A Ghost in the Machine (57 page)

Underneath the final copy was a large unsealed envelope. It was quite heavy. Kate turned it upside down and a stack of A4 paper, punched at the side and threaded with pink legal tape, fell out. The pages, over four hundred, were handwritten in black ink. The letters, beautifully shaped, were inscribed in such an orderly and balanced manner as to gradually cause feelings of harmony to steal into the heart of the fortunate observer. Intrigued and bewildered in equal measure, Kate settled down in an armchair and began to read.

 

In his wonderfully comfortable private room on the top floor of the Clinique pour les Maladies Tropicales, Ashley Parnell was getting his confidence back. And with it his looks. He knew this without checking in the mirror. It showed in the gradual change in his nurse's attitude. She touched his body now in a slightly different way. And after taking his pulse, her hand would remain for a moment, the fingers supporting his wrist, the thumb pressing lightly into his palm. Most days she combed his hair though they both knew he could do it quite well himself. Then his scalp would tingle and not only from the gentle friction of the comb. None of this was in the least blatant. She rarely looked directly at him and her smile was coolly professional.

Yesterday, at his request, she had brought in some postcards, the usual exaggerated panorama to dazzle the folks at home. A sky impossibly blue, mountain peaks perfectly iced, clean goats nibbling on velvety grass and wild flowers. Now written on and signed by himself and Judith, the little pile lay on his bedside table. The nurse offered to post them. Ashley thanked her, removed another card from inside a book he had been reading and passed it over.

Nothing was said but her face changed. She smiled and he could see she thought this secret card was to his mistress. When asked if there was anything else before she left, Ashley said he would like some fresh water. As she moved towards the bathroom he noticed her walk was different too: looser, more indolent.

A full-length mirror was fastened on to the back of the bathroom door and he could see her reflection. She put the freshly filled carafe aside and studied herself in the glass, stroking her hair smoothly away from her forehead. Then she slowly undid the first two buttons on her uniform and loosened the collar, easing the neckline.

As he watched the tawny sun-marked skin transform to creamy white Ashley became aware that she was also watching him. At that moment his passivity fell clean away. Aware for some time of vague, unfocused feelings of sexuality, he now felt overwhelmingly hot and needful. When she came back into the room and leaned over the bed to smooth his pillows Ashley slipped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her down beside him. Kissing, undoing the rest of the buttons, pushing aside silk and lace to encounter warm, yielding flesh…It was all quite a shock to a system that had almost forgotten just how marvellous sex could be.

 

Some small distance away, on the third level of a beautiful terraced garden, Judith Parnell sat sipping fresh orange and pomegranate juice. The drink had been beautifully served: the glass in a pitcher of crushed ice itself enfolded by a linen napkin, whiter than snow. Powdery sugar was in a silver bowl. Pale yellow rosebuds finished off the presentation.

And yet, Judith was not satisfied. She was discovering that when you had money you were easily displeased. Things that cost a lot should be perfect. More than perfect, in fact. The orange juice was not quite as sweet as it could have been. No doubt that was what the sugar was for but naturally sweet fruit could surely be found?

The Hotel Mimosa had been chosen purely for reasons of proximity to the hospital. It took barely fifteen minutes to walk there and, if that didn't appeal, cabs were always available. Judith visited Ashley two or three times a day. Three-quarters of the other guests were also alone and she assumed they were staying at the hotel for the same reason. The management asked each visitor on checking in if they would care to share a table at dinner. Judith had refused and was glad of it. She did not wish to partake in the hopes and fears of strangers, being already in thrall to more than enough of her own.

As Ashley got better and better, Judith struggled to come to terms with her reaction to this wonderful development. The very speed with which it seemed to be happening caused her to fear it might be temporary. Then she wondered how she would feel if this rapidity did mean an early regression.

The answer should be clear enough but, to Judith's acute distress, this didn't seem to be the case. Emotion clouded her head at the very suggestion. She tried to isolate and clarify her thoughts, one at a time, by rigorous self-examination. Wasn't this extraordinary recovery just what she had been working and praying for for months? She remembered very clearly when it all started. That terrible morning when Ash, after struggling with acute lethargy and dizzy spells for weeks, had woken up too exhausted even to get out of bed.

