look and they shouted questions across to their own children who answered with bored shrugs. One of the women assured her that they'd seen no lone males inside the playground in the last half hour or so. These days any lone male in the vicinity of a playground without a child in tow triggered all sorts of alarm bells in the maternal head.