Watching the Ghosts (25 page)

‘Is it?' said Joe.

‘I'll say a few prayers, if that's all right.' George Merryweather was armed with nothing more dramatic than his old Bible, a faithful friend since theological college.

‘Will that be enough?' Beverley looked sceptical as she stood at the basement entrance, her hand resting on the door, ready to push it open and descend to the depths.

‘It usually is,' said George. ‘Deliverance ministry is about bringing peace to a place and sending any restless souls there might be to their eternal rest. It's rarely dramatic but that doesn't mean it's not effective in cases where it's appropriate.' He resisted the temptation to add that if she was expecting a scene reminiscent of
The Exorcist
she would be very disappointed.

He smiled at Beverley who looked mildly frustrated, as though she was afraid he wasn't taking this seriously enough.

‘But there's definitely something here. Even in my flat I can feel it. I've heard noises.'

‘Well, there has been lots of building work going on.' George always looked for the obvious first but this clearly wasn't what she wanted to hear. ‘I've asked the police and they say it's OK to go down . . . if you're ready. Shall I go first?'

She nodded and George thought she looked eager rather than frightened.

George was glad that the police had left their lighting down there. He had been instructed how to switch it on from upstairs so as he descended the stairs the room below was brightly lit.

‘Shouldn't the lights be out?' Beverley said.

‘No. It's fine,' he replied as he reached the bottom of the steps and began to walk around the room, taking in his surroundings.

Karl Dremmer's sleeping bag was still there and George found the sight of it unnerving.

He placed the Bible lovingly on a ledge and took his prayer book from his jacket pocket. Then as he began to pray he thought he heard a faint sigh from somewhere beyond the far wall.

And Beverley screamed.

The man who had once been Peter Brockmeister walked through the streets, passing groups of tourists, out searching for a suitable restaurant. The fact that they were quite unaware of what he was about to do amused him. Poor innocent sheep, he thought. Poor potential victims.

He walked on to the meeting place, leaving the pedestrianized heart of the city, suddenly shocked when he encountered a road busy with cars and buses. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he narrowly avoided being mowed down by a bus and after the encounter he stood on the kerb, heart beating fast. However, he knew he'd been saved from disaster by some unseen force – the unseen force that had ruled his life for so many years. Some called it the force of evil. But he wasn't that imaginative. He preferred to think of it as the force of pleasure and fulfilment.

The sun was just setting and when he reached Museum Gardens there were very few people about: only a few strolling couples, oblivious to anybody and anything but themselves, and some youths perched on the park benches with bottles of strong cider while others of their kind circled on bicycles like puny, sportswear-clad vultures. He avoided their gaze. Trouble was the last thing he wanted.

Ahead of him he could see the jagged ruins of the abbey in the fading light. He derived some satisfaction from the thought of all that goodness, all that worship destroyed by one man's lust and greed. He understood only too well the driving force behind that destruction.

The best-preserved section of the ruins was the abbey church and several of the great windows still stood, glassless and empty, their elaborate stone tracery like lace against the darkening sky. This was the meeting place.

He stepped into the outline of the church. He was five minutes early but surprise would give him the advantage.

He concealed himself behind a wall. From there he could see anybody approaching and another taller wall at his back gave him protection from unexpected intruders. After a couple of minutes he leaned his tired body against the stones. And exactly on time he saw Alan Proud walking towards him, his eyes fixed ahead. He watched him quicken his pace as he passed the youths but they were too occupied with their own affairs to notice.

Proud was carrying a briefcase and he looked rather self-important, like someone trying to play the role of a busy businessman. But he didn't fool the man who spied on him from the shadows of the ruined church. He knew what made Proud function. He could see into his soul.

He stepped from the shelter of the wall and when Proud spotted him he raised a hand in tentative greeting. But the watcher stood quite still and waited for Proud to come to him . . . like a supplicant.

Proud wore a conspiratorial grin on his face; the grin of a fool who imagined he was in on a secret. How wrong he was.

