A Ghost at the Door (10 page)

‘I’ll survive,’ Harry replied in a voice that didn’t sound anything like his own.

Harry began retching but it cleared his lungs. The fireman sat him in the shade of a jacaranda tree that marked the boundary of Miss Ranelagh’s property; another fireman offered an oxygen
mask that Harry clamped to his face until the sweet gas began blowing away the clouds of confusion.

‘What’s your name?’ the fireman demanded.

‘Harry. It’s Harry,’ he said, still coughing.

‘OK, Harry, this is important. Is there anyone else inside?’

Harry shook his head. ‘No. I had a good look round.’

‘Almost too damned good, I’d say.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You sure there’s no one? What about Miss Ranelagh? Is she there?’

‘No,’ Harry replied, now very clear in his mind. ‘The lady’s gone.’

They were almost indecently polite, the police and the fire officials, treated him like a hero once they were clear he’d arrived only after the fire had started, a man
who’d dashed heedlessly into the flames in search of Miss Ranelagh. It was a good story that, if not entirely accurate, had the advantage of being pretty damned close to the truth. Yet still
there were answers to be given. Harry was shaken, wanted time to think and point-blank refused hospital treatment, but agreed to come in for an interview later in the day at Hamilton police
station. One over-eager policeman tried to pester him on the spot but came to a sudden halt as the car in the garage blew up, taking the roof of the garage with it and sending debris flying like
fireworks. After that, every hand was bent to ensuring the fire didn’t spread to neighbouring properties. So they let him go, for the moment. They could afford to be relaxed. This was Bermuda
– there was nowhere for Harry to go without their knowing.

‘OK, this afternoon. The police headquarters on Victoria Street. You know it?’ the policeman asked. ‘Three blocks back from the harbour front.’

‘I’ll find it.’

The crowd was larger now, but silent, gathered in awe to watch the last rites being pronounced over the mass of charred timbers and still-erupting ash that until an hour before had been their
neighbour’s house. Harry found his moped lying in the dust where he’d abandoned it. Kenny was standing guard.

‘I wouldn’t let no one touch it, mister,’ the kid said.

‘Thanks, Kenny.’

‘I knew you was coming back.’

‘Did you?’

‘Sure, won a bet on it. They all thought you was a lunatic.’

‘They may be right. See you around, Kenny.’

The bike had leaked a puddle of fuel that had stained the dust, but it coughed and kicked over after a couple of jabs at the starter button. Harry settled gingerly into the saddle, gripping the
handlebars, trying to pretend his hands weren’t shaking. He turned his wrist and set off much more steadily than he’d arrived, wondering why the stench of the fire still filled his
nostrils even as he left it well behind. It was only after he’d run his hand across his face that he realized he had scorched his eyebrows and hair; it was he who stank. His eyes were still
protesting from the hot ash, tears trickled down his cheeks, his shoulder ached from its encounter with Miss Ranelagh’s rear door, his back was protesting at being thrown out of a first-floor
window and his knee was bruised after coming off second best in its tussle with the overstuffed armchair. Still, he’d been worse, but the older he got the less comfort that overused excuse
seemed to give him. He had little idea where he was going, had no desire to return straight to the hotel, so he lost himself on a road that meandered down towards the south of the narrow island,
past beaches and clubs and isolated strips of clean, elegant sand. Soon the sea air was filling his lungs and brushing his soul clean once more. The road twisted and turned along the shore, like a
ribbon that had been thrown down in a gentle Atlantic breeze. For much of its length it had neither footpath nor hard shoulder, was simply edged by grass or scrub or bare sand, or overlooked gentle
cliffs that dropped to the sea below. He passed a fire engine, lights flashing, horn blaring, headed in the opposite direction; Miss Ranelagh’s house was evidently still putting up a fight.
As he rode on, the houses became more isolated and the shoreline more insistent; he relaxed as he leaned the bike into the road’s gentle corners, disturbing the gulls that had taken up
squatters’ rights along this increasingly empty stretch of roadway. They gave a raucous cry as he approached, lifting away on the currents of salt air that welled up from the breaking sea
below.

