by Lauren White
Is it enough?
Yes. For me, it is.
She comes closer to me. Can I stay with you, Kate?
If you want to.
I think, now I've seen the bimbette off, I shall wait until Reece passes, she says, wistfully. It won't be long now. Another year, that's all.
How the hell do you know that?
I haven't a clue. I worked it out the other day. I'm not sure whether it's a new trick I've learned, or one I have been able to do all along, without realising it. Am I the only one? Can't you tell by looking at someone when they're going to die?
I can't, but my thoughts have already run on from why didn't you say something about this sooner, to what I say next: What about her, Bim?
We both look at Cheryl, who is busy taking photographs of the picnic.
Bim beams at me. Kate, do you know what this means?
I nod. We are a few weeks away from another murder and we have no idea who the victim will be.
Nigs’ flat at the top of Forest Hill in South London is a mixture of ancient and modern furniture. Some pieces are family heirlooms, which he has had restored, while others were made by one of his sisters, who is a carpenter. An entire wall in his living room is covered by shelves full of records, CD’s, tapes and DVD's. He is not one for reading, Nigs, but he is passionate about blues and jazz. The décor is perhaps a little unadventurous - the whole flat is painted white - but with so much gorgeous wood and some striking sofas and cushions, it manages to look stylish compared with the average policeman's bachelor pad. He has invited Fester over for dinner. This wouldn't have happened when I was alive. Socialising was always conducted in bars and clubs. Since my death, however, a more intimate friendship has developed between the two men.
Inevitably, their conversation turns to work. Their investigation into the June Killer as they call him has stalled. The only forensic evidence found in Mountford's Audi was the blood of the mystery accomplice. They have no proof whatsoever that the driver who picked him up was Gordon Richards but he does appear to have dropped off the face of the planet since then.
Nigs sets a beef and vegetable stir-fry and a dish of coconut rice on the kitchen table. He and Fester demolish both in under fifteen minutes while I try and convince myself that watching them is just as much fun.
Fester takes a slurp of beer. Where could he be?
We have no reason to believe he has left Britain. He certainly hasn’t turned up at his house in Spain. It’s not that difficult to stay out of sight as long as you're smart enough to avoid using a credit card, cash card, or mobile phone.
I wish we had enough on him to search his place.
You wouldn't find anything if you did, I chip in.
So how is he managing to live?
You don't think he could be dead, do you? Maybe they had a falling out and the other one killed him. That might explain it.
No, he is still alive. I can feel it, I assure them both. He is licking his wounds. They nearly got caught that night which must have scared him rigid. He'll lie low now until he is ready to kill again.
We'll find out soon enough. It's the beginning of June in another three weeks, Nigs says, getting up to fetch them another beer and the chocolate cake Fester brought from his wife for dessert.
It is so frustrating. We could clone the accomplice from his DNA but we can’t identify him. We have to nail these bastards before they kill again, Fester. Nigs thumps the table with his fist to underline the imperative of this.
He is looking ravishing in navy cords, with a dusky wine coloured, long sleeved, polo shirt. So ravishing I've no idea what Fester is wearing at all even though he is sitting opposite me.
I wish Kate were here. She was good at turning up wild cards. Nigs grins in remembrance of me.
How is it going with her sister, Carrie?
Guys, please, let’s just stick to discussing the case, I chide. How was I good at turning up wild cards, exactly?
She has started a business with a woman called Denise Boulay. It is Denise this, that, and the other now. But, she happened to mention the other day that this woman didn't want her name on the paperwork. She’s a partner, right, but she doesn't want her name legally on the business? Doesn't that strike you as odd? It did me too so I checked her out. The only Denise Boulay I could find is dead. So this woman is obviously using her identity. When I told Carrie, she wasn't pleased one bit about what I’d done, though. She went berserk and we're talking Katrina. I've never seen anything like it before. It put Kate at full throttle in the shade. I thought I was doing her a favour but she won't hear a word against this Denise.
