Ghosts Know

by Ramsey Campbell

  “I wanted to be sure before I said anything. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve reached the same conclusion as me.”

  “Try us,” Rudd says and lifts his head as if he’s readying his long sharp nose for a scent.

  “I think Kylie Goodchild’s boyfriend killed her. I believe he’s already known to you.”

  Linley parts his outstanding lips with a small sticky sound. “Why do you say that?’”

  “He’s been terrorising his neighbourhood, him and his gang. He has a dog called Killer I’m told isn’t far from illegal. He killed another boy’s dog with it and that was reported to the police. He uses drugs and mixes them with alcohol, which I’m sure is helping make him how he is. The way I hear it, those aren’t his only problems with the law. It might be worth investigating what he gets up to at school.”

  Rudd is keeping his nose high. “You’ve been doing quite a lot of that, Mr Wilde.”

  “I’m a journalist.” Now I know what was troubling me—I didn’t tell Christine about the enquiries I made. I give her an apologetic look while saying “I wanted to be sure before I made a statement.”

  Rudd’s partner makes his mouthy sound again. “What would you say was your interest in him?”

  “Because he’s obsessed with me. You’d do better asking why that is.”

  Linley has left his mouth open. “I was asking why you’re accusing him.”

  “I’m sure I know his motive.”

  Do I glimpse Rudd’s nostrils twitching at this? “So tell us,” he says.

  “I believe he was jealous of me.”

  I don’t look at Christine, whom I’ve begun to find as distracting as the reflection of the polygraph. “Why would he have been jealous?” says Rudd.

  “Of whatever she felt about me.”

  “What are you saying that might have been, Mr Wilde?”

  “Maybe nothing we’d call much if even anything, but the point is how it seemed to him. You can tell that from his behaviour on my programme for a start.”

  “Remind us,” Linley says.

  “The station manager had to call security and have him escorted out of the building”

  “Why are you saying he caused a scene?”

  “He saw the photo I’d signed for his girlfriend. I’m sure you’ll have seen it yourselves. There’s nothing on it I wouldn’t have written to any member of the public. It just told her to have a good life.”

  “It’s a pity she didn’t get it,” Rudd remarks, and Linley says “Why should he have reacted badly to that?”

  “At the time I thought he’d fallen for the trick. Frankie Jasper tried to make everyone believe the photo had led him to me before he’d seen it, but I’ll stake my reputation he already had.” For a moment my conviction wavers like a line on a polygraph, and then my rage steadies it. “Anyway, forget him. The way the boyfriend’s acted since, I think he’d go for anyone he thought had even a passing acquaintance with her.”

  Linley has a question, but I haven’t finished. “Or maybe it’s something else,” I want to establish. “Maybe he’s doing his best to make people believe I had something to do with her death so they won’t look too closely at him. Maybe he thinks accusing me will persuade people he’s innocent.”

  When I hold up my open hands Linley says “How are you saying he’s behaved since?”

  “He went for Graham at Kylie Goodchild’s funeral,” Christine says.

  “He attacked him, you mean.”

  “He did verbally. He looked as if he wanted to do worse.”

  Rudd points his nose at her as a preamble to asking “Did you report the incident?”

  “We definitely did. I’d have thought you’d know.”

  “I may have made less of it than I could have,” I interrupt for fear she’ll antagonise them. “Another time he waited for me outside the radio station and followed me by the canal.”

  Linley’s lips make such a noise I could imagine he’s smacking them. “What were you doing down there?”

  “Walking like a lot of people do. More since I’ve started working on a novel.” My fury at his question almost makes me lose control, but I mustn’t let Christine suspect I’ve kept the secret for so long, and I add “I started it this month.”

  “I’m trying to establish why you chose to go down there with him. Wouldn’t it have been advisable to stay somewhere more public?”

