A Ghost in the Machine (50 page)

He remembered the scene where she had led him up to explaining how it was he who had control of her legacy. Led him like a stupid donkey to admit something she already knew. How her eyes had widened with amazement. She had actually flung her arms around his neck and wept genuine tears. And then, to compound the lie, the pretence that she had only joined this syndicate in the first place to make money for him. So that he could leave the Ewan Sedgewick and be well again. How confident he had been then of her love; how overwhelmingly proud.

Endless recollections like this combined to leave him rigid with outrage and misery and shock. When, after a long silence, she tried to speak again he turned on her.

“I'm so sorry, Daddy—”

“Don't call me Daddy. You're not five now.”

“I'll pay it back.”

“And don't talk such rubbish.”

“I'll work hard—”

“You've cleaned us out.”

“I'll make money. In the city you can. Five years—”

“Don't lie. You've no intention—”

“I have. I have…”

“I'm sick of your lies.”

“I promise—”

“And I'm sick of you.”

“Mallory—”

“Still, there's always a bright side. At least we've seen the back of those grudging visits. You hardly bothered to take your coat off half the time.”

“Back of…?”

“Now we're broke I've no doubt we'll quickly be found expendable.”

“Please, Dad.”

“Mind you, there's still Appleby House,” said Mallory, stony-eyed. “That must be worth a bob or two. Could be some while before you can cash in though.”

Polly dried the shining fall of tears on her pink-striped dress. She hadn't looked at her parents since the beginning of her confession. Now she began slowly to get up.

“Because I'm buggered if I'm going to die just to please you.”

“
Mallory
–
stop it…
”

Kate caught up with Polly near the terrace steps. She took her arm but Polly gently disengaged it, shaking her head. She said quietly, “Stay with him,” before going into the house.

That was hours ago. Kate and Mallory, willingly abandoning the now-tainted comfort of the cedar's shade, had moved to the terrace and were still sitting there under a darkening sky. A sudden cool wind ruffled the roses.

For a long tune Mallory had said little and Kate had said nothing. He was glad she was there. He didn't want to be alone but could not have borne anyone else to witness his mortification. Now she was taking his hand, kissing it, holding it against her cheek. The magnanimity of the gesture overwhelmed him. He thought of her life, what he had dragged her through. How modest her ambition had been: to live quietly and happily with her family and publish a few worthwhile books. And now even that was to be denied her.

“Listen,” she was saying, taking his other hand, “everything we had yesterday we have today.” Then, when he looked incredulous: “All right, we've discovered some things we didn't know—”

“Like our daughter's a thief.”

“But nothing important has changed.”

“I believed in her. I thought she loved me.”

“Darling—she loves us both as much as she's able. She's…Polly.”

Even the sound of her name hurt. How ridiculous. So his eyes had been opened: his illusions shattered. Wasn't it about time? A man of his age should be past such wistful imaginings. Ordinary common sense could have told him nothing lasts and things are never what they seem. Much better to view life from a clear uncluttered perspective. So it looks suddenly barren and drained of colour – he'd just have to get used to it. And it beat being rammed up to the eyeballs in a cesspit of deceit.

He remembered years ago his aunt saying that human beings are meant to live within certain limits. And if we do not live within these limits everything goes wrong. Had he unknowingly exceeded them in some way? Perhaps by too greedily embracing the happiness that had, at last, appeared to be his lot.

“How do you do it, Kate?”

“It's my nature.” She knew what he meant. “So I can't really take the credit.”

“Do you think…this speculation…” The yearning tightened his throat. He could hardly get the word out. “She was actually doing it for us?”

“Of course she was doing it for us.” Kate was amazed. “Who else would she be doing it for?”

“I don't know. I don't know anything any more.”

They sat on in silence. The sky became an even darker blue. Pinpricks of silver light appeared.

Kate said, “Look – the stars are coming out.”

And Mallory said, “Not from where I'm sitting.”

Kate went into the house then to prepare supper. It was still and quiet. The kitchen smelled of sweet peas and the coriander Benny had chopped to sprinkle on the carrot soup that was never eaten. On the table was a note.

