BS.
With trembling fingers Polly rammed the cassette into her Walkman. The first words recalled the occasion precisely, even though at the time they were spoken she had been very drunk. She had just begun to grasp how frighteningly deep was the financial pit into which she had fallen. When Billy Slaughter had read out the small print on the agreement she had so casually signed and pointed out her legal obligations Polly had laughed. She thought herself immune from the slightest form of pressure, let alone genuine unkindness or bullying. He was mad about her – everyone knew that. Then slowly, as the net tightened, she had begun to understand how things really were. It was shortly after this that he offered to cancel the debt if she would go away with him “for a few days.”
Polly, consumed by disgust and rage at the thought of being at any man’s mercy, least of all a revolting creature like Billy Slaughter, then made the telephone call to which she was now listening. She had rung him in the middle of a sleepless night encouraged by several glasses of Southern Comfort.
She had assumed he would be there and perhaps he was. Just not picking up the phone. Not giving her the satisfaction. Black hatred coated Polly’s tongue with a dreadful fluency. She dwelled on his appearance—the sweating abundance of his greasy flesh, the graveyard stink of his breath, the ugliness of his thick-lipped, piggy countenance. On the fact that his arse was better-looking than his face and his genitalia were such as to make him a laughing stock wherever two or three women were gathered together in a City wine bar. She described the vile sensation as of crawling maggots when once his hand had brushed her arm. She jeered at his loveless existence. At the pretence that he chose not to have friends when the truth was that to know him was to loathe him. Take away his money and what was left? A noxious heap of stinking blubber, and so on and on and on…
Now she switched off the machine and sat on the bed, shaking. What a fool she had been. What a fool to think the straightforward repayment of a debt could draw the sting from an attack of such venomous ridicule. Of course he would seek revenge. And what a revenge. She had lost her entire inheritance. And more than that, and worse. She had lost money that was not hers to lose.
At this point Polly began to weep in agonised frustration. She howled and wept until she felt physically ill. Then tumbled into wretched sleep, woke for a while before escaping again into the dark. This cycle continued for what she recognised afterwards to be several days. She dreamed of revenge, longing for it in the hopeless, helpless way an abused child will. Drifting in and out of consciousness, picturing the form it might take. You could have people killed for as little as five hundred pounds – she had read that in a Sunday paper. Or, better still, maimed. Shot in the spine, Billy Slaughter could live for years, paralysed in a wheelchair. Better still, he could be blinded or scorched with acid or cut with knives so fiercely that people would shudder and turn away, crossing themselves at the sight of him.
Finally Polly woke, not to fall asleep again. She became aware of a horrible smell in the room, and a great yawning space where her stomach used to be. She walked shakily into the kitchen. There was nothing immediately to eat. Furry grey-green bread, sour milk, no cheese, no fruit. In the fridge a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Polly wrestled with the urge to smash it into a large gilt mirror over the fireplace. How much worse could her luck be? Instead she switched on the microwave and put in a shepherd’s pie from the freezer. Gobbled it down, burning her lips. Heaved it back up. Took a cloth and hot water to the mess. Shortly after this Debbie came back.
Polly disliked both of her flatmates for quite different reasons. Amanda Fforbes-Snaithe, a parliamentary secretary, for her disgusting allowance and boastful inside knowledge of what she kept calling “the hice.” Deborah Hartogensis for her relentless optimism and common boyfriends. Of the two Polly would rather Amanda had come back first. Though, like lots of very wealthy people, tight as a tick when it came to parting with even a fiver, at least there would be money in her purse. And a mobile that worked. (Debbie refused to use one in case it gave her brain cancer.) But even as she struggled to picture herself talking to her bank, begging them for even a minute increase in her overdraft. Polly, now quite light-headed with hunger and exhaustion, slipped to the bottom of a dark well with no light anywhere.
When she came round it was to realise that her father had somehow materialised. That he was talking to her through the door. Talking gently and lovingly, not knowing she had recently done him an irreparable wrong.
