by Lauren White
As soon as he gets home, he hurriedly climbs the stairs to his room, pursued by a shout from Jethro of: Auntie Kate has gone out looking for you. His answer is to slam his door, loudly, behind him. His mouth drops open once he is inside. I have made a pile of his ill gotten gains and on his notice board there is a message for him constructed out of letters clipped from that day's newspaper headlines. GET RID OF THESE TOMORROW! AND IF YOU EVER DO IT AGAIN I WILL PUT YOU IN JAIL MYSELF.
You won’t tell Mummy, will you, he begs.
I write on his computer: Was that the last time?
Yes, I promise.
Well, of course, he'd promise me anything right now so do I trust him? I think the answer to that is I'm going to have to keep a very close eye on him indeed.
Then, I won't, I write. But, if you break your word to me, there'll be trouble.
He looks up and down and around the room as though uncertain where a ghost could be expected to hang out. Thanks, Auntie Kate. You won't regret it.
I leave his room, worrying about the wisdom of what I've just agreed to. Sam's thieving is obviously some kind of cry for help and his mother has a right to know about it. But, she will never take the job, I'm already aware she has been offered, if she finds out about this.
Congratulations, I call to her, as she enters the house.
She laughs. How did you know I'd got it?
Before I can answer, she starts talking into the mobile phone she is holding to her ear. No, sorry, I was talking to... to...someone else. Thanks for phoning, again. It was really thoughtful of you. Bye. She flushes. That was Nigs. He wanted to know how I got on.
I'm about to ask her how he knew about the interview, (and since when has he taken to phoning her on her mobile), when she adds: He mentioned they've just found another body in Oxley Woods.
The police have cordoned off an area of disturbed ground which they've identified as being a possible grave. They've yet to excavate it though and until they do any talk of finding human remains is premature. They are combing the surface, before beginning to remove the earth. As I watch them, I'm having the same thought I did about Kerry's grave. The part of the woods where the bones were found, a few days earlier, is close to the perimeter, but this spot is deeper inside and, if it does turn out to be another grave, it seems too far from the road for one person to have risked the physical exertion involved in carrying a dead weight all that way.
Kerry joins me. Don't tell me they've found another one.
It looks like they think so.
How many bodies are there in these woods?
Scary, isn't it. I used to bring the boys here to play when I was alive.
Have they identified the other one they found yet?
She and I haven't had a chance to catch up properly thanks to the drama with Sam. Earlier that morning, before getting roped into babysitting for Carrie, I’d gone to the check on what the forensic pathologist had managed to discover about the bones.
I shake my head. It’s a woman and they think she has been dead for about three years. There was one interesting thing. She has a petite frame like you and Bim. If she also had blonde hair....
Kerry interrupts before I can finish my sentence. Do you really think the Weasel could have killed Bim too?
This is the name we've started to give the man who murdered her, born from her description of him. It robs him of his humanity just as he robbed her of hers, but it is also our way of trying to make the idea of him less frightening. If you can call the bogeyman, Ferret Features, he stops being one. Well, that's the theory.
I shrug. I don’t want to alarm her. It is only a half-baked idea anyway. In reality, serial killers are very few and far between. Well, anything is possible at this stage, I guess.
We continue to watch the white suits work in silence. It is the path of least resistance with Kerry who is not one for small talk. That’s fine by me, but Bim keeps complaining that she is suffering from something called Only Child Syndrome, which she read about in Vogue, or so she claims. She is a little hazy about the details. The only bit she has managed to retain is something about sometimes having to coax people who are only children to talk, not because they are shy, but because they demand that level of interest. I’m not sure that this is a fair description of Kerry. It seems to me she is simply rather quiet and shy. And, given everything she has been through that’s not really much of a surprise. I suspect she’ll emerge from her shell in time. She is certainly looking better, week by week. She is completely blonde-haired now, although still with a mud stained face and the tattered wedding dress.
A low murmuring begins to circulate around the site. We move towards the grave to take a closer look. Thirty centimetres of earth have been removed and bagged for further analysis but now they appear to have stopped work and are taking photographs.
Why are they getting so excited, Kate? The grave is still full of earth.
I’ve no idea. Then, I notice it. There's a tiny blue satin eye winking up at me through the dirt. It is her, I tell her. They have finally found Bim.
I go in search of her, hoping I can reach her before she hears about her body on the news. I’d rather it came from me. I check all her usual haunts but to no avail, she is nowhere to be found. When I get back to the woods, she is there, watching her body being exhumed from the shallow grave where it was dumped. Suddenly, I am uncertain what to say to her. Should I congratulate her on finally discovering where she is buried? After all, this is what she had wanted from the beginning. Or should I commiserate with her because lying there limp and dishevelled in her blue satin cocktail dress she makes such a pitiful sight? Either way, she is dead, I suppose. I can only hope finding her earthly remains brings her some peace.