But it had been wonderful having him at home, even with all the money worries. As neither was involved in village affairs, hardly anyone came to the house. She had him to love and look after all by herself. Now there were other people. Judith either resented or disliked them all, even the specialist, an elderly and compassionate man, infinitely approachable and friendly.

If asked to single out the person she disliked the most Judith would not have hesitated. Of all the nurses in and out of Ashley's room – and they were in and out even when she herself was visiting – Christiane Blonde was the one she feared. The acknowledgement brought her up short. What was she thinking? Did she really mean “feared”?

Judith sensed an intimacy between the nurse and her husband that she kept telling herself was merely her imagination. It was true she had nothing solid to base this assumption on. Well, almost nothing. There had been one incident not long after Ashley was admitted. Visiting in the early evening Judith had come across them both walking towards her down a long corridor, the nurse holding his arm. The late sunshine poured through the huge windows and Ashley paused to lift his face towards the sky. He smiled, then, preparing to walk again, stumbled. She put an arm around him and he leaned briefly against her before righting himself. That was all. If it had been anyone else…

What was it about Frenchwomen? She wasn't young, especially. She was probably Ashley's own age but there was something about her. Nothing artificial. Though her complexion was flawless she appeared to wear no make-up. She was just one of those rare people, Judith concluded unhappily, that could suggest beauty by a turn of the head. Or the resting of a hand against the cheek.

As Ashley recovered the bleakness vanished from his gaze and his sluggish skin began to glow. His eyes were once again warm and lively and when Judith held his hand his own grip was strong.

Loving him constrainedly for so long she now fell in love all over again and couldn't help wondering how soon it would be before they slept together. Every night she would sit on the balcony of her room, picturing how it would happen. What they would do. What they would say. How passionate his caresses and kisses would be.

There were some boutiques in the atrium of the Mimosa, full of horrifically priced merchandise, and she had bought a semi-transparent nightdress of smoky grey lace and chiffon, loosely tied with satin ribbons. Unable to resist showing it off she had taken the box along on her next visit to the hospital. Folding back layer upon layer of silvery tissue with trembling fingers Judith had drawn out the lovely thing and held it against her heart, the gossamer folds tumbling to the floor. She couldn't quite make out Ashley's reaction. For a fraction of a second, (blink and you'd miss it) she could have sworn he looked alarmed. Then there was a certain awkwardness, which Judith was quick to reason away. It had been a long time; he had been very ill. She should have been more patient. Then he said something nice, though the feeling of uncomfortableness still came through. She had forgotten the exact words.

But eventually it would all come right. It must or she would have cheated and lied and turned her whole life over to the bad for nothing. White-collar crime, they called it, as if this made it somehow cleaner than the other sort. As if stealing money by tapping a keyboard wasn't as serious as grabbing some old woman's handbag and frightening her half to death. Frightening people by remote control must inevitably be less traumatic.

Anyway, it was half expected these days, the way things were. Every day, workers with pension funds woke up to find they had halved in value, if not worse. Insurance companies actually trained staff in how to avoid paying out. Honest investors lost thousands through companies still paying their directors obscene bonuses. If that wasn't theft, what was?

And surely the reasons behind a crime should be taken into account? In her case they were admirable ones. She had stolen for love. It had seemed to her a matter of life and death.

Not so her partner. She had regarded his involvement as purely a matter of greed. He denied this. For him the robbery had been a question of freedom. “Call me a freedom fighter!” he had shouted, laughing and half drunk, not long after their first meeting in the Peacock Hotel.

He had delivered her from a terrible assault. On the pretence of setting up a business meeting a repulsive man had lured her there; wedged her into a tight corner and urged her to have sex with him. When she'd refused he'd almost climbed into her lap, all the while pouring depraved and filthy suggestions into her ears.

