Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

Somehow Polly smiled back. Like her mother, he had aged. And if they’re like this, thought Polly, just because I disappeared for a bit and got ill, what are they going to be like when they find out that I have stolen, gambled and lost money on the strength of insider information and am a criminal twice over? She couldn’t tell them. She simply couldn’t. But what then?

Polly considered the possible consequences of keeping silent. What could anyone prove? Her visits to Brinkley and Latham had been carried out at night. And if she had been noticed no one knew who she was. Perhaps she could go back and put things right. Take money from another account and somehow put it into her parents’. She still had the office keys. Here Polly’s mind slipped its moorings and whirled into faster and ever wilder imaginings. Kate watched her with increasing concern.

Mallory, his back to them both, washing lettuce at the sink, saw a car draw up outside the house and groaned aloud, “Ohhhh no. Not again.”

Within half an hour of Barnaby’s visit to Brinkley and Latham’s offices, the driver from Cox’s MiniCabs, a Mr. Fred Carboy, had been traced and had been persuaded, with some difficulty, to help the police with their inquiries confirming Mr. Allibone’s revelations.

Driving over to Forbes Abbot for the second time that day, Sergeant Troy sneaked a sideways glance at the boss and decided that all these little revelations were doing him the world of good. Look how he sat. Upright, leaning forward a little, fingertips drumming lightly on his knees. Couldn’t wait to get there.

“I’ve been thinking, Chief. Two things, actually.”

“Run them by me, Gavin. I’m feeling lucky today.”

“First the cleaner—the link there being she worked for the Lawsons and Brinkley. She had keys both to his house and the office. And also, it was down to her Benny Frayle met Ava Garret.”

Tell us something we don’t know, thought Barnaby. But he was feeling charitable so said simply, “What’s the other?”

“Remember Brinkley had something on his mind and wanted to talk to Lawson about it?”

“But died before he could.”

“We’ve only got Lawson’s word for that.”

“Carry on,” said the DCI.

“What if they did talk and it was about all this? We know Brinkley saw Polly Lawson go in. Saw it was his office where the light went on. Wouldn’t he check the accounts to see what she’d been up to? Anybody else – it would’ve been straight through to us and an arrest.”

“But because of their friendship—”

“Going back over thirty years.”

“He’d try and sort it out with her dad.”

“Who killed him to protect the girl.”

Barnaby leaned back now, relaxing. “Yes, I think all that’s certainly within the realms of possibility, Sergeant.”

Troy, lifting a leg so pleased was he with this encouragement, took second with a swanky flourish. “Which means no way are they going to hand over her London address.”

“We can get that through the LSE.”

Mallory Lawson was peering through a window as they got out of the car. He looked vexed and resentful but, alas for Troy’s imaginings, not at all apprehensive. He turned on both men with little ceremony.

“I don’t wish to be rude, Inspector—”

“I’m glad to hear it, sir.”

“But we do have a houseful of unpacking here. I answered all your questions during our first interview. I’ve nothing further to add—”

“But I have something to add, Mr. Lawson.”

Troy was gazing at a wreck of a girl slumped in a chair. Could this be the one Brian Allibone had described as “absolutely beautiful with dark curly hair and lovely legs”? The girl full of fire and capable of murder?

She looked anorexic to him, all skin and bone. Her hair, piled up any-old-how, had started to fall down in black ratty tails. The eyes had a bluish bruised appearance, even her lips were violet-stained. The chief was addressing her but she didn’t seem to take it in so he tried again.

“Are you Polly Lawson?”

When she still didn’t reply her father said: “Poll?”

“Yes.” Spoken on the breath. No more than a sigh.

“I have to ask you to come with us to Causton police station, Miss Lawson, where we shall put certain questions to you. If you would like a solicitor present—”

“What is this? What the hell is this?” Mallory Lawson, astounded, glared at the two policemen. “Are you mad?” His face became suffused with blood. Even his neck seemed to swell. “Get out… get out. ”

“Mallory, for heaven’s sake.” Kate took his hand, his arm. “Please, darling, calm yourself. There’s obviously been some dreadful mistake.”

“Mistake…yes.” He was swaying like a tall tree. “Christ…”

“I should sit down, Mr. Lawson,” said Barnaby.

Yeah, sit down mate, thought Sergeant Troy, before you fall down. He’d been watching the girl through all this, trying to make her out. There she crouched, barefoot, huddled in that stripy tent thing like some pathetic refugee. But what was she thinking? Could her seeming indifference as to what was going on be genuine? Or was it a cover for fear? Maybe she was just too shagged to give a toss. Looking at her you could well believe it. Her mother had brought in a pair of sandals.

“Try these on, darling.”

The girl looked up then and smiled. Or tried to. And Troy saw, just for one bright moment, what they’d all been on about.

“And you’ll want a coat.” Kate realised too late what the words implied. It was hot or at least very warm now till late at night. “Well, maybe a cardigan.”

“We must be leaving,” said Barnaby.

“I’ll go in the car with you,” said Kate, kissing Polly. “Dad can follow with the Golf. So there’ll be something to bring us home.”

They all fetched up in a waiting room off reception. Setting up the interview proved deeply problematical. The Lawsons’ family solicitor was on holiday and the next most senior member of the firm was in court. The solicitor on call at the station was roundly insulted, fortunately in her absence, by Mallory Lawson, whose wife argued for reason.

“Everyone knows the sort of characters who do this job. Incompetent, unsavoury, shiftless—people who can’t get work anywhere else.”

“I’m sure that’s not true—”

“Of course it’s true. You think the police want crack lawyers sitting in on these interviews?”

“Mr. Lawson—”

“Or they’re warped. Get their kicks out of mixing with criminals.”

“I must ask you—”

“Well, my daughter’s not a criminal!”

“If you’re so concerned about your daughter why put her through all this?”

“ Me? ”

“The interview would have been well under way by now, perhaps concluded, if it weren’t for your obstructive behaviour.”

Here we go. Sergeant Troy, aware of what was coming, felt his skin prickle. It wasn’t often they were treated to the awesome spectacle of the chief losing his temper. Observing the intent cold gaze, sensing the rising anger, Troy stepped sideways.

Even then the explosion might have been averted if Lawson had shrugged and resigned himself. Sat down and shut up. But no – blind to the incipient whirlwind, he blundered on.

“And I demand to sit with my daughter throughout—”

“You demand ? Mr. Lawson, you are in no position to demand anything. I am in charge of this situation and I will tell you this: any further trouble and I will have you for obstructing a police inquiry. Should it be my humour I can hold you here until you come before a magistrate. And I shall not hesitate to do so.

“If you and your wife insist, on Miss Lawson’s behalf, that your own solicitor is present at her interview that is your prerogative. But if you think she will be returning home with you until he is available you are very much mistaken. She will be detained here for however long it takes. Do I make myself clear?”