Devastated, Polly blocked her ears. Lay with a pillow over her head. He didn’t go away. The front door slammed. She dragged herself off the bed and peered through the curtains but it was only Debbie, biking off.
Gradually she recognised that Mallory had settled in for the duration. And that, sooner or later, she would have to face him. At least, if it were sooner, there would just be the two of them. Her heart full of dread, Polly made her slow, dragging way through the mess on the carpet. And opened the door.
22
Back once more at the station, the incident room seemed even more busy than when DCI Barnaby and Sergeant Troy had left. Feedback was still coming in from London Underground. And there was news about Ava’s car.
“A Mrs. McNaughton came into reception, sir,” WPC Carter explained. “Parked near Camberley Street at just gone six. She was going to a film with some friends, then they were having dinner at the Hirondelle. Came back around half-ten only to find this red Honda stuck alongside so she couldn’t get out. She was furious. Waited about five minutes and was just about to call us when the owner turned up.”
“Fitting Garret’s description?”
“To a T. Mrs. McNaughton started to let rip but then,” DC Carter applied herself again to the form. “‘I toned it down because I thought she was ill. She looked really bad, swaying about, though she didn’t smell of drink at all. I said could I help her but she just got into the car and drove off.’”
So that was that. One more thing they had pretty well guessed at was now confirmed. But where was the new stuff? Barnaby’s fingers were crossed for luck with the posters of Ava, which should be all over the platform at Uxbridge by now, and inside the carriages. Add this to the exposure on the local TV news and daily papers and surely someone somewhere must have seen her, if only for a moment. Barnaby allowed himself the brief indulgence of a daydream where whoever sat opposite her got off at the same stop. The station was practically deserted. At the entrance someone was waiting to meet her. Yes, as it happened this fellow passenger could describe the man exactly. He even followed them along the road for a while. They went into a restaurant called—
At this point Barnaby had the sense to call a halt. It could happen, of course, though he knew what the odds against it were. He was also beginning to understand what the odds were against finding a motive for the murder of that scrupulously honest, quiet and inoffensive man Dennis Brinkley. Like everything else, it seemed to be in the lap of the gods. And everyone knew what bastards they could be.
A phone shrilled at a nearby desk. A uniformed constable answered, caught Barnaby’s eye and said, “Are you here, sir?”
“Who is it?”
“A Mr. Allibone. He wants to speak to whoever is in charge of the investigation. Says he has some important information.”
“DCI Barnaby.” Barnaby listened. “I see. I’ll send someone…Then it’ll have to be tomorrow, Mr. Allibone…I do indeed…Can’t be too precise as to that I’m afraid…as early as I can. Goodbye.”
“Can’t we go now?” asked Sergeant Troy.
“No. My daughter and her husband are coming round at six o’clock. I haven’t seen them for weeks. If I’m late I’ve been threatened with meatless meals for the next six months. And home-made meatless meals at that.”
“Did it sound promising though, Chief?”
“It sounded extremely promising. Which is why I’m going to put it right out of my mind until the morning.”
The fragrance enveloped Barnaby the moment he step
ped into the house. Delicately it wafted, deliciously it filled the hall and stairwell. It was fish, he decided. But not as he knew it.
They were all in the kitchen where the fragrance was slightly stronger but still not strong enough to be called a smell. No one was slaving over a hot stove. Joyce, Cully and Nicolas sat round the table, drinking. They had got through one bottle of Prosecco and were well into the second.
“Come on, Dad,” said Cully. “You’ve got some catching-up to do.”
“Hello, you.” Barnaby, overwhelmed with pleasure at the sight of his only child, sensibly attempted to conceal it. “Nicolas.”
“Tom.”
“Nico’s just done an audition, darling.” Joyce poured out the wine. “For EastEnders.”
Barnaby took his glass, remembering the vows made not so many years ago when Nico was at the National Theatre and Cully at the RSC. No way would either of them ever, ever take a part in a soap. If they were starving they would not do it. And if one showed signs of weakness the other would threaten to leave rather than let them succumb. It puts you in the second rank straightaway, Cully had explained. You don’t see Eileen Atkins or Penelope Wilton or Juliet Stevenson acting in soaps.
