Strange Sight

by Syd Moore

  ‘I say! Not interrupting anything, am I?’

  We both turned to see a tall man in a smart tailored suit waving a phone and walking boldly across the floor towards us.

  ‘Oh, Monty,’ I said. ‘I forgot about you.’ Of course, I had told Sam to phone him.

  I stretched out my good hand to give him a hug. Though it hurt more than a little.

  Monty smiled and reciprocated my gesture, although he was a little awkward about it. I think hugs weren’t de rigueur in his social circle: I’d noted on previous occasions that he had perfected the gentlemanly handshake. I bet that had come with lots and lots of practice.

  ‘And you are?’ Jason eyed the stranger.

  Monty’s bearing was chipper. Although I’d never seen him anything other. This evening he was sporting formal dress, complete with black tie. He didn’t look like he was going to explain why. I liked him. He had a pleasant though thin face, was maybe a few years older than me but always had this mischievous glint in his eyes and a sparky energy about his movements that combined to make him seem younger.

  ‘MI6, MI5,’ I explained to Jason’s territorial confusion. ‘Or something like that. I don’t know really.’

  Monty winked at him. ‘She’s an informant.’

  Jason swung round and gaped at me with open surprise and said, ‘Is she?’ at the same time as I uttered, ‘Am I?’

  ‘Seems so,’ said Monty and pointed at his phone. ‘Need to talk to you in private, I fear.’

  We both glanced at Jason, who was going with a stern expression but still seemed rather miffed by this interruption. But in the end he said to me, ‘Okay then. Rosie, send me your video footage please. As soon as you can,’ and handed me his card. ‘I’ve got your number,’ he whispered then winked.

  ‘And I’ve got yours,’ I said, and waved it in the air.

  As he withdrew into the building, I said to Monty. ‘If this is going to take long, can we do it in the car? I’ve got five hours until my team meeting and I really need to be on time.’

  ‘The pleasure is all mine,’ he said. ‘Your carriage awaits.’ Then he ushered me back out the door.

  We were halfway to Leytonstone when I realised I’d forgotten something – Sam.

  Slightly embarrassing.

  Monty detoured back to Fetter Lane and went and got him. The curator hadn’t noticed I’d gone anyway. He’d been far more interested in reviewing what tapes Jason had left behind.

  ‘You got a fantastic reading on the EMF detector,’ he said as he swung into Monty’s BMW. ‘I managed to note it before that detective inspected your phone.’

  ‘Which reminds me,’ Monty piped up. ‘Rosie, you really have to stop calling the police and telling them there’s a bomb. I’ve tried to smooth it over, again, spinning the old informant line but in future, call me on this phone. My personal number is in there and a hotline which should come through 24/7. In case of emergencies.’ There was a reprimand in his tone, though it was cordial as with all his communications.

  ‘I know, I know,’ I said. ‘But I’ve had circumstances.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware,’ he said after a pause. ‘But you’ll get investigated if you’re not careful and that’s not something any of us wants. Is it?’ he said, and snuck me a pinch of grin. I was really just too tired to argue so I nodded and said, ‘No.’ Then added, ‘But it’s not me who has actually done anything wrong.’ Then I thought I’d better be grateful so went, ‘Thank you very much for your consideration,’ and took the phone off him, surprised to see it was gleaming new and top of the range. ‘Wow, thanks.’

  ‘It’s a pay-as-you-go. It’s got £20 pounds in it to start you off then you ought to top up the rest yourself. Buy new SIM cards as frequently as possible.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Can I transfer my number on to it?’

  ‘No, Rosie,’ he cooed. ‘That’s the point.’

  ‘But how will I call my friends?’

  ‘On your own phone.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ I said. ‘Well, I’ll need Sam’s number. Just in case.’

  ‘You will indeed,’ said a voice in the back seat. ‘We’re here.’

  And we were. It only dawned on me later that I’d never told Monty my address.

  We dropped Sam off. The sun was ascending over the low hills of Essex. I told him to make himself at home, which he already had done, and that I’d be back later in the afternoon. Then Monty kindly took me on to work. During the journey I tried to sum up the full extent of our involvement with Seth Johnson, Ray and Mary Boundersby, and La Fleur.