‘I've got the letters,' he said. ‘And I've printed out a certificate of authenticity so if you can sign it for me . . .' He gave a nervous little laugh. ‘Well, I'd be ever so grateful. You don't know what this means to me, you really don't.'

Brockmeister put out his hand and looked on as Proud fumbled with the clasp of his briefcase. His nerves made his fingers clumsy and useless and Brockmeister was gratified to see that he could still wield that sort of power over a man. Women, of course, were a different matter. He had never met any problems with women.

It seemed like an age before the briefcase sprung open and its contents spilled on to the grass. Proud gave an irritating little laugh again and scrabbled down to retrieve them.

Proud straightened himself up, replacing the contents of his file and delving in his briefcase for something lost. Eventually he produced a sheet of paper with a triumphant flourish and handed it over.

‘Here's the certificate. If you can just sign there. I've got a pen somewhere . . . hang on.' He fumbled in his briefcase again. ‘Sorry about all this. I'm so grateful to you . . . I really am,' he repeated as he produced a cheap ballpoint pen and presented it with an ingratiating smile. ‘I've got a few more of your letters hidden at home. They're the ones you wrote to someone called Jason. They're of a more . . . sensitive nature . . . candid, I suppose you could call them,' Proud said with a knowing wink. He began to read out loud. ‘This is to certify that these letters are genuine and were written by me, Peter Brockmeister to Darren Carter between June nineteen seventy-eight and April nineteen eighty-one. Signed . . .'

Brockmeister looked Proud in the eye and saw uncertainty there. And weakness. He liked weakness. ‘What makes you think I'll sign this for you? What's in it for me?'

He watched as Proud's smile vanished and was replaced by a puzzled frown.

‘But I thought . . .'

‘You thought wrong,' he said as he tore Proud's certificate neatly in two.

Proud stood there gaping, lost for suitable words.

‘I'm surprised at you, Mr Proud. You claim to be some sort of authority on me and my kind but you really have no idea what you're dealing with, do you?'

Proud was backing away now, stuffing the file back in his briefcase.

And Brockmeister could smell his fear.

A
ll patrols were on the lookout for Paul Scorer's vehicle: a battered, blue camper van that had seen better days. Emily had gone over every reason why Scorer should have been in possession of a new My Sweet Friend doll and she could only come up with one feasible answer – it had been acquired for his daughter, Daisy, and that meant he knew she was alive.

All the worried phone calls had been a smoke screen. The most likely scenario was that he had kidnapped his own daughter in order to extract some money from an ex-partner he knew was considerably better off financially than he was. She thought of Scorer's ramshackle cottage, comparing it with the Hawkes' pristine and prosperous villa. Of course, there might have been another reason. Perhaps Scorer thought that Daisy wasn't being cared for, or perhaps he'd got wind of Jack Hawkes' indifference to the child. But, whatever his motive, he'd made a big mistake.

Emily was sitting in the car watching the arranged location of the drop, the park and ride near the bypass. She imagined the place had been chosen because it would be busy at that time with sightseers returning to their cars after a day out enjoying Eborby's medieval splendours . . . and the bypass provided an ideal getaway for a kidnapper in a hurry.

Joe had been following some leads on their murders but it didn't seem he'd made much progress. She wondered if he was right to pursue the Havenby Hall angle. Was he just pursuing some hunch about Peter Brockmeister that would ultimately lead nowhere? But if the identification of Peter Brockmeister's body all those years ago had been wrong, it changed everything.

But if Brockmeister had survived to resume his murderous activities, what had he been doing in the intervening years and where was he now? Covering every angle, she had asked one of the team to contact several police forces abroad – in places favoured by British ex-pats – just to see whether they had any similar killings on their books. There had been no response as yet . . . and at that moment Daisy's fate seemed more urgent.

She had been looking out for Joe's car and at last she saw it. He parked near the entrance and she watched as he got out and walked casually towards her. She pressed the button to unlock the passenger door and he climbed in beside her, arranging his legs, making himself comfortable.