By mid-morning the following day the appeal for passengers alighting at Northwick Park off the 6:10 p.m. Metropolitan Line train from Uxbridge on Wednesday, 8 August had been widely circulated. DCI Barnaby of Causton CID, the officer in charge of the case, appeared at the conclusion of the local television news at 1:30. His appeal was also broadcast from radio stations, both commercial and BBC.

“That should smoke him out,” said DS Troy as the chief returned from the press room, rubbing crossly at his face with what looked like a tea towel.

“I can't stand this stuff. What the hell does it matter if the light catches my nose?”

Sergeant Troy thought, at least they've covered up his black eye. He said, “I'll do it next time, if you like.”

There was an immediate chorus of jeers and “ooohhhs.” Sergeant Troy sneered silently back, noticed the lovely Abby Rose, who had not joined in the mockery, smiling sympathetically, and was struck afresh by her beauty. Having been true to his unconsummated longing for Sergeant Brierly for as long as he could remember Troy had lately noticed a definite coarsening in Audrey's features, a blurring of that matchless profile. Also, since her promotion to a rank level with his own, she had become overconfident, even a touch sarky. Admiration was definitely off the menu there. Respect likewise.

DCI Barnaby noticed the exchange of looks and hoped things would go no further. Fancying other people was human nature, and the workplace was often a forcing house for an attraction that, denied propinquity, could well die a natural death. The physical and emotional closeness police work often entailed made such situations especially hazardous. Barnaby himself had never been unfaithful, though there had been one or two very close calls. The second so close it had led to a request for a transfer.

Troy was turning away now, giving all his attention to the ringing of Barnaby's direct line. The DCI stretched out his hand and Troy handed the receiver over.

“Leo Fortune, sir.”

“Mr. Fortune?”

Barnaby listened. Troy watched, trying to read the chief's reaction. Plenty of the old gravitas, some frowning. Now he was groping around for a pencil.

“That is remarkable. Will you prosecute?…What about the other files?…If you remember I suggested that you should…I am aware that tomorrow's Saturday…”

There was a bit more along these lines and the conversation ended.

As he hung up Barnaby said, “The girl's practically emptied the Lawson account.”

“Crikey. What are they going to do about it?”

“Fortune's not sure. She didn't break in, did no damage and only took money belonging to herself and her parents.”

“Look bad for the firm if this gets out. Lack of security.”

“Exactly. What amazed him was that all the cash then went on shares that were generally known to be worthless.”

Troy, perching on the chief's desk, gave a snort of satisfaction. “So much for high-flyers.” He removed himself to be more comfortable in a swivel chair. “How did she break into the account anyway? Aren't they supposed to have passwords?”

“These were all in medieval French. Brinkley believed this made them incomprehensible to anyone except a specialist scholar and left the disk in an unlocked desk drawer. As for the rest—”

“You think she's been stealing from other accounts?”

“Don't know. And won't know till Monday when the lazy beggars drift back into work.”

“Be fair, Chief. Even money men need a break.”

Barnaby was cross and impatient. Two murders had been committed here. One of a man who thought so well of his staff he had left them his share of the business. And where was this staff when the police needed them? Playing golf, shopping, swimming with the kids, visiting garden centres. Fortune himself was going to a wedding, offering the pitifully lame excuse that the groom was his eldest son.

“Cheer up, sir,” said Sergeant Troy, whose spirits always rose on seeing those of others fall. “It's not as if it's urgent.”

 

During morning service at St. Anselm's, Benny sat and kneeled and stood and sat again, all the time grappling with the jumbled desolation of her thoughts. She couldn't seem to sort her emotions out. Loneliness, keen as a knife, was paramount. She had tried to counteract this by flooding her mind with happy memories. Presently, as the vicar droned through his sermon, she was remembering the last time she and Dennis had been together. The turbot he had cooked so beautifully, the delicious chocolate pudding. And how they had talked about being involved with the Celandine Press and what fun it would be.