Women and their girlfriends! It’s a no go area, mate. They always prefer to listen to them, rather than us. Get used to it, is my advice.
Well, we're still seeing each other but...I don’t know.
You’re not sure where it’s going?
I care about her. I do. Why wouldn’t I. What is there not to care about? She’s lovely, she really is - warm, kind, special in every way.
Fester scratches his bald head. You should listen to yourself, mate. It sounds to me like you’re trying to talk yourself into this. We both know you were in love with the cool, unkind, but extremely funny, and feisty Kate. So where exactly does that leave…
Nigs’ eyes flash back at him. Kate wasn’t unkind. How can you say that? She just didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve, that’s all.
His friend studies him in silence for a few seconds. You really are in deep shit, aren’t you?
Easy for you to say. You married guys have it simple.
Yeah, right, a wife and three kiddies is about as simple as it gets!
Carrie’s been through so much I don’t want to make things any worse for her.
And, how would you do that?
By hurting her, of course. I like her too much to want to do that to her.
That’s a novel sentiment on which to base a relationship. Nigs shrugs, and Fester rolls his eyes to the ceiling. Just promise me you won’t ask her to marry you, or anything daft like that. I know they let you write your own vows these days, but promising to like someone in sickness and in health, till death you do part, because she looks like the one who got away, and you don’t want to hurt her feelings, doesn’t seem to have the right ring about it to me.
The sign in large liquid-black letters, on a shiny white background, which is brightly illuminated at night, says: Hamilton and Sons Motors. I always thought it presumptuous of Phil to involve the boys in a business they may well grow up to have no interest in at all but I have noticed, since the split with Carrie, the and sons part has been increasing left out of his advertisements in the local press. Does he feel he is divorcing them too? Or is this an indication of his growing acceptance that his influence over their future must have waned?
I have purposefully chosen to come here on a day when he is off playing golf with his cronies so I can have unlimited and undisturbed access to his computer records. His office is an airless kiosk overlooking the repair shop. It is presentable, largely due to the efforts of the office secretary, Fiona, a new convert to the Jehovah Witnesses, who has just banned the display of sexually provocative calendars here. But, it is still pretty basic, with a large metal desk, some metal stand-alone shelves, and a couple of metal filing cabinets. Not the kind of office to impress potential car buyers, which is why he makes sure he meets these in the lounge area of his salesroom. The computer on his desk whirs into life, agonisingly, slowly. It is so old I'm amazed it doesn't use the binary code. Finally, I get into his customer database. I tap in the name, Belinda Montgomery, and wait. If I had any breath to hold I would. Nothing comes up. This was not what I was hoping for. Phil has both BMW and Audi concessions. I really thought her car might be here. She said it was a company car though, didn't she? I type in the name of the PR firm where she worked and this time a file comes up, containing the make, model, and number plate of her car, together with its service and repair record. The company address and her home
address are also listed. Next, I try Basil Mountford. He is a customer too. He brought his Audi in for a service, a few months back. Gerte's name draws a blank, but what's the betting the garage she happened to call in at, on the night she went missing, was this one? Dead-gorgeous has been here, under my nose, the whole time. But, which one of Phil’s employees is he? Five mechanics and two car salesmen, work here. Reluctantly, I'm disbarring Phil himself as a suspect. I've seen Dead-gorgeous. Not his face but the back of his head and the way his body moves. It wasn't Phil. They're both tall, and slim, with blonde hair, but Dead-gorgeous is more muscular. I go to the personnel files. There are no staff photographs in them but the names and job titles refresh my memory. Dead-gorgeous can't be either of the two car salesmen, because they're both dark, and one is too plump, anyway, and the other, too spindly. That leaves the five mechanics: Brad, Baz, Scott, Jeff, and Miles. Miles is Afro Caribbean and Baz is Turkish. Jeff is too bulky, which leaves only Scott and Brad. I skim their two files. There is nothing which catches my eye, in Brad’s, but in Scott’s, I discover that he gained his qualifications in Leicester. It is not much of a link but it is a link. I keep on reading. He has never had a single day off sick. That must make him popular with Phil. There is also a request form from him to take three weeks leave to see his parents, who live in Australia. It is typed, badly. I check the calendar on the wall. The three weeks leave have already started. He will be off until the second week of June.
