A Game of Ghosts: A Charlie Parker Thriller: 15. From the No. 1 Bestselling Author of A Time of Torment

by John Connolly

  Her grandmother went away.

  Jennifer was sitting against the bedroom wall, talking with her half sister.

  you have to be careful

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  you mustn’t break things and you mustn’t hurt things

  ‘I was angry. She wants to take me away from him.’

  she’s frightened because of what happened

  because of the Dead King

  ‘I’m safe. I was always safe.’

  no you weren’t

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s done now.’

  she loves you

  they both do

  she just wants you to be safe

  ‘I’m safer with him, and he’s safer with me.’

  she doesn’t know that

  ‘I could make her do what I want.’

  Jennifer didn’t reply to this immediately. Sometimes it was easy to forget just how dangerous Sam could be.

  you mustn’t

  ‘Why?’

  because it would be bad and you mustn’t be bad

  Sam did not reply, but closed her eyes and hid her face from view.

  63

  Parker was still no calmer by the time he reached Natick. He’d simmered all the way down I-95, and it took every ounce of self-restraint not to dismiss Moxie Castin’s advice against contacting Rachel. He felt powerless, the fate of his relationship with his daughter now lying in the hands of others. Worse, he was truly furious with Rachel for the first time that he could remember, but he was also angry with himself. Rage, grief, loss: these were the emotions he had permitted to govern his existence for so long. They had been the dominant forces in his life ever since his father’s death, and when Susan and Jennifer were taken from him, he had given them free rein. Now he believed he had them under some form of control, but still they called to him, and he fed them in his way.

  Meeting Rachel, and the birth of Sam, represented a divergent path, the opportunity for a second chance. He could have chosen another way of living. He might have continued to work as an investigator, but in areas that would not have put his family or himself in harm’s way. Had he done so, he might still have been with Rachel. They might have had another child together. He saw grandchildren. He saw himself growing old in peace, with a woman who loved him. He saw—

  A fantasy. He let it slip away. He was not that man, and some of those choices had been made for him. And Sam? He could have pretended to believe that she was just a regular child – precocious, perhaps, but no more than that – but he knew better, just as he knew that he was not mad, and the occurrences he had witnessed over the years, and of which he had been a part, were not the conjurings of a disturbed mind.

  But this price, the loss of Sam – it was too much to ask, too high to pay.

  Yet what could he do to change it now?

  Nothing, was the answer. He could do nothing.

  Oscar Sansom was a Realtor. He lived in Natick in a house that was almost as big as Parker’s own, which meant that it was too sizable for one man. He opened his front door as the investigator walked up the path, and Parker wondered how long Sansom had been waiting for him to appear. All thoughts of Sam and Rachel were set aside. His anger could be directed. He would use it to power his search for Eklund, and hope that by doing so he could expend the worst of it.

  Sansom was a small man, which made his home appear larger still. Even the doorway dwarfed him. He was slightly stooped, but in the manner of one who is too tired, and longs to sleep. Parker had seen men and women physically diminished in this way before, weighed down by suffering. Grief has its own gravity.

  They shook hands, and Sansom led Parker to the kitchen. The doors they passed at either side of the hallway were closed so Parker couldn’t see inside the rooms, but he didn’t have to. He knew what he would find: variations on a theme of absence. This was a house bought with the intention of filling it with children. It was built for a family, and Sansom had remained within its walls in the hope that some version of this life might still be possible. To sell it would have been to admit that all hope was gone, and his wife was not coming back. So he held on to it, gliding through its empty spaces, using only a handful of rooms, keeping the others closed up but clean, just in case she returned; a small man, shrinking with the years, as the space around him increased. All this Parker saw in a matter of moments, loss attuned to loss.

  The kitchen was open plan, with a table and chairs at one end, the stove and cabinets at the other, and a nest formed of a couch and big armchairs down a small flight of steps in between, looking over a garden sheltered from view by hedges and evergreen oaks. A flat-screen TV hung on one wall, with books, newspapers, and magazines on a table before it, along with an empty coffee cup. One end of the table was covered with documents, and a pair of bedroom slippers sat beside a dining chair with worn cushions tied to the seat and back for added comfort. The space was untidy but homey, and Parker guessed this was where Sansom spent most of his time.

  A few prints brightened up the walls, mostly reproduction posters from the sixties and seventies featuring Hendrix, Neil Young, and the Rolling Stones. The exception was a large black-and-white photograph, professionally mounted and framed, featuring people walking through a park in late fall, judging by the leaves on the ground. Women, children, a couple of dogs running around, but no men. It was a perfectly ordinary scene, if expertly captured, apart from one detail: all the faces were blurred, so that it was impossible to identify any individual features. Every person caught by the lens was reduced to the status of a ghost.

  Sansom, who was making coffee with some fancy Italian machine, caught Parker looking at the photograph, but said nothing.

  ‘Who took this?’ Parker asked.

  Sansom didn’t answer immediately, just continued fussing with cups and beans.

  ‘I did,’ he said at last.

  ‘It’s very good.’

