D. I. Ghost: A Detective Inspector Ghost Murder Investigation

by Lauren White

  It is a redbrick Victorian terraced house, three up, and three down, in a quiet road, I find, when I get there. The name written on the card underneath the doorbell shows he still owns it. Down a short flight of stairs to the right of the main entrance, the old coal cellar has been converted into a small bedsit with its own front door. I do a quick tour of this, first. It has been let to a male university student, a psychology undergraduate, who has yet to grasp the fundamentals of taking care of himself. There is a touching list of cooking instructions stuck to the greasy cooker hood, in the kitchen, which includes the following: Frozen peas – boil for three minutes. Upstairs, in the main house, the walls are all covered with embossed wallpaper and painted beige (the same as the bedsit, only cleaner). Gordon likes to keep a tidy place. You could eat your dinner off the vinyl flooring, in his kitchen, which can only mean someone is around to clean it. The décor is disturbingly bland. After only a few rooms, I'm beginning to long for colour. Anyone who likes this amount of beige has to be a bit odd. The fridge contains little, except a few bottles of beer, and a pack of butter. Perhaps, he is still away, after all. But, when I open the freezer, I see it is just that he is a convenience meal junkie. It is stuffed with frozen pizzas, pies, and TV dinners for one. Upstairs, predictably, his bedroom carpet is beige, as is the duvet cover, and the curtains. I open his closet door with trepidation but, for his clothes, he favours dark blue slacks and jeans, with lighter blue shirts and navy jumpers. He doesn't own a suit but he still has his uniform, pressed and covered in plastic. There are enough clothes here to indicate he is definitely back from his travels. Why hasn't he returned to his old job then? Could the rent from the bedsit downstairs be enough to keep him going? I'm about to leave when I spot a photograph of a man, I assume to be him, holding a flight of darts, at what looks like a pub darts match. He is fair-haired and clean shaven. I search the drawers of a bureau in the living room for another less visible photograph I can steal. I find one in an envelope of prints, dated four years ago. He is standing outside a caravan with his arm around an elderly woman. Could this be his mother? All of the other photographs in the envelope are scenic shots of a rugged coastline. It might be somewhere abroad. I'm not sure. But, wherever it is, it looks cold and windy to me. I doubt that would bother Gordon. Judging from these pictures, he is more into flora and fauna than sunning himself on a beach. I can’t find any photographs of his recent travels. I rifle through the other drawers but there's nothing. Is that strange? Probably not. When you're snooping around someone's house everything seems sinister.

  By the time I get back to Carrie’s house, she has left for her dinner date. I go to my basement office with the intention of conducting a case review. It is the only thing I can think of which might distract me for the required amount of time. I can't settle, however. The house feels like a mausoleum without my sister and the boys. Perhaps, I should go and check on how my nephews are getting on at their respective billets like the responsible aunt I aspire to be. But, naturally, all I really want to do is spy on Carrie and Nigs at the restaurant. Technically, I'm not supposed to know where they're dining. My sister didn't volunteer the information and, in deference to Sergeant Ross, I didn't ask. It would be easy enough to locate them though. I could home in on Carrie on the dark side of the moon, if I had too. I wrestle with myself, for several minutes. Well, all right, for at least three. But, it is a foregone conclusion. I'm just not woman enough to stay away.

  It would be better to go early, before things warm up between them, I reason. The final moments, when they might arrange another date, should definitely be avoided – if only out of politeness. In the end, I wait until I'm summoned by them. This isn't exactly what they do but they are both thinking of me at the same time, which has a similar effect.

  The restaurant is a French bistro near Dulwich. At street level, there is only a reception area and cloakroom. The dining room itself is reached by climbing down a narrow metal spiral staircase to the basement below. It is a converted wine cellar with low ceilings and plenty of intimate alcoves. The brick walls have been painted white throughout and hung with a collection of Cartier-Bresson photographs to create a sensual, yet sophisticated, ambience. The tables are covered with blue and white checked table cloths and each one is decorated with a vase of lavender, and an empty bottle of Bordeaux, stuffed with a candle. The air is suffused with the aroma of fresh bread and garlic.

  I'm shocked to discover the extent of Carrie's make over when I lay eyes on her. Ever since we were children, we've had the same shoulder-length bob of hair. This is what suits us. But, now, she’s had hers butchered. Whatever possessed her to do that to herself? It looks sort of spiky, which is a kind way of saying it sticks up all over the place. Even the colour is different. Her natural colour is jet black, like mine, but she’s gone and had some red lowlights put in. The final colour bears no relation to anything that could be found in nature. Only a toxic chemical could produce a shade like that. She just doesn't look like her anymore. Or, perhaps, it is more that, for the first time since we were born, it is me she doesn’t look like. I bet she’s regretting it. It’s obviously a disaster. Why didn't she tell me what she was planning? I would have stopped her.

  She and Nigs are talking about the murder case. Very romantic! He is in the middle of explaining to her that the police believe they might be dealing with a serial killer and he and Fester have been assigned to the enlarged murder investigation team.

  It means I am going to be working 24/7.

  I thought from watching Kate that was a normal week for you guys.