“What sort of character is it?”
“A cockney chancer who’s a compulsive gambler and collects old motor bikes but really wants to be a chef.”
“Couldn’t he be into gardening as well?” asked Joyce. “Then, if the character disappeared, you could have your own show on BBC Two.”
“Four shows,” suggested Barnaby.
“It’s going to be bloody tiresome,” sighed Nicolas. “Being recognised wherever I go. Pestered for autographs.”
“He’s gagging for it.” Cully laughed and caught her father’s eye. “I know what we said, Dad. Circumstances change things.”
They had recently bought a three-bedroomed house on the borders of Limehouse and Canning Town after selling a one-bedroomed flat in Ladbroke Grove. The house needed “a lot doing to it.”
“And you can’t do much,” explained Nicolas, “on an Almeida salary.”
“Though we may well transfer,” said Cully. “This new guy is brilliant. Everyone seems to think he’ll do for Blithe Spirit what Stephen Daldry did for An Inspector Calls.”
Joyce, who had gone over to the stove, asked how Madame Arcati was coming along.
“Great. I play my own age, wear Dolce and Gabbana and there’s no crystal ball. It’s all astrophysics on a laptop.”
“Whatever next.”
“Lady Bracknell gets them out for the lads?” suggested Nico.
“Nicolas!” said Joyce.
“Picture Dame Judi—”
“I’d rather not, thank you.”
“D’you think any of these psychics are genuine, Tom?”
“I am a practical man, Nicolas. A policeman. What do you think I think?”
“Garbage, he calls it,” said Joyce, gently nudging the cooking with a wooden spoon.
“Don’t poke!” Cully ran across to the cooker. Then Barnaby went over, and Nicolas too. They all stood looking down at a vast fish kettle containing a pretty vast fish.
“Sea bass with fennel, onion and lemon,” explained Cully. “You’ve turned the gas up, haven’t you?”
“No,” said Joyce.
“I told you. The liquid is just supposed to shiver.”
“Tremble.”
“Shut up, Nico. What do you know?”
“I didn’t turn it up.”
“What are we having as well?” asked Barnaby.
They had wild rice and a salad of green leaves, one or two of which were quite new to him. The salad had a mustardy dressing made with walnut oil and white wine vinegar. Joyce opened a third bottle of Prosecco and amiability was soon restored.
“This is definitely one for the gastrocenti,” said Nicolas. “We might almost be in Camden.”
“Not at these prices,” said Joyce.
“He’s right, though.” Barnaby speared a large chunk of sea bass that almost melted off his fork. “It’s delicious.”
“So what’s happening on the case, Dad?”
“Oh, not work,” cried Joyce.
“Very little, I’m afraid. We’ve found out where Ava left her car the night she died and that’s about it.”
“Have you come across any weird and wonderful specimens for us?”
“With interesting physical quirks.”
“You’re like a pair of cannibals,” said Joyce, “sucking what you want out of people and moving on.”
“What else are we supposed to do?”
“People are an actor’s raw material.”
“It’s not as if they know they’re being used.”
Barnaby was briefly tempted to offer up the Footscrays for his daughter’s delectation. How entertained they would be, Cully and Nicolas. Poor George, into his fifties before he was out of his teens, and his deranged mother now struck Barnaby as more sad than comic. He decided it would be cruel to hold them up as a laughing stock. Even if they’d never know.
“Doesn’t sound as if this Garret woman was much use anyway, Cully,” Joyce was saying. “Your Arcati being so different.”
“True. She was a good character, though. I’ll remember her.”
“And very convincing.”
“Oh, come on, Nico.”
“Look – she described the machine that killed him, what the room was like, the shape of the windows, the colour of the walls…”
“Someone must have told her then.”
Barnaby made a strange gurgling sound at the back of his throat.
“Tom?” Joyce came round the table. “What on earth’s the matter?”