Scott Ramsey lives in a modern house in Thamesmead, white bricked with a round bathroom window to give it a nautical appeal, since it is technically close to the Thames, although actually lost in a concrete maze of estates that run alongside it. The rooms are estate agent cosy and stuffed with self-assembly furniture made out of melamine. Like Gordon, he is very clean and likes to keep fit. His spare room is crammed with exercise machines and weight training gear. There is nothing incriminating here. I plonk myself down on a chair, in his kitchen, feeling depressed and that is when I notice it - the photograph of a woman pinned up on a small notice board by his phone. She is loading supermarket bags into the boot of her car and seems unaware that her photograph is being taken. She is a petite blonde. It wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else. It might not mean anything anyway. But, I can’t help wondering whether I am staring at the face of the next woman to be murdered. The thought unsettles me and suddenly an image of Scott flashes into my mind. I saw him that night - the night I was killed. It was early evening and I was on my way home from work, feeling frazzled and exhausted, as usual. My God, of course, I remember now, that’s where I saw him. The main road through New Cross was jammed with traffic because a bus had broken down, and I didn’t have the patience to wait for it to clear. I decided to try and pick my way around the blockage by using the back streets, instead. It was one of those charcoal grey evenings of early summer. The streets were oily wet and a rain dense sky was threatening to give them another soaking. There was a lot of litter in the gutters, blown there from the fruit and vegetable market a block away. I recognised Scott up ahead, seconds after I turned off the main road. Tall and good looking he was hard to miss. He was getting out of a BMW wearing a pair of blue overalls. I slowed down to say hello. Nice wheels, I called to him. Those two words alone must have sealed my fate. They told him I'd noticed Bim's car. He was probably dumping it after abducting her. I was just delivering it for a client, he shouted back with a dazzling smile. Well, I was dazzled by it. I didn't realise a thing. Say, you couldn't do me a favour and run me back to the garage, could you? Save me waiting for a bus, or calling one of the guys out. I agreed, immediately. Sure, hop in. I thought you'd have shut up shop by now. He played me, beautifully. He was drawing me into his web. The boss is still there. He was trying to get hold of you, earlier. He wanted to ask you something about your sister, I think. We went on chatting on the way back. I was enjoying his company. It lifted my mood. And, all the time he was planning to harm me. I dropped him on the forecourt of the garage and I went to get out of the car myself, but he stopped me. You wait there. I'll go and fetch Phil. It is the least I can do after you've been so kind. He ran towards the garage before I could argue, and headed around the side where I couldn’t see him. I'll never know now whether he actually went inside. It's possible the whole place was locked up. He returned a minute later. Sorry Kate, we've got to go out and pick up a breakdown with the tow truck. Phil wants you to meet him in the George in half an hour. The breakdown isn't far. It won't take long to recover the car. Do you know the George? I was irritated with Phil for expecting me to wait for him but I didn’t want to show that to Scott. He could just ring me, later. He shook his head. He says it is important. It is something to do with Carrie. Stupidly, I didn't question that Phil would use one of his mechanics as a messenger for something so personal. Okay, tell him I'll be there but, if he doesn't arrive within twenty minutes of me getting there, I'm off. I've got things to do. He winked at me. I'll make sure he’s on time. Thanks for the lift, Kate. Bye. He jogged back to the side entrance, pausing once to give me a wave, still smiling, real friendly like. The bastard! Phil didn't show up, of course. I waited half an hour in an increasing state of fury and then I left. I tried to ring him on his mobile from the car park but I couldn’t get a signal until I walked towards the road. It was ringing when I saw his tow truck coming along the road. I stepped off the kerb to wave to him and whoever was driving ran me down. It was possibly a moment of inspiration. I bet Scott couldn’t believe his luck. When the truck speeded up as it approached me, I thought it was a joke and I stood my ground. The Weasel was following behind. They must have been planning to abduct me. I was so taken in by Scott’s ruse to get me there, I saved them the trouble.
