Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

“Shouldn’t we ring Benny, Mal? Remind her we’re bringing food for the dinner tomorrow? As there’ll be four of us she’s probably getting into a tizz already.”

“Of course. What a good idea.” But before he could pick up the phone the doorbell went. So Kate got to make the call and Mallory helped the charity people move the boxes. He put his head round the sitting-room door when they’d been loaded and said, “I’m going to give them a hand at the other end.”

“Fine.” And pigs’ll dance the polka. “See you later, then.”

Mallory got stuck in the worst of the school run. The road was full of Volvos, Golfs and four-wheel drives, the latter unsullied by any trace of mud. Screaming infants ran about swinging rucksacks that looked like furry animals. Whole bundles of children climbed into assorted vehicles and in one case straight out again. Car doors swung open at random, not always on the pavement side. Cries of “Fiona!” and “Tarquin!” rent the air.

Mallory sat and cursed. It had not occurred to him that a private school might still be up and running or he would have taken another route. He couldn’t go back and he couldn’t move forward. A taxi behind him started hooting.

And, of course, he was wasting his time anyway, because Polly wasn’t in. If she was in she would answer the phone. And if she was in and couldn’t answer the phone then there was also nothing Mallory could do because he didn’t have a key so wouldn’t know whether she was there or not. Still, he had to try.

The truth was he was worried sick over this obscene, disgusting man – this Billy Slaughter. Surely Polly couldn’t be with him? There’d be no reason other than settling her debt and she had promised to forward the banker’s draft by registered post.

She couldn’t have forgotten. Or deliberately broken her promise. He couldn’t believe that. Kate would easily believe it and the thought made Mallory sad. Sometimes, discussing their daughter, they seemed to be talking about two different people.

The school run dispersed, the taxi driver took his finger off the horn, stuck it through the open window then thrust it violently into the air against the departure of the final Volvo. Mallory moved off.

The place that Polly shared was just off Queensbridge Road. She was on her own at the moment, Mallory knew, since the departure of one flatmate, post exams, to the Lebanon and the other more recently for a lengthy yoga and meditation retreat in Majorca.

Mallory climbed the steps, worn to a scoop in the centre by age. The shabby Edwardian house was on five levels and the bell board listed twelve names. Mallory read through them quickly. Polly’s wasn’t there. He wasn’t altogether surprised – she had always guarded her privacy fiercely. The trouble was he didn’t know the names of the other girls either. He pressed all the bells in turn on the off chance, but without any response. Presumably everyone was out at work. Then, turning away, he noticed some narrow steps leading to a basement. They were very steep but there was a metal rail to hold. A door at the bottom, glass-panelled with iron bars protecting the glass had a printed card pinned to it. “Fforbes-Snaithe. Hartogensis. Lawson.” There was no bell.

Mallory banged the knocker fiercely. He kneeled down and tried to peer through the letter box but some sort of felt hanging blocked the view. Curtains, none too clean, at the large bay window, were closely drawn. Mallory, treading over old newspapers, orange peel and takeaway cartons, tried to peer through a tiny gap at the furthest end. He squinted but could see only darkness.

He rapped on the glass and called, “Polly?”

A man walking his Jack Russell stopped while it took a wee against the basement railings. He looked suspiciously at Mallory, who said, “I’m trying to find my daughter.”

The man, a picture of disbelief, carried on staring. Mallory didn’t blame him. He would have done the same. He climbed back up to the street just as an elderly woman laden with Safeway shopping bags was entering the house. He called: “Excuse me,” and moved quickly towards her. She turned a frightened face towards him and rushed inside, almost dropping the bags in her anxiety to close the door. Mallory, just close enough to put his foot in it, couldn’t bring himself to do so.

Cursing softly, he hurried back to the car. He shouldn’t have come and wished he hadn’t seen where Polly lived. And to really put the lid on it, he’d been gone well over an hour, leaving Kate to cope on her own with the packing. He checked his watch – half-past three. And they had planned to leave before four to escape the worst of the traffic.

Seconds after Mallory had driven away Polly came swinging round the corner. Carrying a bottle of champagne, she was dancing on air and laughing to herself. Bursting with joie de vivre , she looked very beautiful in a floaty dress and sparkly high-heeled shoes.

By 7:30 Dennis was back in Causton. There were a lot of cars parked on the square, presumably customers of the Magpie, for Causton, like most small market towns once the shops and offices had closed, was dead as mutton. Dennis tucked in the Lexus as far away from the bank building as possible and went into the pub.

This was such a rare occurrence that he didn’t know what to ask for. The whisky was cheap blended stuff and he wasn’t keen on any other spirits. He ordered a glass of white wine, was offered sweet or medium dry and took the second. It wasn’t very nice but, on the positive side, he nabbed an excellent observation post from the window seat.

Dennis had brought his Telegraph to act as a sort of screen while watching. He had seen people doing this in television dramas: plainclothes chaps in cars, though they were usually hiding behind the Mirror or The Sun. He also thought that, should the guilty party walk past the Magpie, or worse, into it, they might recognise him.

The atmosphere was really most unpleasant – overheated, smoke-filled and very noisy. Any pub habitué could have told Dennis that the noise level in fact was pretty reasonable, but to him it was like being shut in a tin box, the outside then being hammered by hobnail boots. At the far end of the room a group of women were screeching with satisfaction at a joke well told. Men grouped at the bar argued, their voices raised and raised and raised again to make their point or shout down someone else’s. A machine with a lot of lights was being manhandled by a youth who kept banging the sides and whooping. And there was music, if you could call it that. Why did people come to such dreadful places, wondered Dennis. And – the women let out more mirth-filled shrieks – what on earth did they find to laugh at?

“Anything else for you?” The bar manager had picked up the empty wineglass.

“Oh – thank you.” Dennis looked at his watch and realised he had been there half an hour. Though unfamiliar with ale house etiquette he was pretty sure he couldn’t continue to occupy a seat without buying something more. “The same, please.”

When the drink was brought the man bent down and whispered, “Doing a bit of surveillance, sir?”

“Um…” Dennis produced a note to pay. “Well…”

“Say no more.” He tapped the side of his nose, pocketing the ten pounds. “I can keep as schtum as the next man.”

Dennis moved his head from side to side and up and down. His neck had got quite stiff by staring at a fixed angle through the window for so long. He drank some of the wine, which was different from the first, being at once more fruity and considerably warmer.

He needed the lavatory. No way round that. He was tempted to go to the office so as not to miss a moment but was terrified of colliding coming out with the very person he was watching out for coming in. So the Magpie it was. In and out – spit spot – and back to his post.