Watching the Ghosts (5 page)

She hadn't noticed before that the place was filled with clocks of various shapes, sizes and ages, none of them ticking and all of them veiled in a layer of dust.

‘Sorry about the state of the place, by the way. The shop's been closed for a couple of weeks because my uncle's not been well. I just came in to catch up on the paperwork but if I can make a sale on the way . . .' He gave her a dazzling smile, showing a row of perfect teeth that seemed slightly too small for his mouth. ‘My uncle's always had a thing about clocks,' he added. ‘Quite the expert. Unlike me.'

She had the impression that he expected her to ask about his life but she thought it safer to keep things on a businesslike footing. She had a gut feeling that she should keep her distance. But that was something she'd been doing since the break up of her marriage . . . and, besides, the presence of that clock, watching her from its shadowy hiding place with its painted eyes, made her uneasy.

‘Sorry, I'm not here to buy,' she said. ‘It's just that I'm sure I've seen this particular clock before and I wondered if you could tell me where it came from.'

She half expected his manner to change, for him to lose all interest once he knew he wasn't going to part her from her money. But instead he picked up a large ledger that had been lying on the edge of the cluttered desk. ‘Which clock is it?'

She made her way to the back of the shop, keeping those painted eyes in view. Coughing a little with the dust, she pointed to the clock and it stared back at her. At least the eyes were still now, not swivelling from side to side like a living thing as they had in her dreams. ‘It's that one, there. The grandfather clock.'

‘The long-cased clock,' he corrected gently. ‘It's an interesting one. Oak case and painted face. Dated around 1850 and made by Eccles of Eborby . . . quite a well regarded maker. I haven't seen one like it before. But you say you have?'

‘I'm not sure. It looks very familiar.' She feared that any talk of dreams would mark her out as strange in this man's eyes so she kept to bald facts. ‘That's why I wondered where it came from.'

He opened the ledger and flicked through the pages, frowning with concentration, while she stood and waited, shifting from foot to foot. She took a peep at her watch. She didn't have long.

‘Got it,' he said, tapping his finger on the page. ‘It came from a house in Hilton. Why did you say you wanted to know? Do you think it might be a family piece or . . .?'

He looked straight at her, a challenge in his eyes, and she realized that he might have interpreted her curiosity as a desire to claim the clock for herself. But nothing could be further from the truth. ‘Like I said, I'm sure I've seen it somewhere before and I wondered where. I don't want it if that's what you're thinking. In fact it gives me the creeps.'

‘Why's that then?' he said sharply. ‘It's only an old clock.'

She suddenly felt foolish and mumbled something about feeling the eyes were watching her. She realized how feeble it sounded but it hadn't felt feeble in the early hours when the clock had towered there like a predatory creature, its painted eyes boring into her soul.

‘Can't say I've noticed,' the man said. ‘I'm Seb, by the way. Seb Bentham.'

He suddenly thrust out his hand towards her and she took it. His handshake was firmer than she'd expected and she felt herself wince at the pressure. ‘Lydia.'

‘Well, Lydia, apart from a clock that gives you the creeps is there anything else here I can interest you in?' He suddenly sounded like a salesman, polished and persuasive.

‘Not really . . . I just came to . . .'

‘Have you got your own place? Looking for furniture? Or a picture maybe? The shop's full of my uncle's stock but I've been doing a bit of buying myself and I picked up some lovely prints the other day. Come and have a look.' He took a step towards the back of the shop as though he expected her to follow.

She looked at her watch. ‘Sorry, I'm on my lunch hour and I should be heading back.'

‘Where do you work?'

‘The Tourist Information Office.' The answer came out automatically but as soon as the words left her lips she wondered whether she should have parted with the information. She forced out a smile. ‘I might come and have a look at those pictures you mentioned when I've got more time. I do need something for the flat. It's looking a bit bare at the moment.'

‘Where is it . . . your flat?'

He was probably just being friendly, she told herself, but she felt this was an intrusion too far. ‘Near the city centre,' she said, trying to sound casual. ‘Have you got that address?'

