Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

“Goodness, that is particular.”

“Like he was driven to it,” said Mrs. Crudge.

“What about the room with the machines?” asked Sergeant Troy. “Did you clean in there?”

“Just the floor. He wouldn’t let me touch anything else. I wouldn’t want to neither – horrible things.”

“The day he died—” began Barnaby.

“I never went in. My days are Wednesday and Friday.”

“And the previous Friday when you did the floor, did everything look as usual?”

“I couldn’t swear to that. I just mop it over and scarper.”

“Would you have noticed,” asked Sergeant Troy, “if there were drag marks on the floor, made perhaps by moving the apparatus about?”

“Oh, I’d’ve noticed that all right.”

Barnaby wondered if the murderer knew the cleaner would not be coming in on the day the machine was tampered with. If Dennis was as private a person as had been suggested, the murderer might well have been ignorant of her very existence. Unless he lived in the village. Like Lawson.

“I presume you have house keys?” Mrs. Crudge nodded. “Do you know if anyone else does?”

“Nobody. Mr. Brinkley was most security-conscious.”

The DCI couldn’t let that pass. “We saw several keys hanging on a board in the garage.”

“They’d be for the garden shed and such,” said Mrs. Crudge. “Anyway, it wasn’t burglars so much he was worried about as the threat of damage to his precious machines.”

Barnaby tried for the hundredth time to put himself into the shoes of Dennis Brinkley. And failed again. “What about visitors? Did anyone come on a regular basis?”

“How would I know? When I was at Kinders he was at the office.”

“What about phone calls? Did you ever take messages?”

“No. Mr. Brinkley always said to ignore the telephone.”

“Did you have keys to the office as well?”

“That’s right. I do Saturday mornings, when the place is empty.”

“And now,” Barnaby smiled, “I believe you’re a shareholder?”

“Me and Ernest are already shareholders,” bridled Mrs. Crudge. “We’re with BT. And British Water.”

At this point there was a knock at the door and a uniformed policewoman came in with a tray. Three plastic beakers of tea, some sugar and a plastic spoon.

“Pushing the boat out then?” suggested Mrs. Crudge. Brought up never to drink tea with a hat on, she removed her black felt, placed it on the floor beside her chair and stirred in three sugars. “Saw you coming out of Appleby House yesterday. How d’you get on?”

“You know the Lawsons?” asked Sergeant Troy.

“Worked for the old lady since I were fifteen,” said Mrs. Crudge. “I’m still there – for now, at any rate. Remember Mallory growing up. When Benny first came.”

“You must know her well, Miss Frayle.”

“I’m very fond of Ben. ’Course, it was all down to me that she got that message from Mr. Brinkley in the first place.”

“The message…?”

“From the world of spirit. I was the one who persuaded her to go.”

“To the Church of the Near at Hand?”

“I’m a senior member. There’s not much going on there I don’t know about.”

“Really?” Barnaby put his tea aside, folded his arms and rested his elbows on the edge of his desk. He looked sympathetic, concerned and very, very interested. “So, tell us all about it, Mrs. Crudge.”

Andrew Latham rested in a vast rose-patterned hammock under a fringed awning to protect against the sun. Lying back on the puffy, goosedown cushions, he pulled on a silky cord, let it slip through his fingers, pulled on it again gently tilting the hammock to and fro. Within easy reach was a low table with a jug of sparkling water, a dish of sliced lemons and a bottle of blue label Stolichnaya. There was also a clock with a plain face and large numerals. The clock was the most important item. It told Andrew how much time he had left before he had to depart, leaving not a trace of his presence.

Today the trouble and strife was at the Malmaison Beauty Salon, being massaged and steamed and waxed and primped by Shoshona, her personal beautician. Andrew thought a more accurate description for the plucky woman who got to grips with Gilda’s constantly shifting outline should be uglician. An uglician at the troll parlour.

These insights so entertained him he laughed aloud, spilling his drink, not just on his trousers but all over the cushion. It was quite a big mark. Thank God vodka was colourless and didn’t smell. He was just turning the cushion over and thinking it was about time he made tracks when a car turned into the drive.

Although the car was an ordinary saloon and the two men getting out wore plain business suits Andrew knew immediately who they were. He had had near misses with them often enough. What was it about the police? A sort of wary confidence. As if whatever right you had to be where you were they claimed the same right just by waving their bloody warrant cards. They were doing it now.

“Mr. Latham?”

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“We’re investigating the deaths of Dennis Brinkley and Ava Garret. You weren’t at the office when we called this morning so…”

“Here you are, this afternoon.”

“Exactly.” The young one pulled out a chair and sat at a round table under a large umbrella. “OK if we…?”

“Actually I was just—”

“This won’t take long, I’m sure, sir.”

Then the big one sat down too. Bugger, thought Andrew, and looked at the clock again.

“I was given some idea as to your background with the company.” Barnaby repeated what he had heard from Leo Fortune, leaving out the insults. “Is that correct?”

“Roughly.”

“And how did you get on with Mr. Brinkley?”

Latham shrugged. “He did his job – I did mine. We didn’t mingle.”

“Do you remember what you were doing the day he died?”

“Working, I suppose.”

“We were told—”

“Not necessarily at my desk. I’m in and out a lot. Occasionally I visit clients in their homes.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing this afternoon, sir?” Sergeant Troy’s expression was innocent, his voice politely puzzled, his gaze extremely respectful. You felt, given the chance, he might curtsy.

“Is that relevant to your enquiries?” As he spoke Andrew gathered up the drinks bottle, jug and clock. Said, “I have to change these trousers,” then disappeared into the house to empty the water and hide the vodka in his underwear drawer.

“That man was actually sweating.”

“It’s very hot,” said Sergeant Troy.

“He wasn’t sweating when we arrived.”

Within minutes Latham was back. He now had on a smart jacket, a tie, different trousers and was munching a mouthful of something green. Barnaby guessed parsley.

“I have to throw you out now, I’m afraid.”

“Just a few more questions, Mr. Latham.”

“I really can’t—”

“Regarding Ava Garret.”

“Who?”

“The medium who was killed just under a week ago. Connected to the Brinkley case?”

“It was all over the papers,” said Troy. “And on the telly.”

“Yes – of course, I did hear of it. But—”

“Did you know Mrs. Garret?”

“No.”

“She lived in Forbes Abbot.”

“Well, it can hardly have escaped your attention, Chief Inspector, that I don’t live in Forbes Abbot. So I’m not likely to have met her.”

“Have you ever been to the Church of the Near at Hand?”

“I never go to any church. The cards I’ve been dealt, God’s lucky I haven’t razed them all to the ground.”

At this point a large BMW drew up, dwarfing the yellow Punto. A colossal woman heaved and rolled her way out. She was draped in a great deal of grey gauzy fabric with a silvery finish. The comparison with a barrage balloon was inescapable. A loud bellow crossed the distance between them.