Watching the Ghosts (17 page)

Dremmer had placed his sound recording equipment at the back of the chamber and, as Joe drew closer, he realized that it was recording. He suddenly felt a new bout of optimism – if it was triggered by sound, then it might have recorded the murderer's voice. He switched it off. The scientific support people could examine it, sooner rather than later.

Looking round the room he spotted a screwdriver lying on the floor by the brick wall at the far end of the basement. His heart beat faster as he began to examine the area. There was a small pile of grey mortar dust on the dark stone flags and he could see the patch in the centre of the wall where someone had tried to scrape the mortar away from between the bricks. However, there had been builders crawling all over the building for months so it might have been them who'd been working on the wall rather than Dremmer.

As he stared at the wall he suddenly experienced a feeling of cold dread. According to George, Dremmer had talked about something evil being down there and, as he looked down at his hand he realized it was shaking.

Alan Proud knew that it was best to keep out of the way because the police and the CSIs were downstairs and out in the grounds with their crime-scene tape and their white overalls that made them look like giant maggots crawling over the dead. They'd been knocking on all the flat doors and they'd already interviewed him – just routine, they said. But he hadn't told them anything.

He pulled back the rug. He'd created the hiding place for his really precious things – the loose floorboard he'd prised up, a result of shoddy workmanship he imagined, had given access to a perfect hidey-hole. He knelt on the floor and lifted the section of board, peering down into the hole at the wooden box which had once contained expensive cigars.

He lifted the box out and opened it, breathing in the faint whiff of tobacco that still clung to the wood. Inside were the letters from Peter Brockmeister that he couldn't display on his wall; the ones that could cause a lot of damage. These were the ones that would turn Eborby's smug, cosy world upside down.

‘W
hy did he leave the basement, Joe?' Emily asked quietly.

‘I don't know. But Lydia told me she'd heard something that sounded like scraping and some of that mortar on the far wall's been scraped away. Dremmer might have done it for some reason.'

Emily smiled. ‘Lydia, eh.'

Joe ignored the suggestion in her voice. ‘We need to find out what he was up to. Could the cellar extend beyond that wall?'

‘If it did it would be on the plans and the builders would have used it to gain access to services and all that. Jack Hawkes is the architect so he should be able to tell us for sure. Anyway, my gut feeling tells me that if the basement was any bigger than this, Creeny would have used it to incorporate some basement flats and squeeze a bit more money out of the place.'

Joe knew she had a point. ‘We should have a word with Hawkes and Creeny anyway.'

‘Talking of Hawkes, I've just had a call from Janet, the family liaison officer. She'd found some material about Peter Brockmeister in his house.

Joe gave a low whistle. This was something he hadn't expected.

‘Jack Hawkes is the one who would have drawn up all the plans for this place,' said Emily. ‘And he's the one with the dead wife.'

What would the police do without vigilant neighbours? That's the question DC Jamilla Dal asked herself as she recited the familiar words of the caution at ten thirty on a cloudy Monday morning.

The burglary had taken place at a new block of flats in Bacombe and the burglar had selected the flat of a single woman on the ground floor, gaining access through the French windows leading to the communal gardens which had been one of the flat's major selling points. He had broken in at nine thirty but he'd been heard by the next door neighbour who happened to be taking a day off sick and knew the flat's owner had already left for work.

The neighbour had heard crashing and dragging sounds, as if furniture was being moved around, and by the time the patrol car arrived, his attack of man-flu had diminished in the excitement. The two constables picked up the intruder as he left the premises the same way as he went in, and all the neighbour saw was a middle-aged man being led away, still carrying a handful of what looked like ladies' underwear.

It seemed that The Builder had been caught at last and, in view of the major investigation at Boothgate House, Jamilla had been called upon to conduct the initial interview.

The man sitting opposite her in the interview room could only be described as ordinary, the type she wouldn't have glanced at twice in the street. He was average height with receding hair and the face of a rather dim weasel. But, thanks to the Police National Computer, she knew who he was and she knew what he'd done in the past. He was a small-time career criminal of the sort she'd met so often before; the sort who considered themselves a cut above the riff-raff because they never used violence.

