Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

Barnaby decided to risk it. “‘Coming through the Rye’?”

“I do the badinage, Chief Inspector.”

“Sir.”

Barnaby risked a glance at the clock. Ten minutes so far and the old man was barely getting into his stride. The DCI waited, unfazed, knowing the attack to be in no way personal. Spleen had to be vented daily, like bad blood.

“So no one has actually talked to anyone who knew this sad bastard. What’s his name, Brinkley?”

“No, sir.”

“Says Brinkley down here.”

“No one has actually talked to anyone about him, sir.”

“Not a single question put anywhere?” Each word savagely gnawed off like a chunk of raw meat. Single. Question. Put. Anywhere. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I’ve already explained—”

“Then you don’t have to tell me again, Chief Inspector. I’ve got a mind like a razor.”

“Sir.”

“And a memory like…a razor.”

“The coroner’s verdict—”

“Coroners.” A single spit with excellent aim and range. “They think they know it all but they are not invaluable.” He paused glaring across the desk. “You find something amusing?”

“Amusing?” Barnaby appeared quite bewildered. “Erm…no…”

“And this second death, this fool of a woman reading tea leaves or whatever. You reckon she’s been poisoned?”

“Yes.”

“Think she was involved in the first one?”

“She described exactly how it happened and promised to reveal the murderer the following Sunday.”

“What an idiot.”

“Quite.”

“Says here she talked to spirits.” He stared suspiciously down his long nose, which had a certain boxiness at the end, giving a fair impression of a snout. “You one of these New Age touchy-feelies, Barnaby?”

“No, sir.”

“Incense up your arse. Needles in your tickling stick.” He started laughing. Hideous barks and gleeful yaps. Joyfully he drummed his wolf paws on the edge of the desk like some lupine shaman. Then he picked up the folder and hurled it forcefully towards the chief inspector.

Barnaby moved quickly, snatching the falling papers from the air. He said, “Are we to proceed then, sir?”

Before the first briefing on the Garret/Brinkley murders, Chief Inspector Barnaby made himself familiar with the little background on Dennis Brinkley that was available. He discovered the man to be a quiet, respectable financial consultant; law-abiding to the extent that he had never received as much as a parking ticket. So far the only unusual thing about his life was the bizarre way in which he left it. Of course there would be vastly more to Brinkley than this simple outline suggested. If there was one thing experience had taught Tom Barnaby it was that few things were more extraordinary than ordinary lives.

He had been given a larger team than he expected but not as large as he would have liked. But then it never was. He looked at them, the fresh-faced, eager detective constables, the hard-bitten old lags, the middle ranks, capable, experienced, not yet completely cynical. Most of them looked lively and interested and so they should. This was no run-of-the-mill domestic. This looked like being complex, unusual and, Barnaby feared, long-running.

“You’ve all read the background notes?” Everyone nodded or mumbled or rustled their stuff. “As you know I always stress the importance of keeping a completely open mind…” An inaudible sigh possessed the room. A new DC carefully wrote down “open mind” and never heard the last of it.

“But we have to start somewhere,” continued Barnaby. “And in this case I’m afraid it has to be with an unproven assumption. Namely that Ava Garret was killed because she believed she could describe the murder of Dennis Brinkley. And, presumably, the murderer.”

Faces were pulled and there was a fair bit of laughter. The radio tape had entertained them all. As had the photograph of Ava in full fig, already known around the canteen as “Rocky Horror’s Favourite Fuck.”

“Hard to imagine anybody taking such a threat seriously, Chief,” said Inspector Dancey, sitting as closely as he could to WPC Abby Rose Carter without actually climbing into her lap.

“You’ve killed someone,” said Barnaby, “you can’t afford not to.”

“That’s right,” said Sergeant Troy. “And there have been genuine—”

Garret and Dennis Brinkley lived in the same village. It’s a small place; they may have known each other. I want to know all about both of them. Brinkley died somewhere in the early evening on Tuesday the twenty-fourth of July. Three weeks ago now, I’m afraid, but someone might remember something. Ask if any stranger was seen hanging round the house that day. Or even near the day. Talk to them in the village shop. Find out who delivered Brinkley’s post. If he had domestic help or a gardener, I want to know. And don’t forget the pub.

“I’ll be talking to the people at…” He squinted at the spiral notebook. “Troy?”

“Appleby House, Chief.”

“And you can also leave out Ava Garret’s immediate family. The situation there is quite fragile and involves a child.”

“Better give us—”

“The address is on the board. Audrey, I’d like your help in breaking this. We don’t want Karen finding out via the telly or some nosy neighbour.”

Great. Thanks a bunch, sir. It was always the same. Always the bloody same. Any hammer blows to deliver – any painful, emotional or shocking news, a woman got lumbered. Where were all these sensitive new men when you needed one? Butching it out at nappy-folding class, no doubt.

“Also, try and persuade Roy Priest, who lives there, to come in and do an E-fit. He seemed agreeable when we talked on the telephone.”

“Even though no money will be changing hands,” added Sergeant Troy, laughing.

“Once that’s done we can get them out to the staff at Uxbridge station. Issue a public appeal.”

“Shouldn’t we check her car, sir?” asked WPC Carter. “If she did leave it near the Tube someone might have clocked her coming back. This Chris character could’ve still been around.”

“I doubt it. He’s not the careless type. Her mobile seems to have disappeared. And neither Priest nor the girl knows the number or make.”

“What about the first call he made? To the house?”

“Number withheld,” said Sergeant Troy.

“That’s about it then.” DCI Barnaby stood up, dismissing them. “Off you go. Debriefing, six o’clock.”

It was nearly two hours later before Barnaby himself was ready to depart. He passed Roy and Karen, escorted by Sergeant Briery, about to enter the incident room and took a minute to thank them for coming in.

Karen smiled and said hello. Roy mumbled something. He could still hardly believe he was voluntarily in a police station helping the police with their enquiries, as the saying went. But once Audrey had settled them down by this seriously weird machine and the guy who worked it explained what he’d like them to do, things got really interesting.

The only photograph of Ava extant in black wig and cloak was on the screen. The idea was to change it so that she looked exactly as she had when going out last Wednesday night. By the time this was completed the only thing left from the original was the shape of Ava’s face and her features. Even then the eyes, without false lashes, thick eyeliner and heavy shadow looked different. As for the wig, it was simply wiped away.

They started with the clothes. Roy described her jacket and it was drawn over and over again until they got it absolutely right. The colour proved difficult. He didn’t want to use the four-letter word that was closest, what with Karen sitting there and everything. So he said, “Sort of gold.” Then, “Khaki-ish.” It was Karen who suggested mustard.