  Nigs laughs. She was a bit extreme. Lifting his nose in the air he sniffs.

  Instinctively, I back away from him before Carrie can notice.

  He is looking gorgeous, tonight. Tall, dark, and delectable, with blue-black hair and a five o-clock shadow. There is no doubting the testosterone in this man. He is wearing a blue collarless shirt and jeans. He is smart but casual. Perfect. Carrie is a little overdressed, or - depending upon whether you can get past her plunging neckline - under-dressed, by comparison. She should have worn trousers. I would have. Instead, she has put on a wine-coloured silky thing, I've never seen before. It is probably the only thing she could find to match the lowlights. At least, it is an A line. She'll be able to eat whatever she wants without it showing.

  I shan’t be able to see much of you for the duration, which is probably just as well, because I have to give evidence against your husband at his hearing in a few weeks. If the court was to find out I had any kind of personal relationship with you, it might complicate matters.

  She looks disappointed.

  When the court case is over.....It will be...well... different.

  He smiles shyly at her and she gives a nod. This must have been where I went wrong with him. I was too good at verbal communication.

  There is something else I wanted to tell you.

  She is all ears.

  It is about Kate.

  Is that another look of disappointment on her face!

  You know it's strange but I often seem to smell her perfume.

  Carrie smiles, tensely.

  I did just, then.

  She glowers at me over his shoulder. She can't actually see me, I reassure myself, but she obviously suspects I'm here.

  It would be just like Kate to...She is going to say, spy on us, or ruin my date, something like that, but she stops herself. It would be just like her to find a way of coming back, if she could, she says, instead.

  She was special wasn't she?

  I knew it! He may be out with her but he is still carrying a torch for me. And, now she has changed her hair she doesn't even look like me! No wonder he wants to back off. Of course! That is why she did it. That is why she had it hacked off. She wanted him to like her for herself and not because she looks like me. Poor baby!

  Wasn't she just, my sister finally manages, through gritted teeth.

  The detectives working her case have turned up a security tape of
Kate in her car on the night she was run over. There was a tall blonde haired man with her.

  What was that? I don't want to confirm Carrie's suspicion I'm here by talking to her but I do want her to question him about what he has just said.

  Who was it?

  We don’t know yet. There is another recording taken just over twenty minutes beforehand of a man driving the car of one of the murder victims, Belinda Montgomery, who disappeared on the same night. It isn't very good quality but the forensics have managed to enhance it. It is possible the man driving the murder victim's car and the man riding as a passenger in Kate's car are one and the same.

  A worried expression creases Carrie's forehead. What does it mean?

  It could mean a lot of things: that she knew him; that she was driving her car under duress; that she was murdered too. Or.... that.... she was involved with these murders in some other way.

  What other way?

  Good girl, that was my question too.

  Well, it's only one possibility and nobody believes it but they still have to eliminate it from the enquiry.

  I don't understand.

  I do, and I am livid.

  There is a theory this killer may have an accomplice.

  I hope you're not saying they think that Kate...

  She sounds really indignant, bless her. I take back every mean thing I thought I had about her dress.

  Like I said, nobody believes it. But, in view of the two recordings they have to rule her out, that’s all. They might want to ask you some questions about her too. It is nothing to worry about. They just have to do their job.

  Her loyalty towards me has moved him. The more she talks about me, the more his interest in her quickens. I can read it in his face. Isn’t my afterlife becoming ironic! I’m going to bring these two together, over my dead body, whether I wish to or not.

  The police think I murdered you, I announce, punitively, to demonstrate to Bim and Kerry how I've been made to suffer while they’ve been away for the weekend.

  Kerry is sympathetic. That's terrible. How do you know?

  One of my old colleagues told my sister.

  Bim is curiously quiet.

  Don't tell me you think it could be true?

  No, of course, I don't. But, you have to admit that you don’t have much of an idea how you’re involved in all this.

  Assuming I am, you mean.

  Well, that is one of the things we're trying to find out, isn’t it?

  And, how does she imagine abandoning our investigation to enjoy herself in the Italian Alps is going to help us to do that, I ask myself, bitterly, before filling her and Kerry in on what I’ve been up to during my weekend of hard graft.

  There are no photographs of the wedding dress at Jackie Brand’s house but the motorway patrol man, Gordon Richards, was the last known person to see her alive so I was thinking we could try and find a way of asking him what it was like.

  Bim looks at me as though she thinks I’m mad. A man isn't going to remember a wedding dress, he saw last week, let alone three years ago! There has to be another way.

  Well, you think of one then.

  That’s him, she exclaims. That’s the Weasel. How on earth did you find him? She is looking at the photograph of Gordon Richards I stole from his house.

  No, that’s the patrol man.

  It’s the Weasel, I tell you!

  It is? He looks different from our computer generated image.

  No, he doesn’t. It’s definitely him. I recognise him.

  I should be thrilled but reliable witness isn’t exactly a description I associate with Bim. But, you said you didn't remember what he looked like, I point out to her, suspiciously.

  I don't, but I’m still absolutely sure that’s him.

  I almost can't bring myself to pursue this. And, why is that?

