Chasing Ghosts: A Detective Jack Buchan Novel

by Michael Fowler

  Jack’s face took on a perturbed look, though it didn’t last long, as he broke into a half-smile and said, ‘Course not. Just a few distant memories.’ Then, presenting her with a mug, he added, ‘It's coffee?’

  ‘Coffee’s good.’ Fabi placed the photographs back on the table and took the mug from Jack’s grasp.

  He offered Fabi the tidy sofa, while he dropped down on the one containing the scattered photographs, brushing them aside as he made himself comfortable.

  ‘She’s very pretty,’ said Fabi tipping her head at the photos. ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Was my wife – Claire – she died just over six months ago.’

  ‘Oh I’m sorry Jack.’

  He shrugged his shoulders, ‘One of those things.’

  She sipped at her coffee without taking her eyes from his, ‘I don’t mean to pry, but is that why you were off sick? What we were talking about earlier?’

  He gave her a thoughtful look, took a drink and then answered, ‘Look it's no secret. You’ll find out anyway sooner or later.’ He paused a moment before continuing, ‘Claire committed suicide. I came home late one evening last September and found her in the bath. She’d taken an overdose and cut her wrists.’

  ‘Gosh, I’m really sorry...’ Taking a pause herself she studied his face, then said, ‘You don’t need to say anymore Jack.’

  ‘No, it's okay, I’m fine. I’m through the worst.’ He drew in a breath and continued, ‘Claire was depressed. Had been depressed a long time.’ He paused and glanced up to the ceiling before returning his gaze. ‘She had her good days and her bad days. It had been going on for years. The sad thing is I actually thought she was coming through the worst of it. Then I came home that night and found her. She certainly hadn’t messed about.’

  ‘Wow Jack, Some shocker.’

  ‘It was, believe me. The sad thing though is she never rang me or anything that day. Not that she normally did, but I just keep thinking if only she had I might have been able to do something. She never even left a note.’ He took another drink of his coffee, glimpsed down at the photographs and said, ‘I’ll never know what came over her. What made her do that?’ Then, pulling himself back from his trance added, ‘No use being maudlin over it. Got to move on. Got a job to do eh?’ He fixed Fabi’s eyes. ‘You and I have got a missing woman to find.’

  12

  ‘What have you got then Jack?’ asked Detective Inspector Dick Harrison looking over the DC’s shoulder. In his mid-forties, The DI was a tall gangly man with short brown naturally spiky hair.

  Jack looked up from his computer screen and fixed his boss’s grey eyes. Twenty years ago Dick Harrison had been another junior detective he had tutored. And, like many entering the department he had witnessed that enthusiasm and competitive edge that had made him an ideal candidate for CID. But he also saw in Dick ambition. Ambition, which Dick had shared with him on many occasion and which he had encouraged. Since then Dick had gained promotion – first to Sergeant and then Inspector, and three years ago he had returned to Penzance as the departments DI, rekindling their working relationship and their friendship. Jack answered, ‘Strange one Dick.’ He only ever called him by his first name when there was no one else in the office.

  ‘Genuinely missing?’

  ‘Can’t work it out. She’s taken her car and mobile, and it looks as though she’s also taken her bank and credit cards, and her passport – she’s Australian – and on that basis I would have said she’d just had enough of an abusive man and done a runner. But then she’s left behind all her clothes and make-up and toiletries and I ask myself why.’

  ‘How long has she been missing?’

  ‘Six days now.’

  ‘And no one's heard from her?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Nope. Not a dickie-bird since Sunday. We’ve tried her mobile number and the phone is dead. Fabi’s nipped over to headquarters to have a personal word with the techies to see if we can speed up a trace. And I’ve entered the car on ANPR to see if we can get a hit on it.’ ANPR is the automatic number place recognition system, used by the police and security services to track vehicles. The UK’s road network CCTV cameras were linked to a main computer, and Jack knew that if Carrie travelled in her car on any of the major roads they would get instant notification.