  I had got to the tussle by the window when a memory revisited me – the cool and sweet presence of that unknown female. It halted my flow of speech and prompted a curious reflection. I could remember it with an amount of clarity that seemed improbable given I was in the throes of concussion at the time. I wasn’t going to mention it at all, but this early in the morning my impulse control was pretty slack.

  Breaking off from the main narrative, I asked Monty, ‘Do you know anything about my grandmother’s disappearance or who she was or what she did?’ Several neurones that might not have connected the presence, or sense of presence, to my grandmother had fired off before I could check them sensibly. Though even as I said it, I knew that the experience had likely come from what Sam and Bronson had shared with me recently, that it had resurfaced to meet me in a moment of panic when my brain started triggering ‘comfort’ memories. I remembered the cottage in which she lived had been covered in honeysuckle. And the fragrance of roses that accompanied my hallucination or whatever it was – well, you just had to think about what’s in a name. Mine and my grandmother’s.

  Monty, however, looked rather taken aback. ‘What’s this got to do with sex trafficking and ghosts?’

  ‘I’ll get back to that in a minute. Probably nothing. It’s just if I don’t ask you about Ethel-Rose now, I may well forget. I’ve got a lot of other things going on upstairs.’ I tapped my head and winced.

  His leather driving gloves gripped the wheel. ‘I’ll have to refresh myself with the case notes. But, if I recall, she was an alleged clairaudient. That much I do remember.’

  One of his words stuck in my throat. ‘Alleged?’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘Everyone’s alleged until proven otherwise. I’ll have a look at some point. Is it urgent?’

  ‘God, no,’ I said as my office loomed into view. It was nestled in the heart, or rather centre, of Margaret Thatcher House, a squat three-storey affair held up by scaffolding which was cold and hard and made of cranky inflexible materials that were largely redundant today. Or should be in a perfect world.

  I switched views and sent Monty my most charming and wistful smile. ‘I’d appreciate a quick squizz at the file, if I’m allowed to?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ His firmness slightly stunned me. ‘But I can give you a precis at some point. You know, we still haven’t had dinner,’ he said, and pulled up.

  ‘I know,’ I told him. I owed him a proper four-star chow down for a favour he had done Sam and I. ‘I’ll see what I can sort out at La Fleur. They’ve got to owe me a discount or two after this.’

  ‘Your beauty is exceeded only by your generosity,’ Monty said with a sardonic smile. I was never sure if this was his personal style just for me or if he flirted with everyone. ‘Which,’ he went on, ‘is powerfully exceeded by your strong work ethic. Which, I also have to say is rather startling. But don’t take that the wrong way, I think it’s marvellous. Hope you make it through the day.’

  ‘Yeah, well, flattery will get you everywhere,’ I said with a painful wink and got out. ‘I’ll be in touch in the none too distant. Thanks for the lift and goodnight.’

  That dinner would have to be organised pretty soon, I thought, as I swiped my card at the door and gave in to the biggest ever yawn. Sam had indicated that he thought my dad’s attitude to the Witch Museum was tied up with whatever happened to his mum. If I wanted his approval to do with the museum as I wished then I’d ne
ed to sort that out and delve into the past. But discreetly so as not to draw attention and irritate his condition. Whatever that was.

  Otherwise, if I couldn’t, then there was no two ways about it: the Essex Witch Museum would simply have to be sold. The thought of it made me shudder.

  Now that was a new one.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ‘Good Christ. You look like you’ve been in a car crash.’ Derek’s bony face loomed into focus. He was far too close and breathing Weetabix fumes all over me.

  For a moment I thought I was in bed and wondered if I had got drunk last night and, no surely, I wouldn’t … No. That would never happen, not if he was the last bloke on earth.