He returned to the ledger and spun it round so that she could see it. ‘There it is. Long-cased clock with face painted to resemble the moon. Bought in April this year from a Mrs Judith Dodds at this address in Hilton.' He smiled, showing his small, white teeth.

She'd got what she'd come for and the hunger pangs in her stomach had suddenly become more urgent. ‘Thanks. That's been a great help. I'd better go. I've got to buy something for lunch. Thanks,' she repeated, edging out of the shop.

As soon as she got outside she walked away down the street quickly, almost breaking into a run when she reached the corner.

She recited the address to herself, memorizing it. Oriel House, Hilton Lane. She wondered whether she'd have the courage to act on her new knowledge. But sometimes you have to face a demon if you're going to conquer it forever.

Emily had decided not to tell Joe where she was going. After all, she wasn't sure whether her appointment was connected with work or her children's school. But whatever it was, she was glad of the break.

As she left the police headquarters the early cloud had burned back, leaving the sky a cloudless blue but the chilly breeze whipping down the road made her wish she'd put her jacket on. She quickened her pace, keeping the towers of the cathedral in view. As she neared the great gothic building the streets were thick with meandering tourists, stopping to take photographs and getting in her way. She nipped across the road, narrowly avoiding being mowed down by an open-topped tour bus, and dodged through the throng until she had passed the cathedral's south door and reached the open expanse of lawn that was Vicars Green. There were tourists here too, lounging at the foot of a tall Roman column protruding from the centre of the grass and staring in awe at the surrounding medieval buildings. She could see the National Trust café on the corner and she hoped Melanie Hawkes had arrived first and bagged a table.

But when she pushed the door open and went in, she was nowhere to be seen.

Melanie stood in the archway on Gallowgate that led to Singmass Close, almost opposite the café. When she saw Emily she stepped back into the shadows. At least she'd come – that was something. Now it was a case of thinking up the right words to say. She'd blown hot and cold about the meeting all morning, one moment longing for someone else to assume the burden, the next having terrifying visions of what would happen if Daisy's abductor discovered her duplicity.

She was glad Emily didn't look round. If she'd seen her, she'd have had no choice but to keep the appointment. But as it was, she still had time to decide. She could see Emily at a table by the café window, looking around. Eventually she stood up to queue by the counter and Melanie could see something on the tray she'd collected from the side. A sandwich . . . and a large cake. Whether she kept the appointment or not, Emily Thwaite intended to enjoy her lunch.

She'd sat down again and Melanie watched as she stuffed her face with a large slice of chocolate cake. She seemed so intent on her task that she didn't look up, which Melanie took as a sign. Perhaps she'd been too hasty to involve the police. Jack had called to say he'd managed to get the money so they might be able to get Daisy back without alerting the authorities and putting her life in jeopardy.

There were other ways. Better ways.

W
hen Lydia arrived home at six o'clock she met a man in the entrance hall. He was dressed entirely in black and he stared at her as she passed which made her a little uneasy.

She was sure that she hadn't seen him before. She would have remembered the rather prominent eyes and the slicked-back dark hair. His short-sleeved black shirt was open at the neck to reveal a string of wooden beads and she wondered what or who had brought him there. There were three flats occupied in her wing of the building; her own, Beverley's and Alan Proud's – a taciturn man who kept himself very much to himself. The man in black hardly seemed Beverley's sort so, by process of elimination, she concluded Proud had been entertaining a rare visitor. But it was really none of her business. And besides, she found the way Proud looked at her unsettling so she hardly wanted to encourage any of his associates.

When she reached the corridor she heard a voice behind her. A male voice, slightly high pitched, saying ‘excuse me'. She swung round, almost dropping her canvas bag full of emergency shopping. The man in black was behind her, coming nearer and she was surprised she hadn't heard him retracing his steps.

‘Sorry if I startled you. I take it you live here?'

‘Yes.'

‘I was looking for your neighbour, Beverley Newson, but there's no answer.'

‘How did you get into the building?'

‘Someone from one of the other flats buzzed me in.'

