Mr Godley's Phantom

by Mal Peet

  ‘And at the station? Did he say anything to you before getting on the train?’

  ‘Only to confirm the time I was to pick him up.’

  ‘I see. Um, this morning you told Sergeant Buller you couldn’t recall the name of Mr Godley’s solicitor in Exeter. I don’t suppose it’s come to either of you?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. I’m pretty sure he’s never mentioned it to me.’

  ‘Miss Luscombe?’

  Annie shook her head.

  ‘Well, thank you both. I’m sure this is all very distressing for you. Either DS Panter or myself would like to call by tomorrow morning for a word with your cook. Mrs Maunder, is it? Say ten o’clock?’

  ‘She mightn’t be here,’ Annie said. ‘Lily took a turn for the worse and she’ve taken a couple of days off to look after her.’

  ‘Lily?’

  ‘Her sister, my other auntie. She’s a poor old thing. She’ve been under the doctor for years.’

  Panter hid a smile behind his hand.

  Sheepstone said, ‘So she, Mrs Maunder, wasn’t here yesterday?’

  ‘No. She’s not been in since last Saturday. Don’ think as she’ll likely be back till Monday.’

  ‘Right. Well, if she does come in tomorrow, would you mind ringing the number Sergeant Buller gave you? Oh, and speaking of doctors, do you know who Mr Godley’s is?’

  ‘Bloom,’ Martin said. ‘In George Street.’

  In the Wolseley Panter said, ‘If I was thinking of doing away with myself, I wouldn’t choose drowning. Bloody awful. And too slow, I’d think. You’d have time to think better of it. I have to admit, looking at that sea gave me the willies. Poor old sod.’

  ‘Hardly poor, Ray.’

  ‘True, sir. You should see the Roller in his garage. Beautiful thing. Huge.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen it around town a few times.’

  Sheepstone was silent for half a mile, then he said, ‘The stone in the hat was a bit rum, don’t you think? Why would you put a stone in your hat?’

  ‘To stop it blowing away, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes. Odd, though, isn’t it? Why would he bother?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Nearly five. Let’s call it a day. First thing tomorrow, get on the blower and call all the solicitors in the Exeter directory. Find out who represented Godley. If they want to know why you’re asking, say it’s a police matter and say nowt. While you’re doing that I’ll go and have a word with Simon Bloom.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Now then, I reckon we could persuade Brian at the White Hart to serve us a pint in the back room, don’t you?’

  3

  ‘I APPRECIATE THE NEED for doctor-patient confidentiality, of course,’ Sheepstone said, ‘but in the circumstances …’

  Bloom palpated his lower lip with his forefinger, frowning. Sheepstone waited.

  Eventually the doctor sighed and said, ‘Well, it’s no secret that Harold Godley is not in the best of health. However, his, ah, complaints are not uncommon among people of his age. They are manageable with the proper medication.’

  ‘It was more his mental state I was wondering about.’

  ‘You’re pushing it, Ivan.’

  ‘Aye, I know.’

  ‘But in the circumstances.’

  ‘Yes. Your patient may have come to harm.’

  ‘Harold is an unhappy man, and with good reason. But he is not, in my opinion, depressed in the clinical sense of the term. If you’re asking me if he had suicidal tendencies, I’d say no. In fact, it’s quite rare for elderly people to commit suicide.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. But’ – Bloom spread his hands – ‘who knows? A moment of acute despair, something apparently inconsequential that tips us over the edge. These things are not predictable.’

  ‘No. Well, thanks, Simon. I’ll let you get on.’ Sheepstone stood and turned to the door. ‘Oh, one last thing, while I’m pushing my luck. I take it that Mr Godley was on regular medication?’

  ‘Yes. And now you’re going to ask me if anything he was taking could be lethal. And the answer is yes, theoretically. A large overdose, especially if combined with alcohol, could cause liver failure. Almost certainly would do, in a person of Harold’s age and condition. Were there empty bottles of any sort found with his things?’

  ‘No.’