  “I don’t think he’s much of a threat to me. I’m not a teenage girl.” When the policemen gaze at me I say “I think she came to Waves that night to warn me about him. He must have chased her away unless she meant to hide from him by the canal. He caught up with her, and they’re bound to have had an argument, and who knows what she may have said that made him lash out. I’m not saying it was murder. Maybe he just lost control.”

  “You think this happened,” Linley says, “after Kylie Goodchild tried to see you again at your place of work.”

  His last phrase sounds ironic if not worse, but I mustn’t let anger distract me. “There’s no doubt of that, is there?”

  “Then I have to tell you it couldn’t have been her boyfriend.”

  Linley’s face grows blank before I can interpret his expression, and I’m left just with my anger. “Who says so?”

  “His stepfather would for one,” says Rudd.

  “Can you really trust someone like him?”

  “That doesn’t fit your image, Mr Wilde. On your show you don’t want to sound prejudiced.”

  “And by God I’m not. I’d no idea he’s whatever you’re saying he is. I meant the neighbours think he’s a bad lot as well, and one of the reasons Wayne acts how he does. Just for the record, it was an Asian who said so. Are you honestly taking the word of a criminal?”

  Rudd gazes hard and blankly at me before saying “It wasn’t just his stepfather.”

  I wonder if he’s requiring me to ask, but Linley takes the cue. “They were with us,” he says. “With the police.”

  “When?” This sounds too close to skepticism, and so I demand “How long?”

  “Several hours, Mr Wilde.”

  “And what was it about?”

  “I’m sure you know we’re not at liberty to discuss it,” says Rudd. “We’d received an anonymous call that may have been from a neighbour.”

  “Then the witness must have been wrong. Not the one who called you about them, whoever told you what time Kylie was trying to get into Waves. The autopsy couldn’t have been too precise about the time of death, could it? She must have been killed after you let Wayne go or before you brought him in.”

  “You’re a bit determined to pin it on him.”

  “I just want the killer to be dealt with as he should be. Don’t you?”

  No doubt there are questions it would have been wiser to put to the police. After a pause that gives me time to sense Christine’s concern Linley says “Can you tell us why a girl like Kylie Goodchild would even have known about you? Your programme wasn’t meant for people of her age.”

  “It was meant for anyone who liked to listen to it.” Instead of growing angrier I try to think aloud. “Maybe her mother did. Maybe Kylie liked it because I disagreed with the likes of Wayne. If as you say his stepfather is a different colour, maybe Wayne objects to that. She wouldn’t have, would she? Not with the kind of poem she wrote.”

  Once he’s sure I’ve finished Linley stands up, and Rudd does. “Thank you, Mr Wilde,” Rudd says. “That’s all for now.”

  Perhaps Christine feels overlooked. As they make for the hall she says “Can I ask something? You don’t believe in lie detectors, do you?”

  They don’t quite halt, but Linley turns his head just enough to let us hear him say “Not by themselves.”

  I see the police to my door while Christine lingers in the main room. As I return along the hall I’m working out my next words. “No more secrets,” I tell her, only to wonder if this could be wrong. I can’t grasp the thought that made me, and who’s to say it was true? “If there’s
anything else I don’t know it,” I declare and hug Christine until she gasps for breath, and do my best not to feel I’m trying to squeeze any doubts out of us both.

  31: Growing Angrier

  An hour of wandering around town has brought me back to the Palaces. Surely Christine has had time to finish reading what there is of You’re Another. If I carry straight on I’ll have to pass the BBC, while turning right beside the railway would only bring me to Waves. I could make a detour to the Dressing Room, but I’ve no idea how Benny feels about me, and I don’t want to find out just now. As I hesitate outside the theatre, where posters advertise the Bleeding Feet Troupe in Giselle, people dressed for the sultry dusk glance at me and in some cases rather more than glance. I never used to expect to be recognised in the street, and now it infuriates me to hope I’m not. I stare at anyone who might be wondering about me, and then I head for home.