“Sorry…gone down the wrong way.”
“Have some water.”
“Give him some more pop.”
“Thanks. I’ll be OK, darling. Don’t fuss.”
Pudding was clementines stacked in a perfect pyramid on a white china dish. And there were hazelnut and marzipan cookies, which had lumps of dark chocolate in as well.
“The fruit,” said Cully, sweet golden juice trickling from the corner of her exquisite mouth, “is organic.”
“That doesn’t make you immortal,” snapped Joyce. She was getting a bit fed up with suggestions on alternative living. Every time Cully rang there was some crisply delivered lecture. Massaging the back of her neck with ginger (headache); pressing a crystal to the tips of her ears (feeling grumpy); dried chrysanthemum tea (always forgetting where put glasses).
“It’ll be feng shui next.” Joyce began to clear the plates.
“Now that is pretty well proven,” insisted Cully.
“Try it,” suggested Nicolas.
“If you’ll move the piano.” Barnaby started on the biscuits.
“It does feel strange,” said Joyce, “coming for dinner and bringing your own food.”
“We can’t ask you to ours,” said Nicolas. “Nothing’s working.”
“When it’s all fixed,” said Cully, “you can come and stay.”
They went shortly after that. Cully had a rehearsal at ten with an hour of yoga and thirty minutes’ meditation before she left the house. They surrendered the marzipan cookies but took the fish kettle. Barnaby carried it to the car and put it in the boot.
“What on earth do the two of you want with a thing this size?”
“We’re always having people round,” explained Nicolas.
“There were sixteen for supper just before we moved.” Cully kissed her parents. “See you at the first night if I don’t before.”
Back inside, Joyce began to load the dishwasher. Barnaby thought about the fish kettle and the sixteen for supper. He pictured the kitchen in their new house full of theatricals. Laughing, drinking, gossiping. Tucking in. And felt a bleak sense of exclusion from his daughter’s life, which was ridiculous because barely five minutes earlier he had been sitting with her at his own table laughing, drinking, gossiping. Tucking in.
“Some people
are never satisfied.”
“What are you muttering about?”
“Oh…” He stumbled through a rough approximation of his smarting thoughts.
“Really, Tom.” She came to him: slid her arms around his waist. “How often did we invite your parents round to meet our friends?”
“That was different.”
“No, it wasn’t. Anyway – remember when Cully asked us to a party after The Crucible closed?”
“No.”
“You said you’d never met such a load of posturing ninnies.”
“Oh, that party.”
“They’ve asked us to go and stay, Tom. Think about it.”
“Mmm.”
“But until that happy day,” she kissed him, “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
“You’ll have to do then,” said Barnaby. And kissed her fondly back.
It was past seven o’clock before Mallory returned to Appleby House. By this time Kate had been through every emotion of which she was capable and quite a few she hadn’t known existed.
The anger that had driven her out into the forecourt yelling after Mallory as the car zoomed away drove her back into house and straight to the telephone. She dialled Polly’s number because, of course, this was to do with their daughter. Nothing else would have sent him haring off in such fear and anguish. Yes, fear. Kate had seen it on his face. Still he could have said something, she wailed, but silently, her throat already sore from screaming after him. The phone rang and rang and rang and rang. Eventually Kate hung up.
Neither herself nor Mallory had the number of Polly’s mobile. She had refused to give it, saying it would make her feel like some juvenile delinquent being tagged and kept track of. The one thing Kate knew she definitely must not do was ring Mallory on the car phone. He had left the house at an alarming speed. She tried not to think what he could be doing on the motorway.
So began the long wait that proved to be almost six hours. Kate spent quite a long time picking and tearing at various cushions. Then emptying the linen cupboard, folding and re-folding all the sheets and towels and pillowcases and putting them carefully back. Reading was out of the question. Television seemed occupied only by fools cackling with laughter and applauding themselves and each other. Gardening, which might have soothed, was not an option. Benny would almost certainly have come out to help and Kate would not have been able to conceal her misery and despair.
A Ghost in the Machine Page 41
