The Case of the Green-Dressed Ghost

by Lucy Banks

  “What should I be prepared for?” Kester asked. He looked over at the door with growing anxiety, expecting it to fly open on its hinges at any moment. There was an air of pregnant expectancy in the room, and it was making him instinctively wary. This wasn’t helped by the secretive glances the others were giving one another.

  The two older women exchanged another meaningful look, just to further ignite his anxiety. Pamela raised an eyebrow, and Miss Wellbeloved shrugged. She smiled tightly, gesturing to the door. “I’ll knock for you,” she said. “Get back to work, everyone. Tea break is over.”

  Kester shuffled reluctantly towards the door, following the older woman like a large ship being pulled into harbour by a fast-paced tug-boat. She paused, bony fist hovering in the air, then knocked smartly in a series of authoritative raps.

  “Come in,” a low voice rumbled from within.

  “Dr Ribero,” Miss Wellbeloved said, as she pushed open the door. “This is Gretchen Lanner’s boy, here to see you. Kester, I’d like to introduce you to Dr Ribero. Your father.”

  Chapter 3: The Infamous Dr Ribero

  Kester froze. My father? he thought dumbly. But that’s ridiculous. I don’t have a father. It’s always been just me and my mother, no one else.

  “There’s been some mistake,” he croaked, backing away. His head started to spin, and the walls seemed suddenly a lot closer than they had been a few seconds previously. It didn’t help that the room was small, as tightly enclosed as a womb, and windowless. It felt bewilderingly oppressive in the heat of the summer’s day.

  “No, this is definitely your father,” Miss Wellbeloved confirmed, oblivious to his distress. She nodded curtly, then retreated. “I’ll leave you to have a private chat,” she concluded. The door snapped into place with a loud click, leaving the room in stifling silence.

  Kester wiped the sweat away from his brow, then reluctantly faced the man he’d been left alone with. They stared at one another for an indeterminable amount of time.

  “Well, this is unusual, yes?” Dr Ribero announced finally. His accent was surprisingly rich, and the words flowed round the room like velvet, laden with Spanish undulations, like the tossing of a midnight ocean.

  The owner of the magnificent voice sat in a leather armchair in the corner, fingers folded neatly as a judge, looking upon Kester as though he were a fascinating specimen in a laboratory. Kester stared back, gormless as a puppy, the word father still echoing in his ears. There was nothing fatherly about this figure. And certainly there was absolutely nothing about his appearance that seemed to connect Kester to him.

  Dr Ribero was leonine. There was no other word for him. He exuded elegance, from his long, pointed shoes, right up to his aquiline nose. He was handsome, especially given his advanced age. His hair, though grey, was lustrous—smoothed back with wax, it formed a perfectly shiny wave over his scalp. A dashing moustache curled from under his nose like a pair of inquisitive grey worms. His eyes were dark, but twinkled with electricity. He reached slowly across to his side table, picking up a cigarette holder complete with half-smoked cigarette, then lit it with one deft flick of a silver lighter.

  “Isn’t it illegal to smoke in a public place?” Kester squeaked.

  Dr Ribero shrugged. “My office, my rules,” he replied, his voice rolling languorously over the vowels and consonants. “I take it you do not like to smoke. So, I will not offer you one.” Kester stared, struck dumb by the shock of it all, unsure where to put himself. Dr Ribero surveyed him, before gesturing with a regal nod. “Please, sit.”

  He looked around. There was a cluttered desk at the other end of the room, complete with a studded leather swivel chair. Unceremoniously, he plumped himself onto its rigid seat, and tried to resist the natural momentum as the chair threatened to swing him in the wrong direction.

  “So, I can see that you are Gretchen’s boy,” Dr Ribero said at last, after studying him for the best part of a minute.

  “How can you see?” Kester asked.

  Dr Ribero pointed two elongated fingers at Kester’s eyes like a pair of tiny cannons. “It’s all there,” he replied, with a cryptic nod.