  Bloom shrugged and said, ‘Well, there you are. You’ll keep me posted, Ivan, will you? I was rather fond of the poor old bugger.’

  After a brief stop at Carr’s Bakery, Sheepstone returned to the station where he found DS Panter looking rather pleased with himself. Almost gleeful, in fact.

  ‘Got it fourth time of asking, sir. Earnshaw and Browning, offices on Southernhay. A Mister Jonathan Browning is Godley’s solicitor.’

  ‘Good. I suppose we’d better make an appointment. They probably won’t take kindly to us dropping by unannounced.’

  ‘The thing is, sir, Godley didn’t have an appointment on Wednesday afternoon.’

  ‘He didn’t?’

  ‘No, sir. And the secretary or whatever she was said she’d certainly have seen him if he’d been there. She said that in any case, Browning was at the County Court all day Wednesday.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Panter waited.

  Sheepstone said, ‘Get someone to make a cuppa, would you?’

  ‘Sir. Oh, and Archie would like a word. Shall I send him in?’

  Sergeant Buller came on in and got straight to the point. ‘As requested, sir, I interviewed Jim Bolsover yesterday afternoon,’ Buller said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The stationmaster here. He confirms everything that Heath told me. Godley bought a first-class return to Exeter – well, Heath bought it for him, to be exact – and Bolsover saw him help the old boy onto the train. He also spoke to Heath late afternoon, after Godley had failed to turn up. Said he seemed very agitated.’

  ‘Yes. Bit of a nervy type, I’d say.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘OK, Archie. Thanks.’

  Sheepstone returned to his pasty.

  ‘There’s one other thing, sir. It mightn’t have anything to do with anything, but, well, soon as I heard the name Godley it gave me a little itch in the head and I’ve only just now been able to scratch it. It was talking to Jim Bolsover that did it.’

  Sheepstone chewed, patiently.

  ‘You see, sir, Jim’s father Harold – passed away oh, five or six years ago, now – he used to be sergeant here when I joined the force. And I remembered something he told me about Mr Godley’s wife. So when I got back here I looked it up in the files.’

  ‘The suspense is killing me, Archie.’

  ‘She committed suicide, sir. Drowned herself.’

  ‘Did she, indeed? When was this?’

  ‘Eleanor Godley went missing on May the fourth 1920. Her body was retrieved from the Okement reservoir the following day.’

  ‘And it wasn’t an accident?’

  ‘No, sir. She left a note. Posted it to her husband from the village. I reckon he’d have read it about the same time she was being fished out.’

  ‘Hell’s bells. Poor bastard.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Well, that’s interesting, Archie. Thanks. Is that tea brewed yet?’

  4

  ON SATURDAY MORNING Ivan Sheepstone completed his solitary breakfast and, over a cup of tea, considered the day ahead. A couple of hours in the office: he needed to get back to that breaking and entering in Chagford, from which the Godley business had distracted him. Ridiculous, the valuable stuff people in this part of the world left lying around.

  Lunchtime, a couple of pints. Then, the weather holding up so well, go and watch Okehampton Argyle. Kick-and-rush stuff, it’d be – Sheepstone was a devotee of Sheffield Wednesday – but it would be an entertaining enough interlude before the emptiness of the evening. Maybe Ray might fancy the game too. If his pregnant and possessive wife would let him off the leash.

  He was putting on his bicycle clips whe
n the phone rang.

  ‘Yes? Hello, Ray. Yes, I am. I’m just about to leave. Five minutes then.’

  Panter, when he arrived, looked satisfied with the information he had to impart.

  ‘Constable Rowsell in Exmouth,’ he reported, ‘says a number of people responded to the appeal in the Western Morning News. Two were able to give pretty detailed descriptions that match Godley. Rowsell is writing up their statements. They should get to us by Monday.’

  ‘Where and when did they see him, exactly?’

  ‘A chap working in the public gardens saw him go past. And those gardens are on the way from the railway station to the seafront. He thinks it would have been about four o’clock. He knocked off at half past. Then a woman is sure she passed him on her bike about a hundred yards east of the lifeboat station.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘She said somewhere between four and four thirty as well.’

