D. I. Ghost: A Detective Inspector Ghost Murder Investigation

by Lauren White

  This woman is in mortal danger, Margaret announces.

  Gerte smiles, tightly, at me. Like we don't know this already, her look says. But, I'm impressed. We told Margaret nothing about the woman in our photograph before we handed it to her.

  I have her aunt here. She is waiting for her in the Light. She will come to meet her when she passes.

  Gerte asks, at once: What’s her name?

  Milly. Aunt Milly.

  No, I mean the young woman, her niece. What’s her name?

  Michelle.

  Michelle what?

  Michelle Seymour.

  Now, we're getting somewhere.

  Where does she live?

  She doesn't...She won't, Margaret falters.

  We need to know this, I plead. It's important. This woman’s life depends upon it.

  Margaret shakes her head. She says her niece is going to die soon. It will be over quickly and she will be there to meet her. None of this can be changed.

  Bim asks for all of us: Why can't it be changed?

  I'm losing her, I'm sorry. She opens her eyes. She has gone.

  Bim repeats: Why can't it be changed?

  Margaret shrugs. She didn’t say.

  Damn, Gerte curses. I knew this wouldn't work.

  But, we all agreed to it, Jackie, who insisted on coming along, despite me telling her she didn’t have to, reminds her, sharply.

  That shuts Gerte up.

  I use the silence to ask Margaret: Can you try and find someone else who knows this Michelle?

  She closes her eyes, again. Nothing happens for a while. Then, a presence appears on one of the empty chairs around the table. He is a grey-haired man, tall, but with slightly stooped shoulders. His face is yellow, even the whites of his eyes, and his skin is very lined. It is hard to tell how old he is because he looks so ill. Anywhere from his mid-fifties to seventy, I would guess.

  Margaret speaks to him. Will you tell us your name, sir?

  He turns two beady grey eyes on her. He might have been handsome once, and even a smile now would hint at this, but his expression is hostile.

  Undaunted by his silence, Margaret repeats: Will you tell us your name, sir?

  I'm Alec Ramsey, he answers, glowering at the rest of us.

  Do you have a message for us, Mr Ramsey?

  Wait a minute, Bim says. Are you related to Scott Ramsey? Scott Ramsey the serial...

  ...the mechanic, Gerte cuts in.

  My beloved son, he says, sadly.

  Mr Ramsey do you know anything about Michelle Seymour? Maybe you could help us find her, I try.

  He shakes his head, sternly, his lips pursed together as tight as an anus, as he starts to fade from the room.

  No, please don't go, I plead with him.

  Bitch, I hear him rasp, before he completely disappears.

  Well, how does someone as unpleasant as that get to pass over into the Light?

  There's no judgement in the Light, Gerte informs me, loftily.

  And, how would you know?

  Because, I've seen it!

  Well, I'm glad I haven't, Bim says, sulkily.

  I haven’t either, and I don’t want to, Jackie adds.

  I smile at her. Suddenly I’m pleased she came. She really seems to have mellowed since I met her last.

  If there is no judgement in the Light, it is all the more reason to get these killers judged while they are here on earth.

  But, if we can’t find Michelle, it is over anyway, Kerry points out.

  Gerte nods approvingly at her. And, we all heard what her aunt said. She is going to die and that can’t be changed.

  How can we be sure she knows what she is talking about?

  She shrugs.

  Listen, why don't you and Kerry just go into the Light and leave the rest of us to get on with this by ourselves, Jackie challenges.

  Gerte ignores her and turns to Margaret. Is there any other way you can think of to help us find this woman?

  Bim adds: The likelihood is she lives in London.

  Margaret blinks back at us with amusement in her dark eyes. So why don't we try the telephone book.

  She goes to fetch one, while we try not to feel foolish for failing to think of this ourselves. Opening it on the table, she runs a manicured nail down the names beginning with s.

  There are ten people called Michelle Seymour in or around London.

  That's easy then, we just check them all, Gerte says, sarcastically.

  Margaret rises from the table again and this time returns with a writing pad, a pen, and a crystal on a piece of ribbon.

  What are you going to do?

  I'm going to narrow your search down to one woman and one address, she confidently assures us.

  She writes the ten addresses on separate pieces of paper and places them on the table. Then, she holds the crystal pendulum over them. It swings between them, wildly, at first but gradually it begins to settle into a small circular movement over one of the addresses. When the crystal is completely steady, she hands the piece of paper under it to me.

  This is where Michelle Seymour lives.

  She has everything to live for Michelle Seymour. She is a twenty six year old musician who plays the violin in a small orchestra. They are preparing for a tour of Eastern Europe and she attends a rehearsal, at a studio in Balham, each afternoon. She is dedicated and talented. A bright future should await her but, according to Bim, she is going to die in three days time, on June 4th.

  We know we can't save her, Gerte says. So we have to concentrate on catching the Weasel.

