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

by Lauren White

  She stares at her uncomprehendingly so she tries again.

  Why are you here?

  The woman answers as though she is being asked a trick question. Waiting for the all clear to sound?

  What’s that?

  She examines Bim, wearily. For the air raid.

  What air raid?

  Gerte nudges her. I think she is talking about the war.

  What war?

  Gerte rolls her eyes. The Second World War.

  Bim addresses the woman again with her new information. Oh, you mean bombs.

  The woman frowns as though she can’t work out whether or not she is making fun of her.

  Bim whispers to the rest of us. Do you think we should tell her the war is over?

  I doubt she'd believe us, if we did, I reply. You know how it was with the Spanish housekeeper. They’re not proper spirits.

  Yes, they’re more like fragments of energy that have somehow become separated off so they can continue doing whatever it is they do here, even though the rest of them has moved on into the Light, Gerte says.

  Bim frowns at her. I don’t see how that can be possible.

  Don’t you? I think it might explain reincarnation.

  What?

  Having more than one life.

  I know what it is. I just have no idea what you are talking about.

  Don’t you believe....

  Do you have to yap so loudly, Jackie interrupts. Our companions are beginning to stare and they don't look very happy to me.

  Neither would you, if you’d waited all these years for an all clear to sound?

  They must have been killed really suddenly, don't you think?

  Oh, I know about this, Gerte whispers, exaggeratedly. Part of the underground collapsed during an air raid killing sixty eight people. It was right by here. There is a plaque commemorating them in the ticket hall of the station but it has the wrong body count on it. I read about it in a book. It happened in October 1940. A bomb fell on the road above and one of the underground tunnels - which was full of people sheltering from the bomb raid - partially collapsed. Earth and water from the broken water mains, and sewers above, flooded into what was left of that tunnel, as well as the one running alongside it. It must have been an awful way to die.

  We gaze at the crowd sitting in small groups around us. Nobody is talking, that’s what strikes me most about them. Have they been silent all these years, or did they simply run out of things to say to one another? An emotional scale from resignation to bitter resentment is etched on their faces. A few are sleeping and there are two children, sitting side by side on their mother's lap, backed into the shadow of her arms, an expression of terror and shock in their eyes. They loll their heads against her chest, like zombies, pale-faced, open-mouthed, but silent as the grave. On the floor, and scattered across some of the tables, are their possessions. Bundles of this and that tied up with string; wicker shopping baskets and leather handbags; a pail and cloths; whatever they were carrying when the siren went off and they took shelter in the underground station. The men are in work clothes. A few wear suits. The women have dresses and coats on. One or two are wearing aprons and a woman, on the table next to us, has curlers in her hair covered by a headscarf. It is almost unbearable to watch them, their sadness is so palpable. I glance at the living sitting in the public bar. Do they feel it too? Do they drink to drown the sorrow of these people, or their own?

  What is going on here?

  Kerry has appeared beside us.

  We think they were killed in an air raid, during the Second World War, Gerte explains.

  Why are you whispering?

  Jackie thinks we’re disturbing them.

  Kerry glances at Jackie. I wonder whether like me, she is marvelling at how much she has changed. There was a time when she would have relished the idea of disturbing someone.

  Is there any news, Kerry?

  Yes, the Weasel is here. Dead-gorgeous has just picked him up from Victoria coach station. He has taken him straight to the lock-up. He is still there now but Dead-gorgeous is on the move. I think he is headed here.

  Okay, you get back to him, I tell her. We mustn't lose him. And, Bim, how would you feel about keeping an eye on the Weasel at the lock-up?

  Anything, if it gets me away from these dead people, she says, without a trace of irony.

  Dead-gorgeous gets out of his Mercedes and makes his way nonchalantly to where Michelle's car is parked on the other side of the street. Nobody notices him except us. I find that so extraordinary, that someone can hide their murderous intent with such ease. It makes me wonder about all those men and women I've stood beside, on crowded trains and buses: or those who milled about me in the street, or queued with me in the supermarket. How many of them were on their way to kill someone? How many were planning a murder? You never know what’s going on inside someone’s head. Not until it is too late.