  ‘Do we have any idea where she’s likely to go if she has simply upped sticks and gone?’

  Jack gave a gentle shake of his head, ‘As I said she’s Australian. According to Toby her friends and contacts are all over there. As far as we know the only people she knows here are her boyfriend and the Callaghans.’

  ‘Could she be having an affair? Especially, I’m thinking, if things have not been going too well between her and Toby.’

  ‘That’s an avenue I’m going to explore. I’m going to have another word with Tammy Callaghan and I’m going to speak with the owner of the gallery in London where Toby exhibits.’

  ‘And what about this Toby fellow? Anything known about him?’

  ‘Well according to Tammy he has a nasty temper when he’s drunk, but only in a verbal way. She’s never seen Toby assault Carrie and Carrie’s never hinted or said he has to her. And, I’ve checked him out on PNC – there’s no record of him.’

  ‘So what next then Jack? Do we run an incident?’

  ‘Just hang fire until I’ve got the results back from her mobile, and the ANPR check, and I’ve also got an enquiry being done by the Border Agency, just in case she’s gone back to Australia. If those all come back negative then I’ll come back to you and we’ll look at the next steps.’

  The DI rested a hand on Jack’s shoulder, ‘Okay your call. Keep me in the loop. The minute you think we need to ratchet this up you let me know.’

  13

  Toby Alexander was restless. He was standing in front of the dining room French doors looking out over his bleak garden and across the fields in the direction of the sea, unable to concentrate because his thoughts were leaden. Suddenly his ears picked up to the sound of the six o’clock news starting in the next room, and with images of Carrie still tumbling around inside his head he dragged away his gaze and trundled toward the lounge. Standing before the TV he listened to the female newscaster going through the day’s headlines and then followed the brief switch across to the local TV where he listened to those leading bulletins. When he heard there was nothing on about Carrie he let out a heavy groan and pulled away his eyes, switching them to her portrait hanging above the fire. Toby thought he knew Carrie pretty well, but since the police had left he realised he actually knew very little about her at all. He had tried his best to answer every question they had fired at him but he could tell by the looks on their faces that they were suspicious. Especially the man – what was his name – DC Buchan. He was certain the detective had caught the tentativeness in his voice when he’d responded to his enquiry as to whether he and Carrie had fought. The thing was, as soon as he’d asked the question the image of the broken glass and bloodstained kitchen floor had flash-banged inside his head messing up his thinking.

  Suddenly overcome with frustration he balled his hands into fists, threw back his head and screamed ‘Fuck’ to the ceiling. He held his head there for a few seconds before returning his eyes to the portrait. ‘Where the hell are you Carrie?’ Settling his gaze on her painted face he pondered on the question, the mental picture of the mess on his kitchen floor re-entering his brain. Had something happened to her? Had he done something to her? The answer to both those questions was – he wasn’t sure.

  ***

  Toby awoke with a start, his mind going into tail-spin. He thought he had heard a cry – it might have even been a scream. He lay in his bed, holding his breath, exploring the bedroom and straining his ears. He had not closed the curtains again, and moonlight washed in through the window creating scary images within the shadows, firing up his imagination. For a few seconds he thought that one of those apparitions in the ghostly half-light was Carrie’s face, horribly disfigured and h
e felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. Rubbing his eyes, he started to turn away, and as he did so a sharp cracking noise, sounding like a stone hitting the window, made him jump. He froze. A couple of seconds later another chink resounded. In one swift movement he threw back the duvet and jumped out of bed. In two strides he was at the window, staring out, trying to pierce the night’s darkness. Adjusting his sight, he scanned quickly around his garden. By the Sycamore, in the left-hand corner, his gaze halted. He thought he caught movement. It was only a Will-O’-the-Wisp type of movement, but it grabbed his attention. He probed the shadows thrown by the trunk and there he saw a shape… a silhouette and it appeared to be human. Screwing up his eyes, he explored further. Someone in dark clothing, their outline limned in moon-glow, was staring up at his window. Staring up at him… and he was naked. Suddenly, he felt vulnerable and he stepped sharply back from the window, retreating into shadow. As he did so his bedside phone rang. His heart almost leapt from his chest. It took him a couple of seconds to snatch his breath, and then, taking another stride, he seized the receiver in mid-ring, hit the answer button and held it to his ear. At first he didn’t say anything. He just listened, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. No one spoke to him, though he thought he caught the sound of someone breathing. It was soft, yet ragged. After ten seconds of not getting a response, with some trepidation, he said ‘Hello?’

