Watching the Ghosts (12 page)

She buzzed him in and as he crossed the hall he saw a man in a suit talking to another man dressed entirely in black who he recognized as Karl Dremmer, the man who'd been with Lydia when she'd discovered the burglary. They were having a heated discussion but Joe failed to catch the drift of the conversation. Joe could make out the odd phrase about access and damage to the fabric of the building. But he had more important things on his mind.

When he reached Lydia's door she stepped out on to the corridor and took a furtive look around before opening the door wide to let him in.

‘I believe you've been having trouble with your neighbour,' he said. She was dressed in a thin summer dress, low cut, and she smelled of some half-familiar perfume.

‘He came round. Asked me out and implied I needed his protection. I felt he was threatening me but he'll deny it, of course . . . say it was my imagination . . . but I'm scared, Inspector.'

‘Joe, please. I take it the Crime Prevention Officer's been round?'

She gave him a weak smile. ‘I can't complain about the service. I've had new locks fitted. But he's only next door . . .' She hesitated. ‘I think it might have been him who broke in.'

‘I'll have a word.'

‘Would you?'

Joe turned and made straight for the flat next door. He knocked and when the door opened Alan Proud stared at him blankly before standing aside meekly. Joe followed him into the lounge where they'd spoken before and this time he paid more attention to the framed letters on the wall, pausing to read them while Proud stood behind him. Joe could hear him breathing; a slightly asthmatic wheeze which Joe hoped had been brought on by nerves. He wanted the man afraid and cooperative.

He spun round, taking Proud by surprise. ‘I've come to give you a bit of advice.' Proud stared at him, his eyes wide and unblinking. ‘Ms Brookes next door said you'd been round.'

‘Just being a concerned neighbour.' The words came out in a self-righteous whine.

Joe fought a strong urge to punch the man. But instead he clenched his fists and inhaled deeply. ‘You frightened her.'

Proud looked genuinely surprised. Whatever he'd been expecting it clearly wasn't this.

‘You told us where you were when her flat was broken into but your alibi told us you only stayed half an hour. Hardly the whole afternoon, like you said. I believe you already have a conviction for stalking a woman.'

‘That was a misunderstanding.'

Joe ignored his words and pointed at the framed letters. ‘If you're such an expert on Peter Brockmeister you'll know about the way he trapped his victims in their homes.'

‘Not at first. He always chose empty houses at first.'

‘Until he discovered that it was more exciting to have a terrified victim at his mercy.'

A faraway look came into Proud's eyes. ‘He was a forceful personality, Inspector.'

‘And he was here . . . in this building. Is that why you chose this flat? Because of the Brockmeister connection?'

Proud's lips twitched upwards into a secretive smirk. ‘I admit it was an added attraction.'

The urge to wipe the smirk off his face came again but Joe summoned all his self-control. ‘I'd like you to come to the police station to answer some questions regarding the death of a woman called Melanie Hawkes.' He recited the familiar words of the caution. It was official now. They had a suspect and he needed to be interviewed properly with the tape running and everything done by the book.

He phoned Emily to tell her but she didn't sound as delighted as he'd expected. She'd probably been hoping to get home at a reasonable time to see her kids – but in the job, things didn't always work like that.

As he led Proud out on to the corridor, he saw Lydia's other neighbour, Beverley, peeping out of her front door but when she saw him glance in her direction, the door closed quickly. He was glad someone was keeping a lookout for Lydia's sake. Nosy neighbours are sometimes worth their weight in gold.

Two hours later, when he took a break from questioning Proud, Joe grabbed the opportunity to call Lydia to tell her what was happening. And at the same time he asked if she fancied going out the following night.

Karl Dremmer's heart was pounding after his meeting with Patrick Creeny. In his world of academic research any confrontations were subtle and superficially civilized so the argument with Creeny left him feeling shaken. And he hadn't told Creeny about his suspicions. If he had, he knew the man would probably have banned him from the premises altogether.

