Watching the Ghosts (32 page)

‘Nobody knew Father was alive so it served to muddy the waters. Besides, I enjoy killing. It's almost an art form, isn't it? Certainly more of an art form than the terrible play that boy wrote. If he'd got any closer to the truth I would have had to kill him too of course but he was way off the mark.' She waved the scalpel at him. ‘I like to see the look on their faces when they realize it's me. Harmless Beverley, the overweight spinster. Homely, they used to call women like me. I hate attractive women. I hate the pitying way they look at me.' She almost spat the words with venom.

‘If you brought Melanie Hawkes and Judith Dodds here, how did you move them?' He was curious to know but he also needed to keep her talking.

‘I knocked them out and brought them here in my little car. I used Mother's wheelchair to move them so it was easy really. Then Father and I conducted a few experiments in pain before we killed them and disposed of their bodies – running water confuses your scientific people and we used Father's idea of the flowers. That was rather fun.' The words made Joe shudder.

‘It's over, Beverley. Let me have the weapon.'

Beverley lunged forward like a swordsman and made a slashing movement. Joe managed to dodge the blade but he knew that if he hadn't been so quick he might have joined Creeny on the floor. Beverley was between him and the door which stood open, allowing the sunlight to trickle in. Lydia was quite still now and he wondered what had been done to her. He could see small dark circles on her arms and he remembered the smell of cigarette smoke that had hit him when he'd first arrived down there. Beverley wasn't a smoker: she had used burning cigarettes to inflict pain. He had to stay alert to survive.

He heard a noise in the passageway and he looked at the doorway hoping that Emily had arrived with the back up. But when he saw who was standing there he was hit by a wave of despair.

Peter Brockmeister was only in his mid sixties, hardly an old man, and now he had abandoned his retired clergyman role he looked strong and dangerous. Joe wondered in passing how he had become involved with Beverley's mother, the matron who must have been at least ten years his senior. They might have been kindred spirits . . . or she might have been convenient. It was unlikely he'd ever find out.

‘What are you waiting for, Beverley? Just finish him.' He glanced at Lydia. ‘We've got to go.'

As Beverley began to descend on Joe he instinctively put up his arms to defend himself. There were two of them now so the odds were against him. He felt something cold and hard pierce his flesh but it was a few moments before he experienced the pain and collapsed to the hard stone ground, grasping at the air.

Then he heard voices . . . and he wondered if they were angels.

J
oe only stayed in hospital overnight. Unlike Patrick Creeny who was in there a fortnight. Lydia was suffering from burns and concussion but Joe knew she was lucky. A few more minutes and she would have been strangled like Melanie Hawkes and Mrs Dodds, only to be discovered in some river or stream, gagged with flowers. The thought made Joe feel sick.

Beverley had been disarmed by a six-foot constable from the Armed Response Unit and now she was in custody, awaiting trial, along with her father, who had yielded quietly. The press would be in a frenzy when the case came to court. A serial killer resurrected from the dead and his mad daughter. It would make an irresistible story.

Lydia was determined to sell her flat. The market, she told Joe optimistically, was picking up and she couldn't face returning to Boothgate House. She was staying with Amy in the interim, her boyfriend, Steve, being a thing of the past. In the first flush of relief at her survival, Joe had suggested that she move in with him but she'd said no. It wouldn't be wise. She was bad luck, she said. Cursed. He'd felt as if a burden had been lifted when she'd refused his invitation . . . then he'd felt guilty about his relief. He couldn't win. Emily kept asking after her but he hadn't felt inclined to feed his boss's insatiable curiosity. There were times when he liked to keep his private life to himself.

Joe had arranged to meet Lydia for a drink that evening. As he walked to meet her at the Star he had a feeling of reluctance, like a schoolboy dragging his feet towards a dreaded exam. And when he saw her sitting there in the corner waiting for him, sipping at her beer, she looked serious. But then he hadn't seen her smile since that night down in that basement . . . as if she now regarded the world as a hostile place with no chance of any future joy.

‘How are you?' he asked, aware that he asked the same question every time he saw her. But he couldn't think of anything more original.