  I nod in agreement but a part of me is asking the same question that Bim did at the séance. Why can't her fate be changed? Would it matter so very much, if it were? We have discovered that she is another customer of Hamilton Motors. Her car had an annual service carried out, by none other than Scott Ramsey, on the day before he went on holiday. Phil's super efficient secretary sent her a reminder to book the car in, one a month earlier than that. It wouldn't have been difficult for Scott to obtain a copy of her key, when Michelle brought it in. We know he has one because we see him use it to unlock her car, one day, while she is rehearsing. He lifts the bonnet to take a peek inside at the engine but does nothing more. We are elated to have found him, at last. By the time he drops the bonnet, relocks the car, and returns to his own vehicle - a classic Mercedes - Kerry is sitting in the passenger seat waiting him for him to drive her away with him. We're back in business.

  He takes her to a lock-up between Thamesmead and Woolwich in South London. It is situated in a row of warehouses on a wide expanse of wasteland. To the north lies the Thames, to the east a railway cutting, to the west there is a patchwork of allotments, and to the south an unfinished estate of houses. It couldn't be more deserted if it were in the wilds of the country.

  Kerry summons me there in a panic.

  He is inside but I don't think I can go in there on my own.

  You could stay outside, while I go in, if you prefer.

  No, I want to see it, but just not on my own.

  We pass through the metal double doors together to find ourselves in a large workshop. On one side it is crammed with tools and engine parts, of every size and description, and on the other, there is the shell of an old Rover which Dead-gorgeous appears to be working on. The bonnet is open and he is loosening a bolt with a spanner. Beside this, under a plastic cover, there is another car, an ancient Jaguar but in mint condition.

  I was hoping we’d find your Ford Fiesta, I say to Kerry.

  Gerte appears behind us. They probably stripped that down for spare parts the day after they ran you over, just to get rid of it. She looks around her. I think this might be the place where I was murdered. It seems familiar.

  We had better search it for evidence then.

  At the back of the workshop, hidden under three large jacks, we discover a trap door. It opens onto a short flight of stairs, leading down to a lower floor, which has been converted into a tiny flat. There's
a bathroom, a kitchenette, and a living room. The furniture is a muddle of cast offs; among them a threadbare three piece suite, a wartime utility dining table, and four foldaway wooden chairs. On the floor, but not quite covering it wall to wall, there's a large rectangular rusty-coloured nylon carpet.

  Is anything coming back to you, Kerry? Is this where they brought your body, before they buried it?

  I’m not sure.

  She looks scared to me. Why don't you keep an eye on Dead-gorgeous upstairs in case he decides to make a move? Gerte and I can take a look around here.

  There must be another room through that door, Gerte says, as soon as she has gone.

  Passing through it, we find a bedroom with a large double bed covered by a black satin sheet. The walls are painted black too and, in the centre of each of them, an iron candelabra hangs. In the corner of the room, closest to the door, a camera is mounted on a stand, facing in the direction of the bed. A small monitor rests on the matt black chipboard dressing table, alongside it.

  They film what they do? Gerte looks shocked.

  If they do and there is something here to prove it, we might be able to get them arrested, before they have the chance to abduct Michelle.

  I cross the room to the monitor and press the play button. It crackles into life. A clapper board with the title, Dead Gorgeous 3, chalked on it, appears on screen. The opening shot of the film is a close up of a white coffin, which has been placed on the black satin sheet of the bed. A man, wearing black from head to toe - including a leather mask, of the type Dead-gorgeous used when he broke into Gail Martos' flat - levers open the lid to reveal a young woman, naked but for the blue satin high heels on her feet. He holds a mirror to her mouth. I can only imagine this is to demonstrate that she is actually dead. What he does next is yet more proof. He lifts her from the coffin, laying her beside it on the bed and nails her hands to the headboard. I can see nothing of the man's face or hair but I can tell from the way he is moving he is Scott Ramsey.

  What is that you have there?

  Gerte stops it before Bim, who has homed in on us, can see for herself.

  What is it?

  Neither of us answers her.

  Did they record us?

  I nod.

  Can it be used as evidence?

  I don’t think so. Not without other proof. He is wearing a mask.

  Who is? Can I see?

  Gerte and I glance at each other.

  It’s me, isn't it?

  Yes.

  And, the Weasel?

  Dead-gorgeous.

  What does he do?

  It is pretty sick, Bim, I tell her.

  Am I still alive in it?

  No.

  Have you watched it?

  No, no, Gerte assures her, immediately.

  Only the beginning, before anything really happens, I correct her.

  But, something does happen?

  Yes, I think so.

  How do you know that?

  It was in the post mortem reports.

  Gerte turns on me. If that’s true and it’s what I think it is, why didn’t you tell us?

  I thought you knew. It came out at Karl’s trial.

  I didn’t go every day. I couldn’t face it.

  Well, it doesn’t matter now.

  It does to me! How dare those bastards do that to us? They have to pay for it, Kate. We have to get them put in jail where they belong.

  Michelle hums one of the pieces she is going to rehearse later that day as she sips a mint tea. Her elfin face and golden curls are still moist from her morning shower. Her flat is a wreck. She has the habit of leaving towels in wet dollops where they fall - on the bathroom floor and in the bedroom, principally - but there's also the odd one to be found on the work surfaces of the American style kitchen, as well on the back of the sofa. It wouldn't be so bad if it were more spacious but, situated up in the eaves of a house in Lewisham, her flat is tiny.