  Eerie, Parker thought, but quite beautiful. The more he looked at it the more he was drawn into it, as though he might move among these frozen figures, staring into their blurred faces, until—

  Well, until he became one of them himself.

  ‘I thought I needed a hobby,’ said Sansom. ‘I took some classes, bought a lot of photography books. I don’t use a digital camera. I’m happier working with film. I have a darkroom in my basement.’

  ‘This isn’t a digital image?’

  Parker was surprised, given the degree of manipulation of the faces.

  ‘No, that was all done the old-fashioned way. I just had to make sure the faces got less light than the rest of the image. It wasn’t so hard, but it took a lot of attempts. Trial and error. I thought it might seem conceited to have it framed and put on the wall, but it’s not like a whole lot of people get to see it. I don’t get many visitors.’

  Parker didn’t have to ask why Sansom had chosen this image to display, aesthetic judgments apart. It said everything anyone needed to know about the man and his pain.

  They sat at the kitchen table, and Parker asked Sansom about Eklund.

  ‘When did you first consult him?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Sansom. ‘The initial approach came from him, after Claudia had been missing for maybe two years, but no money ever changed hands. He just offered to help where and when he could. I was suspicious at first, of course. I’d been bitten badly before, especially after Claudia first disappeared and the police started to think that maybe I’d done something to her. People, some of whom I’d considered friends, sold stories to the newspapers, and then there were all kinds of others who claimed to know something about what happened, or wanted money in return for information. I’d get letters, e-mails, calls to my office, some of them just so abusive. People can be pretty fucking shitty, you know.’

  ‘But Eklund wasn’t.’

  ‘No, he was the real deal. When he had a little spare time he’d nose around, or get in touch with his police sources. Mostly I think he was just nudging them, making sure they d
idn’t let the case grow any colder than it already had. There was nothing Eklund could do about that, but if he heard anything, or I did, we’d meet or talk over the phone. I finally convinced him to let me pay his expenses, but it was really only a few bucks here and there.

  ‘When they found Claudia, he was one of the first to come to my door. He helped me deal with what came after. He knew his way around the police, the media. He stayed in the background, but he always gave me the right advice. He told me it was good for the investigation that Claudia’s body had been recovered. It would add a new impetus. It’s hard to investigate a crime without a body. Except—’

  ‘Except,’ said Parker, ‘now you have a body, but nobody’s sure of the crime.’

  Sansom nodded.

  ‘Claudia’s remains showed signs of neglect, but she died of natural causes: septicemia, from an injury to her leg. A deep cut, down to the bone. The autopsy indicated that proper medical treatment might have saved her, but obviously she didn’t get it. The police have all kinds of theories. It was suggested that she could have had some kind of breakdown and fallen off the radar. It happens more often than you might think. Those folk living rough, sleeping under bridges, they’re not all forgotten. There are people looking for them – friends, families – but some are just too far gone to realize it. When they die, their bodies lie around until someone finds them, or they get buried by the people they knew, or whoever was with them at the end.

  ‘But that wasn’t Claudia. She was the most balanced person I ever knew. She wasn’t dull or boring – or not to me she wasn’t. If she’d sensed something was wrong with her, physically or psychologically, she’d have mentioned it, or sought help. I know these things can happen without warning, and maybe I was fooling myself by trying to pretend it might have been different for Claudia because, well, she was mine, but the breakdown hypothesis never sat right with me.’

  Parker recalled what Mother had told him of Mike MacKinnon’s character, and his disappearance. His personality sounded remarkably similar to that of Claudia Sansom.

  ‘And Eklund – what did he think?’

  ‘He didn’t believe it either.’

  ‘Did he have his own theory?’

  ‘Yes. He was always straight with me. He thought she might have been abducted. Some of the detectives agreed with him. Now it looks like they were right, because of how she was found.’

  He spoke with no emotion in his voice. It was probably the only way he could talk about it. Parker didn’t tell him that he had been in touch with Dawna Hall about the progress of the investigation. He wanted to hear Sansom’s take on events.

  ‘Claudia was wrapped in plastic, but otherwise she was buried naked,’ said Sansom. ‘They found no DNA apart from her own, nothing at all. If she’d been put in the ground by homeless people, they wouldn’t have been so careful. They’d have left clues. That’s what Eklund told me.’

  ‘Did he offer to continue looking into the case?’

  ‘He promised to keep an eye on it, but now that the police had a body to work with, he said they were best equipped to investigate.’

  ‘Have they indicated when Claudia’s remains will be returned to you?’

  Sansom looked away.

  ‘In a day or two. I’m going to have her cremated. It’ll be easier to keep private.’

  He turned back to Parker. His eyes were soft.

  ‘You know, some people still think I did it, that somehow I made my own wife vanish, then magicked her up again years later. It’s why I work for myself. No Realtor would employ me. I don’t even sell many properties in the state. Mostly I act as an agent for wealthy buyers seeking second homes in Europe. They don’t know who I am, or don’t care as long as they get the property they want at the right price. Even some of my neighbors made it clear to me that they’d have preferred if I sold up and left the city, but I wouldn’t go. It would have been like an admission of guilt, and I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. And if I abandoned this house, how would Claudia have found me if she came looking?’

