Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

Sergeant Brierly had been terribly tempted to take Karen’s aunt to one side, reveal the frightening truth about Ava Garret’s death and leave Doris whatever her name was to do the dirty work. But she couldn’t do that. No one forgets the deliverer of terrible news. They are remembered with revulsion: hatred even. A child especially will not forget. So Audrey sat down with Karen on the stained settee and held her hand and gently explained that someone had deliberately given her mother a poisonous drink and that was why she had died.

“Like the apple in ‘Snow White’?” asked Karen.

“Yes,” said Audrey, not knowing the story.

“But then she coughed and the apple came out and she was all right again.”

“Fairy tales are different,” said Audrey.

“I wonder who it was.”

“We think whoever she went out with on Wednesday night.”

“The man from the BBC?”

Audrey was spared from wrestling with an answer to that as Doris came in with a large pot of tea and some lemonade for Karen. Doris said: “Fetch Roy, there’s a good girl.” Karen ran off and Audrey repeated her announcement. Though she tried to make her voice flat and dull the words still seemed absurdly melodramatic. But Doris took it all quite calmly, saying that that possibility had been on a lot of people’s minds but no one had liked to say so out loud.

“Karen hardly reacted at all,” murmured Audrey, hearing the others coming. “But later on…I think she’s bound to feel…um…”

“Don’t you worry about Karen,” said Doris. “I’ll be looking after her. She’s been sold short for too long, that little lass. She needs a lot of love.”

“Don’t we all,” murmured Audrey. But silently.

Karen had obviously told Roy, who came downstairs, his eyes shining. Geoff Cotton followed, dribbling an invisible football while Karen shouted, “Goal, goal.” Roy immediately started bombarding Audrey with questions. She fielded them patiently for a while, then brought up the matter of he and Karen coming into the station to help them sort out a recent likeness of her mother.

Roy was hesitant but Doris said he really should, out of decency’s sake. And Karen, once the procedure was described, got very excited and wanted to go straightaway. She loved computers. So that was settled.

“Is she a permanent thing – this aunty?” asked Sergeant Troy. The vulnerable, fragile little girl, so near to his own daughter’s age, had quite got to him.

“I think so. Mrs. Crudge—”

“Crudge?” exclaimed Barnaby. “That rings a bell.”

“It’s Brinkley’s cleaner, sir,” said Troy. “She’s coming in today.”

“When?” On being told one o’clock, Barnaby looked at his watch. “We should be back by then.”

“From?”

“I want to check out Brinkley’s office. See what this partner of his is really like.”

“According to Lawson he couldn’t stand the bloke.”

“Hardly an impartial observer.”

“As you say, Guv.” Imparshal. One more word to look up in Talisa Leanne’s dictionary. Education, there was no end to it.

The old brass plate beside the street door on Market Hill still read “Brinkley & Latham: Financial Consultants.” Very sensible, thought DCI Barnaby. From what he had heard about Dennis Brinkley’s business acumen and personal probity, the name would probably continue to inspire confidence even though the man himself was no longer present.

Leading the way upstairs, Sergeant Troy was already looking forward to checking out the talent. Alas, the receptionist proved to be a bit of a dog but, once she had led them into the main office, things began to improve. A very pretty blonde was operating the photocopier. Not as pretty as Abby Rose, but then – who was?

As Barnaby introduced himself and stated his business a man emerged from one of the enclosed cubicles. He had an air of being in charge and introduced himself as Leo Fortune.

“We’ve been expecting a visit. Ever since the news that Dennis had…um…since we heard…”

“What really happened to him,” concluded the woman from reception.

Barnaby noted Fortune’s hesitation and was not surprised. It was a funny word murder. It sold more papers and books and movies than any other. No TV drama series would risk their ratings for long without introducing one. True crime reconstructions were watched by millions. Complacently wise after the event, they would then have “their say” by phone and e-mail. But when the victim is personally known that all changes. Then reaction is muted and euphemism sets in.

“Is anyone away today?” asked Barnaby.

“Two are on holiday.”

“One holiday, one honeymoon.” Gail Fuller nodded towards two vacant desks.

“And…?” Barnaby glanced towards the empty office.

“Mr. Latham has not, so far, favoured us with his presence.”

“Oh, be fair, Leo,” argued a youth in a pink-striped shirt. “It’s barely twelve o’clock.”

There were a few sniggers at this but they quickly died away. Everyone became quiet and serious as befitted the gravity of the occasion. Though the staff were looking concerned, there was no feeling of unease in the room. They all met Barnaby’s gaze frankly though he had been round the block enough times to realise how little that signified.

“Mr. Brinkley died on Tuesday, the twenty-fourth of July. Were you all here then?”

The office junior, who turned out to be doing only work experience, was at school. And a stoutish woman with a large nose and a Snoopy telephone admitted to being absent on a Rolfing With Angels course at the Steiner Institute.

“And Mr. Latham?”

“He turned up mid-morning, as usual.”

Barnaby asked the rest if they went out at all that day. Only Leo Fortune and Latham had not left the office. The others had “nipped off” to shop, grab some lunch or go to the library. Asked to be more precise as to time, the longest anyone was absent was fifty minutes. This was down to the pink-striped man, who had spent the break in the Magpie playing bar billiards and drinking Guinness.

“And when do you close?”

“Five-thirty, officially,” said Fortune, “though Dennis and sometimes myself are often here later.”

“And that night?”

“I honestly can’t remember. There was no reason to till now.”

“Quite,” said Barnaby. He came across this all the time. Unless something incredibly interesting or appalling had happened during the day under discussion who on earth was going to remember it three weeks later?

“Are any of you familiar with this Near at Hand church?” No one appeared to be. “Did Mr. Brinkley ever mention it at all?”

“He never talked about his personal life,” said Belinda, the pretty blonde.

“Isn’t it to do with the other world?” asked the stout lady, whose name was Dimsie. She sounded sorrowful and just a teeny bit cross. “I’m afraid Mr. Brinkley had little time for the spiritual.”

“Did you hear this medium – Ava Garret – broadcast?”

“I shouldn’t think so. We were all working.”

“Can anyone imagine why someone would wish to kill Mr. Brinkley?”

The response was immediate. Fervent denials followed by warm and plainly sincere incredulity that anyone could have brought themselves to do such a wicked thing.

“It’ll be a stranger.”

“That’s right. No one who knew Dennis would—”

“Absolutely.”

“Wish I could meet the bastard up a dark alley.” The billiard player flexed his arm, and an incipient muscle, like a piece of thin string, upped and stretched itself.

“How come the verdict was wrong the first time?”

Barnaby spent a few moments explaining what they would soon be able to read in the papers, then asked them again to try to cast their minds back, this time to the weeks leading up to Dennis’s death.