Watching the Ghosts (14 page)

He walked because it wasn't far to the theatre and, besides, parking was difficult in the centre of Eborby – a city designed centuries before the internal combustion engine was a spark in its creator's eye. When he arrived he saw Lydia standing in the corner of the foyer, studying a display of blood-coloured posters arranged around a set of black-and-white cast photographs. Joe watched her for a few moments. She looked good and she'd obviously taken more trouble with her appearance than he had. She was engrossed so he walked up to her and tapped her on the shoulder, which was a mistake because she jumped at his touch. He really should have realized that her nerves wouldn't be good after what she'd been through.

‘I'm sorry,' he said.

‘That's OK.' She gave him a nervous smile. ‘You've released Alan Proud. I saw him as I was leaving my flat. Got a bit of a shock.'

‘We had to let him go. There was an identical burglary last night so we know it wasn't him.'

‘As long as he keeps away from me,' she said.

‘If he gives you any trouble, just let me know.'

She took a deep breath. ‘The play's had good reviews.'

‘I believe so,' he said, trying to sound knowledgeable.

The bell sounded, telling them to take their seats for the first act. Joe bought a programme and gave it to Lydia as they made their way into the auditorium. They chatted a little until the house lights went down.

And when they went up again they both sat for a while in stunned silence.

‘I hadn't expected that,' Lydia said as they made their way to the bar. Joe was in need of a drink after the catalogue of misery they'd just witnessed being acted out on the stage. The eponymous heroine, Mary Downes, was a young woman in the 1950s who had become pregnant by an itinerant fairground worker so her family had had her committed to Havenby Hall, saying she was ‘morally degenerate'. The girl's journey of suffering had been hard to watch.

He told himself that the play had sprung from the author's imagination rather than any real life events. There had been a harrowing scene when a woman had been tormented by a sadistic member of staff who used subtle and imaginative ways of inflicting degradation. He could still hear the actor's sobs echoing in his ears.

‘I expect most of it's made up,' he said as he handed Lydia a glass of white wine, trying to sound cheerful.

‘There's the writer so why don't we ask him?'

She was pointing to a young man in a black T-shirt who was talking earnestly to a group of young people dressed in similarly funereal clothes.

‘You know him?'

‘His name's Sebastian Bentham.' She didn't make any effort to explain further. She just set off in his direction, pushing her way through the crowd of interval drinkers with mumbled ‘excuse me's' and Joe felt obliged to follow.

When the man spotted Lydia he muttered something to his companions and moved forward to meet her, a slightly nervous look on his face. ‘You made it then?' he said. He looked at Joe. ‘Aren't you going to introduce us?'

Joe held out his hand. ‘Joe Plantagenet. Friend of Lydia's. Did you do much research?'

Sebastian began to look more relaxed. ‘I did. As a matter of fact I interviewed a number of people who were at Havenby Hall when it was a hospital.'

Joe suddenly made the connection. ‘Ever heard of Peter Brockmeister?' said Joe

He frowned. ‘His name came up while I was doing my research. I haven't named him in the play, of course but . . . let's say he influenced events.'

‘In what way?'

‘Well, I learned that he was highly intelligent and very charismatic and some of the staff – how shall I put it? – fell under his influence. My play's set twenty years earlier, of course, but I've used him as a shadowy presence.'

‘The madman? The one who frightens the main character?'

‘That's right. But from what I've heard Brockmeister was more evil than mad. If you believe in that sort of thing.'

Joe nodded. He did believe in that sort of thing. Throughout his life he'd seen too much evidence of evil to be a doubter.

Joe handed Sebastian his card. ‘I'm interested in talking to anybody who knew Brockmeister.'

Sebastian studied the card and his eyebrows shot up. ‘Is it about those burglaries? I read about them and . . .'

‘Did you speak to anyone who was at Havenby Hall at the same time as Brockmeister?'

‘Yes.'

‘If you could let me have their names and addresses . . .'