I can’t believe it, she exclaims, suddenly.
I turn to comfort her but she appears more outraged than distressed.
Where are my shoes, Kate?
Baffled, I examine her presence.
Not, those ones, silly. She points at her corpse. My blue satin high heels are missing!
She is right. Her body is wearing a pair of black court shoes.
They’re not mine. They’re hideous!
Oh, I don’t know, I think they go all right with the dress, I quickly reassure her.
Don’t be stupid. How can they? They're synthetic! I wouldn’t be seen dead wearing synthetic shoes.
This plunges us all into an awkward silence. Bim seems to be more upset about the shoes than she is about the state of the body wearing them which seems odd to me since the stains on that cocktail dress are definitely coming from the inside.
I was wearing Reebok trainers when I went missing, Kerry says, after awhile, as though belatedly catching up with the conversation.
Relieved to hear her say anything, I ask: And, what did you have on when your body was found?
She lifts the hem of her wedding dress to reveal the impression of a pair of matching white slippers.
What is it, Kate? Are you all right?
I don't reply, immediately. I'm too busy having an epiphany moment. Oh m-my God, I eventually stammer. Why didn’t I think of this before?
Think of what? Come on. Tell us then, Bim orders.
How many times has a breakthrough in a case come from something so trivial it seemed irrelevant at first?
What are you going on about?
You might not want to be seen dead in that pair of black court shoes Bim but I’m betting I know the corpse that would.
Petite blonde, Gertrud Weiss, was found dead in the boot of her boyfriend's car almost exactly one year ago. The couple had arrived in Britain from Austria, a few months previously, to take up positions as German language assistants at two South London private schools. If everything worked out, during the final term, they would be hired again for the coming academic year. It had seemed like an open and shut case at the time. They were overheard having a humongous fight the night Gertrud disappeared wearing the skirt, blouse, and black court shoes she’d worn to wor
k that day. And, the only physical evidence on her body – naked except for a pair of Reebok trainers when it was found – pointed to the boyfriend, Karl Grüner. Okay, it was circumstantial but three months ago, he was convicted of her slaying and he is now serving a life sentence as a Category A prisoner, at Her Majesty's pleasure. I was the lead detective during the investigation. I found Gertrud's body in the boot of that car and I arrested Karl for her murder. There was no doubt in my mind I'd got the right bad guy. I was happy to go into court to testify against him. His character didn't help him much. When I interviewed him he came across as cold and detached - exactly the type who'd kill someone without showing remorse. He denied it but I expected that. Wouldn't most psychopathic killers do the same? Damn! I truly believed my instincts about him were sound! How could I get the geezer so wrong? An innocent man has been incarcerated for a murder he didn't commit and I'm the one responsible for putting him there.
How the hell am I going to get him out of prison now I'm dead?
This is the question I put to Bim and Kerry after I have shared the while sorry tale with them, when we return to my office.
We need to be absolutely sure the Weasel killed this woman before we worry about that, Bim soothes.
It has to be him! He leaves the same signature each time. Gertrud's body was wearing Kerry’s trainers. And, the black court shoes Gertrud was wearing when she disappeared were in that grave with you, Bim.
What about my wedding slippers then? Who is the owner of those?
I haven’t a clue, Kerry. Those woods could be full of corpses wearing each other's shoes for all I know.
Was Gertrud drugged and strangled too?
Yep.
We should try and find her, don't you think, Bim says. Maybe she knows something which will help us.
But, she could be anywhere by now.
We could always go to her parents’ place in Austria. If she’s still around, she is bound to pop in to see them from time to time. Why don’t we make a holiday out of it? We could do with one after everything we’ve been through. Do you know the address, Kate?
It's probably on file, somewhere.
Bim’s smile broadens. Maybe I could squeeze in some skiing.
I sigh to myself. I haven’t had a proper holiday for years. I always fancied going on one of those round the world cruises. I just never had the money, or the time, while I was alive. I bet those boats are full of ghosts trying to see the world.
We won't be able to go to Austria until after my funeral though.
But, they haven't even released your body for burial yet, Bim. And, nor are they likely to for some considerable time I keep to myself.
Reece is arranging a memorial service for me. It's going to be wonderful.
Kerry and I exchange a look. I wonder whether she too is desperately searching for an excuse not to go. The media are bound to be there. It will be a circus.
You will change into something more appropriate, won't you?
I see she is referring to me which surprises me. I'm not the one in a cocktail dress.
What's wrong with what I have on? It never occurred to me that how we appear in our afterlife could be changed. I assumed we’d have to spend eternity wearing the same thing.