It was as their cries of protest were carried away and died on the breeze that Harry realized he was no longer alone. He sensed before he saw the approach of another vehicle behind him, a
flatbed delivery truck with a white driver’s cabin, and as he stared in his mirrors he saw yet another, a red Toyota hatchback typical of the neat and modest cars on an island that had only
130 miles of public roads and a ferocious vehicle import tax. He hugged the side of the single-lane road to give them plenty of passing room and opened the throttle a little as the route began to
lift above the sea. The other vehicles closed, then seemed to hesitate, reluctant. In his mirror Harry could see the driver of the truck, eyes staring from a dark and shaven head with an expression
that suggested this wasn’t a casual morning delivery run, nor did it suggest he was the type who spent his life driving in the slow lane. Beneath him and to one side he could see the waves
beating against rocks that formed the face of a modest cliff. Harry eased off, allowing the moped to slow as it tackled the increased elevation of the road. The truck and car slowed with him. Harry
squeezed out a little extra speed; the others kept their place. And suddenly Harry’s ear was screaming at him.

He searched ahead for some form of cover, some means of escape, a side road, a place to run where they couldn’t follow, but to his left the road fell away to the rocks below while on his
right the front of the truck had pulled alongside him. He could see the driver directly now, through the truck’s open window, was looking straight into his eyes. They were cold eyes, yet
filled with excitement. Intent on doing Harry great harm.

Behind him the red Toyota had drawn up close, revving its engine like the pant of a pursuing animal, almost brushing into his rear wheel, falling back a few feet, then accelerating close again.
They were running him down. And now, to his horror, Harry could see another man kneeling in the back of the flatbed, dreadlocks dangling from beneath a multicoloured Rasta hat, clinging to the
truck with one hand while his other massive fist was closed around the handle of a baseball bat. The bastard was grinning with enthusiasm.

The truck edged still closer. Harry couldn’t brake: he’d be mown down by the car behind. Neither could he outrun them. Below him the rocks snarled like angry teeth. He was trapped.
They would beat him senseless with the bat or break his leg or ribs, or force him off the road and onto the rocks without leaving a mark on either truck or car to suggest they had any involvement
in what would be classed as a tragic accident. They’d timed it well, for the road was reaching its highest point above the rocks. Harry was toast. Damp, dismembered toast.

The truck drew ever nearer; the bastard with the bat gave a practise swipe, getting his eye in, grinning so hard his face threatened to crack in two. The solid ash club whistled inches past
Harry’s head. A second swipe. Closer still. Ready for the final blow. The Toyota’s engine roared in triumph, the truck driver hit his horn in anticipation of victory. Then for an
instant the truck veered away. Only a fraction and only for a second as it bounced into a pothole and the driver wrestled with the wheel, but it was all Harry needed. He had nowhere else to go. He
drove straight off the cliff.

Harry knew he was still alive, but only because he hurt too much to be dead. He remembered falling off the cliff, tumbling past screaming seagulls, twisting, trying to find a
sliver of clear water between the gnashing teeth of rock, and failing. The last thing he remembered before slamming into the side of an outcrop of volcanic limestone was the blue-ringed eye of a
gannet staring at him in disbelief. Then nothing, until now. He took a breath. Almost choked. He’d done enough to survive but the pain told him it had been a close-run thing.

Slowly he opened his eyes, struggled to gain some sort of focus, found a dark face staring at him. It wasn’t grinning, thank God. And the eyes were generous, if clouded with concern.

‘Where am I?’

‘Hospital,’ the nurse said, taking his wrist to check his pulse. ‘The King Edward Memorial Hospital to be precise.’ She let go his wrist; Harry became aware that his
other arm was held captive by a swathe of plaster that stretched from biceps to hand.

‘What’s the damage?’