  It took me about thirty seconds to recognise the false ceiling and its square polyfibre tiles. Thank god for Margaret Thatcher House. I’d never before been so grateful to see the artificial suspended lights, the uniform slate-coloured carpet. As I sat up the battleship filing cabinets swanned into view, all chosen from the local authority’s interior designers’ swatch set of various greys. Above them was Derek’s sign: You don’t have to be crazy to work here – but it helps. It gave us all a laugh – if you were sectioned then you couldn’t work at all, legitimately or otherwise.

  ‘If you’d told me you were sick as a dog I would have never asked you to come in.’ Derek smiled and showed his yellow teeth. ‘What have you had? Someone should have been eating those apples, shouldn’t they?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You need to keep the doctor away.’ He retreated and perched his bottom on my desk. I didn’t like it there but it was better than having him invade my personal space. He never looked particularly healthy because he had food allergies and seemed to exist off breakfast cereals, bacon, chips and oat milk. I’d suggested a nutritionist but he didn’t apparently believe in ‘other faiths’.

  I shook myself as I woke up, becoming aware my body was aching all over. It took me a while but I tried flexing my shoulders and loosened them. The muscles on my right side were obviously in some state of disrepair for they set off sharp pains. Plus, my head was beginning to pound like a madman on an anvil with a big rubber joke hammer. ‘Am I alive?’ I asked Derek. ‘I haven’t died and gone to,’ I surveyed the office suite, ‘purgatory?’

  Derek’s big fat orange moustache quivered. He was very proud of it for it was bushy and thick. A complete contrast to the wheat-coloured strands that he combed over his pate to disguise the thinning of his hair. I had tried several times to persuade him to shave it all off declaring bald could be sexy these days. I mean, look at Billy Zane, Jason Statham, Vin Diesel. He didn’t know any of them so I mentioned Duncan Goodhew and Ross Kemp but he wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Mmmm,’ he said, peering closer. A strand of hair fell backwards off the top of his head and stuck out at a ninety-degree angle. ‘You look awful peaky. I think perhaps you should go home.’

  ‘No,’ I told him. I’d willed myself here despite criminals, police, sex slaves, being whacked on the side of my head, vomiting in the yard and hardly sleeping at all. There was zero probability I was going to wuss out now like a lightweight. ‘The team meeting’s at 9.30, right?’

  ‘True but under the circumstances I think it might be wiser if we continued without you, Rosie dear.’

  ‘I’m not having an unauthorised absence,’ I said, indignation growing. Not after all I’d been through.

  ‘Well, yes, but no,’ said Derek. ‘I’ll authorise it.’

  ‘I’m here now, aren’t I? Might as well get the meeting over and done with. I’ll knock off early though if you don’t mind.’

  ‘You were snoring,’ said a voice opposite. It was Charlie, my junior, who was a few years older than me. He wanted my job. ‘Loudly,’ he sniggered and smoothed his tie down over his shirt. It was navy with little anchors on it. His wife had bought it for him. She thought it was jaunty.

  It wasn’t jaunty. It was stupid.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you very much,’ I said, stood up and fell over. ‘Just a bit fluey that’s all.’

  Derek righted me. ‘All righty ho. Looks like she’s in the right place, because this lady’s not for turning.’ He grinned and waited a second for a laugh.

  None came.

  Deflating only marginally, he clapped his hands together. ‘Right, chop, chop suey, Charlie. Go and round the others up. Let’s get this ole show on the road.’

  The meeting went quickly in the blink of an eye. Possibly several blinks and a micro-sleep. We trudged through the agenda. Things ticked over. Charlie queried his holiday leave. Marcia, who came in late, complained about her overtime rate. Stanley, who didn’t even work in the department, started talking about the lack of vegetarian options on the in-house lunch menu, and Dennis, who was new and keen, asked about clarification on an urgent initiative that no one else had heard of.

  Derek spluttered and prevaricated and eventually hurried us along till there was just one item left. A case about an eye injury on which we were collaborating with the Department of Work and Pensions. Someone needed to go and collect results from the designated optometric consultant. Optician in old money. I volunteered.

  ‘All right,’ said Derek. ‘But if you still don’t feel well afterwards may I suggest you go home.’

  ‘I just might take you up on that,’ I told him.

