Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

“In a murder inquiry I’m afraid confidentiality goes by the board. Have you knowledge of the relevant accounts?”

“No. I’ve hardly looked at Dennis’s files. Been too busy working with Steve Cartwright, who’s taking over my own. I presume the girl’s parents are ignorant of all this?”

“As far as we know.”

“Mallory will be so upset.”

“Who?” Barnaby frowned in recollection.

“Appleby House, sir,” offered Troy.

Of course, Appleby House. Where Dennis Brinkley was going for dinner on the night he died. Where Benny Frayle lived, who found his body. And Mallory Lawson who spent time with that body before the police arrived and cleared away what might well have been evidence, and burned the shoes he was wearing.

Was this the connecting thread, wondered Barnaby, that would lead him out of the dark labyrinth of motiveless muddle and into order and clear comprehension? If not the thread, it was at least a thread.

“Do you know if the girl lives with her parents?”

“I believe she has a place in London. Dennis said she was at the LSE.”

“Right. Talk to your staff about all this, Mr. Fortune. See if there’s any feedback. It might also be wise to check out other accounts. But I especially wish to be informed as to the state of the Lawsons’ finances.” He handed over a card. “This is my direct line. Let me know the result, even if there’s nothing untoward.”

“It may be a few days—”

“By six this evening will do nicely.”

When Polly woke she immediately prayed for a magical withdrawal into unconsciousness. That was all she wanted and she wanted it to last for ever. Or at least for several years. Pain fretted her nerves. Her skin scalded as if she had fallen asleep beneath a blazing sun. Muscles and sinews ached. She felt permanently nauseous.

Bright daylight poured into the room through a gap in the curtains. She dragged herself off the bed to close them, covering her eyes with her hand. Outside the birds’ sweet singing hurt her ears. Looking round, she realised she was in her parents’ bedroom. Where had they slept? How soon would they come to see how she was? Though the house was silent she felt the crushing weight of their concern pressing against the walls and the solid door. Imagined them downstairs, worried and fearful, speaking very quietly so as not to disturb her.

Polly could recall little about her homecoming. She remembered feeling strangely remote, as if her personality had somehow absented itself. She remembered being helped upstairs. And that was about it. What wouldn’t she give to feel remote now.

There was a soft knock on the door. Even as she was tempted to ignore it and pretend to be still asleep Polly heard herself murmuring, “Hello.” Still dazed she tried to stand when her mother entered, only to feel her legs giving way.

“I’ve brought you some tea, love. Don’t feel you have to get up.”

“No – it’s OK.” A quick glance at her mother’s face and Polly had to look away. Kate looked older. The brightness in her voice sounded forced and shaky.

“Would you like a bath?”

“Yes,” said Polly. “Thank you.” It would delay meeting the two of them together. How strange it was, and sad, that her father should be the person she most dreaded to face. She loved her mother (another jolting recognition) but the attitude of clear-eyed pragmatism with which Kate had always faced the world meant she would be the less deceived.

“I’ll put some of my lemon verbena in. And get you something to wear.”

Polly sat for a while, then took her tea into the bathroom. She curled up in a basket chair, watching the water gush from huge brass taps into an enamelled bath. They were very stiff to turn off. The bath rested on metal feet gone green with age. She climbed in carefully, lay down, surrounded by acres of space, and stared down at her body.

How thin she was. Her thumb and little finger encircled her wrist with ease, like a loose bracelet. Polly closed her eyes and drifted, moving her arms and legs languidly, making soft splashy sounds. Then she took a deep breath and slid under the perfumed water. Sealed off from sight and sound, she rested. You could hardly call it a breathing space but the effect was the same. The world and all her troubles seemed to float away. She could have been at the bottom of the ocean. But very quickly the troubles floated back.

Just now her mother had looked sick with worry. Yesterday Mallory had been frantic with concern. But neither had shown a trace of the devastating rage and condemnation that had possessed them in Polly’s nightmares. The only conclusion must be that they didn’t yet know about the missing money. Did this mean that Dennis knew but hadn’t told them?

Polly could quite believe that. He would remember her visit. Recall how desperate she had been to get her hands on the legacy and probably guess at the truth. He would try to talk to her first because he was a decent and kindly man whom she had despised as old and stuffy. Oh, why hadn’t she taken the chance to tell him—

A terrified shriek made her sit bolt upright. Her mother stood in the doorway, her arms full of clothes. They stared at each other. Polly, water streaming from her hair, shocked and amazed. Kate, pale as death, horrified. They both spoke at once.

“Sorry, sorry.”

“I’m all right. Really.”

“So stupid. Sorry. I thought.”

“It’s OK.”

“You looked…Ophelia.”

“I wasn’t.”

“No, sorry. This striped frock. All that I—”

“It’s fine. Thank you.”

“I’ll just put it. There’s some underwear.”

When her mother had almost run away Polly got out and dried herself carefully. She put on clean pants and a slip but not the bra, which was much too large. The dress was pink and white and also too large, but that didn’t matter.

Polly took a long while to do all this. A long while using her mother’s toothbrush. She pinned her soaking hair up into some sort of knot without looking into the glass and went downstairs, barefoot.

She had been picturing her parents sitting together, waiting. Trying not to look as if they were waiting. An awkwardness would prevail. It would not be the right time to tell them what she had done. But then, when would be?

Kate was alone in the kitchen, arranging sunflowers in an earthenware jug. She turned and smiled as Polly came in. It was hard to hold the smile. Sleep had done nothing to fade the dark shadows around Polly’s eyes. She looked lost in the baggy dress, which hung forward revealing her collarbones, sticking out like little wings.

“You must be ready for breakfast.” It was almost twelve o’clock. “Or would you rather wait and have some soup?”

“Where’s Dad?”

“In the garden with Benny. Watering stuff. Picking beans for lunch.”

“Right.” She had forgotten about Benny. No way could she confess to her parents with someone else present.

“I’ve just made coffee. Or would you rather have juice?”

“Coffee’s fine, Mum.”

Kate lifted the percolator from the Aga, her hand shaking slightly. It was years since she had been called “Mum.” As a young teenager Polly had gone through a phase of calling her “Kate” and, once that stopped, nothing.

“Some toast?”

“Later, maybe.” The fact was that Polly, who had not eaten for days, had got to the dangerous stage of no longer feeling hungry. And in any case, until the truth was out of her mouth and into the open she knew she would be unable to swallow. She felt her throat closing up just thinking about it. How she would choke on the ugly words. How they would turn the sweet air foul.

“Hello, darling.” Mallory came in, carrying bunches of herbs and a lettuce as well as the beans. He moved in a dull, heavy way but smiled, attempting lightness. “How are you now, then?”