  Unlocking the driver's door, Scott bends in to release the bonnet. He lifts and secures it with the metal rod, which - with a little help from Jackie - immediately slips its notch and crashes down on top of his fingers.

  That's for hurting Gail, she says, triumphantly.

  He rips off his latex glove, and pushes his hand into his mouth, as much to stop himself yelling as to soothe his throbbing fingers. They are still red and awkward with pain, as he puts the glove back on, and reaches into the engine to tinker with it.

  We can't see what he is doing but we can guess what the result is going to be.

  Glancing around, Kerry asks: Are there no CCTV cameras here?

  I doubt he'd be here, if there were. He is bound to have checked it out, beforehand.

  But, isn't that a camera over there at the garage across the street?

  Yes, but it's facing in the wrong direction.

  The camera is secured about a metre above the kiosk of the garage. Jackie studies it for a few seconds.

  It would be a piece of cake to turn that so it records what he is doing, you know, she announces. Shall I?

  We nod, gleefully.

  She really is incredible. She doesn't even have to approach it to turn it towards us.

  Now let’s get him to look at it.

  She throws a stone across the road. Scott brings his head up out of the engine. The flicker of puzzlement on his face soon becomes suspicion. His eyes dart up and down the street, nervously, before deciding it was nothing. Closing the bonnet, he removes his gloves and places them in the pocket of his blue overalls. He has just sabotaged Michelle's engine in broad daylight without a single person showing one jot of interest but at least, thanks to Jackie, he has been recorded doing it.

  Michelle Seymour leaves the rehearsal studio, at seven o'clock in the evening, clutching her violin case. Getting into her car, she starts the engine without problem and pulls out from the kerb to make her way home. She glances in her mirror as she completes the manoeuvre but she doesn't notice the classic Mercedes, one car behind her, nor the blonde-haired man driving it. It is a beautiful evening. The showers of the previous few days have left the streets wet but fresh smelling. The puddles glitter in the mellow light of a sun which is beginning to dip below the rising crescent moon. I couldn't think of a less sinister scene than this: sun, splashing cars, late night shoppers, commuters hurrying home from work, and young revellers hitting the bars before dinner. It seems impossible that anyone could harm her.

  She is almost home, taking a short-cut to avoid the traffic through the back streets of Catford, past terrace after terrace of bay-windowed artisan cottages, when the car gives a curious shudder. The engine recovers, for several hopeful seconds, but another follows, and another, until there is no power left. She only just manages to pull it out of the flow of traffic before it stalls. Turning into a side street, and realising it is a hill, she coasts down it in the hope she can jump start the engine. She just makes it to the kerb, at the bottom, as the wheels finally lose momentum without the engine coming back into life. Here she sits, wondering w
hat she should do now.

  The Mercedes has pulled in behind her. The driver gets out and starts walking towards her car. He knocks on her window, wearing his gloves again. Kerry, who has driven here with him, passes into the back of Michelle’s car with the rest of us, while she is cautiously buzzing down the window, by no more than a fraction, to speak with him.

  Smiling broadly at her, he says: Hi, remember me?

  She screws up her eyes and looks embarrassed. He is familiar to her but she can't quite place him.

  While they're distracting each other, I reach down into Michelle's bag behind the passenger seat and take out her mobile phone. Pressing the camera record button on it, I place it on the back seat, at an angle where it should pick up his face.

  From the garage? Remember? I'm Scott, the mechanic.

  She returns his smile. Oh yes. I've never been so glad to see anyone in my life.

  He laughs. I thought you were having trouble, when I saw you pull over.

  Thank you so much for stopping, she gushes, her voice thick with gratitude. She can't believe her luck.

  Professional pride. It was only serviced last week, wasn't it? Pop the bonnet for me and I'll take a look.