‘No problem. I spoke to a former nurse, the chaplain and a former patient.' He took his mobile phone from his pocket, studied it then scribbled the names and phone numbers on the back of Joe's card. ‘They were all very helpful,' he said as he handed it back. ‘None of them wanted to see the play but I don't suppose that's surprising.'

Joe said nothing. When Sebastian returned to his friends and his playwright's role, Joe whispered in Lydia's ear. ‘Do you want to stay for the second half or shall we go for a drink?' He prayed that she'd choose the second option.

‘Let's have the drink afterwards,' she said.

His heart sank. But he'd just have to brace himself for putting duty before pleasure.

The clock was watching Lydia again with its hard, painted eyes. Her heart was pounding and she was trapped, unable to move. It was looming nearer and she knew it would consume her, crush her body.

She jerked awake and found she was covered in perspiration. It took her a few seconds to realize that she was in her own room and she could make out the familiar shapes of her furniture in the moonlight streaming through her thin cotton blinds.

Since she'd actually set eyes on the clock in that shop she'd been free of the nightmare. Perhaps it was seeing Sebastian and his awful play. According to Judith Dodds, the thing had come from Havenby Hall so the associations had most likely mingled in her head and brought it all back.

She turned over and stretched her arm across the pillow beside her own on the double bed. She'd asked Joe Plantagenet back for coffee but he'd seemed reluctant. He'd said he had to be at work early in the morning. Working on a Sunday morning may have been an excuse, but, as there had been a murder as well as another burglary, she supposed it could well be the truth.

When they'd escaped the theatre they'd hurried through the narrow streets to the Star where she'd drank more wine than was advisable while Joe downed several pints of best bitter like a man who was trying to forget the trials of the day. There had been something about him that invited confidences and she found herself telling him her life story. How she'd married young. How she'd given birth to a beautiful baby girl who'd died after only two hours in this world. How her marriage hadn't survived the tragedy of loss. How she'd come to Eborby and had been establishing her life again until The Builder came and dented her new-found confidence.

He had reciprocated and told her of his days in a seminary training to be a priest, of his meeting with Kaitlin who was to become his wife and of her tragic death in an accident six months after their wedding. Then there was the shooting while he'd been working in Liverpool when his colleague had died and he'd been seriously injured. He still had the scar where the bullet had entered his body, he said. Emboldened by white wine, she'd replied that she'd like to see it. He'd given her a distant smile and said perhaps one day. But she was sure she'd messed up.

She looked at the red glowing numbers of her alarm clock and discovered that it was two fifteen.

She closed her eyes. She had to be in work in the morning so she needed some sleep. But a distant sound made her haul herself upright and listen.

It was there again. A faint scraping, a distant door closing. Then silence.

B
everley had let Dremmer in when he'd arrived at eleven thirty the previous night and given him a mug of hot chocolate but he'd made it clear that he wanted to be alone, and she'd managed to hide her disappointment.

That morning she'd risen early and dressed in her new beige trousers and a red T-shirt. She'd even applied some make up to her blotchy skin, but one glance in the mirror was enough to tell her the effect wasn't the one she'd wished for. She'd put on three stone since she'd left work to look after Mother and, as food had become her greatest comfort and pleasure, that particular situation was unlikely to change in the foreseeable future.

After she'd given her mother breakfast, she poured an extra cup of tea. Dr Dremmer was bound to need it after spending the night down there. And she liked to be useful.

She put the door of the flat on the latch and carried the mug of hot tea carefully down the corridor. When she reached the entrance hall she saw that the door to the basement stood half open. Dr Dremmer had told her that he wasn't to be disturbed. But she was sure that didn't apply to the morning.

She pushed the door open and began to make her way down the stairs, calling Dremmer's name softly. There was no answer and it too dark down there to see much but she could make out the outline of his recording equipment, the night vision camera on the tripod. Strange that he should leave it there unattended.

