In the Company of Ghosts (2 page)

‘All that money,’ said Doyle, indicating the vast, expensive office, ‘was Saucy Simon really into nonsense like
this
?’

‘His secretary’s already admitted buying the noose for him. She paid cash for it two years ago,’ said Thorson.

‘With what he was worth, the dirty sod could’ve paid every Oscar Hollywood tart nominated for Best Actress to cover him in chocolate sauce and beat it off his Hairy Harry with million pound bearer bonds. Any corporate money problems that we know about?’

‘No, Werks was solid,’ said Thorson. ‘He’s on his third fortune, and he never even spent the first two. Initial money came from the online world: his film aggregation and encryption systems helped pull the movie business back from the brink. His second windfall came from green technologies – backed a substantial chunk of the North African supergrid. Third was aerospace, satellites and near-orbit tourism. Not a penny squandered. He still owns a controlling interest in his company, ControlWerks. Every business still thriving and low geared. First mover advantage.’

‘I love it when you do that bullshit business lingo. Saucy Simon owned the firm with his twin brother, though, right?’

‘Correct. Curtis Werks is flying back from Durban where he was meant to be opening a desalination plant. The brother’s as eager as the minister to keep this out of the media for the moment. Family-headed business, down to a single engine. The markets will spook; Werks stock is going to be slaughtered when the news of this gets out.’

Doyle thumped his chest and released a loud burp. ‘Consider that my concern for all the shareholders in the City who’re going to have to trade in their Bugattis for Lamborghinis after their next bonus. Spads, today would be good. I need to see what the building’s security manager saw.’

‘Werks’ private camera files went into lockdown after the security manager viewed them,’ said Spads. ‘And they’re sealed properly. Shit, you do know that Werks practically invented TSA-quality post-quantum zero-knowledge proof encryption, don’t you?’

‘Spads, the reason why you’re standing here in a state of glorious freedom rather than wearing an orange boiler suit in a five-foot room-share with some serial-killing Texan cracker saving his soap ration just for you, is that Star Trek bollocks sound like real words to you, rather than nyap-nyap-nyap. It means something in the mighty
Spads-mind
. So let’s be about it, eh?’

There was a fierce knocking on the other side of the office door, too loud to be the last of the forensics team they had chased out, and Thorson crossed over to unlock it. A tall bear of a man wearing a white, red and green rugby shirt bulldozed his way past Thorson. His receding hairline, black running to silver, looked like the follicly challenged equivalent of Doyle’s irregular bowel movements. He didn’t seem happy to be here. Doyle wondered who had tipped him off. One of the security guards on the lobby downstairs, probably. Most of them were ex-job and liked to stay in with their Yard chums in case they ever needed a favour from the police.

‘What the fuck is Werks still doing up there?’ demanded the trespasser. ‘His body should’ve been moved to the secure pathology freezer.’

Doyle shrugged. ‘In an hour I reckon he will be, officer...’ He glanced quizzically at Thorson who was still holding the case notes folder.

‘Chief Inspector Dourdan,’ Thorson said.

‘In charge of this investigation!’ The man’s words came out as a bellow.

‘This morning you were,’ said Doyle. ‘This afternoon,
I am
. And it’s not an investigation. It’s a big radioactive puddle of piss that needs clearing up.’ He pulled out a little black leather wallet and passed it over to the officer.

‘You’re here for this, for a gasper, for a David-bloody-Carradine, for death by misadventure?’ The policeman opened up Doyle’s wallet, staring at its interior with incredulity. ‘
CO7
? I’ve never heard of any fucking CO7. And what does it mean under the crown…
diplomatic immunity
? Is that a joke? What, you cut this out of the back of a packet of cornflakes and glue your photo on top of it? This warrant card doesn’t give me word one. You’re not Met, who’re you with?’

‘It stands for the Crap Orifice,’ said Doyle, lifting the wallet back out of the furious policeman’s hand. ‘And this afternoon, we’re crapping all over you. Check your voicemail back at the station. CTC’s removed you from this case and transferred it to our jurisdiction. Goodbye, chief inspector.’

‘Special Branch’s yanked me out, is it? What, you spooks, or politicals?’ The policeman stabbed an angry finger at Doyle. ‘You stitch me up and think you’re going to get one inch of co-operation out of the Met?’