Now all that was gone. Anger against whoever had so cruelly ended a gentle, harmless existence was forever prowling on the fringe of Benny's conscience, seeking to get a grip. As a Christian she tried to fight this but the simple, unquestioning faith that had supported her all her life was crumbling. The idea that if you were good and kind and hurt no one God would look after you was plainly a lie. Which left prayers, always her first and last resort in times of trouble, no more than ashes in the mouth.

Now she stood for the final hymn, recited the meaningless words, then stumbled from her pew and up the aisle. Flinching from the vicar's flabby handshake and warm stare of compassion, Benny made her way to Dennis's grave. How bare it looked now the wreaths had been removed. How suddenly neglected. She must arrange for a stone. Sensing that people were observing her and wary of clumsy attempts at consolation Benny didn't linger.

But where was she to go? The obvious place, home, for the first time ever did not appeal. Something had happened at Appleby House. Something wrong, even bad. It had started when Mallory had gone tearing off to London and come back with Polly. The next day she, Benny, had been cutting back the first lupins when Chief Inspector Barnaby had come back. He had taken Polly away, holding her arm as if she might run off. Kate and Mallory went as well.

Distressed and bewildered, Benny watched for their return, instinctively keeping out of sight. She had stayed in the flat with only Croydon for company that night and all the following day, making a brief phone call so no one would worry. Pretending she had the beginnings of a cold and didn't want to spread it about.

Now, hesitating at St. Anselm's lych-gate and suddenly drawn by the peaceful sound of rippling water, Benny turned from the big house and made her way to the banks of the stream. She sat down beneath a drooping willow, folding her hands quietly in her lap until gradually the turmoil in her mind gentled down to just plain sorrow. Then, to keep the disturbance at bay, began deliberately to plan for the future.

 

The whole orchard was resonant with the thrumming of wasps and bees. Mallory didn't know what he was doing there except that it didn't really matter where he was, so this was as good a place to be as any. Ladders still rested against the trees and half-full baskets of ripe apples, carefully labelled, were stacked on trestle tables. Peasgood Nonsuch, Coeur de Boeuf, Api Rose. The heat brought out their full, rich fragrance.

He would give anything to switch his mind off. Half his kingdom, as the fairy tales used to have it. The ones he read to Polly. Except now he had no kingdom. No financial kingdom and no other sort of kingdom either. Trust and happiness, the only riches worth having, had vanished. All right for Kate to say they could now all have a more honest relationship. She had lost nothing and gained everything. That this made Mallory jealous only increased his self-disgust. Mean-spirited it appeared as well as gullible.

Kate stood briefly in the opening of the blue door. Every now and then she sought her husband out, not always declaring her presence. There was nothing she could do but be there. Sooner or later things would change; he would change. Until then she would occupy herself with the ongoing development of the Celandine Press.

Kate was aware, though he had not put it in so many words, that Mallory now presumed this venture to be at an end. No money, no business. On the contrary. She was more determined than ever that it should go ahead. And they now had two titles to launch. She had written to the author of
The Sidewinder Café
, one of the outstanding novels that she had unsuccessfully recommended for publication, found the title still available and offered a tiny advance plus a high percentage of royalties. Any loss from this title Kate believed would be more than offset by
The King's Armourer.
Though there were no certainties in publishing she had been in the business too long not to sniff out a winner when it fell into her hands. Still no response from E. M. Walker but August was a holiday month so this was no surprise.

Last night, with Mallory slumped in front of the television – talk about back to square one – Kate had sat at the kitchen table sorting out their finances. There was Mal's pension, her own savings, their profit on the London house and twenty thousand a year in rent from Pippins Direct. Both pension and rent would be taxed but they could live reasonably on what remained.

The computers and printers had already been bought and Kate planned to edit and produce the books herself. Financially this would be well within their grasp. It was not printing books but their promotion and distribution that took the money. The big companies would spend thousands on publicity for a single title. Even bribing booksellers was not unknown. The Celandine Press's budget would be tiny. But Kate had a lot of contacts in the business and planned to make use of every one. She already had several ideas for a website and even thought of publishing “taster” chapters in advance on the Net.