She didn't answer.

‘Want another drink?'

‘No thanks.'

‘Something the matter?'

She shook her head and he waited for her to speak. ‘I've got something to tell you, Joe.'

‘What's that?'

‘I don't think it's working between us.'

‘Maybe it all happened too quickly. We were both lonely and . . .'

She put a finger on his lips. ‘I like you, Joe. I hope . . . well, I hope you find what you're looking for.'

‘Whatever that is.' He felt lighter, hopeful for the first time in ages. He hadn't wanted to hurt her – he knew pain only too well. But now she'd handed him the perfect get out.

‘I saw Seb Bentham the other day . . . the playwright. He, er . . . asked me out for a drink.'

Joe's first feeling of relief was replaced by a pang of jealousy. But he told himself it was probably hurt pride.

‘I went to his shop because of that clock,' she continued. ‘I want to buy it.'

‘Why?'

‘I thought if I lived with it every day it would lose its power. Can you understand that?'

Joe didn't know whether he could. He said nothing.

‘Seb said I could have it for nothing because he can't stand looking at it. His uncle passed away last week, you know. He left Seb his house and he's moving in there.'

‘But that clock belonged to Dr Pennell . . .'

‘I'm not superstitious.' She looked away, as though the memory was painful. ‘When I was down in that basement I remembered why the thing scared me so much.'

Joe waited for her to continue. Her gaze was focused on a hunting print to her left, as though she didn't dare make eye contact. When she eventually spoke, it was in a whisper, as if the very words hurt her.

‘When I was staying with my grandfather I woke up and started wandering round. I must have only been tiny at the time – probably as young as three – and I got lost. Somehow I must have found my way down to the basement and I saw things down there, Joe. Terrible things I didn't understand. The whole cellar was one room in those days – the wall must have been blocked up later. I saw somebody strapped to a bed and she was screaming and some people were bending over her. Then a man saw me – it must have been Brockmeister. He took me by the hand and led me back to grandad's flat. I remember grandad coming out into the hall. I remember the terrified look on his face. He grabbed me and pushed me behind him as if he was afraid the man might harm me. He was defending me, Joe. If it hadn't been for him I might not have survived. And that clock was watching me. It used to stand in the hallway of the flat.'

Joe saw tears appear in her eyes. ‘The man bent down and whispered in my ear. He said that if I told anybody what I'd seen he'd come for me. But if I'd told my grandad what I'd seen he might have alerted the authorities and all those people wouldn't have died. And Grandad might not have died. I could have stopped them, Joe.'

He gave her hand a comforting squeeze. ‘You were a small child. How could you have known? And who would have believed you?'

She shook her head as though his words didn't convince her. In her mind she was still guilty of a sin of omission. Young as she'd been, she should have told. She should have ended the terror.

‘I'm sorry,' she said.

She stood up and he watched her weave her way through the crowds of tourists and regulars, making for the door.

And he felt unexpectedly empty.

J
ack Hawkes had put the house he'd shared with Melanie up for sale. He had no firm plans, except to take life as it came. And since Paul Scorer and his partner had gained custody of Daisy things were much easier.

Scorer had been given a suspended sentence and had convinced the authorities that Daisy would be better off with her natural father. Scorer's sincerity and obvious love for his daughter had seemed to work wonders, but perhaps it had been Jack's casual indifference to Daisy in front of the social workers that had clinched it. The child had clung to Scorer and Una during the meetings, not even making eye contact with Jack. Kids were unpredictable, but Daisy's behaviour couldn't have fitted in with his plans better even if he'd bribed her with sweets and coached her for hours.

He'd negotiated with Patrick, who seemed to have developed a more generous streak since his close encounter with death, and landed himself one of the new phase of flats in Boothgate House. First floor. Four large bedrooms, all en suite. Spacious lounge, study and huge kitchen as well as a private roof terrace. He was a single man again so things had worked out rather well really.