  He sounds so genuine, like he believes what he is saying himself, Kerry says. How does he do that?

  He is a psychopath, I answer. They're like human cobras.

  Scott appears to be fiddling with the engine.

  Is it anything serious?

  He closes the bonnet. I'm afraid so. It needs surgery.

  Expensive?

  You know how it is with cars, he chuckles.

  Michelle grimaces.

  Don't look so worried. I'll phone for a tow truck and get it brought back to the garage, where I can take a better look at it.

  I'm covered by one of the motor organisations for that.

  It won't cost you anything, I promise. It's not far anyway, it won't take a minute, and with a bit of luck you'll get the car back by tomorrow evening. It might not even cost that much either, if I can find a second hand part.

  Do you think you could? I'm a musician in an orchestra. It looks glam from the outside but it doesn't pay well.

  He has got her. The way he enticed her away from using her own breakdown service was so neatly done, it is hard not to be impressed.

  He nods. Understood. I'll do all I can to keep the cost down. Okay?

  Thanks, she beams back at him.

  He has acted on Michelle’s defences like a sedative. She suspects nothing. Strolling to the back of the vehicle he makes his call.

  He must be letting The Weasel know how he’s getting on, Jackie says.

  Or he is just pretending to make a call, Gerte replies.

  Right, that’s arranged, he tells Michelle when he comes back. Now, how are we going to get you home?

  I can get a taxi.

  You'll be waiting all night. Not a nice place to be hanging around either.

  Maybe I could get a bus.

  He looks doubtfully at the violin case on the back seat with us. They’re very crowded at this time of day and that looks too expensive for you to want to knock it about.

  Well, I don’t live that far from here. I'll walk. It won't do me any harm.

  Do you really think that’s a good idea at this time in the evening? Listen, if it isn’t far, why don't I give you a lift?

  No, please, I wouldn't dream of it. I wasn't fishing for a lift, really. I can manage perfectly well on my own.

  His handsome face fills with concern. I have a younger sister about your age. I wouldn't want her finding her way home from here just as it was beginning to get dark. Come on, let me make sure you get back safely.

  She hesitates, possibly because we're all screaming in her ear: No, no.

  Okay, then, if you're sure you don't mind, it would be a help, she agrees, despite us.

  He is such a gentleman, Scott. He helps her out of the car and walks her to the passenger side of his Mercedes. He even holds the door while she goes to climb in, but as she puts one leg into the well, and leans forward to shift her weight inside, he pushes the white handkerchief he has in one hand over her mouth. She doesn't realise what is happening and, by the time she figures it out and starts to struggle with him, she is already been overwhelmed.

  Please can we do something to help her now, Kerry pleads.

  We all feel the pain in her request. She isn't just seeing this happening to another woman. She is re-experiencing how it happened to her.

  Michelle isn't our only priority, I explain to her, gently. We want to save her but we also want to put these killers in jail, where they belong. And, to do that, we must let them play this out a little more. She has to see the Weasel, before we can intervene.

  Dead-gorgeous arranges Michelle so it looks as though she has fallen asleep in the passenger seat and fastens her seat belt around her. In the distance, there is a traffic warden and he hurriedly pumps a couple of coins into the meter by his Mercedes. Then, he pulls the hood of the sweatshirt he is wearing under his overalls up over his head before returning to Michelle's car and hopping into the driver's seat. The engine starts, immediately. He has already fixed whatever was wrong with it.

  Jackie asks: Why is he bothering to move the car? Why not simply leave it here?

  So that anyone who sees him here in this road won't connect him with the disappearance of that woman, Michelle Seymour, whose car will be found in a different road altogether, I reason.

  But, isn't there more of a risk that he might leave some evidence by getting into it?

  Between the gloves and the overalls - particularly with that hood up - he'll probably be okay. He didn't leave any evidence in Bim's car, or Gerte’s, at least. And, even if he does, he has the perfect alibi. He serviced Michelle's car, last week. Who's going to suspect him?

