Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

Sergeant Troy, listening, tried to look sympathetic but only succeeded in looking rather stern. He’d spent enough years exposed to lectures on the importance of the open mind not to be mildly chuffed when the DCI had kept his own tight shut and fallen headfirst into a dump truck of crapola. Because if he’d thought there was a possibility, however slight, that the girl had really not heard of the murder of Dennis Brinkley it would have been counterproductive to fling it so violently into her face. Afterwards all hell had broken loose, with Polly sprawled over the table, the solicitor threatening harassment, the chief switching the tape off and cursing. Himself running to get help.

The Lawsons, who were still in the waiting room, heard the shouting and rushed outside to see what the matter was. Someone from Traffic came out to persuade them to calm down but the man especially would not be talked to. He started demanding to see his daughter and began charging about opening doors. His wife, equally distressed, though more on his behalf, onlookers felt, than her own, was begging everyone in sight to tell her if “Polly” was all right.

Into this turmoil Barnaby strode. Fatally deciding that the best form of defence would be attack he immediately squared up to Lawson.

“Why didn’t you tell me your daughter was not aware—”

“Where is she?”

“What’s happened?” cried Mrs. Lawson as Sergeant Troy moving quickly, flashed through the pass door. “Why is that man running?”

“Miss Lawson fainted. There’s no cause—”

“You bastard.” Lawson swung a punch. It wasn’t precisely aimed but there was a lot of rage behind it. It landed on Barnaby’s face, crashing into the side of his nose and his right eye.

Not long after this the girl appeared to recover. She had so far not been charged. To the station’s surprise Mallory Lawson had also not been charged, in his case with assaulting a police officer. Eventually the whole family, drastically sobered, had wandered off, together yet plainly quite separate, in the direction of the visitors’ car park. Though relieved beyond measure to see the back of them, Barnaby thought he wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall when they got home.

All this was three hours ago. Now he sat trying to put the unpleasant and humiliating fracas from his mind and hoping for a result via the clattering keyboards and now less frequently ringing phones. Troy came over to collect his empty coffee cup.

“She never did cough it then, our Poll?”

“Cough what?”

“Why she was in the office in the first place.”

“I’m hoping Leo Fortune will find that out.”

I’m hoping to sleep with Cameron Diaz, reflected Sergeant Troy, and if the Lawson girl’s half as smart as she’s cracked up to be, I’d say the odds are in my favour. As he thought these lascivious and traitorous thoughts, Troy kept his eyes fixed on the chief’s in-tray. Like everyone else present he was trying to avoid staring at what was plainly going to be an absolutely splendid shiner.

“Even if he does find out, sir, it won’t help us solve Brinkley’s murder.”

“Why not?”

“If Lawson didn’t even know it had happened how could she have been involved?”

Before Barnaby could reply someone signalled from the far end of the room. He got up and quickly made his way over. “What is it, Bruno?”

“Maybe you should take this call, sir. An Alan Harding from Northwick Park claims to have seen Ava Garret the night she died.”

“Him and half Uxbridge,” sighed Barnaby. There had been hundreds of calls already.

“This sounds like the all-singing, all-dancing version.” Sergeant Bruno Lessing passed over the receiver.

“Mr. Harding? Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby – Causton CID…Yes, I am.”

Troy came over too. He and Sergeant Lessing watched and listened. Heard the DCI’s voice quicken with interest as he asked questions.

“Would you be prepared to make a statement for us, sir?…No, no, at your nearest station. Or someone could come to the house, if you prefer…Excellent. Do we have a contact number for you?”

Barnaby hung up, seeming quite pleased. He was displaying what Troy always thought of as his “sniffer” look. Nostrils flexing, mouth tightly closed but smiling a bit, head cocked as if listening to a sound no one else could hear. He seemed flushed too, though it was hard to tell, what with the eye and everything.

“This sounds like the real McCoy. Harding was on the same Metropolitan Line train as Ava Garret. He described her clothes, jewellery, even a handbag, which the poster didn’t mention. He was sitting some distance away but could hear her talking to a couple of girls, teenagers. According to him she never stopped. She didn’t receive or make any calls on a mobile but got off when he did at Northwick Park.”

“Brilliant,” said Lessing.

“He was well ahead of her at the exit so didn’t see which way she went. But once we’ve nailed the exact time of the train’s arrival we can put out an appeal. Not just for the teenagers but for anyone else who got off at the same time.”

“Wouldn’t it be great if this ‘Chris’ character had actually met her off the train?” said Lessing. “And we got a description.”

“Wouldn’t it just.” Barnaby recalled his recent fantasy, which might not be so fantastic after all.

“How about if he was in disguise?” asked Sergeant Troy.

“How about you giving up Agatha Christie for Lent?” said the DCI.

At just about the time that Barnaby was in receipt of a black eye, and the Lawsons were beginning their wretched journey home, Roy and Karen were getting ready to have tea with Doris. Karen had put on her second new top (the one with kittens in a basket), clean socks and the sneakers. There had been some attempt to constrain her hair in bunches with bright pink bobble things but it was so silky it wouldn’t bunch and slid out and halfway down her back again. She was talking to Barbie. Roy could hear her through the bathroom door. Having managed for years with a lick and a promise he now had a bath every day. In fact, this was his second, he’d got so sweaty painting.

This visiting business, Roy told himself, was no big deal, right? Right. Yet somehow he had come to the decision that none of his clothes would do. They had looked OK before but they definitely didn’t look OK now, so he and Karen had earlier taken the bus to Causton and gone round the charity shops. They found two smart shirts and some khaki chinos at Oxfam. Plus a polo-neck declaring: “Look Out World Here I Come!” in the disabled shop.

Roy had carefully ironed one of the shirts, turning the temperature up a bit at a time so it wouldn’t burn. He had put on clean underwear and socks and his new trousers and was brushing his newly shampooed hair for the umpteenth time. Bringing his face close to the mirror over the washbasin he was convinced the ring holes in his nose and around the rims of his ears were definitely a little bit smaller. He knew that eventually they would close up completely because a girl had told him who’d had hers pierced. But there was nothing he could do about the tattoo around his neck. How he hated it – that dotted line saying “Cut Here.” He’d thought it brilliant at the time, a real laugh. Worth the agony. Now he could see it just looked stupid.

Roy was not looking forward to going to the Crudges’. Actually that was a bit of an understatement. When he thought of all the things he could say and do wrong, his heart stuttered and jumped with nervousness. The moment Doris had left the other day, his brief happiness, the disbelieving joy in being not just accepted but held and rocked and stroked, evaporated. He recognised that, briefly, he had been comforted but also understood that it was probably nothing personal. Women were just like that. You cried or got upset, they gave you a bit of a cuddle. Boys at the home were always boasting it was a sure way to get a screw. Maybe Doris fancied him?