  The streets near Christine’s flat are crowded too. A sound of brittle splintering is muffled by the hubbub outside a bar, where a drinker has crushed a plastic glass in his fist. Cyclists beyond the first-floor window opposite look desperate to pedal into the distance. They’re in Christine’s gym, and their artificial silence makes them seem unreal, as if they don’t exist without their voices. By the time I reach my building I can hear just my own footsteps, which sound bogged down by the muddy dark. As I take out my keys the action seems to trigger the street-lamps like ranks of security lights. I’m making to unlock the street door when a face looks down at me.

  It’s Walter Belvedere. He stays at his window until I’m out of sight beneath the lintel. Christine is reading my novel because she wants to encourage me to continue, but I suspect she’ll try whatever she thinks of it, and the literary agent’s judgment is bound to count for more. I’m on the stairs when I hear his door open, and I’m unexpectedly abashed at the thought of approaching him. I don’t need to mention the novel just now, and I tramp upstairs with some determination. “Hot one, Walter,” I remark.

  He’s in his doorway, rubbing his shiny brow as if he wants to erase a few more greying hairs and extend his forehead even higher. He has fallen into his habitual stoop that makes him look incapable of holding up his large-boned frame, a posture that goes with his usual expression—eyebrows on the way to being raised, lips slightly parted in anticipation, prominent ears at the ready. As I leave the stairs I notice he isn’t alone, and could my comment have seemed to refer to the young woman behind him? “Hot night,” I try explaining.

  They could misinterpret this too. Perhaps they have, since they seem ready to frown. Walter’s companion is a slim girl in a pale grey lightweight suit. Only her round face appears to have resisted whatever diet she has applied to herself, and her eyes are intent on looking resolute. “Here’s someone who’s been waiting to meet you,” Walter says and makes way for her.

  “Are you one of Walter’s stable?”

  My words have let me down again, to judge by how her inconspicuous eyebrows pinch together. “A writer, I mean,” I assure her. “I’m one myself.”

  This isn’t how I imagined telling Walter, who seems less than impressed. He has retreated into his hall, which is narrowed by shelves loaded with books, several copies of every one. “I’m Graham Wilde,” I say and hold out a hand.

  Of course she knows that. Presumably she doesn’t take my hand because she finds the introduction redundant, leaving me to say “And you are…”

  “Alice Francis, Mr Wilde.”

  “Call me Graham by all means.” I know her name, but from where? Perhaps it’s on some of the books in Walter’s hall—and then, just as she makes to speak, I have it. “That isn’t all you’ve called me, is it?” I say and feel my fingers start to crook away from her. “Thanks to you I’m known as the suspect presenter.”

  “I’m from the Clarion, Mr Wilde.”

  “Don’t talk yourself down. You’re front-page stuff,” I say and turn my rage on Belvedere. “This is how you treat your neighbours, is it, Walter? Set traps for them. The others ought to know.”

  “They already do.”

  He means about me, presumably the tabloid version. As I take a step towards him he takes several back. He’s so anxious to shut the door that his elbow blunders into a clump of identical books, which knock against the wall as if they’re rehearsing the slam, and then I’m alone with the reporter in the corridor. “Well,” I say, “there’s another job you’ve lost me. What do you want to do to me now?”

  “I’d like to ask you some questions if it’s convenient.”

  “You’re after my side of things, are you?” I don’t know when the hand I offered her became a fist, but the other one has followed its example, and they’ve begun to ache. I’m aware of standing between her and the stairs, because she glances at them, which helps to provoke me to say “It’s a bit late.”

  “If you’d prefer to be interviewed tomorrow—”

  As a journalist she ought to be persisting, but perhaps she’s daunted by my look and the emptiness around us. “That isn’t what I meant,” I say and step towards her.

