Ghosts Know (12 page)

A policeman and his brawny short-haired colleague tramp down the steps to stare at the drain and then at me and Sherlock’s owner. “Who called this in?” the policewoman shouts above the duet for dog and helicopter.

“Shut it, Sherlock.” I’m gratified to see that the policewoman thinks he means her until he bellows “I was talking to the dog.”

“Who made the call?”

“He did.” He’s visibly relieved to displace her attention onto me. “I wouldn’t have,” he yells. “I don’t think there’s anything to bother you about.”

“Then why are you here?”

“It’s all right, Sherlock. The lady doesn’t mean us any harm.” When this seems to impress neither her nor the dog he roars “He needed my torch.”

“You’re together.”

“Never saw him before in my life.” He looks insulted, and I wonder if this might offend her. “He wanted a lend of it,” he bawls. “You couldn’t see what’s there without it.”

She peers across the canal and then into my face. Before she speaks it’s clear that she’s transferring onto me any antagonism he has provoked. “It was you,” she says—proclaims, rather.

“I called you if that’s what you mean.”

What else could she? Her frown may be asking that too. “You said there was somebody in the canal,” she shouts.

“I thought so. You wouldn’t have wanted me not to call if I wasn’t sure, would you?”

Perhaps she thinks she oughtn’t to be questioned, like any representative of the police in fiction. Her frown doesn’t relent as she retorts “Is your eyesight better than your friend’s?”

“He’s already said we’re strangers. Maybe I’m more alert, more concerned if you like.” Louder still I holler “I’m Graham Wilde. I work up there at Waves.”

“That’s where you’ve been.”

“I was on my way back home.”

Throughout the interrogation I’ve been aware of the constant movements of the fingers at the edge of my vision. They could almost be as restless with impatience as I am. “Please wait here,” the policewoman shouts.

“What about us?” yells Sherlock’s owner.

She scowls at the dog before deciding “I’ll just take your details.”

Meanwhile her colleague has been talking to his phone as a crowd gathers on the bridge. A little sooner than she finishes writing in her notebook, Sherlock drags the man in the direction of the crowd. As he stumbles at an enforced run up the steps, the dog starts to bark at someone who’s descending. The policeman holds up a hand to detain her, but Christine points at me. Whatever she says persuades him to let her by, and she calls “What are you doing here, Graham?”

“Waiting because I’ve been told to.” Since I’m not sure if she hears this—she still looks puzzled if not worse—I shout louder “Don’t start thinking it’s another of my secrets.”

I’m so close to deafening myself that I only belatedly notice that the clatter of the helicopter has withdrawn across the roofs while a new set of lights sails along the canal. How many people heard my protest? Christine might be speaking on behalf of all of them as she asks “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t know what was here till I walked past tonight,” I say, adding not just for her benefit “Twice.”

“What is, Graham?”

“What does it look like to you?”

She shades her eyes and peers where I’m pointing The floodlight on the police boat has yet to reach the drain. The policewoman and her colleague are staring at it too. My vision must need to recover from being nearly blinded by the helicopter; the bars and the clutter bumping against them are almost impossible to distinguish. By straining my eyes I manage to isolate the lifelike gestures in the water, and Christine whispers “It isn’t a body, is it? Is that what you think?”

“You see it too.”

“I don’t know what I’m seeing, Graham,” she says and gazes into my face.

The boat chugs to the drain, and a policeman swings the floodlight beam towards the water. As the fight finds the drain I could imagine that the fingers are struggling to acknowledge the search. “Don’t say you’re right,” Christine says while she grips my arm.

Her sharing my conviction makes the imminent discovery altogether too real, and I turn to the policeman. “Do we really have to stay?”

His colleague scowls as if I’ve slighted her. “You were asked.”

“She doesn’t, surely.”

I’m only trying to protect Christine, but too late I hear how it sounds. “Not your partner,” I say with more of a laugh than I’m entirely able to control. “Mine.”

This isn’t too fortunate either. Who said I had a way with language? Perhaps I’m thrown by the appearance on the boat of a masked shape with flippers and black reptilian skin. It isn’t the frogman’s resemblance to a monster from a vintage film that troubles me; it’s knowing why he’s there. Christine grips my arm harder, and I think she’s about to retreat until she says “I’ll stay with you, Graham.”