  Panter looked at Sheepstone expectantly. ‘That seems to tie things up, sir, I’d say.’

  ‘It would seem to. And you know what that means, don’t you, Ray?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve got typing to do.’

  ‘Fraid so. Leave it till Monday, though. We’ll need to take a formal statement from wossisface, Heath, before you get started anyway.’

  Something in Sheepstone’s voice caused Panter to hesitate before leaving the room. ‘Something bothering you, sir?’

  The inspector sighed. ‘I’d like to get this sorry business wrapped up as much as you would, Ray. But it’s still open-ended, isn’t it? We’ve no body, no suicide note. Therefore we can’t hand it over to the coroner, much as I’d like to. Technically, we’re still investigating a missing persons case.’

  ‘True, sir, but …’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Sheepstone looked up, cheered up. ‘Fancy a jar at lunch time? Then the footie? Argyle are playing Princetown. Local derby. Last game of the season. It might be a bloodbath.’

  The sergeant sucked a breath through his teeth, ruefully. ‘No can do, sir. Irene’s got me papering the baby’s bedroom.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Panter, weighing his interests, said, ‘I dare say I could manage a swift one, though.’

  ‘Good. Knock on my door at twelve thirty.’

  ‘Could we make it twelve fifteen, sir?’

  ‘We could, Ray. By all means.’

  PART THREE

  You Fit My Wounds Exactly

  May 1948

  1

  IN THE COACH HOUSE Martin Heath sat behind the wheel of the Rolls-Royce thinking about the way the old man had died. He knew, of course, that it would stay with him for ever. In vivid and cinematic detail. But – although it was early days yet, be careful – it had driven out the other images that had monstered his dreams. As he’d hoped – no, been sure – that it would.

  Godley had taken them with him.

  In fact, Martin realised with a joyous sense of relief, of release, he could now safely conjure up Godley’s death-mask face without releasing those other ghouls from their oubliette. He did so now. It brought no horrors with it.

  It was strange, wonderfully strange, that he could even recall the dreadful moment when he had realised the old man was awake without the memory sending a tremor through his body. He took his hands from the wheel and looked at them. Steady as a rock.

  He’d assumed the bedroom would be in darkness. It hadn’t been. A little oil lamp burned on the bedside table beneath a shallow dish that was the source of the sweetly astringent smell that filled the room. He remembered it from his childhood. Eucalyptus.

  Excellent for clearing the nasal passages, Martin.

  I don’t like it, Daddy.

  Sssh. Go to sleep.

  Tiptoed in his socks towards the foot of Godley’s bed.

  A pillow he could ease away without waking him up.

  ‘Hello, Martin.’

  He stood, frozen. Couldn’t make himself advance. Too late to retreat. He thought for a moment or two he had imagined the voice: the old man seemed to be asleep.

  Then the little lamp flared slightly and Martin saw the glitter of Godley’s half-opened eyes.

  ‘Is this it, at last, Martin? I’ve been waiting for quite a long time.’

  The voice was drowsy. The sleeping pill. Maybe more than one.

  Martin couldn’t speak. Talking had not been part of it. He thought that perhaps he could leave the room, that in the morning the old man would think he’d dreamed it. But he still could not move.

  ‘One last thing I want you to do for me. Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Go to my son’s room. Fetch his uniform.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just do it, please. I won’t ring for Annie while you’re gone. Be no point anyway, would there?’

  He walked down the dark corridor. The whole fucking thing was too appalling. He couldn’t breathe properly. In the dead boy’s room he fumbled with the tunic’s buttons, gasping. Tore it free of the faceless mannequin. Carried it and the cap to Godley’s bedroom. The corridor had doubled in length. He thought his legs might give out.

  ‘Put it on,’ Godley said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please. It’s the last thing I shall ever ask of you.’

  The tunic was a size too small. He couldn’t manage all the buttons. The cap fitted.

  ‘Come closer.’