‘So if you never use violence how do you explain the notes you left?' Jamilla asked, pushing the plastic exhibit bag containing the note he'd left his last victim across the table.

I'LL SEE YOU NEXT TIME I CALL. BE READY.

The burglar, whose name was John Jones – alias Arthur Smith, alias Michael Grogan, also known as David Beech – gave the duty solicitor a sheepish look. ‘I didn't mean it. I just did it for a laugh.'

‘Your victims weren't laughing. And why did you pile the furniture up by their front doors?'

‘If they came back unexpectedly it'd give me time to get away, wouldn't it,' he said as though Jamilla should have realized this.

‘And you took their underwear.'

‘Yeah . . . well, I've always had this thing about . . . I was after cash and jewellery but the knickers were a bonus.' He looked Jamilla up and down and she squirmed in her seat. ‘What colour are you wearing today, love?'

Jamilla felt like landing a punch on his smirking face but instead she assumed her sternest expression and didn't grace the question with a reply.

‘Where did you get the idea of piling the furniture up?' She studied the print out of his criminal past that lay on the table in front of her. ‘It isn't your usual MO.'

‘A lad I was inside with knew someone who used to do it and I thought I'd give it a go. Trouble is . . .' He tilted his head to one side, as though considering the matter. ‘Trouble is it takes a while to move the stuff so you're in there longer and there's more chance of some nosy neighbour hearing what's going on.' He rubbed his back. ‘Besides, I'm not as young as I was so all that shifting . . .'

Jamilla watched the man's face. ‘Who gave you the idea?'

He thought for a moment. ‘I once shared a cell with a lad called Darren Carter. He was done for murder – I don't usually share with murderers but with space being short and all that . . . Anyway, he said he was innocent and I believed him. He was inside for killing his girlfriend but he swore it wasn't him. He reckoned it was this bloke called Peter Brockmeister and he tried to get him to admit it, not that he had much luck in that direction. Now, Brockmeister was a man to avoid. He got put away in some hospital in the end . . . cushy number. Don't know how he wangled it but . . .'

Jamilla sat upright. ‘You knew Peter Brockmeister?' In view of DCI Thwaite's interest in the Brockmeister case, this could be something that could earn her a few brownie points.

‘I didn't actually know him but, like I said, I knew Darren who'd shared a cell with him at one time. Brockmeister had a reputation for being a scary man but Darren had been determined to get friendly with him 'cause he thought he could get him to confess to his girlfriend's murder so he could appeal his conviction. But Brockmeister ran rings around him – kept him dangling by hinting that he was going to confess, but of course he never did. He was just playing with the lad.'

‘And you knew Brockmeister used to pile furniture up at his victims' front doors in the same way as you did?'

‘I told you, that's where I got the idea from. Darren wouldn't stop going on about Brockmeister and what he'd done. Obsessed with him he was.'

‘Do you know where Darren is now?'

‘In the cemetery, poor lad.' Jones bowed his head as if in respect. ‘He got killed inside. I sometimes wondered . . .'

‘What?'

Jones hesitated. ‘Whether Brockmeister gave the order. Darren kept writing to him, you see – pushed things too far. Brockmeister might have got sick of it.'

Jamilla suddenly remembered what DCI Thwaite had said about Alan Proud's collection of letters written by the killer. ‘Brockmeister wrote back to him so he couldn't have minded that much.'

He raised his eyebrows as though he was surprised at how much Jamilla already knew. ‘Until Darren got too close. There were people inside ready and willing to do whatever Peter told them, believe me. He had charisma, that man. There were some who thought he had powers, if you see what I mean.'

The words sent a chill through Jamilla's body. But she was determined not to show it.

‘But he's dead,' she said. ‘His body was found shortly after he was released from hospital.'

Jones leaned forward, a knowing leer on his face. ‘I heard on the grapevine that he was still alive. They found that solicitor woman in the river, didn't they? I reckon he's at it again.'