  Following a moments silence a throaty voice hissed, ‘I know you killed her!’

  14

  The London art gallery where Toby Alexander exhibited was on the Kings Road in Chelsea. Jack and Fabi travelled by train from Penzance into Paddington and then caught the tube across London to South Kensington where they emerged onto a bustling Kings Road. The gallery’s, swish double fronted premises, was just a short walk from the Underground.

  Before entering the building, Jack stopped by one of the display windows and eyed a couple of the paintings on show, whistling through his teeth as he took in some of the price tags. Half turning, he said to Fabi on a low note, ‘These would cost me half my year’s wages.’

  ‘Some people have got more money than sense,’ Fabi replied. ‘If I had that type of money to spend on something, it wouldn’t be a painting. It would be a five-star holiday in the Maldives with my partner.’

  ‘New car for me,’ Jack grinned, ‘I think art lovers would call us Philistines,’ he added, pushing open the door.

  The inside of the gallery was opulent, with white painted walls and ceilings, and was fitted out with high-end contemporary furnishings and thick pile rugs. Every bit of space was lit by overhead bright white spotlights, showing off the display of evenly spaced paintings adorning the walls.

  Jack hadn’t had time to close the door before a man, who looked to be in his early fifties, appeared. He was slim and tanned with silver grey hair and was dressed in a Harris Tweed jacket and dark jeans. Jack noticed he had on a pair of expensive looking tan brogues. He had always wanted a pair like them but had never been able to justify spending the £500 on a pair of shoes. The man showed off a perfect set of white teeth behind a fixed smile.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he greeted.

  ‘We’re here to speak with David Muir.’ Jack replied.

  ‘I’m David Muir.’

  Jack took out his warrant card, showed it to the gallery owner and introduced Fabi and himself. ‘We spoke with your secretary yesterday. We’re here to ask you some questions about Mr Alexander, one of your artists.’

  ‘Oh yes, Pippa mentioned it. He’s not in any trouble is he?’

  ‘It’s not exactly him we are here about. It’s his girlfriend we want to ask some questions about. She’s gone missing and we want to talk to anyone who might know her.’

  ‘Carrie?’

  Jack and Fabi nodded in unison.

  ‘You know her?’ asked Jack.

  The man nodded. ‘Yes. Well, when I say yes, I know her as Toby’s girlfriend.’ Pausing he added, ‘You say she’s gone missing? What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t go into all the details Mr Muir, but six days ago Carrie left the house she shared with Mr Alexander and she’s not been seen or heard of since. We’re trying to establish if she’s been in touch with anyone in these last five days. We’ve been told she’s Australian and knows very few people in this country, but we know she’s been here a few times with Mr Alexander and we’ve been told she actually met him here at one of his exhibitions.’

  ‘Yes that’s right, his autumn two-thousand-and-twelve one. She came to the opening night. She took a real interest in his work and they got chatting. Quite a stunner is Carrie and Toby can be a bit of a charmer. He ended up asking her if he could paint her portrait. I don’t know if you’ve seen any pictures of her but the paintings he’s done of her are spectacular. She is a gorgeous subject and they certainly go down well with our clients. I’ll show you some shall I?’ David Muir pointed them down the gallery and set off, stopping at an alcove near the back, where, with a theatrical flick of his wrist, he presented four figurative paintings of a striking auburn haired woman. In two of the paintings she was draped across a bed, her hair radiating out against an emerald green satin sheet in very alluring poses.