Her grasp feels like my apprehension rendered palpable. I watch the frogman tip backwards into the water and vanish with no sound that’s audible above the chugging of the engine. Almost at once he grows visible again, a vague shape gliding under the surface of the lit section of the canal. He’s setting off ripples that darken as they expand towards me, and every one seems more ominous. I can just make out some confused activity around the submerged portion of the drain, and its lack of definition robs me of breath. Then I gasp, not only because Christine’s nails have dug into my arm. A head has bobbed above the water by the drain.

It isn’t the frogman. I’m put in mind of a sleepy teenager poking her tousled head out of the sheets, sulkily reluctant to be wakened by a parent. Her puffy eyes look swollen shut—-and then I realise that the face framed by hair like waterlogged brownish string isn’t discoloured just by the glare of the floodlight. Worse, she appears to have left some of her face elsewhere. I turn hastily away to put my arm around Christine’s shoulders, urging her to look away as well. “They’ve found her,” I mutter, though I didn’t recognise the face. “The Goodchild girl.”

“What took you down by the canal last night?”

“‘I just wanted a chance to think.”

‘You weren’t looking for Kylie Goodchild.”

“I wasn’t, no. Well, hang on, let me answer that again. I suppose I’ve always been looking for her, I mean since I heard she was missing, like anybody who did must have been. I’ve kept an eye open for her, but I didn’t go by the canal to look.”

“You weren’t expecting to find her.”

“Of course I wasn’t. How could I be?”

‘So when did you know you had?”

“I didn’t. That’s to say I didn’t know. I just thought it was best to call the police so they could investigate.”

“‘And what made you do that? What did you see?”

“Jesus Christ, Trevor.” In case this is insufficiently disruptive I add “You’re never going to put this on the air.”

“I like to get as much as I can and then edit. That’s how I work.”

“Be a bit more careful with your questions or you’ll end up with no interview.”

“I don’t think Paula would like that.”

“I’ll have to do without my sweet, will I?”

“Come on, Graham. I appreciate you must be shaken after last night, but we’re all professionals here, aren’t we? We want to get this out as soon
as we can for the sake of the station. I’d have caught you earlier if you’d let us know you’d found her.”

We’re in the conference room, and the interview feels altogether too reminiscent of my interrogation by the police. I even have a plastic cup of water, because my throat keeps growing dry at the thought of the girl’s face rearing up from the canal. At least I’m beyond the reach of the sunlight that slants into the room, but the controlled temperature gives me shivers even if I brace myself. Trevor ignores the latest one and says “Ready to go on?”

Perhaps I’m being unreasonable; I agreed to be recorded, after all. “If you’ve thought of something else.”

“I’ve nearly finished with you.” After barely enough of a pause to leave him room to edit, Trevor says “How did you feel when they found Kylie Goodchild?”

Of all the questions the media ask the bereaved these days, that’s the kind I loathe most. I shouldn’t take it personally—I’m not involved in her death, after all—but I can’t help demanding “How do you think I felt?”

“I wouldn’t claim to know. People don’t all react the same.”

“Sad.” When he turns one hand palm upwards as if he’s lifting an invisible burden I say “I felt as I imagine anybody would. Sad to see a young girl go like that, losing her life for no reason.”

“And finally, do you have any message for her family?”

“Good Christ almighty, Trevor.” I’m almost provoked to shout that or worse, but instead I say “I hope the family can remember her as they knew her. I’m sure they will in time.”

I can’t be sure of anything of the kind, nor even if I should have said it. Before I’m able to make this clear Lofthouse says “Thanks for that, Graham. Let me get on with putting it together.”

“Aren’t you going to interview Christine as well?”

“She says it was all you,” he informs me and marches off with the recorder to evict whoever’s working in the news studio.

I’m heading for the water cooler when Paula appears in the doorway of her office. “Before you go public, Graham, I just want to say that as long as someone had to find that poor girl, I’m glad it was someone from Waves.”

“Only someone?”

“Not only that at all. It was nobody but you, the increasingly famous Graham Wilde.”