  Doctor Roberts worked out of the hospital on Wednesdays. I was in the waiting room when my phone went. It was an unknown number though I recognised DS Edward’s voice as soon as he said hello.

  ‘Managed to get some shut-eye?’

  ‘A little,’ I told him.

  ‘How’s your head?’

  ‘Still on my shoulders, thankfully.’

  He chuckled then said, ‘Listen, I just thought you should hear it from me.’

  Intriguing.

  ‘Well, we’ve reviewed your tape from the camera in the kitchen and …’ He paused as if collecting his thoughts.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We can clearly see you in the yard talking.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘But it looks like there’s no one else there.’

  What exactly was he implying? ‘You mean the girl is outside the field of vision?’

  ‘Possibly. We should be able to see her feet though, if she was where you described her.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘We can’t see any. It’s not great quality, I admit, and the tape runs out seconds later.’

  I thought this through. ‘She must be further back then.’

  There was silence for a beat, then he said, ‘I thought this might be good news for you.’

  How on earth did he work that one out? ‘Why?’

  ‘Might potentially be your ghost?’

  I was flabbergasted. ‘Of course it can’t be. There are lots of explanations for the tape. I just need to find my way through them.’ I was surprised that he, with his job, could countenance such a thing. Especially as the detectives seemed to have given Mary such a grilling about her account.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, sounding put out. ‘Like I said, I thought I’d give you the heads-up. We’re going to check around for more CCTV. There’s a bit of a black spot at the rear of La Fleur. Mr Boundersby hadn’t got round to installing surveillance cameras yet and QPC Technology who are practically opposite the back door had a faulty camera. Ironic really, given the nature of their business – security.’ I heard him tut and imagined him shaking his head. ‘We advised them to get it fixed but I’m not sure they’ve acted on recommendations as of yet. We’ll look into further cameras but I’ll need you to think back. See if you can remember more details about the girl. Height, clothes, hair, shoes, things like that.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll let you know,’ I said, and hung up.

  It wasn’t the call I’d been hoping for.

  The conversation, however, preyed on my mind while I was interviewing the doctor. I could hear her talking me through the results of the tests, concluding that the client’s illness was genuine, but I
was constantly thinking back over the flitting form of the yard girl. The one who pointed me to Gloria. I couldn’t recall her exact height. She had seemed fragile, smaller than me and yet her face had, at times, been on a level with my own. I think. It was all a bit bleary.

  Had she even been wearing shoes? I couldn’t honestly remember. If I sent my mind back into the yard, if I tried to hold her image still, then I couldn’t see anything but darkness beneath the knee. That was wrong.

  But if I couldn’t see anything did that mean the fault lay with me. Maybe I had seen something that wasn’t there. Maybe my brain was playing tricks? Perhaps I’d caught something off Mary. Oh god. I remembered Sam telling me about the Salem witch-hunt. How girls had attested to seeing spectres. How more and more of them said they saw these crazy doppelgängers, even in court in front of sober judges. How the visions spread up to the ages. It was bizarre. Could you catch hysteria? I wondered.

  Was I in fact succumbing to it?

  Was it making me see things?

  Doctor Roberts closed the file and pushed it across her desk to me.

  ‘Believe me,’ she finished, ‘I’ve seen symptoms that are a lot more off the wall.’

  I’d met Doctor Roberts several times before and she had always come across as a very erudite and helpful ophthalmic consultant. She was a bit older than me and had what I thought of as a very self-possessed chin.

  I thanked her then I said, ‘So Doctor Roberts, can I ask you a question, as a doctor?’

  ‘Case-related?’ she pushed her glasses over her long nose.

  ‘No,’ I told her. Honesty being the best policy on occasion.

  ‘Okay, go ahead.’

  I thought about how to phrase the question and came out with this: ‘What would you say to a patient who told you they’d seen a ghost?’

  ‘Have you?’ Doctor Roberts folded her arms and regarded me with determined neutrality.

  ‘It’s someone I’m dealing with at the moment.’

  ‘Well, I’d ask them to describe what they are seeing exactly – is it people or abstract things, shadows, colours or shapes? Feelings? Sounds? Movement that’s not there?’