Joe looked up from his paperwork and saw that Emily was watching him through the open door of her office. Ever since the arrest of Peter Brockmeister and his daughter she'd been subdued, as though she hadn't been entirely satisfied with the outcome, which was unusual as she was normally the first to suggest a celebration after such a major case was concluded. But there'd been no trip to the pub in high spirits. She'd just gone home to her family.

He caught her eye and she stood up. ‘Joe, can I have a word?'

He walked into her office and shut the door. Her face was serious and something told him that what she had to say was for his ears only. Since Brockmeister and Beverley had been remanded in custody they'd not had much chance to talk about anything other than work and the preparations for the trial. Joe found he missed their conversations more than he expected.

‘I heard about you and Lydia,' she said as he sat down. ‘I'm sorry.'

Joe shrugged. ‘These things happen.'

Emily gave him a sympathetic look, as though she thought he was only making light of the situation to convince others – and maybe himself – that he didn't care.

‘The big news is they've just found Rattenbury's body,' she said. ‘Exactly where Beverley said it was, in the graveyard by Boothgate House.'

‘Where else would you find a body?' Joe said with a smile.

‘We also found another corpse that shouldn't have been there – buried with her handbag so identification was easy. Her name was Jean Smith and she was reported missing in 1979. She was a nurse at Havenby Hall.'

‘Betty Morcroft mentioned her. From what she said, it's my guess that Jean knew too much. But I really wanted to talk to you about Jack Hawkes. You still think he was involved in his wife's death?'

‘We searched his house for evidence but there was nothing there. Our only hope is if Brockmeister or Beverley says something at the trial . . . but I wouldn't bet on that. Of course there was Creeny's evidence that he gave him thirty thousand pounds when Scorer was only demanding ten. Hawkes said it was for his children from his first marriage – paying for a holiday – but his ex was pretty cagey. Twenty thousand pounds. And Melanie was insured for a quarter of a million. Trouble is, can we prove anything?'

‘Twenty grand in cash was paid into an account in the name of the Rev Kenneth Rattenbury soon after Creeny gave him the money but there's no paper trail to connect it with Hawkes. We know it's him but unless we have solid proof . . .'

‘We've done our best. So unless something new comes to light or Brockmeister decides to talk . . . He can't benefit from any blackmail money where he's going anyway.' Emily looked at her watch. ‘Why don't you get home, Joe?'

Joe returned to his desk and sat down. At that moment he couldn't face returning to his empty, silent flat.

As the architect who'd designed the place, Jack Hawkes knew he had the best flat in the building. And since he'd moved in, Boothgate House was filling up nicely now that the work was on track again. He'd managed to pump more money into the project and everything was going well. There was even a chance that Creeny's PA, Yolanda, would move in with him. Patrick Creeny had called him a lucky dog – he'd always suspected that he'd fancied Yolanda himself but had never had the courage to do anything about it – and it certainly seemed that his fortunes were on the rise.

Yolanda was away this weekend at a health spa – a friend's hen do – so he was on his own. After a few scotches, drunk from the new lead crystal glasses he'd bought when he moved in, he decided to have an early night. He had watched a film that evening rather than listening to the news which was all about the trial of Peter Brockmeister and his crazy daughter. He wanted to forget all about Brockmeister. He'd soon be put away for life and he'd never have to think of him again.

The scotch had taken effect as he climbed into the cool Egyptian cotton sheets and switched off the bedside light. Then, just as he began to drift off into a vague and satisfied oblivion, something brought him back to consciousness; a sudden chill, as though some unseen hand had seized the bedclothes and tugged them with some force off his sleeping body. But he could feel that the duvet was still in place. He had probably drunk too much, he thought. The effects of alcohol were often unpredictable these days. He was no longer a young man who could sink a couple of bottles of wine with no ill effects.

He opened his eyes slowly and saw the woman standing there. She looked middle aged but she might have been younger, with brown bedraggled hair liberally peppered with grey. Her flesh was as white as the long nightdress she wore and her eyes were sunken pools of darkness. There were marks on her exposed pallid arms, little dots of redness, and what looked like blood crusted around her lips. He caught his breath and his heart began to pound.