‘Anything new come in?' she asked.

‘I managed to confirm that Scorer's partner, Una Waites, hasn't been in Somerset as Scorer claims. She's been using her credit card in Sainsbury's in Scarborough. Buying sweets, crisps and kiddies' yogurts amongst other things.'

Emily put her head in her hands. ‘Shit. We should have checked before. I think that clinches it. Let's hope we can get this tied up tonight, eh.'

‘Do you think Scorer and Waites have anything to do with Melanie Hawkes' murder?'

‘Do you?'

‘I'm keeping an open mind.'

‘Here's Hawkes.'

They fell silent as Hawkes' huge black SUV swept by. He'd been instructed to leave the money in one of the litter bins right at the far end of the car park, a quiet spot where very few people had bothered to park because of the long walk to the park-and-ride bus.

Emily started her engine and drove slowly round the car park, stopping where she could get a better view. She saw Hawkes climb out of his car and look round before taking the holdall from the passenger seat and strolling over to the litter bin, hesitating before he dropped it inside. Then he returned to the car and waited a few moments before driving off.

The drop was done now. It was just a question of waiting.

And they didn't have to wait long before a battered white van drove towards the end of the car park at a stately pace and came to a halt near the litter bin.

Joe got on his radio right away with the registration number, only to find that it was false. This was it.

The van moved along a bit, parking right in front of the bin, blocking their view. Emily swore under her breath, took out her radio and gave the order.

‘Target in place. Move in now. Repeat, move in now.'

Suddenly all hell broke lose as officers emerged from cars dotted around the car park. Emily burst from the car and ran towards the van, Joe following in her wake. She dodged round the back while Joe circled the front and soon she saw a dark, hooded figure bending over the bin, struggling to pull the holdall out.

‘Hello, Paul,' she said.

But when the man swung round, she found she'd made a mistake. It wasn't Paul Scorer who stood there.

Then she heard Joe's voice. ‘What the hell are you doing here?'

And Christopher Torridge dropped the bag.

Lydia had stayed at work till six thirty. Even when the Tourist Information Office closed there had been things to sort out, new leaflets to be placed in the racks and new information filed. Her boss had left early because her son was coming home from university and she wanted to cook him a meal after a term's diet of junk food. Her words had caused Lydia a stab of pain. Her own child was lying in a tiny grave. She would never come home from university and she would never cook for her . . . not in this life. As she'd placed some new river cruise leaflets in the rack she'd felt a tear run hot down her cheek. Then she'd wiped it away with the back of her hand. She had to get on with life. And Joe Plantagenet had given her a glimmer of new hope.

Joe had called earlier to say he was working that evening. She'd wondered whether his work would bring him to Boothgate House but she wasn't getting her hopes up. If she wanted their relationship to develop she told herself she'd have to accept that his job meant unpredictable hours and broken dates.

After work she met Amy for a drink at the Dean's Arms by the cathedral. She had a couple of glasses of white wine and listened to Amy moaning about her boss's attitude and Steve's thoughtlessness and lack of domestic acumen. She nodded sympathetically and gave non-committal replies to her friend's direct questions about Joe. Their relationship seemed too new and fragile to analyse; it would seem like tearing apart a cobweb to examine its construction.

At nine thirty she walked home and when Boothgate House came into sight she experienced a feeling of cold apprehension. She'd never felt comfortable there and perhaps she should try to sell the flat on . . . if she could find a buyer who hadn't heard of the place's murderous connections.

As she reached the entrance to the building in the fading light she glanced to her left, towards the little graveyard where Karl Dremmer's body had been found. In the gloom she could see the headstones, blackened with years of grime. The promised removal of the graves had never happened and her initial enthusiasm for her spacious new flat had vanished over the months, only to be replaced by unease and nightmares. She could see the tattered remnants of the crime-scene tape shifting in the breeze above the resting place of those sad souls who had existed, suffered and died inside the glowering building.