  Kester said nothing. He fixed his gaze on the floor, focusing in on the bright rug below his feet, a sea of ruby-red geometric patterns that separated him from the doctor. This is insane, he thought. What on earth am I doing here? And why did that woman say he was my father? That’s just ridiculous. It’s simply impossible. Ruefully, he acknowledged that there was no way such a handsome chap could have produced him. His real father, whoever he may have been, must have been every bit as paunchy and pale as himself. It didn’t make sense.

  “So, what do you think?” the doctor continued, interrupting his thoughts. He exhaled, slowly pistoning out a stream of smoke. It curled languidly, masking his face briefly before billowing out towards the ceiling, which Kester could see was a mottled shade of beige from years of nicotine exposure.

  “What do I think about what?”

  “About all of this, of course. What do you think of my agency?”

  Well, that’s a peculiar question, given he’s just been told that I’m his son, Kester thought. What a strange man. Though of course, it can’t be true. Mother would have told me if I had a father who was alive. She never would have kept it from me.

  Doctor Ribero studied him intently. “You are deep in thought, I can see,” he said finally. “I think perhaps you are confused, yes?”

  Kester nodded dumbly.

  “Well,” the doctor continued. “Why don’t we start at the beginning? If you are my son, that means you are Gretchen’s boy. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Kester.”

  “Why aren’t you surprised?” Kester spluttered. “You look so . . . so unmoved by finding out that you have a son!”

  Dr Ribero chuckled, an earthy rumble, like the precursor to an earthquake. “You presume that because it is a shock for you, it must also be a shock for me. However . . .” He paused, letting the word hang in the air. “I have known about you for a very long time, my boy.”

  Kester swallowed hard and ended up choking. Coughing, he fought to regain control of his lungs as his face grew redder, banging his fist against his chest. Dr Ribero gestured to a jug of water on his desk. His expression didn’t alter, even while Kester’s cheeks turned to a deeper shade of plum. Kester ignored him, feeling more ridiculous with every sputtering moment.

  “Why didn’t you ever come to visit me?” he eventually wheezed, loosening his collar. “If you knew I existed?”

  The older man leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He gazed around the office, as though seeking inspiration, before taking another deep tug on his cigarette. “This is a very serious conversation to be having, so late on a Friday afternoon,” he stated finally. “Allow me to ask some questions instead, yes? How is your dear mother?”

  “Dead,” Kester blurted out.

  Dr Ribero paled. He remained motionless for a minute or so, as composed as an owl in a thunderstorm, before slowly placing his cigarette holder on the ash tray. Kester noticed then that his hand was shaking.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you’d be upset,” he said.

  “Gretchen is dead?” Ribero repeated weakly. Kester nodded.

  The room rang with the weight of the words. They seemed to grow larger in the silence, filling the space with their brutal finality, puffing out with unbearable pressure. That one word. Dead. It was shocking how it could change the atmosphere so much. It made everything greyer, colder. Kester had noticed that a lot in the last fortnight. Death still wasn’t a concept he’d wrapped his head around yet. Death. Even the word itself was like a final, icy breath.

  “How did it happen?” Ribero whispered, all exuberance sucked from him like a vacuum cleaner. He looked haggard, as if he’d aged a decade in the space of only a few minutes.

  “Cancer.”

  “But Gre
tchen was always so healthy,” he mumbled. “None of this poison.” Ribero jabbed an accusing finger at his smouldering cigarette, as if it was directly responsible. “Always so slim, so energetic, so sensible. How could she get cancer?” He muttered something in Spanish, looking down to the floor.

  “I think it can happen to anyone,” Kester said, as kindly as he could. He suddenly felt sorry for the man in front of him, this suave man, reduced to a morsel of his former self in a matter of moments; he felt guilty for having caused the change.

  With a shake, Ribero composed himself, straightening against the back of the chair. He drew back, studying Kester hard, black eyes burrowing tunnels into Kester’s own.

  “And now you are on your own, and this is why you are here? Because you don’t know where else to go?”