  Let's frighten him, Jackie suggests. If we manage to get him to leave her car, according to your reckoning Kate, there'll be more chance somebody might remember seeing him here with it.

  She looks around at us all to make sure we're in agreement with her and then, before Scott can drive away, she sets off the anti-theft device. It screams out loudly in short yowling bursts.

  What the hell is wrong with you, he curses, banging the steering wheel in frustration.

  The traffic warden is getting closer and he can't shut the alarm up.

  Visibly shaken, he gets out and hovers, for a few seconds, as he thinks about whether he should disconnect the wires in the engine, but he is out of time, the traffic warden is still advancing so he abandons the car where it is.

  The Weasel is dressed like a scene of crime officer - in white overalls, a plastic hair cap, latex gloves and plastic shoes - when we arrive at the lock up. Over his mouth and nose, he is wearing a mask. He places a plastic sheet on the ground beside the car and the two men lift Michelle onto the middle of it, wrapping her up like a filo pastry parcel. Then, they carry her inside, passing her down through the open trap door to the lower floor. She is still unconscious but her limbs are stirring, and as they put her on the floor, she emits a faint moan.

  The Weasel strokes her hair. It's all right pretty one, you're home now. I'm going to run you a nice bubble bath. That will help to relax you.

  I'm pushing off for a bit, Gordon, Dead-gorgeous announces.

  The Weasel's eyes, the only visible part of his anatomy, darken. You don't want to watch?

  No, I'd rather wait until...until she’s mine. I'll come back about 2am, shall I?

  Where are you going? He sounds tetchy.

  A club. I'm going to have a few jars, that’s all.

  On your own?

  Of course.

  The Weasel hesitates. Is he wondering whether Scott is telling him the truth? They're such an odd couple: Scott Ramsey, tall, charming, and good-looking, and Gordon Richards small, nerdy, and nondescript. It doesn't altogether surprise me their alliance carries tension within it.

  You've always watched before.

  T
wice before. But, I've seen it now.

  I thought you liked watching. His voice is thin with petulance.

  Gordon! For Heaven’s sake! I've had enough of watching. Okay? Just leave her on the bed next door when you've done, and I'll come back around two. You can stay and watch me for a change, if you like.

  Have it your own way, Gordon concedes. I'll leave her on the bed, if that is what you want, provided I've finished with her by then.

  Shall I come back at three to be on the safe side?

  Okay.

  Where are we going to dump this one? Oxley Woods is out, I take it?

  I know a place the other side of Bromley which will do.

  Right, I'll leave you to it.

  It seems strange.

  What does?

  You not wanting to be here with me, Scott. I thought we were partners.

  We are partners. I've just brought her here for you, haven't I? But, your fun isn't mine, and mine isn't yours. He smiles. I'll be back later.

  You are coming back then?

  You bet I am. I've got the camera set up for her. Go and see. That is the main meal for me. I just don't fancy having the first course, tonight.

  Help me get her into the bathroom, before you go, the Weasel instructs.

  The two men carry her in there, still wrapped in the plastic sheet.

  Let's put her inside the bath.

  Do you want the plastic sheet off her?

  Yes, that is a good idea. He peels it open at the top. You hold her up, while I pull it from under her.

  Dead-gorgeous clasps her under the arms and lifts her and, as the Weasel drags the plastic sheet away and throws it on the floor, Michelle starts to moan and moves her head from side to side. Her eyes are glittering through her eyelashes.

  Just the way you like them, Dead-gorgeous comments.

  Her sandal, where is it? It’s missing!

  It must have fallen off.

  The Weasel looks through the doorway. It's probably in the car. Go and get it would you?

  Okay, boss, I’m on my way, Dead-gorgeous laughs.

  He walks briskly through the living room to the tiny lobby, at the foot of the stairs, bounding up them, as he keeps his eyes trained on the floor for the sandal.