‘Oh, considering what you been up to, you got off light. You have a pretty bad concussion, then there’s a dislocated shoulder, and you made a bit of a mess of your right
elbow.’ She shook her head in exasperation; Harry could see her more clearly now. ‘We had to operate and put a pin in it for you. You hurting?’

Harry slowly tested the various parts of his body. He was. Everywhere.

‘You gotta hurt a bit to heal. And you seem to have got yourself a prize collection of scrapes and scratches and scorch marks and stuff, but, judging by the old scars we found, you be well
used to that. So you ache, maybe have a bit of trouble with your right arm, but you’ll live. This time.’ Her tone smacked of matronly disapproval. Her face, with its frizzy greying
hair, disappeared from his line of sight. He could hear her fussing over a few more observations, then he heard the door close. He stretched a little, tested the muscles in his neck, looked around
and found another black female face staring at him. This too, had disapproval written firm across it. The shape of the face was oval with a prominent chin, the skin smooth and several shades
lighter than that of the nurse. She was also wearing a different uniform, a starched white shirt, epaulettes and black shoulder lanyard that identified her as an inspector in the Bermuda Police
Service. She was studying him with eyes that were sharp and expressive. The lips were equally animated.

‘You up to a few questions, Mr Jones?’

‘Depends how many.’

‘Quite a few in your case.’

‘And I suspect none of them is what I want for breakfast.’

‘Breakfast? It’ll soon be time for tea.’

Harry blinked, focused more sharply. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Inspector Hope. Inspector Delicious Hope.’

He began to splutter; her eyes flashed in warning.

‘You and me, we’ve got some talking to do, Mr Jones.’

‘About?’

‘Accidents. Maybe arson.’

He was about to protest that it wasn’t any sort of bloody accident when some instinctive hand held him back. He had no idea what sort of hole he’d jumped into, except for the fact
that it had almost got him killed. He trod with caution. ‘You said arson?’

‘That’s what it looks like. Too early to be sure but there are signs an accelerant was used.’

‘And Miss Ranelagh?’

‘Yes, that’s something else we’re rather keen to ask you about.’

‘She’s . . .?’

‘Disappeared. We haven’t finished searching, haven’t been able to touch the basement. It was sure one mother of a fire.’ A significant pause. ‘We’d like to
know what you were doing there.’

‘Me? A family friend. Called on her yesterday, she invited me back today.’

‘Can you prove that?’

‘Why should I need to?’

‘Because we have a suspicious fire and a little old lady who’s suddenly gone missing.’

‘And I’m helping you with your enquiries.’

She bit her bottom lip and exposed startling white teeth. ‘Let me put it this way, Mr Jones, you’re right at the top of my list. I’m just not sure about you. You’re
either a hero or some mean arsonist and maybe even a murderer. I’d like to know which.’

‘Somewhere in between, I guess.’

‘You up to this?’

He nodded. He concentrated on her shirt and after a momentary struggle the sharp creases on her breast pocket came into focus. He decided that was a good sign, even though it caused the
inspector’s eyes to narrow in irritation.

‘How do you know Miss Ranelagh?’ she asked.

‘I didn’t say I knew her.’

‘You said—’

‘A family friend. Of my father.’ He stirred, managed a wiggle of his legs and groaned as they transformed into a river of fire. He twisted his neck stiffly to look around him.
‘I had a photograph . . .’

‘This one?’ She held it up gently by its corners. It showed every mark of its ordeal by fire and water yet it was still clearly recognizable. ‘I’m afraid the frame
didn’t make it. I’m told they took pieces of it out from between your ribs.’

‘You’ve been through my things,’ he sighed.

‘Of course. We needed to ID you. And, when we had, I made you my prime suspect. In fact, at this stage you’re my only suspect.’

‘Inspector, I think you need a little more imagination.’

‘And you perhaps have a little too much of it, Mr Jones,’ she said, holding his eye as it threatened to wander back towards her breasts.