Shaking and on the verge of tears, she'd caught the eye of someone about to buy a drink, who saw the man off. That was when it all started. Overwhelmed by gratitude she was surprised to find her rescuer knew who she was. He had seen her, apparently, at Carey Lawson's funeral, though they had not been introduced. Somehow this seemed to make it all right to talk to him. A couple of brandies later and Judith had told him everything. She had described Ashley fading away before her eyes; clients disappearing, her desperate need for money. How she had sold nearly everything they owned that was sellable and now there was only the house and that was mortgaged.

He too had a tale of woe. Married to a gorgon of a woman who doled out pocket money for services rendered and if he couldn't she didn't. Humiliated by being forced to sit in an office all day, pretending to be of use when everyone knew it was only because his wife owned half the business he was there at all. The other half – well, he assumed Judith knew Dennis Brinkley? Could there be some way she and himself could help each other? Why not start by sharing their strengths and weaknesses?

This didn't take long. It quickly became plain that Judith had all the strengths while Drew, as he had asked to be called, owned up to all the weaknesses. However, as the conversation developed, both terms proved inappropriate. Knowledge, it seemed, would be the counter with which to play the game.

There was little Judith didn't know about offshore accounts, tax dodges, stock exchange fiddles and money scams generally. All accountants pick up such information along the way. Only the bent ones make use of it. And computers held no mystery for her. She had been working with them all her life.

Drew knew nothing of such matters. What he had to offer was access to lots and lots and lots of money via a key to the street door and main office of Brinkley and Latham, plus the combination to a safe that held the passwords for all the main office accounts. For good measure he also threw in cautionary tips on how to avoid detection. Mainly this seemed to involve keeping a sharp eye out for the nosy fishmonger opposite when entering or leaving the building. And speed, once inside, must be of the essence. Shift a lot of stuff in two or three visits max, casting the net wide. Smallish amounts from lots of accounts, suggested Drew, soon mounted up and were less likely to be detected. Judith explained that detection would take some time anyway, as false entries would have to be made to cover the debits, however small. Drew was impressed.

They talked and talked, getting more and more exhilarated. He bought a bottle of cheap sparkling wine. They saw it off and Judith ordered another. Later, though, getting out of her car and stumbling up Trevelyan's garden path, the intoxication began to drain away. And by the time she had taken off her coat and drunk several glasses of water, she could not imagine what on earth had possessed her. God – she must have been mad.

Running a bath, pouring in lots of scented oil, she attempted to wash away the dirt from the infected early part of the evening and the insanely dangerous fantasy of the final two hours. Eventually she crawled into bed, falling into an uneasy sleep. Her last thought was, he must be feeling just like this. It was the drink talking. Tomorrow it will all seem like a crazy dream. But in the morning, when the phone rang and he asked if it was still on she said “yes” straightaway.

They met only twice after this although they spoke several times on the telephone. Everything worked smoothly. As Judith did not have access to Dennis Brinkley's private office, his fatal accident hardly caused a blip on the screen of her activities. But as the police had been involved, albeit tangentially, she decided it would be safer to extricate a final amount to bring them near to their aimed sum for balance and quit.

Not reading the local paper, which she rightly described as illiterate rubbish, Judith had missed entirely the fact that a self-styled medium, boasting a knowledge of Dennis Brinkley's death, had herself passed away in somewhat mysterious circumstances. This item hit the national press as she and Ashley were boarding Swissair at Stansted. And even if the news of what would soon be recognised as a double murder had been brought to her attention, she would never have linked it with the man she knew only as Drew. Judith had sized him up pretty thoroughly at their first meeting. Weak, desperate, good-looking in a faded, second-division soap star sort of way. Wouldn't hurt a fly.

 

The new owners of Kinders considered the name rather an affectation and restyled the building the Old School House. He was a banker, she did graphic design, working from home. They had three children and a live-in nanny. Their architect had transformed the place. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms and living rooms, and a crescent-shaped kitchen that ran halfway round the ground floor. The arrow slits had been bricked in and replaced by huge windows. The interior was now flooded with light and there was a shiny new red front door.