However, even if that happened, he knew he could always rely on Beverley Newson to let him into the building. He recognized the light of fervour in her eyes and he knew she was hooked as he had been once. He understood her motivation, especially as the poor woman led such an isolated life. Being involved, albeit at a distance, in something with a whiff of exoticism was light in her darkness – and she didn't even have to abandon her elderly mother to access the vicarious excitement.

Creeny had said that he didn't want any adverse publicity, anything that would put the punters off – the flats were hard enough to shift as it was – but Karl had been straight with him: the instruments had definitely picked up something unusual in that basement, something that needed further investigation. Perhaps he should just have lied to Creeny. Kept him sweet. But lying wasn't in his nature.

He hadn't eaten since he'd grabbed a quick sandwich at lunchtime and now his stomach was rumbling. But curiosity gnawed at him more than his hunger as he took the screwdriver and began to scrape away at the mortar between the painted bricks. If he could remove a couple to see what was behind . . .

‘Cooee.'

Recognizing the voice, he lowered the screwdriver. Beverley might be useful to him but he didn't particularly want her to know what he planned to do so he stepped away from the wall.

Beverley's bulky outline blocked out the light from the hall as she appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘I just wondered how you were getting on.' Her voice was breathless with anticipation.

‘I'm fine, thanks, Beverley.'

‘You haven't told me what happened last night. Did you see anything? Any ghosts or presences?'

Karl smiled indulgently. He couldn't see her face in the shadows but he could sense her excitement. ‘I haven't reached any firm conclusions.'

‘Do you need anything? Anything to eat or . . .?'

Karl thanked her profusely and said he was going home to eat before returning later.

‘I'll bring some hot chocolate down tonight then. Got to keep your strength up.' She giggled like a schoolgirl. ‘What time will you be back so I can be ready to let you in?'

‘Around ten. Is that OK?'

‘I'll look forward to it.'

As soon as she'd gone he began to tidy up. And when he left he shut the cellar door firmly behind him and shot the bolts across before driving back to his flat near the university, just outside the city in the Hasledon district.

Once back home he ate a microwave meal and watched his favourite soap opera – an indulgence he kept secret, even from his closest friends. When he emerged again into the fading light he heard footsteps crunching on the gravel behind him as he walked towards his car.

It happened so quickly. The violent shove and the kick in his ribs as he landed heavily on the ground.

He was aware of a dark figure leaning over him and he curled his body into a foetal position, bracing himself for a further assault. Then the figure bent slowly towards him and he felt its warm, slightly putrid breath as it hissed in his ear.

‘Don't poke your nose into things that don't concern you.'

Karl stayed quite still until he was sure his assailant had gone. Then he struggled to his feet and brushed his clothes down with his grazed hands.

He wasn't used to being on the receiving end of violence. But he wasn't going to let it deter him.

The Builder didn't know why he hadn't thought of the notes before. They certainly added an extra frisson of excitement and he could imagine the women's terror when they read those nine words on the sheet of white paper.
I'll see you next time I call. Be ready.

He pictured them in bed, tossing and turning in their thin nightclothes, unable to sleep because they were listening for his return. Those few words endowed him with so much power that he was starting to feel invincible.

It was an older woman this time but she was still quite attractive. He'd seen her go out half an hour ago and she'd left the house in darkness so he knew it was empty. He was in the back garden now and he was delighted to see that she'd left a window open for him. Some people would never learn.

He reached in and fumbled with the latch of the large lower window. Then, once he'd climbed in, proud of his own agility, he began to carry some of the lighter pieces of furniture through to build his barrier behind the front door. When he'd finished, he made his way upstairs. He could tell which of the two bedrooms was hers so he went in and sat on the bed. He took her nightdress from under the pillow and put it to his face, breathing in the smell of her, imagining her there with him. At his mercy.

Eventually he stood up, walked over to the dressing table and opened the top drawer. The stupid bitch had made it so easy for him.