  Jack instantly saw the resemblance of the woman in these paintings to the ones he had viewed back in Toby Alexander’s cottage. In fact, in one of them he noted she was wearing the same black kimono. Despite the lack of detail in the brushwork Carrie Jefferies portraits had an almost erotic appeal, and once more he found himself transfixed by her painted image.

  ‘You can see why Mathew wanted her as his model can’t you?’

  David Muir’s comment broke Jack out of his reverie. ‘Mathew?’

  The gallery owner’s mouth tightened. ‘Sorry I slip up from time to time. Yes. Mathew. He now goes by Toby but his first name is Mathew. Mathew Tobias Alexander to be precise. He only became Toby after the tragedy.’

  ‘Tragedy?’

  David Muir cast his gaze from Jack to Fabi and back, ‘Yes, his girlfriend Angel.’ He paused a moment exchanging glances, as if waiting for a reaction. Then he said, ‘You don’t know about Angel?’ Pausing again and searching out their faces he said, ‘She committed suicide. That’s why he changed his name. It caused him all kinds of problems.’

  Jack fixed the gallery owners look, ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk.’

  15

  Jack, Fabi and David Muir made themselves comfortable in dark-brown leather tub seats set around a glass top table in a back room. It also served as a kitchen area for making drinks. A pretty, fair-haired, slim woman, in her mid-twenties, dressed in a black and white 60s shift style dress, set down three cups of coffee in front of them.

  David Muir said, ‘This is Pippa. Pippa Johnson. She’s my assistant.’

  Jack met her eyes, ‘My apologies Pippa. I thought you were the secretary when we spoke yesterday.’

  She held his gaze for a good few seconds and presented a nervous smile. Then pushing a cup towards him, she turned away and left the room leaving the door ajar.

  ‘Pippa has been with me almost five years now. She’s the daughter of a good client of mine. I was introduced to her just after she had finished her art history degree. She wanted a job. Initially it was just so she could put something on her CV, but she’s was such an absolute godsend that I persuaded her to stay.’

  Jack acknowledged with a brief nod, glanced at his coffee and, deciding that it looked too hot to drink, returned to face David Muir. ‘Before I ask you about Carrie tell me about Mr Alexander and this Angel.’

  David picked up his cup and, clasping it between both hands, replied, ‘Surely you must have heard about it. It was headline news. Angel was a well know fashion model.’

  ‘Of course!’ interjected Fabi slapping her thigh. ‘I wondered where I’d heard that name before.’ She looked from David to Jack, ‘Angel May, she’s been on the front of most fashion magazines at one time or another. And she had some make-up named after her. She
died of a drugs overdose a few years ago didn’t she? It was all over the news.’

  ‘Five years ago.’ David’s mouth tightened. ‘It was terrible. The inquest verdict was that it was accidental but some people blamed Mathew for her death. Some even accused him of supplying the drugs she took. Rumours were that it was hard drugs she’d died from, but the post mortem revealed it was an overdose of anti-depressants.’ He sipped at his coffee, then, removing the cup from his lips said, ‘It wasn’t Mathew who had anything to do with it of course, but the rumour-mill had done the damage. His painting suffered for a while and none of his work sold. Especially the paintings he had done of Angel, which was a shame, because they were just exquisite. Mathew was a very talented artist when I met him ten years ago and he began exhibiting with me, but it was the paintings of Angel that made him. When she died Mathew almost became a pariah overnight and so he decided it would be best if he changed his name and move away from London. He dropped his first name, shortened his middle name and took on a place in Cornwall, near where he used to live, and that kept him out of the limelight. Then when his Mother died in two-thousand-and-eleven, his father was already dead, he was left the family home and he made his studio there. It allowed him some breathing space and, as things quieted down, he painted some new pieces and we held the first exhibition of his new work, under his new name, in two-thousand-and-twelve. That time away had put some distance between him and what had happened and his exhibition wasn’t far off a sell-out thank goodness. It put him back on the road and of course that’s when he met Carrie.’