  Kester shook his head, then nodded. “No. Well, yes, partly. I’m certainly on my own, but that’s not the reason I’m here. My mother told me to come and find you. When she was . . . when she was dying. That’s why I’m here. I’m fulfilling her final wishes. But to be honest, I’m not sure what good it has done.”

  Ribero gave a grim shake of the head, pressing his chin against his fingers. He appeared lost in thought, staring at the wall behind Kester’s head as though waiting for the solution to the problem to magically appear. Kester waited, as the minutes stretched on. The mantelpiece clock ticked gently. Ribero’s cigarette fizzled to a limp line of ash.

  This is madness, Kester thought. He stood awkwardly, then offered a hand. Dr Ribero didn’t take it, only narrowed his gaze, still staring at the wall. Eventually, Kester lowered his arm.

  “I’ll say goodbye then,” he said. “Don’t worry, you won’t hear from me again. I don’t want anything from you. My mother obviously didn’t expect you to provide for me, so I shan’t either.”

  The doctor’s head snapped up, like a puppet pulled to attention. He pointed a finger directly at his son’s face. “My boy, you may leave, if that is what you want. However, I have to correct you on that last point. I have been providing for you since you were born. Perhaps not emotionally, but financially, very much so, yes.”

  Kester’s eyes widened. The doctor nodded.

  “I didn’t know that,” he stuttered, the wind taken out of him.

  “How did you think your mother had that nice house?” Dr Ribero asked in disbelief. “She didn’t work, surely you must have wondered.”

  Kester paused, blushing. “I . . . I don’t believe I did, no.” It pained him to admit it, and he felt suddenly incredibly stupid. Have I really been that naïve? he wondered. Why have I never questioned it before?

  The truth was, he had never stopped to give it any thought. It was the way it had always been, he and his mother in their cosy semi-detached house in the quiet Cambridge suburbs, tucked away from the bustle of the city. He had always presumed it had been left to them by the dead father his mother sometimes alluded to, but never spoke directly of, and he’d never asked any questions about the matter.

  Except that his father wasn’t dead. He was alive, very much alive, and living in Exeter, only a matter of hours away. The weight of it all crashed upon him like a sack of wet sand, and his knees weakened with the horror of it all. He sank back into the chair, cradling his head in his hands.

  “Gosh, I had no idea,” he murmured. What a fool he must think I am, he thought. To have lived this long, and never stopped to wonder how my mother could afford to keep me? How could I not have realised? His mother had always said he was too accepting of things. Now he appreciated exactly how right she was.

  Finally, he looked up. “Was it you who put me through university then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you own the house? Our house in Cambridge, I mean?”

  The doctor shook his head. “No. I bought it for your mother. She needed somewhere to live. It was . . . how do you say it? The least that I could do.”

  Kester felt a little lightheaded. The combination of grief, tiredness, and unexpected revelations rendered him stupid, speechless, unable to determine the correct response. After all, he thought, running a hand through his hair, how are you meant to speak to your father, when you meet him for the first time? It’s not exactly the sort of thing we get taught at school.

  “Why didn’t you ever come and visit me?” he asked. “I mean, weren’t you curious? Or do you have other children, is that it? Do you have another family?” Looking at the doctor, he could well imagine a succession of women falling for his charms. Although old, the force of his masculinity was still strong, and Kester could only imagine how attractive he had been as a younger man. The thought made him rather jealous. If indeed this was his father, why had none of those handsome genes passed on to him?

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Dr Ribero snapped, reading Kester’s expression correctly. He reached across for his cigarette, realised it had gone out, and relit it with a flick of his lighter; he tugged on it sombrely. “No, I have never married. I am not that kind of a man, Kester. Not like you think. I am not the Lothario or the Casanova, no.”

  “So why never come and see me then?”

  It was a pleading, plaintive question, and it surprised him, even as the childish reprimand left his lips. Why do I even care? he thought, as he surveyed the old man, who had, before three o’clock this afternoon, been completely unknown to him. Why should it bother me that he’s never been to see me? Why am I even still here?

