Phil Rickman - The Smile of a Ghost

‘Tell me,’ Bliss said.

Merrily told him about Marion.

‘Long time ago, that.’ Bliss reached down to his briefcase.

‘You’ve already indicated this particular tower isn’t best suited to suicide, yet Jemima was determined to go that way. Did she use all that heroin to give her courage, or was it to make sure she died if the fall wasn’t enough?’

‘Interesting question,’ Bliss said.

‘How about Robbie Walsh – did he have a computer?’

‘Apparently not. Karen checked this afternoon.’

‘You’re having second thoughts about Robbie Walsh because of this?’

‘You got me thinking,’ Bliss said. ‘However, according to his mother, he wasn’t the computer type. An old-fashioned reader. Certainly enough books around the place, according to Karen. History books. No personal CD collection, either. Very old-fashioned little lad. An old-fashioned family, the Mumfords. Well, most of them.’ Bliss laid a folder on the pile in front of Merrily. ‘There you go. All ends tied?’

It contained a colour printout from a website.

LUDLOW GHOSTOURS

‘You knew,’ Merrily said.

‘Just thought I’d see if you did. It’s all there. Marion of the Heath. For a small fee, this feller will even guide you to the spot.’

‘She’d downloaded it.’

‘And more besides. Plan of the castle. She knew exactly where she was going and what she was gonna do when she got there.’

‘Anything else you haven’t told me because you wanted to see if I knew it already?’

Bliss smiled.

Before leaving Hereford, Merrily had called Mumford on his mobile, from the car, sitting in the Gaol Street car park with the rain beginning.

‘Aye,’ Mumford said wearily. ‘I know.’

‘Who told you?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Pointless me asking why you felt you had to pass yourself off as still a copper.’

There was silence. She thought she’d lost the signal. The rain pooled in a dent on the Volvo’s bonnet; when Mumford’s voice came back it sounded dried-up, like a ditch in summer.

‘Can’t talk to people. Simple as that. Never could. Can’t do small talk. Walk into a shop, I can just about ask for what I wanner buy. What do I say? “I’m Robbie Walsh’s uncle and I’m feeling guilty as hell and please can you help me?” Can’t do it. Never could.’

In the same way he could only call her Mrs Watkins. In the same way he’d addressed Gerald Osman as ‘sir’, but not out of politeness. His whole identity had been written on his warrant card.

‘What did Bliss say?’ Mumford asked.

‘He said you should stay out of Ludlow. He was probably hyping it up a little.’

‘Mabbe not.’

Merrily sighed. ‘OK, here’s what else I found out.’

She told him about Jemmie Pegler’s computer and the suicide chat-rooms. Emphasizing that, although his name had appeared briefly on the chat pages, there had been no obvious personal connection with Robbie Walsh. Hopefully, this would keep Mumford out of Ledbury.

‘Computer, eh?’ He let out a slow hiss. ‘Never thought. Damn.’

‘Bliss said Robbie didn’t have a computer.’

‘Of course he had a computer. His grandparents bought it for him. Had me collect it from PC World. Packard Bell.’

‘Well, he hadn’t got it any more, Andy.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Mumford said.

Driving home, with the rain starting up, Merrily wondered how much was actually known about Marion de la Bruyère, ‘a lady of the castle’. You thought of flowing robes, one of those funnel-shaped headdresses, with a ribbon.

But Bernie Dunmore had been right. You were probably talking about a child. Those precious teenage years were also very much bypassed in the Middle Ages; by Jane’s age you could be a mother of three. Marion was probably about fifteen herself when she died, or even younger. Young enough, certainly, to be fooled by a smart operator she thought was in love with her.

Jemmie Pegler, staving off chronic emotional starvation, maybe profound loneliness, had been in very much the right mental state to imagine that Marion, disaffected, betrayed – a kindred spirit – would be holding her hand as she jumped.

Merrily said to Jane, ‘What sort of state do you imagine someone would have to be in for the idea of suicide to become appealing… exciting?’

‘Look,’ Jane said. ‘Suicide chat-rooms – my basic feeling is that most people who go into suicide chat-rooms are never going to top themselves. It’s just titillation. Like running across railway lines, bungee-jumping. Real suicide, that’s when you just no longer want to be alive. When it seems like there’s absolutely nothing worth hanging on to. You don’t care how you do it, do you? As long as it works.’

‘Jemmie Pegler went through with it. In a way that suggests she cared very much how it was done.’

‘Yeah, that’s weird. And what about Robbie Walsh?’

‘Possibly killing himself? Mmm. I think we’re all starting to have second thoughts about poor Robbie.’

‘Well, thanks, anyway,’ Jane said.

‘For what?’

‘For not saying, “Look, flower, if there was ever a deep source of depression in your life, I hope you wouldn’t hesitate to—” That’s the phone.’

Merrily pointed a menacing finger. ‘Don’t go away.’

By the time she got to the scullery, the answering machine had caught the call – as was intended, to ambush the people who made a point of phoning at night because it was cheaper, to bend your ear for an hour on some parish issue of awesome triviality.

‘Mrs Watkins, if you’re there—’

She sighed and picked up, switching on the anglepoise lamp.

‘Andy.’

‘I’m at my sister’s. Robbie’s mother?’

‘Andy, do you think maybe you need to relax, just a little?’

‘I got Robbie’s computer.’

‘Oh.’

‘Thought you might wanner know. When my sister told Karen the boy hadn’t got a computer, she lied, nat’rally. Which Karen would’ve guessed, of course, but she was hardly in a situation to push it.’

‘I’m sorry – why would your sister lie?’

‘Two reasons. One, they was worried about what he might have on there that p’raps a good, caring parent ought to have known about. Two, they thought they could sell it for a couple of hundred. Taking it to a car-boot sale, along with the rest of his stuff. ’Course, she also tried to tell me they’d already got rid of it, but I remembered the lock-ups.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Garages – a number of which don’t contain cars but serve as storage for various items that residents of the Plascarreg might not want found inside their houses. Sometimes using each other’s garages – or the garage of some harmless old lady with no car – to confuse the issue.’

‘The Plascarreg. Of course. Are you bringing the computer out?’

There was a pause. ‘I could spell this out, but you’re an intelligent woman. My sister’s here on her own. The boyfriend’s down the pub. I got till he comes back to check this over. Not that he scares me, but if I can get away without a scene, that’s best. So I’m gonner go over the hard disk on site, as it were.’

Merrily looked up at the wall clock: 9.05 p.m. Over the phone, she could hear vehicles revving, the tinny sound of hard rain splattering a car roof.

‘Would it help if I came over?’

‘Couldn’t ask that, Mrs Watkins. Not the Plascarreg.’

‘This is Hereford, Andy, not Brixton. What’s the number of the flat?’

‘One thirty-seven.’

‘OK.’ She wrote it down.

‘I can’t ask you to do this,’ Mumford said. ‘Not at night.’

‘You didn’t ask. I’m electing to come. I’m interested.’