Doyle shaped a telephone out of thumb and finger and stuck his hand by his ear. ‘If I need a car towed, I’ll be sure to speed-dial you, chief inspector. Enjoy the match at Twickenham.’

‘Wanker!’

‘That’s just speaking ill of the dead.’

Thorson’s eyes wrinkled in despair as Dourdan slammed the door behind him. She sighed and didn’t bother to disguise her irritation with Doyle. ‘Next time, why don’t we place Spads in charge of police liaison?’

‘Spads would only rub the chief inspector up the wrong way. This is as fun as it gets. How about it, Spads… how much potential rammage is the Orifice up for with this one?’

‘I’m past the encryption,’ said the hacker. ‘Get over here quick. The file’s going to lock under a fresh key as soon as it’s played a second time.’

Doyle and Thorson sprinted behind the laptop, the light of the movie file washing over them. It lasted for two minutes and, much like the head of security who’d seen it play the first time, Doyle wished he could just call for help and then vanish to safety.

‘Shit,’ said Doyle. ‘I mean really.
Shit
.’

‘I don’t suppose it’s too late to ask the court to wave through my extradition to the States,’ said Spads. ‘Right now, being locked up in the Florence Supermax is looking pretty good.’

‘You still think we’re not going to need
her
help,’ asked Thorson.

‘You tell me,’ said Doyle. ‘You’re the one who has worked with her. She was before my time.’

‘You need her.
We
need her.’

‘Do it, then,’ ordered Doyle, half a groan. ‘Put the wheels in motion to get her out.’ He tapped the computer. ‘Get me a copy of this film. A clean one, not the kind that ends with “This tape will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Spads.” I want the file unencrypted for good.’

Thorson raised an eyebrow. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Back to the porcelain throne.’ Doyle reached for the door behind the corpse. He had changed his mind about the bidet. As far as his poor suffering digestion as concerned, this was turning out to be a Three Flush Mystery. But then, the office didn’t get lumbered with any other sort.

CHAPTER TWO – DANCING WITH NIVEN

Psychiatric care had come a long way since the days of Bedlam. When Victorian gentlemen would pay to bring their families into mental homes of a Sunday afternoon and poke sharp sticks through the cages, hand over good money to be regaled by tales of prisoners’ crimes of slaughter and sexual deviancy. Why, you could glance around her room with its thick comfortable rug and television and cosy oak reading table and you’d hardly know that you were inside a cell. Apart from the nearly blank wall that concealed the one-way mirror and the viewing room. And the straitjacket binding Agatha Witchly’s arms, of course. Her jacket was making it hard to dance with David Niven, the old actor’s ghost wearing the same Royal Airforce uniform he had worn his 1946 hit,
A Matter of Life and Death
. The irony of his choice of clothing wasn’t lost on Agatha. Niven had played a ghost in the film, returned to make peace with his true love, played by the actress Kim Hunter. Agatha wasn’t anyone’s true love now, but if there is one thing she did know about ghosts, it was that you couldn’t choose who would come to visit you, or when.

‘Are they still watching?’ Agatha asked Niven as the ghost held her, not too taut, not too loose, both of them turning to the tune of The Specials’
Ghost Town
playing on the television’s digital radio setting.

‘Yes,’ Niven smiled, reassuringly. ‘Three doctors and a nurse, the oldest one is dictating notes to his intern.’

‘That would be Doctor Bishop,’ Agatha whispered. She made sure she talked to the actor only when her back was turned towards the mirror’s one-way viewing glass. Doctor Bishop could lip read, and she didn’t want to feed his salacious case file on her anymore than she absolutely had to.

‘The good doctor appears somewhat miffed,’ said Niven.

‘He should be.’

Niven raised an arm, thoughtfully brushing his neat moustache. ‘He knows
they
are coming for you. Their car pulled up outside a couple of minutes ago. The doctor’s had his staff ringing around the ministry all day trying to find someone with the authority to revoke your release from the section order.’

‘Good luck with that.’ Agatha stopped whispering as Niven pirouetted her to face the large mirror across the room. The mirror showed no sign of David Niven. Just a silver-haired old lady of around sixty years twisting and turning in the centre of the room as if she were demented. Mirrors couldn’t show the dead, only the living.