  Yet it did bother him. It nettled him, and the sting of rejection ached within him like a fist to the stomach. What was wrong with me? he wondered. What could have possibly been so very unpleasant about me that my own father never wanted to see me? The notion of it made him feel unnervingly anchorless, as though an unseen carpet had been whipped from under his feet.

  To his surprise, instead of answering, the doctor stood, straightening his knees with an audible crack. He gestured sternly to the door. Kester gulped.

  “You want me to go?” he mumbled, shocked. His feelings of rejection multiplied in the space of a second.

  Dr Ribero pulled open the door with force, the gust fluttering his paperwork across his desk. “Miss Wellbeloved!” he bellowed. Kester winced.

  The woman slid into the room as though on rails. Her swift arrival indicated that she must have been listening to their conversation, or at least standing very close to the room. Without a single glance at Kester, she quietly closed the door behind her.

  “Tell him,” Dr Ribero said, stalking back to his chair like an alpha lion returning to its rock.

  Miss Wellbeloved frowned. “About which part?”

  Ribero grunted. “About the agency, Jennifer. The rest can wait.”

  “It would be better coming from you,” she replied. “It’s hardly my place.”

  The doctor waved an impatient hand, batting her comment away like an imaginary wasp. “It’s every bit as much your place as mine. And I do not know where to begin. Please, Jennifer. You explain it. I have only just woken; I am still tired. This is all too much for me.”

  She sighed, then walked across to the desk, resting herself on the edge.

  “Kester,” she said, glaring in Ribero’s direction. “Your father wants me to tell you about this agency. After I’ve finished, his absence in your life will probably make a lot more sense.”

  So she was listening, Kester thought, with bewilderment and irritation. She heard every word of what we were saying. She isn’t even bothering to conceal the fact. He’d always been raised to believe that eavesdropping was the height of bad manners, and it shocked him to see such an austere woman so comfortable with listening in on the conversation of others.

  “What has this agency got to do with him not visiting me?” he asked, looking at Dr Ribero. The older man sank his chin on to his fingers, brows knitted. He didn’t meet Kester’s gaze.

  “Oh goodness me, this really is rather difficult,”
Miss Wellbeloved said testily. “Julio, are you sure I can’t convince you to step in?”

  The doctor grunted.

  “Hmm,” Miss Wellbeloved concluded, after an uncomfortable silence. She raised a hand, studying her fingernails as though seeking strength from each well-manicured cuticle. “Well, I suppose I should just come out with it. Stop beating around the bush. It seems silly to string things out.”

  “String what out?” Kester said. He was getting exasperated. “I really don’t have the foggiest what you’re talking about.”

  “This agency . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it’s an agency for supernatural investigations.”

  Kester choked, then chuckled. The others looked at him expectantly. Kester laughed again, waiting for a giggle or wry wink, anything to indicate that he was currently the butt of a rather peculiar joke.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, it’s an agency for—”

  “Yes, I heard you the first time. I just don’t have the faintest idea what that means.”

  Dr Ribero grunted. “It is not so difficult a concept. We are an agency for the supernatural.”

  “So you keep saying,” Kester replied. “But that still makes no sense at all!”

  Miss Wellbeloved massaged her brow, wincing. She frowned at Ribero, who pursed his lips together, shaking his head like a disappointed headmaster.

  “Do you know what the supernatural is?” she asked, adopting the slow tones normally reserved for small and dim-witted children.

  “Of course I do,” Kester replied. “Ghosts and all that stuff. But that’s made up, it’s not real. So you can’t have an agency to investigate something that’s made up. That’s nonsensical.”

  “Why would you say it was nonsensical?” Dr Ribero interrupted, bushy eyebrows bobbing up and down in a rather alarming manner.

  “Because ghosts don’t exist. It’s been proven,” Kester replied, feeling rather hot and bothered. The questions were baffling him and he couldn’t work out whether they were teasing him or were stark-raving mad. But why would they tease him? Paternal claim aside, they were complete strangers. Did they normally tease people they didn’t know? If so, that was a little bit mad too, wasn’t it?