Sam and I are in his room finishing off a jigsaw together. This one is a map of the British Isles. It was his choice and I suspect a crush on Kerry – whom is apparently helping him with some computer research, for a school project - might be behind it. I’ve never known him to show any interest in geography before. I am glad of the distraction whatever the jigsaw. My mind has been obsessively preoccupied with the woman in the photograph, on Scott Ramsey’s notice board, and how I can discover her identity. It seems like an impossible task. And, we have less than three weeks to pull it off, if we are going to save her life.
Dad wants to have us for the weekend, every other week, Sam announces to me, none too happily from the expression on his face.
Don't you want to go? I doubt anyone is going to make you, I reassure him, adding to myself: And, actually they can't because your mother has custody.
Mum says we get to decide each time whether or not we actually go.
Where is the problem then?
Talking with Sam is like extracting molars. I use the lull to surreptitiously search his room for contraband. There is nothing. Mercifully, he seems to have given up shoplifting.
The scouts are going camping, next weekend.
And?
He brushes his blonde hair back from his face. Even at this age he is becoming self conscious about his appearance. I don't think Carrie and I so much as peeked into a mirror until we were eleven. Maybe identical twins don't have to. If I had egg on my face she'd be the first to tell me.
What will Dad think if I go with the scouts?
He'll be pleased for you.
You think?
Well, there's always the hope he has matured since he left. Just explain it to him. Or get Mummy to, if you don't want to. And, if there is any difficulty, you tell me, and I'll talk to him.
He can't hear you. He’d need a medium.
A medium?
That’s what they’re called aren’t they?
Yes, that’s right. How clever of you. I hadn’t thought of that.
He beams at me. Well, it wouldn’t do any good talking to Dad without one.
Oh, I don’t know, I think I could make myself understood.
He laughs. I really like having you around, Auntie Kate.
Thank you, Sam! What a lo
vely thing to say. It gives me an idea too. I want to move back in with Carrie and the boys. My flat hasn’t been the same since Jaswinda and Jitendra left. My new lodgers, Jennifer and Bernard, are newlyweds and there is only so much I want to learn about their love life. Either they're going to have to go, or I will. Maybe you could do me a favour and tell your mum how you feel.
I've never been to a séance before and it seems odd to be attending my first now I’m dead. I’m feeling nervous. I've seen enough horror films to expect the worst, even though, technically, I am the worst myself. Margaret Dryer isn't the least like the mediums I've seen on celluloid to be fair. She’s too ordinary. She talks about what she is attempting to do, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. I have to pinch myself to remember she is sitting here so nonchalantly with five dead women.
Nothing might come through, she warns us, rubbing the photograph of our mystery blonde between her two palms, while we watch her, intently. I don't often work with objects.
She has lost a little weight since I met her at Bim’s memorial. She is wearing a light grey linen trouser suit, well tailored, with a pale violet silk blouse. The cut of her clothes, their pressed appearance, with not one wrinkle, blemish, or snag, rumours an exactness befitting her profession. I can picture her teaching equations and statistics in school. It is a séance I can't picture her conducting, even though that is precisely what she is doing right in front of me. We're seated at a large and heavy oak table in her breakfast room. The walls are painted a cheery yellow colour, and green vases, storage glasses, and candle holders decorate the polished wooden mantel of an original Victorian fire grate. In the alcoves, to the left and right of this, two oak dressers are filled with massive serving plates, vegetable dishes, and soup tureens. They are antique; from the days when families were large. They are beautiful too, with a buttery glaze, and a green and yellow flower design - the everyday china of a wealthy farming family, perhaps. It occurs to me that Margaret may have met the owners. She might know everyone who has had a hand in her home since it was built at the turn of the nineteenth century. I can't sense any other spirits here myself, but she can do what I cannot. She can contact those who have already passed into the Light.
