Watching the Ghosts (4 page)

When she'd called Emily Thwaite the night before she hadn't mentioned why she wanted to meet her and the woman had sounded a little impatient, as though she felt Melanie was wasting her precious time. Then, as she'd lain awake that night in the spare room, she'd kept visualizing Daisy, frightened and sobbing in some dank cellar and she wondered whether she'd done the right thing. Would they know she'd met Emily? Was she risking Daisy's safety?

Emily had agreed to meet her at half twelve at the National Trust tea rooms near the cathedral, well away from Eborby Police Headquarters where she worked. She'd suggested this as it felt like neutral ground and she was grateful that Emily hadn't questioned the arrangement.

Melanie sat at the breakfast table in their large square kitchen with its hand-painted units and glossy granite worktops, playing absent-mindedly with her untouched toast while Jack opened the morning post: bills as usual; it always seemed to be bills these days. He looked over at her and she could sense his irritation. He had enough problems without all this.

‘What time are you getting the money?'

‘It's all in hand. If they call just keep calm and write down any instructions they give you.'

‘I will.' The words were said as solemnly as a marriage vow.

‘I've got to make a call.'

She half stood, her eyes anxious. ‘About . . .?'

He didn't answer. He disappeared into his office and when he returned to the kitchen she was still sitting there, staring at her untouched breakfast.

‘You'd better get dressed,' he said. ‘We've got to be ready for anything.'

‘What do you mean?' she asked, trying to control the panic rising inside her.

‘If they let Daisy go we'll have to be prepared to pick her up right away.'

Her eyes widened, bright with panic. ‘They will give her back once they've got the money, won't they?'

‘Why shouldn't they? They want the cash and I'm going to get it for them. I'd better go. I won't be long.' He walked over to her and gave her a half-hearted kiss on the top of the head, a kiss more out of habit than affection.

She didn't respond. All she could think of was Daisy and a wave of panic shot through her like a knife twisted in her heart.

In spite of the fine weather outside it wasn't a good day. Last night's reported burglary had followed precisely the same pattern as the others – as if the perpetrator was working to a set of unbreakable rules – and DCI Emily Thwaite was still no nearer identifying the man who had so far put five women through that frightening ordeal. She had come into the office early that morning to re-examine the case but, no matter how many times she read through the files, inspiration refused to come. She sat in her office hidden behind the paperwork on her desk and wished she was home enjoying the sunshine with Jeff and the children – sometimes she envied Jeff his teachers' holidays – but she knew she'd probably be stuck there in the stuffy CID office until dusk.

She looked at the watch Jeff had given her for her last birthday and saw that it was almost time to keep her appointment with Melanie Hawkes. She hardly knew Melanie and she'd been more than a little puzzled by her phone call. Why should a woman she'd only encountered before in passing at PTA events at her children's school want to meet her for lunch? She was hardly under the delusion that the woman was a friend so it had to be something to do with her work; something she'd probably have to direct to the appropriate department – tactfully, of course. She'd toyed with the idea of calling her and making some excuse to avoid their appointment but, after the morning she'd had, she needed to get away from the office for a while.

She stood up, opened the office door and looked around before walking over to Joe Plantagenet's desk. It was more untidy than her own – something she hadn't thought possible – heaped with paperwork arranged haphazardly around his flickering computer. He was sitting there, reading through witness statements and he looked up as she approached.

She pulled up a chair and sat down beside him. ‘Anything new?' she asked casually, trying to hide the impatience she felt with their lack of progress. It was time they got this man. Joe looked tired, as though he'd slept badly. She was tempted to make some comment but she thought better of it.

Joe shrugged his shoulders. ‘This latest burglary's exactly the same as the others. He's not only been careful, he's been lucky. Nobody's ever seen a thing.'

‘You'd think someone would hear him shifting all that furniture around but he seems to be able to come and go as he pleases. It's almost as if we're dealing with a ghost.'

‘He'll slip up sooner or later,' Joe said with a confidence that Emily couldn't share. ‘Dave's going out for sandwiches later. He's taking orders now if you want one.' He stood up and began to look around the office for the youngest detective constable who'd been volunteered for sandwich duty.

Emily put her hand on Joe's arm. ‘Don't bother about me. I'm nipping out at lunchtime. By then I'll be glad of some fresh air. I won't be long.' She wasn't sure why she didn't mention her appointment with Melanie Hawkes. Perhaps it was because she had a bad feeling about it, although she wasn't quite sure why.

The phone had begun to ring at nine thirty precisely and Melanie had waited for a few moments before answering. Her hands were shaking. They'd been shaking ever since she'd found the bank statement.

They both had professional jobs and, as far as she knew, they'd always been solvent. However, in recent months her constant whirl of work and childcare meant that Jack had taken sole charge of all the financial stuff. But now she'd discovered they were overdrawn and small slivers of doubt began to worm their way into her head. Had he got into financial difficulties with his latest project . . . difficulties that had swallowed up her salary as well as Jack's earnings? He'd never mentioned it to her but now the thought flashed across her mind like a warning flare. What if there was no money for the kidnappers? What if she never saw Daisy again?

She'd breathed deeply, telling herself to keep calm, to concentrate. The notepad was there to take down instructions if necessary but when she picked up the pen lying beside it, she was trembling so much that she dropped it on the floor. The phone was still ringing and she knew she couldn't put it off any longer.

‘Hello.'

‘Am I speaking to Melanie Hawkes?'

‘Who's that?' She tried to speak calmly and clearly but the words came out as a nervous squeak.

‘I called your office to make an appointment but they said you might not be in today. I need to see you.'

She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. ‘Who is this?'

‘Chris Torridge . . . it's about Dorothy Watts.' He suddenly sounded unsure of himself. ‘You do remember?'

‘How did you get this number?'