‘Jones has made a full statement,' said Emily as she ended the call. ‘At least we've got the burglaries cleared up.'

Joe watched her, sensing there was something else, something she hadn't told him yet. ‘You don't look happy.'

She sighed. ‘One string of burglaries down, two murders and a kidnapping to go. Jack Hawkes was out last night – he told Janet he was going to see his ex-wife and his kids but he didn't get back till the early hours. She was woken up by the sound of his car returning at three in the morning. Which means his kids must have late bedtimes if he was telling the truth.'

‘He could have been seeking solace from his ex,' Joe suggested. He knew some relationships were never cut and dried.

‘We've asked her and she says he left at nine. I don't think there's any love lost there. Anyway, I've sent a patrol car to pick him up. I've got a feeling he's in this up to his neck. And we can ask him about the plans of Boothgate House while he's here.'

Joe knew Emily could be right. The husband is usually the first suspect when it comes to a murdered wife and Karl Dremmer's interference could have deterred prospective buyers of the Boothgate House flats, adversely affecting Hawkes' bank account. And they couldn't forget that Hawkes was in possession of material relating to Peter Brockmeister's crimes. Which meant that not bringing him in would be tantamount to a neglect of duty.

They stood in the entrance hall at Boothgate House, directly beneath the elaborate chandelier put up by Creeny to introduce a touch of luxury to the building.

‘There's someone else I need to see,' said Joe.

‘If you're thinking of Alan Proud, he's been interviewed. Swears he was fast asleep all night and didn't leave his flat. Not sure if I believe him but . . .'

‘I didn't mean Proud. I've asked George Merryweather to come over and have a look at that basement.'

Emily stared at him with a mixture of puzzlement and disbelief. ‘Isn't that your exorcist mate? What do you want to bring him in for?'

‘Because Karl Dremmer was a paranormal researcher. I want to find out more about that particular angle.'

Emily emitted a sceptical snort. ‘Well, whoever killed Dremmer, it wasn't a bloody ghost.'

Joe felt the blood rising to his face. ‘The lab's going through Dremmer's recording equipment but I've read through his notes and I think there might be something unusual there. I also want to trace some of the people who worked here when the place was a hospital. I can't help feeling this whole thing's connected with Peter Brockmeister. And he was here. He lived in this building.'

Emily paused for a few moments, deep in thought. ‘You're right, Joe. Someone certainly copied his MO for Melanie Hawkes' murder. And we've got two people round here with detailed knowledge of his crimes: Jack Hawkes and Alan Proud.'

‘Our burglar, John Jones, was in prison with Brockmeister's old cell mate, Darren Carter, who was the recipient of the letters in Proud's collection. It seems Darren gave Jones chapter and verse on Brockmeister's crimes. According to Jones, Darren became obsessed with him and ended up dead. I'd like another look at those letters.'

‘From what Janet's said about the material in Hawkes' house, it looks as if his father became fixated with the case. Brockmeister seemed to be the kind of criminal who affected people like that. Word has it that he was so charismatic that he even had experienced officers eating out of his hand. And a charismatic killer is a dangerous beast. Good job he's dead and he can't do any more damage.'

Joe knew the truth of Emily's words. It seemed that Brockmeister's evil spell had endured even after he was gone. ‘What if he's not dead?' he said softly, almost reluctant to utter the words.

Emily shook her head. ‘According to the files he was identified. There was no mistake.'

‘Identifications can be wrong. Everyone says he was charismatic – what if he charmed the landlady into identifying the body as his? There was no DNA in those days and there's no mention of dental records in the file.'

Emily suddenly looked worried. ‘No, Joe, I'm as sure as I can be that Melanie Hawkes was just a copycat killing. Someone's keeping Brockmeister's flame alive. And, according to Sally, she was tortured. There's no record of Brockmeister ever doing that.' She looked at her watch. ‘I've sent a patrol car to pick Hawkes up. He should be at the station by now.'