  I'd better get back to the lock-up, Kerry says, watching her. Today is the day. She looks so happy too.

  We all nod, in agreement.

  Gerte asks me: Do you really believe we should try to stop this from happening? What if it changes everything? What if by saving Michelle something else happens? What if Karl dies, or Kerry's dad, or one of your nephews?

  Using a bunch of what ifs to limit what we do in the present, doesn't make much sense to me, otherwise nobody would ever do anything.

  I think you're as scared about this, as I am.

  But, we're going to do it, anyway, right, Gerte? That's the point.

  So tell me again, why we can't just rely on the police to act on the recording of Bim, we delivered to them?

  We've run out of time. We can't be sure they will do what we need them to, when we need them to do it. The only way to be sure is to do this, ourselves.

  But, they're the only ones who can arrest these men.

  And, they will, but we’re going to have to help them first.

  I'll be off then, Kerry repeats, without moving anywhere.

  Let us know if the Weasel shows up, will you?

  Sure, she promises, and after another lingering look at Michelle, she is gone.

  The rest of us spend the day easing Michelle's passage. It might be all we can do for her. A cup which topples from the table falls onto the stone floor without breaking. The mobile phone, she has forgotten to charge and place in her handbag, finds it way there fully charged. We nag her into phoning her mother too just in case it is their last opportunity to speak.

  She is wearing a floral skirt, with a white blouse, and a pair of sandals. I would have preferred her to have chosen some jeans to put on but at least the skirt is loose and the sandals flat so she can run if the need arises.

  She and three of her colleagues are lunching in a Balti House in Balham before their rehearsal. The car journey there with her is nerve wracking. We constantly expect her to be abducted. We know Scott Ramsey is at the lock-up but the Weasel could be anywhere. We scan and rescan the cars around us and the pedestrians passing by, searching for his face. It would be a relief to see him. The strain of having no idea where or when he will show up is far worse.

  The restaurant is packed, which can only mean the food must be good, because the interior – tables, benches, cream walls, with several faded posters of India – is unprepossessing. The four musicians, all women, keep up a salacious banter as they eat. It is the type of conversation women only have among themselves because it is gender subversive, born from understanding one another from the inside out, not the other way around.

  Is there any male member in this orchestra these four women haven't auditioned, Bim smirks after awhile.

  They spend so much time together it is inevitable there'd be affairs. How else would they get to meet anyone?

  But, two of these women are married, Kate, Gerte points out.

  Not everyone shares your moral scruples, clearly.

  Ooh, is that a confession. Do tell, Bim encourages me.

  No, sorry. I've never knowingly had sex with a married man.

  How disappointing. I have.

  So have I, Jackie admits.

  If a man is prepared to be unfaithful with you, it is the best proof you can have that he is capable of being unfaithful to you, Gerte informs her.

  I never wanted to take him home to meet my mother. It was just mindless sex, Jackie laughs.

  Before I met Reece, I had a relationship with a man who kept saying he was going to leave his wife. Everything seemed so good between us I wanted him to, but when he did, he lost his sex appeal in a little under a week. There was a slob in him I'd never met before, because his wife had been the one dealing with that part of him. I suddenly realised to my horror, she was the most important person in my relationship. Without her it didn't work. It was terrible.

  Am I the only person here thinking, that poor wife?

  Do you ever think you might be a little too much in your head, Gerte?

  Maybe you’re
right. I never enjoyed sex enough to want to sleep around.

  The rest of us turn to examine her with curiosity.

  Jackie breaks the silence. Wasn't Karl any good at it then?

  We all lean closer.

  Well, we met as students and I don’t have anyone else to measure him against.

  And, size does matter, Jackie quips.

  I thought that was a myth.

  Width, not length, silly. She points to Michelle's friends. If those women had had more sex before they’d gotten married, they wouldn't be so rampant now.

  Oh, I don't know. According to my married friends not having sex seems to be the normal matrimonial state, Bim confides. That’s probably why they have to have affairs.

  There are different kinds of love, you know. Some couples might be happy together whether or not they’re having sex.

  That’s exactly what I'm saying, Gerte. That’s the whole problem with marriage. As soon as you live in the same space as a man, some kind of incest taboo asserts itself.

  Don’t tell me you read about that in Vogue, Jackie teases.

  Bim starts to laugh: No, it is a well known geographical fact. You ask the triffid, she'll back me up.

  Once Michelle is ensconced inside the studio for her rehearsal, we know she'll be safe, for the rest of the afternoon. It is when she comes out to go home, we'll have to worry. We wait for her in a small pub - a dismal place with dark red flocked wallpaper and a sticky worn carpet. Its only saving grace is that it is adjacent to the studio, with a good view of both the entrance and Michelle's car. In the public bar, a couple of regulars are perched on stools, chatting to the landlord. They're the only ones here who are actually alive. The saloon bar, where we are, is teeming with spooks.

  Bim leans across to the next table to address a stern faced middle-aged woman who is wearing an old fashioned coat and hat. Is this some kind of meeting?