  Though I’d think it wise of her to try and dodge around me, she stands her ground. Perhaps she has remembered she’s supposed to be a reporter. I’d be happy if she panicked; she ought to if she thinks of the rubbish she wrote about me. Her stubbornness makes my fists quiver and tingle, and I feel as if they’re directing me. She glances at them, and I’ve no idea what effect this may have; I’m close to being unable to think. She raises her eyes to mine, and I’m about to react to her expression—it seems uneasy, but not enough—when Christine says “Come inside, Graham.”

  I was so intent on Alice Francis that I didn’t notice Christine opening my door. She reminds me of a parent summoning a child, which aggravates my rage. “I haven’t finished this,” I tell her. “The Clarion’s here.”

  “Oh,” says Christine and blinks at the reporter. “Are you delivering the paper?”

  I haven’t time to be amused by her untypical slyness. “She’s Alice Francis. She put me on the front page.”

  “What a gentle name.” This seems craftier still, and I can’t quite judge Christine’s mood. “So what brings you here, Alice?” she says.

  “She’s here to set the record straight, is that right, Alice?”

  “It’s a pity you didn’t before you wrote about Graham,” Christine objects. “You work for Frugo too, you know. I wouldn’t expect to be attacked in public by anyone I worked with.”

  Alice Francis glances around, perhaps in case this is being overheard. “We aren’t supposed to know about the takeover.”

  “We don’t have any secrets here, do we?” When Christine doesn’t respond I try saying “I expect she has to do what her editor tells her.”

  “You’ll know what that’s like,” Alice Francis retorts. “I don’t suppose you’d have taken that test on the air if you hadn’t been told to.”

  This would enrage me more if I didn’t sense that Christine is angry too, which lets me unclench my fists as she says “So what are you looking for now?”

  “I think I’ve formed my impression,” Alice Francis says.

  “Don’t be so sure of yourself. Come in and talk to us.” When the reporter doesn’t move Christine says “I give you my word you’ll be safe.”

  My rage is back, with reinforcements. “There’s no need for that.”

  “It sounds as if you think there might be,” the reporter says to Christine.

  “Then it sounds wrong.” For a moment Christine seems inclined to leave it there, and then she says “I’ve never seen Graham so much as threaten anyone with violence, no matter what the provocation.”

  “You’re saying you’ve seen him provoked.”

  “Yes, by people accusing him of things he’d never do. Believe me, if he was at all violent I wouldn’t be with him. I used to be in a relationship like that, and you won’t find me anywhere near one again.”

  “I’m glad if that’s so.” They appear to have reached a f
eminine agreement until Alice Francis says “Some people seem to have to repeat a relationship over and over.”

  “Perhaps you have.”

  “I’m not here to discuss my life. So you’re saying you absolutely trust Mr Wilde.”

  Christine takes a breath. “I’ve said so once. Now can we go inside and you can ask us whatever you came to ask.”

  “I think I’ve learned all I need to,” the reporter says and turns towards the stairs.

  “No, you haven’t learned enough.” As quickly as I’m speaking I step in front of her. “Just look me in the eye and say if I was telling the truth to the polygraph.”

  “Or else you’ll do what, Mr Wilde?”

  I can’t find an immediate answer, unless clenching my fists is one. Alice Francis stares at them and then at Christine before walking slowly and deliberately around me. I’m turning to keep her in sight when Christine says “Graham.”

  She sounds more parental than ever. I watch Alice Francis strut downstairs until she’s out of sight, and then I confront Christine. “What did you think I was going to do?”

  “I couldn’t say. It must be one of your secrets.”

  In a moment the street door slams, and some kind of a grin tugs at my face. “Well, now we’ve given her just what she wanted.”

  “I’m glad you’re taking some of the responsibility at least. Shall we continue this indoors?”

  “Wherever we need to.”

  As my door shuts behind us with an enthusiastic thud I feel as if I’m chasing Christine along the hall. She goes straight to a chair, and it’s plain that she wants me to stay at a distance. I sit opposite and can’t help being aware of my computer at her back. “Am I going to hear what you thought of my tale?”