  Martin approached the bed and made himself look down at the old man. Godley’s eyes opened wider and he began to cry.

  ‘My poor dear boy. I am so sorry. So very sorry. Can you forgive me? Are you generous enough to do that?’ He sobbed in a breath. ‘Are you brave enough?’

  No, Martin thought. I’m not. I can’t do it. I’m too weak.

  But then Godley lifted his head. His yellow eyes glared into Martin’s. Something that might have been a smile twisted his lips, but when he spoke his last words they were harsh. Fierce.

  ‘No. Because you hate me!’

  And at last Martin felt the necessary violence. It burned through him like a bullet. He climbed onto the bed, knelt astride the old man and pressed the pillow down over his face. He stiffened his arms, leaning all his weight into them. He watched Godley’s hands crawl free of the bedclothes. They fastened onto the arms of the tunic. It seemed to Martin that they were trying to drag him down, not push him away. He felt Godley’s legs lift and try to walk, then fall, then jiggle, then stop. The hands fell away. Martin continued to force the pillow down until his arms began to vibrate with the effort.

  He straightened his back and when his breathing had steadied he reached under the pillow and felt for a pulse in the old man’s neck. There wasn’t one.

  He got off the bed, went to the window and raised the sash. Cool damp air. He smoked a cigarette. The flame didn’t tremble when he lit it.

  Through the Phantom’s windscreen he watched a mob of sparrows conduct lively business among the ivy covering the courtyard’s far wall.

  He ought, of course, to banish the memory to some secluded part of his mind. Build a wall around it, dig a moat around the wall. The best liars are those who have exiled the truth. Their tongues don’t slip.

  That copper with the Yorkshire accent had made him edgy.

  It was all right, though. He had put Godley on the train and that was it. Beyond that he knew nothing. He was as baffled as everyone else.

  Yes, it was all right. Nothing had gone wrong, he was sure of it. It had worked like a dream.

  He looked at his watch. A bit early for a drink, but what the hell. He reached across to the door handle. A light click came from the loudspeaker.

  Then: ‘Hello, Martin.’

  His breath and heart came to a halt.

  ‘How are you today, Martin?’

  It was a terrible effort to lift his head and look into the rear-view mirror. In which he saw Harold Godley smiling at him, holding the microphone.

  Martin shoved the door open and more or less fell out of the car and stumbled into
the courtyard. The sparrows skirled out of the ivy. He walked on unreliable legs to the gateway and through it. He stopped then and put his hand on the wall to support himself. His heart struggled. He made himself walk onward into the kitchen garden. A fork left standing in the black soil. A heap of horse manure. They didn’t seem real. The afternoon light wasn’t coming from the sky. It was electrical, artificial.

  He sat on the wrought-iron bench beyond the flower beds and after a passage of time and two cigarettes managed some semblance of self-control. He was still shivering but that was because he was, in fact, cold. Shadow was advancing into the garden from the foot of its western wall.

  There were only two possibilities. The first – that he had gone mad, that his brain had finally gone completely fucking haywire – he angrily dismissed because it would be so cruelly unfair. Now, after all he’d done. After he’d purged the darkness from his mind. It would be like getting killed by a stray bullet after victory had been bloodily achieved. He’d seen that happen. It could not happen to him. He would not let it.

  The other explanation, the rational one, was that he’d been reliving Godley’s death, and because it had been so vivid in his memory his mind had played a trick on him. What he’d seen in the mirror, heard from the speaker, were merely hallucinations. Yes. He’d had them before.

  So what he had to do was get a grip on himself and go back to the Phantom.

  The interior of the coach house had dimmed. Martin switched on the wall lights. He made himself walk around the car and look into the rear windows. All he could see was his own reflection. When he came round to the open driver’s door he hesitated for a despairing moment then leaned in. He peered through the glass partition into the passenger compartment which was, of course, unoccupied. He got into his seat and held the wheel, staring straight ahead. He would not think about Godley. Nor would he think about the letter he’d received from his mother that morning containing two mentions of her new ‘friend’.