Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

Securing the house was relatively uncomplicated. He pulled the garage door down from the inside and locked it, then locked the entrance to the kitchen and pocketed both the keys. The main door had an extremely solid double Yale. Mallory removed its key and stepped outside, slamming the door behind him.

Having seen Benny properly admitted and put safely to bed, Kate had to find her own way back. Fortunately there was a cash machine at the hospital. She drew out fifty pounds and hoped it would cover a taxi home.

She found Mallory deeply asleep on a couch in Carey’s sewing room. A small lamp threw a soft light on his face, which was grey with exhaustion. She bent closer and could see he had been crying. His breath smelled sour. His shirt was filthy. Tempted to let him sleep on, oblivious to the dreadful happenings of the night for a little longer, she could not bear to think of him waking alone. So she took his hand and shook it gently. Waking, he smiled. Then she saw recollection flooding his mind.

“Come and rest, darling,” said Kate. “Come to bed.”

The death of Dennis Brinkley made the local breakfast news. Though sparse, the information “Found dead at his home in the village of Forbes Abbot” was still pretty shocking. Yet the very words concealed as much as they revealed. How, dead? everyone was asking. An overdose, a fall, a stroke, a heart attack, food poisoning, an accident? Was an intruder perhaps involved? Being ignorant of the details was utter anguish, especially as far as the village itself was concerned. It felt, as Dennis’s very own community, it had a right to know. And before anyone else too.

The Parnells, who listened with half an ear only to Radio 4 in the morning, remained ignorant of the news until Judith went out with her bundle of letters to catch the postman. Although neither she nor Ashley had known Dennis, except by sight, the proximity of sudden death was most distressing. Judith seemed especially upset and Ashley had the pleasantly satisfying experience of looking after her. He even made the breakfast, grinding coffee beans, buttering toast and boiling some eggs.

At her semi-detached bungalow in Glebe Road, Doris Crudge was lying down. Ernest made three phone calls on his wife’s behalf, apologising for her inability to come to work that day. He explained that she was not very well, which seemed the simplest and most straightforward thing to say. In truth, Doris was flat out on their best recliner. There was a bag of ice cubes on her forehead, a bottle of her nearest neighbour’s tranquillisers to hand and a mug of sweet tea so strong it was nearly black. She was moaning gently.

Ernest regarded her with sympathy but not undue concern. Doris had always been one to give of her emotional best in situations that called for a dramatic response, and today was plainly no exception. But he was doing her an injustice in assuming this was all display. Doris had grown quite fond of her Mr. Brinkley. Apart from his weird hobby he was an ideal employer. Always courteous and kindly, asking after her relatives from time to time. A nice Christmas box and, on the very rare occasion when she had been unable to work, still paying her wages.

Ernest decided not to pass on the information from Mrs. Lawson that poor Benny Frayle had discovered the body and was now in hospital suffering from shock. He reckoned Doris had enough to be going on with for a while.

At the Lathams’, Andrew was in the shower when a piercing shriek from downstairs caused him to slip on the soap, grab the sequinned curtain and only just save himself from a nasty crack on the head against the tiled floor.

Pausing only to shroud himself shoulder to heel in a thick towelling robe – even at seven in the morning Gilda was not averse to a jump or two – and belt up, he raced downstairs.

“What is it, moon of my delight?”

“Dennis is dead,” said Gilda.

“What?”

“It was on the telly.”

“Our Dennis?”

“Who else’s?” She watched him for a moment, then started to laugh. “Your face.”

“But…” He fell into the chair facing her. The one with the back like a huge seashell and wooden mermaids supporting the arms. “How? I mean…what did they say?”

“Nothing. Just found at his home. There’s bound to be an inquest—there always is in these cases. We must go.” She made it sound like a nice day out. “Hadn’t you better give thingy a buzz?”

“Who?”

“That chap who’s in charge when Denny’s not there.”

“Fortune.” Andrew was still staring at her, dazed. “I can’t believe it.”

“I don’t see why. Happens all the time. Middle-aged bloke, fit as a fiddle, always at the gym, out jogging, keels over at the side of the road—”

“Dennis was jogging ?”

“I’m giving you an example, stupid. Catch me near a gym.” She shifted her huge bulk from side to side; tried in vain to ease her bolstery legs apart. “I suppose that means another funeral outfit.”

“But you’ve already—”

“More greedy rip-offs for some hideous hat. People seem to think I’m a walking gold mine.”

“I’m sure he didn’t die on purpose,” murmured Andrew, paying for it over and over again during the next half-hour.

For the first and only time in his life Andrew Latham was first at the office. Only just, though. As he unlocked the street door Leo Fortune appeared at his side. Politely attempting to conceal his surprise, Fortune murmured: “Good morning.”

Andrew responded with a curt nod. He had no interest in forming any sort of relationships with the male contingent at Brinkley and Latham. Female staff were something else.

Entering the main office, he retreated to his cubbyhole and watched through the glass as the rest of the crew arrived. He saw those who had heard the news about Dennis pass it on to those who hadn’t. Noted their expressions of shock and disbelief. Then, in total silence, each of them turned and stared in his direction. Andrew felt quite uncomfortable. It was like being under observation by a group of the living dead. He gave it five, adjusted his features and walked out to join them.

“I see you’ve all heard the bad news.” A pause, giving it ten, this time, to emphasise the solemnity of the occasion. “I’m afraid I don’t have much information for you about what happened. But I believe there’s to be an inquest and I expect more details will be available then.”

“I’m not sure I want any more details,” said one of the clerks.

To Andrew’s surprise he sounded almost angry. There were several murmurs of agreement. One of the girls started to cry. A definite air of sadness pervaded the group and gradually seemed to spread outwards, filling the room.

Andrew remained totally puzzled. Whoever would have thought it? All over a dry old stick like Dennis Brinkley. Wonders would never cease.

“I suggest we continue as usual today.” He noticed one or two cynical smirks at this, no doubt directed at his own indolence. “But if anyone feels they really aren’t up to it, by all means feel free to take a break.”

Silence, then Leo Fortune said, “I think Dennis would have wanted us to carry on.”

God, Mr. Sanctimonious. Pass the sick bag, Edna.

“By the way, Latham, the locksmith is due at ten o’clock. I presume we honour Dennis’s wishes and have the work done?”

“Suit yourself.”

“Also I shall need to make use of his office. I presume you’ve no objection?”

“Why should I have?” said Andrew. “You’re his ‘second in command’ after all.” He made it sound like lickspittle to some reptilian trader in living flesh. “No doubt you can’t wait to get started.”

He returned to his cubicle with a satisfied smile, watching as two of the girls hovered comfortingly round Fortune, who was plainly extremely upset. Brenda, Dennis’s secretary, glared across at him. Andrew smiled broadly back. What an excellent day it was turning out to be. And still barely ten o’clock.