Phil Rickman - The Smile of a Ghost

‘Looks like the book was ripped in half, ennit? He was real careful with his books.’

‘What you’re saying is he didn’t do this.’

‘That’s likely what I’m saying.’

‘The boyfriend?’

‘Or it could be Ange. When he was little, if he left toys around after she’d told him to put them away, she’d throw them on the fire. I’ve seen it. This was when she was still with his dad and they were living out at Kingstone. Marital tension. Always felt I… oughter do something for the boy. Couldn’t think what.’ He put the book back carefully in the wine box. ‘Hell, he was never abused, I’m not saying that. Just never encouraged. Which is how he became a loner, up in his room with his books.’

Mumford turned away, stood very still, hands in the pockets of his dark tweed jacket.

‘Andy—’

‘Let’s have a look at the computer.’ Mumford brought out his glasses case; his hands were shaking very slightly. ‘Never got to see the boy much since she moved in with Mathiesson. They never liked me coming round. Not with both neighbours on probation. No excuse, is it? I could’ve done something.’

He put on his glasses and gripped the mouse, began dragging the cursor over icons on the computer desktop. Mumford – Merrily had noted this before – was surprisingly at home with computers.

‘Seems likely the only time the boy ever went out on his own was in Ludlow. Just walking the streets. In his element.’ He clicked on an icon, bringing up a photograph of the ornate oaken façade of the Feathers, in Corve Street, against an improbably Mediterranean blue sky. ‘What he’d do, see, he’d download documents and photos from the Net, compiling his own files. Switch on his computer, straightaway he’s back in Ludlow. Street maps, architectural plans, the lot.’

‘Virtual heaven,’ Merrily said, aware of her own voice giving way. She coughed.

‘Aye. Look…’ Mumford brought up a series of short histories of different buildings; some, like The Reader’s House, she’d heard of. ‘This is what I wanted you to see.’

THE WEIR HOUSE

Name adopted, since recent major restoration, for this onetime farmhouse on an elevated site below the castle and overlooking the Teme. Origins believed to date back to the early fourteenth century, when it was acquired by the Palmers’ Guild, or earlier. Timbers extensively replaced, but one original cruck-beam is preserved and the central fireplace, believed fifteenth-century, remains a significant feature.

NOT OPEN TO THE PUBLIC.

‘That’s her house,’ Mumford said. ‘Mrs Pepper.’

There was sweat on his forehead, a small mesh of veins like a crushed insect twitching below one eye.

‘But it… Andy, it seems to be one of over a dozen old buildings he’s got listed there.’

He shook his head. ‘All the others are key historical buildings. This Weir House, it’s just been done up from a shell. It’s the only one on the list that’s not important. And not really in the town itself.’

‘But…’

‘It’s only there ’cause it’s hers.’

‘You think?’

‘Ludlow. The one place he thought he was safe…’ He clicked to a photo of the Buttercross, staring at it as if he could get the full story out of the stones.

‘Safe from what?’

‘Where he thought he was free, then.’ He stepped away from the monitor. ‘You have a look, see if anything occurs to you.’

Merrily went over to the computer keyboard. ‘You checked his e-mails?’

‘Nothing.’

‘No e-mails at all?’

‘I reckon they been wiped – by Ange or Mathiesson, just in case.’

‘In case of what?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘You been through the deleted mails?’

‘Bugger-all. See for yourself.’

Under deleted mails , Merrily found one that said GHOSTOURS. Re half price . She clicked on it.

Hi Robson!

Thanks for your mail and your interest in GHOSTOURS. Yes, it certainly is half-price for children. However, we don’t usually allow anyone under sixteen to go on the walk unless accompanied by a responsible adult. Mind you, it’s usually the adults who are most scared!

Is there a parent or relative who would come with you? If so, we usually gather in the Bullring on Friday and Saturday evenings, at 8.00 p.m. But pop into the shop when you’re here and we’ll see what we can do!

Cheers,

Jonathan Scole,

Ludlow Ghostours.

‘That’s months old,’ Mumford said. ‘Boy making plans for his holiday. This is the ghost-walk feller the Pepper woman paid to take her round. Would she have made a responsible adult for Robbie, you reckon?’

‘Andy, that—’

Merrily turned round. A boy had squeezed under the metal door. He looked about ten or eleven. She tapped Mumford on the shoulder, gave the kid a quick smile.

‘Hello.’

The boy said nothing.

Mumford eyed him with naked suspicion. ‘What d’you want, sonny?’

The kid moved further into the garage, baseball cap pulled down. ‘What you doing?’

‘What’s it look like we’re doing?’ Mumford said. ‘We’re playing computer games.’

‘What you got?’

‘Sonic the Hedgehog,’ Mumford said. ‘Before your time. En’t you got something violent to watch on TV?’

‘That Robbie Walsh’s stuff?’

Mumford clicked off the e-mail. ‘Makes you think that?’

‘Their garage, ennit?’

‘You knew Robbie Walsh?’

‘You his grandad?’

‘No I en’t, you cheeky little sod.’

‘Ange said we could have a look at his stuff, see if there’s anything we wanted.’

‘Aye, I bet she did.’

‘Honest!’

‘All right, goodnight, son,’ Mumford said. His tone had hardened. His hands hung by his sides. Mumford still had police presence. The kid backed off, ducked under the opening, then stuck his head back in.

‘Don’t want none of that shit, anyway. Robbie Walsh was gay. I’d get Aids or some’ing.’

And disappeared, laughing. Mumford said nothing, but went over and pulled down the metal door, leaving a much smaller gap at the bottom this time.

‘He probably doesn’t even know what it means, anyway,’ Merrily said when Mumford came back to the computer.

‘I know what it means.’ He didn’t look at her. ‘Means the boy was different. Sensitive. Bit academic and didn’t hang around with whatever gangs operated on the estate. An outcast, in other words.’ He picked up the book with the damaged spine. ‘Therefore a target.’

‘He was being victimized? Bullied? That’s what you think?’

Mumford didn’t reply. He put the book back and laid a hand on the mouse, running the cursor from icon to icon.

‘Try Internet Explorer and click on History,’ Merrily suggested. ‘Find out where he’s been lately.’

But Robbie’s most recent ventures on the Net amounted only to Ludlow tourist sites, Ludlow historical society documents. Nothing unexpected. Nothing that looked like a suicide chat-room. After about fifteen fruitless minutes, Mumford went back to the desktop, where nothing looked promising unless you were seriously into medieval history.

It was cold in here, and Merrily was no longer sure what they were looking for. It all came down to Mumford’s feeling that the boy had been in need of help and he hadn’t noticed. Perhaps thinking he’d got off too lightly with his own daughters, to whom nothing bad seemed to have happened.

‘School Projects,’ she said. ‘Try that. Sounds boring.’

Mumford looked at her. A vehicle went slowly past the garage.

‘Maybe a bit too boring,’ Merrily said. ‘Do you think?’

Mumford clicked on it. An e-mail appeared at once.