Lydia felt annoyed that one of her fellow residents had been so cavalier with their security. ‘If you knew Beverley wasn't in, why did you . . .?'

The man raised his hands, a gesture of appeasement. ‘No, no, you don't understand. My name's Dr Karl Dremmer and I'm from Eborby University, department of Psychology. I've already spoken to Beverley. Maybe she's mentioned it to you.'

She began to relax. This was the man Beverley had spoken of in glowing terms. He held out his hand and Lydia did likewise. ‘Lydia Brookes. I'm in flat three.'

‘Would you mind if I talked to you?'

‘What about?'

‘This building.'

If Beverley hadn't provided the man's credentials, she would have exercised caution but, as it was, she was merely curious. And besides, she had nothing else arranged that evening. ‘OK. Come in. I'll put the kettle on.'

She put her key in the lock, glancing behind her at the man who was standing there patiently. Once she'd turned the key he picked up her shopping bag for her and as she pushed at the door nothing happened. She pushed again. The door had opened an inch or so but there was something behind it, blocking the way. She turned to Dremmer who was watching her with dispassionate interest, like a scientist observing an experiment.

‘Something the matter?'

‘I can't get the door open.'

He put the bag down and pushed the door. The blockage seemed to shift a little but not enough.

Lydia began to panic. She'd read about the burglaries in the local paper, the barriers of furniture built to block the front door before the burglar searched the premises and escaped through a back door or window. His victims were always women who lived alone and the thought that she'd been targeted made her feel nauseous. He had known she lived alone and violated her home, her refuge.

‘I think I can shift it.'

Dremmer was only average height but he was wiry, probably stronger than he looked. He pushed, breathless with the effort, and after a while the door had opened wide enough for him to squeeze around the barrier of furniture.

‘Stay there,' he said, raising a warning hand. ‘I'll make sure everything's all right.'

He vanished into the flat, leaving Lydia chewing her finger nails, something she'd sworn to herself she'd never do again. She could hear her heart pounding and her hands felt numb. Perhaps this was just another nightmare. Perhaps she'd wake up soon and her state of helpless semi-paralysis would disappear.

But she heard a voice, all too real. Karl Dremmer's voice, calm and matter of fact. ‘We'd better call the police,' he said. ‘I don't think we should touch anything in here so have you got your mobile?'

When she opened her bag there seemed to be no feeling in her fingers and, as she fumbled for her phone, the contents spilled out on to the floor.

Emily was annoyed. Annoyed with herself for eating an extra large slice of chocolate cake and annoyed with Melanie Hawkes for standing her up. She'd called her as soon as she returned to the office, ready to tell her that wasting police time was a serious offence. Then she'd reminded herself that their appointment had been a private matter, a request made to a social contact rather than anything official, but this didn't make her feel any better. She'd been quite short with Melanie when she apologized, saying she'd been unavoidably delayed. And no, she'd sorted the matter out herself, thank you very much.

She'd given no hint as to what ‘the matter' might have been. In fact she'd sounded cagey – guilty even – and Emily couldn't help being curious, it was in her nature. But she had other things to worry about.

It was six thirty – the time most people were heading home. But a call had just come in; a young woman living in a flat on Boothgate had just returned home to find she'd been burgled and this one fitted the same pattern as the others. It was The Builder all right and she was his sixth victim.

So far nobody had disturbed the burglar as he went about his work, but sooner or later that situation would change. And if he was cornered, Emily had a nagging fear that things could turn nasty.

She'd driven there right away with Joe in an unmarked car and now they were standing side by side at the front entrance to Boothgate House. It was an impressive building, built of mellow stone with white-framed sash windows at a time when taste and good proportion ruled. Joe had told her it had been built two hundred and fifty years ago as an asylum for the insane and the small overgrown graveyard to the left of the building with its crooked, blackened headstones, hinted at this darker history. Joe also told her that there used to be a high wall around the perimeter of the grounds so the people of Eborby couldn't see what was going on inside. But the developers had lowered it. No secrets now.