She turned and as she reached the hall she noticed that the front door was ajar, which was odd because most of the residents were careful about shutting it properly, especially since the burglary. She crossed the hall and stepped outside into the watery morning sun. It was Sunday morning and everything was quiet; no sound apart from birdsong and the occasional car passing along Boothgate.

She looked round and her eyes were drawn towards the graveyard to her right. Something was lying half hidden amongst the blackened headstones so she clutched her cardigan around her and walked towards it, her feet crunching on the new gravel path.

As she drew closer she could see it was a human body laying face down, flattening the overgrown grass, its arms raised as if in surrender.

She'd found Karl Dremmer at last.

Joe almost wished he hadn't told Emily about his night out with Lydia. She was taking too much of an interest in his private life for comfort. She meant well, of course, but he'd know better for next time.

As soon as he'd set foot in the office she greeted him with a quizzical ‘Well, how did it go?' The question was packed with innuendo.

He'd given her an enigmatic smile in return. It appealed to some innate sense of mischief that he'd thought had left him long ago to keep her guessing.

There was something on his ‘to do' list, something he'd been putting off that needed to be checked out in connection with Melanie Hawkes' murder. He needed to contact the people she'd interviewed in relation to the Torridge case, three of whom had also helped Sebastian Bentham with his research. But first he had to have a word with Chris Torridge's mother to see if she backed up his story about her sister being committed to Havenby Hall and the ensuing mystery about what had become of her money. He could have given the job to one of the junior officers but he felt he wanted to check it out himself.

He had obtained her address during his interview with her son. She lived in a nursing home in Hilton so he bagged himself a pool car and drove out there, passing Boothgate House on the way. He noticed that an ambulance was parked outside and he experienced a sudden feeling of dread that something awful had befallen Lydia. He wondered whether to stop but he told himself not to be so imaginative; there were ten occupied flats in the building so the odds were that it was nothing for him to worry about.

The Yelland Grange Nursing Home, once the home of a nineteenth-century Eborby worthy who'd chosen to live out of town away from the smoke and dirt of the city's ancient crowded streets, stood in well-kept gardens at the far end of Hilton, not too far from the ring road and the park and ride. Joe parked the car on the driveway, glad that he'd called ahead to warn of his arrival.

He was met at the door by an overweight middle-aged woman in a blue overall. She wore her hair in a severe pony tail and there was a wary look on her round, pale face.

Once he'd showed his warrant card she led the way through a maze of carpeted corridors, eventually stopping at a door with a small card bearing Edna Torridge's name attached to it with a drawing pin, as though to emphasize the temporary nature of her stay.

The young woman suddenly fixed a determined smile to her face and pushed the door open. ‘Visitor for you, Edna. It's a nice policeman.'

Joe smiled too, trying to live up to his billing, and stepped into the room.

Mrs Torridge was sitting in an armchair, her knees covered with a blanket in spite of the oppressive heat in the room. She was a small woman with thin grey curls. She reminded Joe of a small, delicate bird. But when she looked up at him he could see a strength of spirit in her watery blue eyes.

‘Sit down then,' she said. She looked at the woman who had brought him there. ‘And you can go and all. I don't need a nursemaid.'

Joe had expected her voice to be weak and quavering but it was as strong and determined as Emily's. The woman in the blue overall hesitated for a second before leaving the room, and once she had gone Joe made himself comfortable on a chair which he suspected doubled as a commode.

‘I expect you've come about my sister. It's about time we got to the bottom of what happened to her. That son of mine's been faffing about with solicitors and all that but I told him to tell the police. I want to get to the truth before I go and meet my Maker. Our Dot was a silly woman, always suffering with her nerves, but she never deserved what happened to her in there.'

‘What did happen?'

‘I think she was murdered.'

‘Her family were told she'd had a stroke.'

‘That's rubbish. Apart from her nerves she was as fit as a flea until they took her into that place. I fought it, you know, but that husband of hers . . .'