B
everley looked into Mother's room at nine o'clock to make sure all was well and she'd found the old lady snoring gently, lost in the deep and peaceful sleep brought about by her medication. When Beverley returned to the lounge, she'd poured herself a glass of white wine – a rare treat – and waited for the buzzer. She had everything ready in the kitchen – the saucepan filled with milk and the chocolate powder in the new mug she'd reserved specially for Dr Dremmer.

When ten o'clock passed and he hadn't arrived she felt disappointed that he'd let her down. His secretive visit was to have been the highlight of her day.

At ten forty-five she heated the milk in the saucepan, poured it into the waiting mug and took it into her bedroom. After reading for a while she put the light out and lay down, pulling the duvet up to her throat even though the night was warm.

She was in that no-man's land between sleeping and waking when something woke her with a jolt. It was the doorbell. The glowing red numbers on her alarm clock told her it was eleven thirty.

He was late but he'd probably still want his hot chocolate. She struggled out of bed and shuffled out into the hallway in her fluffy slippers. When she picked up the receiver of the entry phone she heard his abject apologies. Something had come up – an unavoidable problem.

So she buzzed him in. It would do no harm.

On Saturday morning Joe arrived in the CID office at seven thirty. He hadn't slept well and he felt tired. But he felt hopeful . . . about the Builder investigation at least. As for Melanie Hawkes' murder and her daughter's disappearance, they hadn't made much progress. The sodden flowers found stuffed in Melanie's mouth were all too common and could have come from many places round and about Eborby and its surrounding countryside. There had been no word of Daisy and Jack Hawkes hadn't received any further calls or instructions. Perhaps the kidnapper had heard about Melanie's death and panicked. There could be another, more sinister possibility of course, but he didn't want to think about that until he had to.

Emily had wanted an early start, especially as Alan Proud had spent the night in the cells and would be nicely softened up for further questioning, but her office was empty so he sat down at his desk, intending to go through the files he'd taken from Melanie Hawkes' office. As soon as he'd taken off his jacket, Sunny hurried up and placed a report in front of him, an ‘I told you so' look on his face.

‘There was another burglary last night. Same pattern. And he left a note and all.'

Joe picked up the sheet of paper and read it. The Builder had broken into another house. And he'd left his calling card – a note printed in neat capital letters, identical to the one left at Lydia Brookes' flat.

I'LL SEE YOU NEXT TIME I CALL. BE READY.

‘Do you think he means it or do you think he does it just to scare the pants off 'em?'

Joe hoped it was the second alternative, but he was keeping an open mind. ‘No idea, Sunny. What do you think?'

‘He's copying Brockmeister's MO, and the flowers in Melanie Hawkes' mouth were his MO too. But where's the kiddie, that's what I want to know.'

Joe considered the question for a while. ‘Daisy's abduction might have nothing to do with her mother's murder. But I could be wrong.'

‘It's funny that her killer didn't take the ransom. Why chuck away the chance of ten grand?'

Before Joe could answer, Emily marched in like a ship in full sail. Young detective constables who'd been chatting round the coffee machine scattered and made for their desks and computers, trying to look busy. Joe sometimes wished that he had that effect on his underlings. Maybe that's why he'd so far been passed over for promotion.

‘Right.' Emily brought the room to order like a teacher preparing to take the register. ‘Anything new come in?'

Joe handed her the report Sunny had given him. ‘The Builder's struck again in Bacombe. Same pattern. Single woman. Furniture piled behind the front door. Only underwear and cash taken. And he left another note. Identical to the one he left for Lydia Brookes. Standard A4 sheet of paper and printed on a laser printer.

Emily rolled her eyes. ‘Why can't they use their own handwriting or a good old fashioned traceable typewriter? Alan Proud was in custody so he's out of the frame. I was so sure . . .'

‘So was I.' He looked round and saw that several of the team were watching them, listening in to their conversation. ‘I presume the crime scene people have done their bit.' he said to nobody in particular. ‘Any prints?'