Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

“Watch that bollard!!!”

“Whoops.” Crunch. “Sorry, Guv.”

Around teatime that same afternoon the programme tape was delivered to the station by a courier. Barnaby was tucking into a warm maple and pecan Danish when Troy brought it into his office and slotted it into the machine.

They were in the fortunate position of being able to picture Ava as she spoke, for Barnaby had asked for a photograph before leaving Rainbow Lodge. It was plainly a professional job – intensely theatrical, luridly lit and dramatically posed – but was better than nothing.

As the tape started to play Barnaby remembered Joyce’s description of Ava as “bragging but kind of sad.” Listening, he missed the sad but there was no way you could miss the bragging. It was quite funny for a while – like two point five seconds – and then just boring. But, in spite of the endless repetition, Barnaby couldn’t risk pressing the fast forward.

“Poor bloke,” murmured Troy. But he still laughed at Ava’s blithe insult to her interviewer’s face. She couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to talk to him.

Barnaby was equally unsympathetic. To his mind any man who allowed himself to be called Corey Panting deserved all he got.

Now she had got on to her special powers, describing how she talked to the dead at the Church of the Near at Hand. Barnaby sat up straight. Troy’s attention became more serious.

“…we must remember that so far only half the story has been told.”

“And we shall hear the rest next Sunday?”

“That is absolutely correct.”

Troy had another chortle, this time at Panting’s “sleight of hand” joke and switched the machine off.

But Barnaby did not laugh. He was thinking what a gift Ava would be to a conman. Insecure, yearning to be noticed, lying her boastful heart out even to herself. One crumb of flattery and she’d dance to any stranger’s tune, let alone one emanating from the magic portals of Broadcasting House.

“She sounded so definite,” said Troy.

“Hucksters have to be,” replied Barnaby. “Salesmen, politicians, actors – they don’t get far without the appearance of cast-iron confidence.”

“You don’t reckon there’s anything in this spirit stuff, then?”

“Don’t you start,” said Barnaby. “Any luck with the checks on ‘Chris’?”

“Some response from the BBC. Radio One has got a Chris but he’s Chris Moyles, who is famous so it’s not him. And they wouldn’t be interested in talking to Ava anyway ’cause it’s not their sort of thing. Radio Two does do docs—”

“ Does do docs? ”

“Documentaries, Chief. Features. But they’re nearly always related to music or show-biz personalities. They’ve got three Christophers on the staff, though. One’s on holiday, one’s part of a graduate intake, been there a month, one’s a sound engineer. I’ve rung their extensions and left a message. Drew a complete blank at Three. They do very few features. All high-brow stuff. Commissioned. Planned well in advance. Nothing in the pipeline relevant to our investigation. No producers called Chris.”

Barnaby put his head in his hands.

“Chief?”

“Go on, go on.”

“Radio Four should be our best bet. However, quite a few of their programmes are now made by independents. No one knew offhand if one on spiritualism had been commissioned but they’re checking up. There’s a guy called Christopher Laurence in Current Affairs. I’ve spoken to him and he’s not our man.”

“No, he wouldn’t be.”

“I also contacted BBC London Live, and World Service at Bush House—”

“You’ve been very thorough, Sergeant. Thank you.”

“Right.” Troy waited, ill at ease. “Think we’re wasting our time on all this, Chief?”

“Yes, I do. But it’s time that has to be wasted. I can’t go upstairs until we’ve checked every single thing that’s checkable.”

At the words “go upstairs” Troy struck a ridiculously exaggerated attitude of frozen horror and drew a thumbnail across his throat. The chief super was as mad as a hatter. No one entered his office without a wreath of garlic and two sticks crudely assembled in the shape of a cross. Or the twenty-first-century equivalent.

“But he did meet her at Broadcasting House, sir.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. Try and get hold of Roy for me, would you?”

“Roy French for king,” laughed Troy, flipping through his notebook for the number and punching it in. “Hello, there. Sergeant Troy, Causton CID…Yes, it is me again.”

“Ask him if she went out with a mobile.”

Troy asked, then listened. “She did, sir. And what’s more they got the impression it was Chris’s suggestion. She certainly gave him the number.”

Barnaby stretched out his hand for the telephone. “Roy, I was wondering if there was another photograph of Ava?…I see…No one’s saying it’s your fault…In that case we may have to call on you for a more accurate description. We need to know how she looked when she went to meet this man…No – I’m afraid money won’t be changing hands on this one…Also, would you mind having a look for her mobile?…Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”

“He’s a lad.” Sergeant Troy laughed again. “What’re you after, Guv? An E-fit?”

“That’s right.”

“D’you think it’ll come to that?”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

So, how’s it all going at the office, darling?”

Nobody ever said “darling” quite like Gilda. A mixture of indulgence, weariness and contempt. And the word was never spontaneous. Never tossed carelessly into the conversation but placed with great sharpness and delicacy, like a banderilla, in the recipient’s shrinking hide.

“The office, darling?” replied Andrew, knowing how much she hated hearing her words repeated. Parroting, she called it. Not wishing to answer the question or even think about it, he simply sat, his face fixed in a polite smirk.

God, she’d really pushed the boat out today. Tastefully draped in a flamingo and lilac tarpaulin that would easily have covered a brace of camels, Gilda was wedged into a two-seater sofa. On the mother-of-pearl table next to her was a goldfish bowl of Maltesers. Andrew watched, mesmerised, as his wife’s hand dipped into it. Watched the great white fingers scrabble, close on a dozen or so of the melting little balls and transfer them to her mouth. One vicious suck, a gulp and the whole process started all over again.

“What are you staring at?”

“I was just wondering, my angel, what the collective noun for a gathering of Maltesers might be.”

“Collective what?”

“You know, as in a murmuration of starlings. A pandemonium of porcupines.”

“A bagful.”

“A bagful!” cried Andrew, joyfully clapping his hands.

“Try not to parrot everything I say.”

“Everything you—” Andrew held it there. No point in pushing his luck. The hand that holds the purse strings writes the rules.

“Anyway, you haven’t answered my question. How is everything going at the office?”

“Couldn’t be sweeter.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

Andrew refused to ask what it was she had heard. Or who she heard it from. He liked to display these tiny fragments of independence from time to time. She’d tell him anyway.

How things were actually going was bloody awful. Andrew, naturally thick-skinned, had inevitably developed an extra layer or two during the years of his present servitude. But the new situation at what was now being called, by everyone but himself, Fortune and Latham was already beginning to get him down.

Within twenty-four hours of the will being read, Leo Fortune, having come into, appropriately enough, the lion’s share of the Brinkley bequest, had had his name inscribed on Dennis’s door. This was kept open unless a client was present and people drifted easily in and out talking to Leo, asking questions and advice, just as they had always done. Perversely this annoyed Andrew more than if the man had become incredibly grand and started throwing his weight about.