Bim pulls me over to the old mirror at the back of my basement office. There’s no image there when I look for myself in it.
Shit, I'm a vampire!
You have to concentrate. You have to think yourself into being.
But, I’m dead.
Don't be argumentative. Think, you. Go on.
A hazy image appears and fades, and appears and fades, again. It is me, all right. I'm wearing the clothes I was run over in, a navy trouser suit and a yellow silk blouse. They’d look fine if they weren’t heavily stained with blood.
I'm appalled. I had no idea. Is this how Jethro and Caleb see me? Bim and Kerry are strangely quiet on the subject. Why didn't you tell me?
They probably don't even realise what it is, Kerry reassures me.
You're kidding, aren't you?
It just looks like a rusty stain, particularly now the crusty bits have fallen off.
I feel mortified. How do I change into different clothes?
That's easy. You create a picture of yourself in whatever clothes you want to wear.
If it's so easy, why are you still wearing your blue satin dress?
Because I like it! It was brand new too. I’d never worn it before the night I was killed. I shall be changing into something different for my memorial service though.
I try and picture myself in another outfit but the navy suit is still clinging to my image in the mirror. What clothes do I like? What clothes did I used to have in my wardrobe? I can’t remember.
Bim grimaces at Kerry. Why do I think our D. I. Ghost isn't much of a clothes horse? Come on the pair of you, we can go up West and hunt for ideas.
In the West End of London, it is Christmas already – it is the end of the summer everywhere else but for London's swankiest shops Christmas always comes a little early. The afternoon sunlight is dulled by the garish cheer. The sheer abundance of it beckons. Bim, my self-appointed personal dresser, finds me another navy trouser suit but this one from Harrods. It is more expensive - had I actually bought it - than anything I have ever worn, more expensive than my entire wardrobe put together, probably. She matches this with a collarless white Indian cotton shirt. When I picture myself in the mirror I find I look good and even better, stain free. For Kerry, she chooses a medium weight plaid tunic with a dark blue jacket. She looks a little like a French school girl but it suits her.
Bim wants to surprise us with her outfit. It's unlucky to see what the deceased will be wearing before the morning of her memorial, she announces, half jokingly – I think.
I nod but say nothing. How much more bad luck could she have than being murdered?
She shows up to her memorial service in a black lace flamenco dress with a veil. She does a twirl so we can admire it. Kerry gives me a helpless look. I’m going to have to lie our way out of this on my own.
Wow! I think it really works, I do... You look very... funereal, but in... a Spanish flamenco, kind of a way.
It is enough. Bim beams back at me.
I love it so much I might make this my eternity dress, instead of the blue satin.
She seems so absurdly happy for someone attending their own memorial service, I decide the news about our trip to Austria being off can wait. I’ve remembered Gertrud’s parents are dead. She has no living relatives. The school where she was working had to pay for her funeral and her body was buried in a South London cemetery. I was there but I’d managed to blot this out somehow. Lord knows where she'll be now.
The interior of the church is dazzling; the candle-shaped electric lights, clustered along the walls, making the gold behind the altar, and the stained glass windows, glitter. The pews, stalls, and lectern are ornately carved and reek of polish and old wood. There are vases of white roses everywhere and at the top of the side aisle stands an easel with a portrait of Bim, painted especially for the occasion. The Service itself is excruciatingly sentimental. There's barely a dry eye in the place by the end of it. Reece gives the eulogy as Bim dances flamenco – well, gives her interpretation of a flamenco dance - around him. She is having a wonderful time. Her wake afterwards is to be held at a posh hotel, down the road. I don't see the point of going. I can't eat, I can't drink, I don't know anyone, and they wouldn't be able to see me, even if I did. I make my excuses to Kerry, at the end of the Service, because Bim is off with the fairies, tangoing her way up and down the central aisle.
Outside the church, I linger to watch everyone else leave. I have asked Bim to take note of anyone she doesn't recognise, but she is so wrapped up in herself, I doubt she'll remember. I myself don't see anyone more suspicious than two detectives, who are standing around in the car park, doing the same as me. There are a million petite blondes in designer label clothes but nobody who looks like the Wea
sel. As the crowd breaks up and heads in small groups toward the hotel, a woman walks towards me so briskly I expect her to pass right through, before I have the chance to move aside. Instead, she comes to a halt abruptly in front of me. She is a tall brunette, pear shaped, but she carries her weight well, or dresses it well, I should say. She is wearing a dark suit, beautifully stitched - handmade, I shouldn't wonder. She is in her forties, with a lean face that is handsome more than attractive, because her jaw line and lips are a little too firm for a woman. Her eyes are clear and intelligent and I sense in her a lack of artifice which appeals to me. I imagine you'd always know where you were with her.
