Ann Cleeves - Burial of Ghosts

Howdon had been looking out for Ronnie Laing. A meeting had been arranged. I could see that at once. They shook hands. It wasn’t like friends meeting. They kept a distance between them. I couldn’t hear anything that was said and it’s possible, I suppose, that I’d got the body language all wrong, but I don’t think so. My impression was that Howdon wanted something from Ronnie. He was the supplicant and Ronnie was listening, not liking what he heard, and starting to become agitated.

The conversation lasted no more than ten minutes. They walked a little way towards me and sat on a wooden bench under some horse chestnut trees. Another train came in and my view was obscured for a moment by the passengers who sauntered out towards the town centre. When the crowd cleared they were still there. I don’t think anything had passed between them. Howdon’s briefcase was still at his feet. Ronnie was calmer now, almost impassive. His expression suggested that he was open to persuasion but that the argument had better be good. As I say, I could have been reading the encounter all wrong, but that was how it seemed at the time. Howdon was squirming, waving his hands, flexing his stubby, sausage-shaped fingers. Then he bent to open his briefcase. He took out a file which he handed to Ronnie. Ronnie read for a moment, handed the papers back and slowly nodded his head. Howdon didn’t respond immediately, then he seemed so relieved that I thought he was going to pull Ronnie towards him in a bear hug, like two Soviet politicians cementing a deal, but he only relaxed his face into a smile.

Ronnie stood up first. There was the sound of a train in the distance and he walked briskly to make sure of catching it. He didn’t break into a run, but it seemed as if he wanted to escape. Howdon shouted something after him. It could have been Good luck or Thank you . I couldn’t make it out. Ronnie frowned slightly, as if he thought Howdon was making a show of himself. The train pulled into the station and he walked on without looking back, without acknowledging the solicitor’s presence.

Howdon only got up then. He straightened his trousers and wiped imaginary specks of dirt from his suit. When he started back down the road towards the town, I left the launderette and followed. The old woman muttered something in her sleep as I opened the door.

He headed for the main street, where I’d first seen him. He was in less of a hurry now and stopped to take off his jacket. He held it over his shoulder by the collar. Very jaunty. He slowed down at the entrance to the alley where Nell and Dan had taken me, and I wondered briefly if the two events were connected, if he intended to meet up with them too. Instead he went into a florist’s and came out with a big bunch of roses. I imagined them as a peace offering for his wife. She was a woman who would need constant placating. His jacket was back on. It was beyond him to carry it and the briefcase and the flowers. He walked to a side street, where he’d parked his car. He put the roses carefully on the back seat and drove away. He had no suspicion that I’d been watching him. That gave me a feeling of power, but it was unsettling too. It was as if I were invisible, as if I didn’t exist.

It’s dark and I long for the light more than I long to be out of the cell-like room. In the light I’d feel more in control of the situation. If I could see Nicky’s face, I’d judge his thoughts, his intentions.

As it is, I’m helpless. There is nothing I can do. He can sense every movement. I open my mouth to speak, but before the words come out, he whispers, ‘Shut up.’

The footsteps return. Someone is opening every door on the corridor and calling to the kids in turn, ‘Is Lizzie Bartholomew there?’

I recognize the voice. It’s Maggie, one of my colleagues. She has cropped hair and big glasses. She sounds slightly worried, but there’s no panic in her voice. This is reassuring. I can almost believe it’s all a big mistake, a practical joke which will soon be over. Her footsteps come closer.

Nicky pulls me back into a sitting position. The knife is still against my left breast. His breath comes in small shallow pants.

The footsteps stop outside his door. I imagine Maggie’s hand reaching for the knob.

‘Don’t come in.’ After the sinister whispers I hear his words as a defiant shout.

‘Nicky.’ Now Maggie is panicking, but she tries not to let on. ‘Have you got Miss Bartholomew in there?’

‘If you come in, I’ll kill her.’

We both know it’s true. He’s killed once. He’s looking for an excuse to kill again.

He moves the knife suddenly. I feel it like a bee sting. A thin trickle of blood runs down my breast and dries, almost immediately. I begin to sob.

The next time I saw the main players of the day in Whitley – Nell and Dan, Ronnie and Howdon – they were all together in the same place, a coincidence which only added to my sense of the surreal and fuelled my fantasies. I admit now that I was losing my grip on reality. At night my theories to explain the deaths of the two boys grew wilder and more paranoid. I saw a spider’s web of cause and effect, individuals all monsters and all interrelated. In the morning I’d wake exhausted and my dreams seemed ridiculous. The flashbacks were vivid and real.

I decided at the last minute to go to Wintrylaw, to the Countryside Consortium fund-raiser I’d seen advertised in the arts centre where Dan worked. There wasn’t any specific reason for the trip, though it did occur to me that Doreen the volunteer might be there and she might be persuaded to talk. At that time there was no planning to anything I did. I thought vaguely that Howdon and Ronnie Laing would be around, and hoped I might find out more about what they’d been plotting in Whitley Bay. I hadn’t worked out how I might get that information. I’d wing it as I went along. There was the possibility of seeing Dickon again too. I had an ambition to tell him jokes and make him laugh.

It was still only June, but I had a breathless feeling that summer was coming to an end. There had been occasional cool days but generally the weather that year had been unusually still and warm. Now I was looking forward to it breaking. The continual sun took me back to Morocco and Philip. I had the idea that a cold spell would kill off the pain and help me to think more clearly. That evening was still humid and sticky. Everyone was irritable. In Sea View Jess snapped at the bad boys and even at Ray. She seemed glad when I said I was going out; it would mean one less body under her feet.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from the event, but I approached the house with anticipation, a childish excitement even. From that first time, when I’d looked down onto the great chimneys, Wintrylaw had been a special place for me. It wasn’t only that Philip had lived there. It represented glamour, something I’d never had, and hadn’t even realized I wanted. The sort of thing I’d usually sneer at. Tonight I wanted it more than ever and hoped I wouldn’t be disappointed.

As soon as I arrived I saw there was no danger of that. The house was in shadow but torches on the terrace and along the drive lit it up like a film set. There was a stage with a PA system on the lawn and people were already sitting on the grass. When I joined them I saw the revellers had grand picnics, hampers, champagne, but at that point they were backlit from the house and nothing more than dark, featureless shapes. I was stopped at the gate, as on my last visit, by the woman who’d been collecting the entrance fee for the summer fair. This time she seemed less embarrassed by the extortionate charges. She took my money and nodded me through, urging me to hurry because the event was about to start.