There are achievements I’d rather be famous for, not least my novel. I’ve yet to write down the ideas I had by the canal; I would have felt uncomfortable if Christine had observed me doing so. “Build on it, Graham,” Paula says and shuts her door.

I might have expected her to offer me a sweet if not the entire bowl. I drain a plastic cup of water and refill it before heading for Christine’s desk. “Apparently,” I say not too low for her neighbours to hear, “I’m expected to take advantage of finding Kylie Goodchild.”

Christine frowns, though not as much as I was hoping. “Do whatever you feel you should, Graham.”

I’m in the studio with my headphones on by the time the news bulletin starts. “Police have confirmed that the body of a girl discovered last night in the Rochdale Canal is that of missing fifteen-year-old Kylie Goodchild from Crumpsall…” I’m afraid that Lofthouse or one of his team may have bothered the Goodchilds for a comment, but perhaps they’re giving them time to recover if not to compose a sound bite. “The police were called by Graham Wilde, the presenter of Wilde Card on Waves Radio…” This is followed by my voice, which seems more removed from me than ever. “I suppose I’ve always been looking for her, I mean since I heard she was missing. I’ve kept an eye open for her, but I didn’t go by the canal to look. I just thought it was best to call the police so they could investigate. I felt as I imagine anybody would. Sad to see a young girl go like that, losing her life for no reason.”

At least Trevor has left out my message to the Goodchilds. Christine is in the control room, widening her eyes at me while she tilts her head. If that expresses sympathy, I don’t think I deserve it. “Save it for her parents,” I say into the microphone, but she looks puzzled if not disappointed. Sammy Baxter tells us to expect an even hotter one, and then it’s time for me.

Today is Plant A Plant Day. For no remotely useful reason I’m conscious that the words mean Children And Children in Welsh. My first caller says just one plant won’t help the climate, and remains unconvinced when I point out that it’s supposed to be a plant for every person in the country if not the world. Another listener suggests that the idea is a conspiracy of florists, and the next contributor insists that it’s the latest plot to make us all feel guilty for everything that goes wrong with the world. She’s followed by a woman who argues that if we don’t know if vegetation can change the worid, we should have faith and plant it just in case. Once I’ve agreed she says “Everyone who’s listening should plant a flower for Kylie Goodchild.”

“I shouldn’t think there would be any harm in that.”

‘And let me just express my condolences to you and her family.”

“Honestly, you shouldn’t do that to me.”

“You had to find her, poor thing.”

Surely the description is meant for Kylie, not for me. Now every caller seems to feel obliged to offer some commiseration, even if they name the Goodchilds before me. I’m relieved when the one o’clock news interrupts the parade of sympathisers, even if I have to listen to my displaced voice again. “Sad to see a young girl go like that,” it repeats, “losing her life for no reason. I hope the family can remember her as they knew her. I’m sure they will in time.”

It feels as though my voice has declared its independence—as though part of me has escaped my control. Christine doesn’t look nearly as disconcerted as I think she ought to be. Trevor’s gone up on the roof for a cigarette, and he hasn’t reappeared by the time Sammy Baxter tells everybody to take lots of water with the weather. “First we have Marcus from Fallowfield,” I announce. “Marcus, you want to talk about how we use language.”

“Just how you do. Half the time you don’t say what you think.”

“I’m here to play devil’s advocate.”

“The devil’s got enough support these days. You’d do a damn sight better staying clear of him.” Marcus hasn’t quite left his Lancashire accent behind, and now it’s catching up. “You’re told what to say, are you?” he objects.

“Not by the devil or anyone else, Marcus.”

“You never thought of that giri’s family till after you were told.”

“How do you know what I thought?” This sounds too much like an admission, and I don’t spare any time to breathe before adding “You aren’t going to tell us you’re psychic.”

“I’ve no need,” Marcus says as Christine blinks at me through the glass. “We all heard how you decided to say something to them on the news after everybody kept reminding you about them.”

“That wasn’t me.” I have to struggle not to let my anger carry off my words. “I mean, it wasn’t my decision. I’d already recorded the message but we didn’t put it out at twelve o’clock.”