Ann Cleeves - Burial of Ghosts

‘No,’ I interrupted. ‘I told you…’ But I was moved, despite myself. While Philip was dying, he was remembering our conversation in Marrakech.

Howdon held up a hand to urge my patience, then continued, ‘“And also a fee of £5,000 for the first commission in that employment, the details of which are to follow. These payments only to be made should Miss Bartholomew attend my funeral of her own free will. The gift is not dependent on her accepting the commission.”’

‘But he knew I wouldn’t accept it without the work,’ I said softly. Howdon looked up uncertainly. He hadn’t made out what I’d said. ‘What is this commission?’ I asked more loudly.

He continued to read. ‘“To trace Thomas Mariner, lately of 63 Priory Way, North Shields”.’

I interrupted. ‘What happens when I find him?’

‘Philip asks that I give him money. Discreetly. The bequest doesn’t appear in the will.’

‘Why me? Why can’t you trace him?’

‘I’m sure I could. But Philip wanted you to do it. Besides, there’s more.’ He turned back to the paper, though I had the impression he knew the words by heart. ‘“Further, I ask that she assists, advises and befriends him. She will understand the importance of this commission to Thomas and to me.”’

It was a lot to ask, that. Friends are made, not bought. But it was flattering that Philip had felt I could do something so important.

‘Who the hell is Thomas Mariner?’

‘I suspect,’ Howdon said reluctantly, ‘that he’s Philip’s son. An illegitimate son. This information was left with the letter of instruction.’ He passed a second sheet over the desk towards me. ‘It’s a copy. You can keep it if you decide to accept his commission.’

The details were scrappy. Philip, it seemed, hadn’t got very far in his search for his missing son. But then he’d left it for twenty years and waited until he was dying, so it was hardly surprising.

Name: Thomas? Mariner.

God, he wasn’t even certain about the first name. After Mariner he’d added in brackets Samson . Somehow it was very touching, like a young girl practising the signature of her boyfriend’s surname.

Date of birth: c. 22 December 1984. Mother: Kay Mariner of 63 Priory Way, North Shields.

Was that where she was living now? Or where she’d been living twenty years ago?

‘There’s not much to go on.’

He shrugged. ‘Then don’t bother. As I said, let sleeping dogs lie. You get the £10,000 anyway.’

‘Does Joanna know about Thomas?’

‘God, I don’t think so.’ The thought seemed to horrify him. ‘I certainly hope not.’

‘Philip and his wife didn’t have that sort of relationship, then?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They didn’t discuss everything?’

‘Of course not.’ He was scathing. ‘Who does?’

‘How well do you know them?’

‘Well enough.’

He paused, and I thought I’d get nothing more out of him. Despite the late-afternoon sunshine on the tile roofs outside, the room was dark. There was a heavy mahogany cabinet against the wall, the drawers too narrow to contain documents. It held a butterfly collection perhaps. He had the hands of a collector. Or fossils. He would be precise and careful arranging his specimens. The wallpaper was a heavy sludge green, the curtains velvet in a similar but darker shade.

Then Howdon started to talk and I realized he was even more drunk than I’d suspected. Or perhaps it wasn’t the drink. Perhaps he was on the edge of a breakdown. The thoughts seemed to fizz in his head and the words couldn’t quite keep up with them. Perhaps he was haunted by daydreams too.

‘They were a golden couple, Joanna and Philip.’ He looked up at me. ‘Do you know what I mean? Magic. Like something out of a fairy tale. Too good to be true.’ His voice was bitter, as if he meant that literally, as if in his experience no relationship lived up to expectation. ‘I brought them together. Old Stu Howdon playing fairy godmother. What do you make of that?’ He chuckled. It turned into a splutter and then a cough. ‘Philip was a new estate manager at one of the places I look after. He was young, bright, but not the usual public school, county type. He’d been to comprehensive school, taken a degree in agriculture from Newcastle. The only interest he had in gardening then was the plot behind his house. He kept it organic, ferreted about for traditional species, talked about planting an orchard. A hobby, I thought. A good thing. Men need their hobbies to keep them out of mischief.’

Howdon spluttered again. It could have been a laugh.

‘Joanna’s parents had died and she was an only child, left to cope with the house, inheritance tax. They’d run the place down. I did my best for her, helped her through it. At least I thought that I did.’

He stared at the half-drunk tea, which had gone cold in the cup, and I thought, He fancied her, Philip was a rival.

‘The only sensible thing to do was to sell the house and she refused to do that. Too many memories, she said. And she had a responsibility to keep it in the family. She’s passionate about the place.’

‘Did she work?’ I felt weird when I asked the question. Like I’d been in the situation before but now the roles were reversed. This time I was the shrink and he was a patient.

‘Mm?’ He looked up.

‘She was young, unattached. I presume she could earn her own living.’

‘She was a photographer. Not weddings and kiddies’ portraits. She’d probably have made more out of that. It was more arty stuff. Black and white. Landscapes. She had exhibitions. Some of her pictures went into books.’ He paused again. ‘She talked about developing the house as a country hotel. It might have worked. She had the drive and the spirit, plenty of the right sort of contacts. Then she met Philip and the idea was abandoned. The old place is still falling down.’

‘You introduced them?’

‘At the county show. You know what that’s like. You bump into half the people you’ve ever met in the world, everyone you went to school with at least. Philip was there on behalf of the estate, Joanna was taking pictures for a glossy magazine. I introduced them, then got caught up with some old bore of a farmer. When I went to find them half an hour later they were sharing a bottle of fizz and a bowl of strawberries, and I didn’t like to interrupt. It only took six months for them to marry. She asked me to give her away.’

Poor, sad bastard. I almost felt sorry for him.

‘They brought out a book together – traditional gardens in the north of England. She took the pictures, he did the text. When no one would publish it, they brought it out themselves, hawked it round all the local bookshops, took it down to London. One of those daytime television programmes got interested. They were an attractive couple and Philip stirred up a bit of controversy knocking contemporary designers. He said their gardens were too sculptural, too minimalist. He liked a landscape that was extravagant and overblown, overcrowded even. The programme challenged him to design a place somewhere in East Anglia. He did. Everyone raved about it. After that he never looked back. Like I said, the golden touch.’

Until he got cancer, I thought, remembering the envy of the rugby player back at Wintrylaw.

‘You stayed friends?’

‘Marjorie and I had them round for dinner occasionally. We went there. To make up the numbers, provide local colour when their London friends were visiting. If I met him at the rugby club, we’d have a few beers. He never mentioned a son, if that’s what you mean. We weren’t on those terms.’

‘Why didn’t he look for the boy before?’ It came out as a wail, pathetic and desperate.