‘Would it be presumptuous to ask you to hold me for a little longer?’ Agatha asked. I haven’t danced with anyone for a very long time.’

‘I understand perfectly,’ said Niven. ‘My final dance was on the set of
Better Late Than Never
with Maggie Smith. At least, my last dance on this side.’

Doctor Bishop stood ramrod straight, his arms behind his back, his fingers digging into his palm in anger. He didn’t deign to look around at the man and the woman as the pair entered.

‘I’m Doyle,’ said the man, ‘this is Thorson.’

‘Papers,’ said the doctor. The words came out like the escape of air from a grass snake.

‘The Telegraph or The Sun?’ Doyle tossed a sheaf of documents across to Bishop’s intern, the doctor still too angry to directly address the two intruders into his realm. ‘Save your time, chum, they’re all in order.’

‘In order? In order for THAT?’ The doctor’s hand jabbed across towards the one-way glass. Agatha Witchley was turning slowly in the centre of the room, her head resting at an unnatural angle. Her rheumy blue eyes stared back at the glass with defiance written across every line of her forehead. ‘Does Agatha Witchley look like she’s ready to be released from the unit?’

‘Is the straitjacket really necessary?’ asked Thorson. The tone of voice didn’t bother to disguise her contempt for the unit’s methods. ‘At
her
age?’

‘Last Tuesday,’ spat the doctor, ‘Witchley shattered the knee bone of one of my orderlies and dislocated the shoulder of a second staff member when they attempted to remove the pills she’d been hiding under her sofa’s cushions. She did that with her bare feet, no shoes. With her straitjacket on!’

‘You’ve seen the release papers,’ said Doyle. ‘Now, chuck me the keys to her nut-shirt, Doctor Mengele. We’ll be taking tea and biscuits with the old girl before she leaves with us.’

‘Has anyone told the Israeli Embassy she’s being released?’ demanded the doctor.

Doyle raised an eyebrow.

‘That’s why she was admitted to us, man,’ spat the doctor. ‘Haven’t you fools even read her case notes? She was dragged from the Israeli Prime Minister’s jet on the tarmac of Heathrow after she attacked his bodyguards. She was planning to kidnap him and take him to The Hague for war crimes. She’s a stalker, psychotic… devious, violent, displaying all the signs of extreme paranoia. For crying out loud, she believes she can talk to John Lennon and Julius Caesar. She suffers from severe compulsive disorders. Twelve months of treatment in the unit and I haven’t even made a dent on her state of mind.’

Doyle pointed to a dispensary in the room’s corner. ‘The code for her room and the keys to her nut-shirt, or I’ll take that syringe and find a new home for it up your hairy dark porcelain-pincher.’

‘If I can’t find anybody in the ministry willing to rescind her release from the unit, I’ll telephone the Israeli Embassy and have their lawyers slap an injunction against all of you,’ warned the doctor.

‘Thank you for your concern, doctor,’ said Thorson. ‘We will be handling her case from here.’

When Doyle and Thorson entered the secure unit, Agatha was no longer spinning around in the middle of the carpet. The old lady was waiting for them, sitting calmly on her sofa. She was pouring three cups of tea with her feet, using her toes to hold the teapot as if an Indian faker had trained her in his arts.

‘Hello Witchley. I’m Gary Doyle, I believe you know my colleague here, Helen Thorson.’

‘Sit down, dearie.’ She indicated the two armchairs opposite. There was a huskiness to her voice, deep and sensual, a tone that looked to have taken Doyle by surprise. ‘Hello, Helen. If you’ve got the keys to my little fashion accessory here, you might do me the favour of releasing me now.’ She nodded down towards her straitjacket and added, ‘Then I might be able to pass you a chocolate hobnob, without the delicate scent of my toes intruding.’

Doyle gazed appraisingly at her. He appeared to be in his early fifties, the slightly brutish features of a boxer with acne-scarred cheeks and black hair turning to silver at the sides – a man who filled his Crombie coat with six brutal feet of well-aged muscle. It wasn’t a kind face, but it might have been a just one. ‘What makes you think I’ve come to release you from this nut-house, love?’