‘I looked you up in the phone book,' he said as though he was answering a particularly stupid question.

This man had been there when Daisy had disappeared. And now he was phoning her at home, invading her life. ‘Look, if you ring the office and make an appointment . . .' she said, trying her best to sound calm and reasonable, trying to keep the panic she felt out of her voice.

‘I need to see you as soon as possible. Can we meet today?'

‘Not today.'

‘I can come to your house.'

‘No,' she said quickly. The man knew her number from the phone book so, presumably, he knew her address too. She suddenly felt sick. ‘I'll see you tomorrow . . . in the office. First thing in the morning if you like.' She put the phone down and felt hot tears stinging her eyes.

Then the phone rang again and this time it was the call she'd been waiting for. And the voice on the other end of the line told her in a threatening whisper that Daisy was safe but she needed to get the money together at once.

There'd be another call in half an hour. And then she'd receive her instructions.

J
ack's phone began to ring and when he lifted it to his ear and said hello, he heard Melanie's voice. She sounded breathless, as though she'd been running. Or maybe it was just panic.

‘I've got to drop the money off this evening. They're calling back later to say where.'

He told her to take a deep breath and stay calm. He was on his way to get the money.

He walked through Singmass Close, past the small modern houses, built in jagged rows with overhanging windows like their medieval counterparts. It was a nice development in a central location and Jack only wished it had been one of his. The cobbles gave way to tarmac as he passed beneath another archway and walked the fifty yards to the Georgian town house with twin bay trees beside the open glossy black front door and
Creeny and Co.
etched on the glass inner door leading to the hallway. Patrick had always said that, whatever happened, it was vital to keep up the show of unostentatious prosperity. And this place was upmarket all right; tasteful, elegant and understated. It smelled of money and money was the one thing Jack needed at that moment.

He pushed open the glass door and found himself in the familiar open plan office. Here the walls were covered with pastel pictures of Creeny and Co's past developments; all old buildings, all renovated to high specification and in the best possible taste. A sleek PA, tall and slender with dark, glossy hair, looked up from her desk and smiled. ‘Well hi. I wondered when you were going to . . .'

‘Sorry, Yolanda. Is Patrick in? It's rather urgent.'

She picked up the telephone.

‘Don't bother. I'll surprise him. I know the way.' He knew he had to act as though nothing was wrong so he forced himself to give her a knowing wink.

‘Fancy a drink after work?' she said in a low voice.

‘Sorry, not tonight. We'll fix something up soon, eh.'

Before she could reply he was through the door at the back of the office that led to Patrick Creeny's inner sanctum.

Creeny was sitting at his desk and he looked up as Jack entered, his only sign of surprise being a momentary raising of his eyebrows. He sat back, shielded by the massive bulk of the mahogany desk.

‘Jack. I was meaning to get in touch. We've had a few more enquiries about Boothgate House. I reckon things are looking up. What can I do for you?'

Jack had intended to go in, all guns blazing, and demand his money but he knew that Creeny was too valuable as a business contact for him to irk him more than was necessary.

‘That money you owe me, Patrick. I'm afraid something's come up and I need some of it as soon as possible.'

Patrick's expression gave nothing away. He was a big man in every way; forty-something with a shaved head and a nose bent in some past battle on the rugby field. Some thought him a gentle giant but during their business dealings Jack had seen another side to him. Patrick Creeny was ruthless when he needed to be. And his creditors usually had a long wait for their money. He felt his heart beating faster while he awaited the reply.

Patrick stood up, dwarfing the desk. He smiled with his mouth but his grey eyes remained cold. ‘No problem, Jack. I was going to arrange a transfer this week.'

‘I'd prefer cash . . . if that's OK.'

And when he came out fifteen minutes later, he was carrying a Tesco carrier bag stuffed with twenty-pound notes. No problem.

The sight of that clock had given Lydia more of a jolt than she'd expected.

Her instincts told her that she should forget about it. Leave well alone. But when her lunch break arrived at twelve o'clock, her natural curiosity made her forget the growls of hunger in her stomach as she made her way back to the shop through the tourist-packed streets. Lunch would have to wait.

The sign on the dusty door was turned to ‘open' and the gloomy interior was illuminated by a single electric bulb dangling from the ceiling. It was hardly the sort of place to lure in the casual shopper. But she could see the clock there at the back, half hidden behind the heavy brown cupboard.

She was trying to summon the courage to go in when she saw a man emerge from a door at the rear of the shop. Somehow she had pictured the owner as some desiccated antique dealer with long white hair and a bow tie, but this man was in his early thirties with cropped fair hair and he wore jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt which showed strong forearms tattooed with what appeared to be swallows on the wing. He walked over to the far corner of the shop and sat down at a desk blanketed with paperwork. She saw him pick up a ledger but after a few moments he looked up and stared straight at the window. And when he caught her eye she felt the blood rush to her cheeks.

She turned to walk away, to move on, buy some lunch and forget all about the clock. But something made her stop. What would be the harm in asking the question that had been on her mind since that morning? At least then she'd know if she was likely to have seen the thing before . . . if her nightmares arose from some terrible and long-buried memory.

Summoning all her courage, she pushed the door open and a bell jangled somewhere above her head. And when the man stood up to greet her she fought an impulse to make a swift exit.

‘Hi,' he said. ‘Feel free to look round. Are you interested in anything in particular?'

He was well spoken, probably public school, and he seemed out of place in such dingy surroundings. But his casual friendliness gave her new courage. And beside, there was something attractive about him, something that encouraged confidences.

‘I was looking in the window this morning before you opened and I saw a clock.'

‘Which particular clock are you interested in? We've got quite a few to choose from as you can see.' The new enthusiasm in the man's green eyes told her that he was anticipating a sale, possibly the first of the day.