She was in good spirits as well as happy. Indeed, it was astonishing considering what they had all been through in the last couple of weeks, just how happy she was. Until it had been unexpectedly watered by Polly's tears Kate had not realised what a dry, enclosed place her heart had gradually become. Now, whatever happened, she would never cross that particular desert again.

Closing the orchard door she wandered back through the walled garden. The espaliered figs were so ripe, so luscious and bursting with juice that she picked one and held it, soft and warm, in the palm of her hand. She flung her head back and squeezed the rosy seeds into her mouth, then, wiping her fingers on her denim skirt, made her way to Benny's flat. She had already been round once but no one came to the door, which had been locked. Unsure whether Benny was still sleeping, nursing her cold or had gone to church, Kate had left, deciding to come back later.

But now was later and Benny was still nowhere to be seen. Becoming anxious, for morning service must have finished long ago, Kate hurried to the churchyard, half expecting to find her sitting by Dennis's grave. Guiltily she remembered her determined vow always to look after Benny. How long ago was that made? Less than a fortnight at the outside.

The village shop would now be closed. Perhaps she had gone to visit Doris? Or really was at home but too ill to come to the door. By now seriously worried, Kate was just leaving the churchyard when she saw Benny sitting by the humpbacked bridge, gazing into the running water. Kate hurried over but before she could call out Benny turned, got up and immediately began a conversation. She had come to a decision. It was about the Celandine Press. Could they have a meeting as soon as possible? A business meeting, that was.

Kate, intrigued, smiled and said, “Of course we can. Mallory's in the orchard. We'll go and find him straightaway.”

 

Troy stood over the whirring fax as the paper unfurled. Only a tiny percentage of his attention was involved in deciphering the details of Dennis Brinkley's telephone calls. Most of the rest was on Abby Rose Carter, sitting next to the machine. On the fragrance of her hair and the downy sweetness of the back of her neck. Sex was on Troy's mind a lot at the moment. Only last night he had dreamed of Nigella Lawson. She had been wearing satin pyjamas and standing in front of a towering silver fridge eating chocolate cheesecake. He had awoken in an ecstasy of longing, though whether for Nigella, the cheesecake or the pyjamas he could not quite disentangle, such was the bewildering fluidity of the dream.

“Details of Brinkley's calls, Chief.” He tore the paper off. “Poor old sod. Half a dozen in as many weeks and that's pushing it.”

Barnaby held out his hand. He recalled his own bills, especially when Cully had still been at home. Once the damage had been so completely unbelievable that he had asked for an itemised breakdown and received seven pages of information so tightly packed he had gone nearly cross-eyed struggling to make sense of it.

Dennis's calls, made and received, were certainly few and far between. To Barnaby's mind this did not make him a “poor old sod” but rather a person who lived simply and had found a measure of contentment in his own company. He was certainly not without the gift of evoking affection, as the interviews at Brinkley and Latham had clearly showed.

As Barnaby stared at the fax his fingertips began to tingle. A call had been made from Kinders at 11:17 p.m. on Monday, 23 July. Made after Brinkley had returned, having seen Polly Lawson illegally enter his office. Had he made the call himself? Barnaby thought it must be so. Brian Allibone had seen Dennis drive off, unaccompanied. It was pretty unlikely he would have picked up someone along the way and brought them home.

The DCI dialled the given number. He did not check it out, feeling sure it would belong to Appleby House. But he was wrong. The Lathams' answerphone responded. Gilda was presumably elsewhere, improving the shining hour; no doubt composing haiku, perfecting her butterfly stroke, de-constructing Milton, whatever. Latham himself, on the other hand, was probably lolling in the hammock, getting outside a few blue label Stolichnayas and wisely ignoring the call lest it give his prohibited presence away. Which suited Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby just fine.

He asked for the car to be brought round. Troy got this sorted in double-quick time, which was a shame as they had no sooner driven off the forecourt than devastating news arrived, via Leo Fortune, that seemed to blow the whole case wide open.