Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

“What are you doing here?”

About to explain, DCI Barnaby realised the question was not addressed to him but to Latham, who immediately launched into some rigmarole involving a Psion organiser, a client, a cancelled appointment, a stupid assistant and a lost file. Good lies always have a spice of truth and these sounded quite convincing but even Troy could see there was at least one too many of them.

In any case the woman now ignored him, introduced herself and asked if they had come about “poor, darling Denny.” She answered all their questions, verifying what they already knew about Brinkley’s character but adding little that was fresh. She had never met Ava Garret.

“One’s world is hardly likely to collide, Chief Inspector. From what I read in the Echo it appears she lived in a council house.”

Asked to confirm her husband’s presence at home on the night of Wednesday, 8 August she declined.

“All I can say is he was here when I got back from my aromatherapy training.”

“And that was?”

“Tennish.”

“And what time did you leave for this…um…training, Mrs. Latham?”

“Around seven. I always arrive early. I need to sit quietly and recharge and direct my energies. It’s pretty high-powered stuff.”

That was when Barnaby and Troy took their leave. Before they were in the car she had let rip. Starting at fortissimo and climbing.

“I’ve seen things launched smaller than that,” said Sergeant Troy, driving off.

The car paused at the great bronze gates and Barnaby regarded the happy couple in his rear-view mirror. Latham standing there, shoulders slumped, staring at the flagstones like a naughty schoolboy. Mrs. L. bawling and windmilling her great windsock arms about. A clatter of rumbustious laughter ruptured the sweet summer air. He must be getting some bloody sizeable handouts to put up with all that.

“See that look she gave him, Chief?”

“What sort of look?”

“The sort Joe Pesci gives a guy that’s dropped ash on his shoe.”

“Let’s stick to facts,” said Barnaby. “As far as timing goes we now know Latham could be our ‘Chris.’”

“That wimp?” The gates swung open and Troy drove thankfully away.

“He could have rung Garret around five – sensibly, from a call box. Mrs. L. leaves home at seven. He goes off to keep his appointment with Ava. Spends an hour or so dangling various promises, maybe a contract, leading her on over a nice dinner. Slips the stuff into her wine, gives some excuse as to why he can’t escort her back to Uxbridge and puts her in a cab.”

“More likely the Tube, given his finances.”

“Whatever. Then back to the ghastly Dallas ranch house for a bit more grovelling.”

“It all sounds…I dunno, unbelievable.” Troy had thought the bungalow quite splendid. “Like some stupid play.”

Inevitably, given his daughter’s profession, Barnaby had seen a lot of plays and one or two had been pretty stupid to his way of thinking, but none had been quite as unbelievable as the case with which he was presently wrestling.

Only forty-eight hours since the first briefing on the double murder inquiry and the incident room was a very different place. A babble of voices answered busy phones. Information was recorded. Questions were being put. Maps and photographs relating to both crimes were pinned around the walls, together with large detailed drawings of the interior of Kinders.

Half an hour earlier DCI Barnaby had received and absorbed SOCO’s full report on Dennis Brinkley’s house. Gathering his team about him at the quieter end of the room he chose to open the briefing by describing the salient points.

“Some prints found were those of his cleaner, others of Mallory Lawson. The rest, identical to those on the Lexus and all over the flat we have to assume are Brinkley’s. The prints on the trebuchet are a bit of a mess. Only his are plain, but they were made on top of some blurred smudging, which Scene of Crime say was probably left by someone wearing gloves. So far, so expected.

“Footprints give slightly more away. We know, having talked to his cleaner, that Brinkley had some special soft tweedy slippers he always wore when going to look at his machines. They were left, side by side, at the entrance. Prints from these were pretty well all over the floor but not all of them were the same.”

“How d’you mean, Chief?” asked Inspector Julie Lawrence.

“A few had been made by someone with slightly bigger feet.”

“He must have guessed what the slippers were for,” said Troy, “and taken advantage.”

“The kitchen showed nothing, not even on the door handle. SOCO think the murderer’s shoes were left on the outside step.”

“And it seems he didn’t enter the flat proper.”

“Do we have SOCO’s report on that?”

“Yes. Also Troy and myself went through the place.” And what an experience that had been. The word tidiness didn’t even come close. Pens and pencils on his desk, shoes in the wardrobe so closely aligned you couldn’t have slipped a hair between them. Ornaments equidistant each from the other to the nearest millimetre. Anally retentive wasn’t in it.

“I examined his bank statements going back several months. No huge amounts either way. Some modest direct debits, probably council tax. Unfortunately his phone bills weren’t itemised but the telephone company will be able to produce details of calls for us.”

“Not much of a result, is it, sir?” asked Colin Jarvis. “Just tells us what we knew already.”

“Yes, thank you, Jarvis. So.” Barnaby gave his team a somewhat aggressive stare. “Who’s got something to tell me that I don’t know already?”

A lot of stuff had come in, nearly all of it useless, but that was nothing new. Barnaby picked up one of the E-fits and waved it about.

“Any luck with these?”

“Yes, Chief,” said DC Saunders, who had covered Uxbridge station. “The man who sold her a ticket remembered her straightaway. She asked for a single to Piccadilly.”

“Do we have a time?”

“He’d just come on shift and reckons about ten past six. I checked the next couple of departures. First out was a Metropolitan. Then a fifteen-minute wait for the Piccadilly Line.”

“Let’s hope, once these are widely circulated, we’ll discover which train she took. And, with a bit of luck, where she got off.”

Barnaby knew that was asking a lot. Even though the carriages would be largely empty when they left the terminus, the nearer the train got to town the fuller they would become. If she really had left it at Piccadilly Circus the chances of her being spotted were as good as nil, even on the cameras.

He said, “What about the car?”

Quite a bit of feedback there as well. Most of the likely sounding tips had been followed up, but though the vehicles in question were all red Hondas they were not Ava’s Honda. Unfortunately Barnaby’s hopes that she had left it in the NCP lot near the station proved short-lived. Another two sightings had come in late last night and would be followed up this morning.

He left them all to it and set off to interview the man who had been described to him yesterday by Doris Crudge as “knowing Ava inside out.” Apparently it was George Footscray who had started the medium off on the psychic circuit, supported her through the training and, once established, chauffeured her between various meetings. He also ran the spiritualist church in Forbes Abbot single-handed. George, explained Mrs. Crudge, was also quite a sensitive himself, being born with a gift for piercing the lower ether no matter how black and dense.

All this had entertained Sergeant Troy no end. Now, driving along the A413 towards Chalfont St. Peter, he was quite looking forward to meeting Footscray, whom he pictured as the sort of bloke who grew his own clothes. A mung-chewing airy-fairy ponce in beads and a raffia hat. But that didn’t mean the guy couldn’t pass on a few tips about ether piercing. Also Troy half hoped for an update on his stars, which were bitching him about as usual.