  I don’t know. I just have this really powerful feeling about it.

  Well, that'll stand up in a court of law. What about you Kerry. Is this the man, you remember?

  She pours over the photograph. I might be wrong…

  There are worse things. Tell us.

  He doesn’t have a moustache.

  So?

  Without the moustache, I can’t tell whether it’s him or not.

  I feel like screaming. With witnesses like these, is it any wonder we are getting nowhere fast.

  Perhaps, Jackie Brand would be able to identify Gordon Richards as her killer, Kerry suggests.

  And, do you know where we can find her, because I don’t?

  Forget Jackie Brand, we should find out everything we can about Gordon Richards, first, Bim proposes, instead.

  Well, I suppose it wouldn't do any harm, I acknowledge, grudgingly. There may be something I missed. But, he left his job to go back-packing, Bim. If he was abroad when either you or Kerry were killed, he is not the Weasel, whether you think you recognise him or not.

  Bim and I conduct a meticulous, room by room, search of Gordon Richard’s house, while Kerry moons about by herself trying to intuit whether there is any evidence there, from what I can gather. We all meet up in one of the spare bedrooms a few hours later to share what we've found, which is precisely nothing.

  One of us is going to have to stay on and see if he shows up. If he does, she should follow him about a bit, until we can figure out what to do next.

  Bim and I both turn to our junior partner, Kerry, and wait for her to take the cue and volunteer, but she seems to be lost in her own thoughts.

  Hello, earth calling Kerry, Bim teases.

  She doesn't respond.

  What is it, Kerry?

  I've been expecting this to happen, Bim whispers to me when she still doesn’t answer. She has been replaced.

  What are you talking about? Replaced by what?

  A triffid, of course.

  Yes, very funny. She looks upset to me.

  You think? How can you tell? She is not like you and me, Kate. She was studying for a geography degree. I mean, what kind of person studies geography when it isn't compulsory? She’s a triffid, you mark my words, and it’ll be our turn next if we go on hanging out with her.

  Kerry, please, what’s the matter, I try again, ignoring Bim.

  I'm probably wrong...

  But?

  I think I may have been here before.

  Oh, I know, I know, don't tell me, Bim gushes. You were Cleopatra in a former life!

  I look daggers at her. Do you mean in this house, Kerry?

  Sorry, I might be mistaken.

  Mistaken how, exactly?

  It’s just that I remember being in a cellar. It had the same layout as the bedsit below us, only there was a trap door where the stairs are.

  Is that it?

  Yes.

  The basement bedsit here has the same layout as the cellar where you were held?

  Yes.

  Bim smirks and mouths: Triffid!

  Well, I suppose it could have been converted, during the last two years. It’s a pity your memory isn’t a little more specific. Sixty per cent of the older houses in this country used to have cellars, you see, Kerry.

  If it wasn't this house, it was one very much like it.

  Her point, exactly, Bim mutters.

  Kerry appears to hesitate. There's something else. She places the centre spread from a newspaper, on the beige nylon bedspread of the single bed, where we are sitting. It’s yellow with age. I found this under a pair of boots in the hall cupboard. She points to a story, headlined: WOMAN FIGHTS OFF ATTACKER.

  Bim and I scan it.

  A Leicester woman fought off a suspected abductor when her car broke down in a lane, in the outskirts of the city. A man stopped to offer assistance, claiming to be a mechanic, but instead of fixing her car, he tried to grab her from behind, and drag her into his van. The woman, Gail Martos, aged 30, fought back, and he was eventually scared off by a passing car, and drove away from the scene at speed. The police have issued a description of him. He is probably in his lat
e twenties, or early thirties, white, of small to medium height and frame, with mousy blonde hair. He was driving a blue Renault. The woman escaped unharmed.

  I feel like an idiot. Kerry's mooching about the place has obviously worked better than I gave her credit for. I lifted this sheet of newspaper up to see whether there was anything hidden underneath it but I didn't think to read it.

  Bim asks me: Could this man be our Weasel?

  It is possible. What happened to this woman might explain how you were abducted from your cars too. Is there a date in the article?

  The attack happened four years ago on June 5th, Kerry informs us.

  I groan.

  What’s the matter?

  I can't believe I didn't realise this before. You two and Gerte were all murdered in June. And, guess which month Jackie Brand disappeared in?

  When you think about it, being a motorway mechanic is a brilliant job for a serial killer, Bim says. It places someone in the perfect position to win over a woman's confidence by pretending to help her. And, what is she going to chat about while she waits for her car to be fixed? She’s going to tell him about her life, her family, and her boyfriend.

  There is only one Gail Martos listed in the Leicester telephone book. She lives on a modern estate of starter homes in the suburbs of the city. She is another petite blonde. It is the only thing about her that stands out, in truth. Dressed in baggy clothes with a headscarf covering her hair, she puts effort into not being noticed. She is like a blurred photograph, you can’t quite make out. I could study her for an hour, turn away, and not remember a single detail about her. She has all but faded from this world, yet she is very watchful of everything within it. Her eyes dart about her, suspiciously, as we watch her open her front door and disappear inside.