  He glanced at his watch.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I have an appointment with a client in Boston in about an hour, and you never know how bad the damned traffic is going to be. You said on the phone that Mr. Eklund hadn’t been seen in a while.’

  ‘That’s right. I was wondering when last you heard from him.’

  ‘About two weeks ago, I think. I met him for a drink at the Fairmont.’

  ‘May I ask what you talked about?’

  ‘The same as always. Claudia, mostly. In a way, it was kind of a farewell drink.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘With Claudia found, it was as though our connection was coming to an end. Like I told you, the investigation was back with the police, and Mr. Eklund didn’t feel that he’d be able to contribute much from this point on, although he told me to call if there was ever any way he could help.’

  ‘Did he mention any other cases he was working on?’

  ‘No, he rarely spoke about things like that, maybe for reasons of confidentiality, just like I trusted him not to share anything private I might have told him about Claudia and me.’

  ‘What about matters of personal interest to Eklund?’

  There was only the slightest of pauses, a shifting of position by Sansom, but it was enough.

  ‘That depends on what you mean.’

  Sansom wasn’t putting up a wall, exactly, but it was clear that he wasn’t going to betray a confidence either. He waited for Parker to go on.

  ‘What I mean is, did he ever talk about ghosts?’

  Sansom stayed very still.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the Capstead Martyrs, and linked deaths?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how did you react?’

  ‘I thought he was joking at first. But I came to realize that he wasn’t, so I started to think that maybe he was crazy. But he wasn’t crazy either.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  Sansom shrugged.

  ‘How should I put it? I believed that he believed, but it wasn’t like he was spouting all kinds of other wild theories, or carrying one of those Ouija boards under his arm. He talked about it in a completely matter-of-fact way. It was a puzzle, and he was trying to solve it: why did a series of killings and disappearances share sightings?’

  ‘Did you get the sense he was coming close to an answer?’

  ‘Possibly. I think it was part of the reason why he was happy to let the police deal with my case, and limit any further involvement he might have with it. But that’s all I can tell you. He didn’t share much with me; it was just that there was a sense of, oh, excitement about him when we met at the Fairmont. Anticipation.’

  ‘Did he ever suggest that Claudia’s disappearance might be connected to his own inquiries into the Capstead Martyrs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And he didn’t tell you of travel plans, or mention the names of anyone he might have intended to meet?’

  ‘Not directly.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘He asked me if I knew of any Realtors in West Virginia. I inquired if he was planning on selling his home in Providence and moving on, because brokers in Massachusetts have complete reciprocity with West Virginia, and I’d have been glad to take care of buying or selling any property for him. I’d have looked after him, too, especially after all he’d done for me. But he said that he just wanted to find someone who might have local knowledge of transactions in the Turning Leaf area. I made some calls and gave him a couple of names.’

  Turning Leaf, West Virginia: Parker tried to recall any mention of it in Eklund’s notes, but was pretty sure there was none. It was something, at least. He made a note of the names of the Realtors to whom Sansom had referred Eklund.

  Sansom stood, indicating that it was time to leave. Parker gave Sansom his card and asked him to call if he thought of anything else. He wondered how many times in his life he’d said that to p
eople – a lot – and how often they actually got back to him with something useful: a lot less. Sansom grabbed a coat and a briefcase and walked him to the door. Parker waited while he locked up, then watched as Sansom hit the button to open the garage. A new red Kia Forte stood waiting, and beside it, leaning against the wall, was a batch of FOR SALE signs.

  ‘One of those is going to be out here pretty soon,’ said Sansom.

  ‘You’re selling?’

  ‘This house is too big for me. It always was, but I couldn’t put it on the market, not until I was sure Claudia wasn’t coming back.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘Europe, I think – France, or Italy. I’ve spent years buying and selling nice properties over there for other people. It’s time I considered finding one for myself. I want to go where nobody knows me. I’ll have Claudia’s ashes interred somewhere nearby once I’ve settled on a place to live.’

  ‘What about the investigation?’

  ‘What about it? It’ll go on without me. There’s nothing more I can do or say that will help. But deep down, I don’t believe they’ll ever find out what really happened to my wife. If uncovering her body couldn’t provide them with clues, then what will? And it won’t bring her back. I hope that whoever took her from me dies kicking and screaming, and burns in the next world, but I won’t let it destroy me. All I have left of Claudia is what I can remember of my life with her, and every day it seems like I forget a little bit more of it. So I’ll go somewhere new, and I won’t work so hard, and I’ll wait for the time when I can be with her again.’

  They shook hands once more.

  ‘I hope you find Mr. Eklund safe and sound,’ said Sansom. ‘He was a good man.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Parker, ‘it sounds like he was.’

  64

  If it is true that nature abhors a vacuum, then criminality regards it as a business opportunity. The death of Caspar Webb had left a void that, in another time, might have been ruthlessly exploited by both his rivals and elements within his own network.