Chasing Ghosts: A Detective Jack Buchan Novel

by Michael Fowler

  ‘I’ve spoke to the DI and with the Press Department and we’ve agreed to hold off from releasing this for a few more days, especially given that we don’t have any photographs of her. I’ve chased up the phone techies at Headquarters, who are up to their necks at the moment with computer stuff from a big drugs raid, but they’ve promised me that they should have something for us in another couple of days. If it throws up anything we don’t like then we step things up a gear.’

  18

  Jack closed down his computer, picked his coat off the back of his chair, ran a final eye over his tidied desk, and left the CID office turning off the lights before closing the door. It was just after eight p.m. He was the last to leave the office which, given his normal working habit, wasn’t unusual, though today he had deliberately delayed leaving for he knew sleep would be a long time coming – if at all.

  As he made his way across the rear yard he reflected on his day. He felt guilty that his afternoon mawkishness, which still affected him, had impacted on Fabi. He had caught her staring at him shortly after 5p.m. She had instantly snatched away her gaze, but he hadn't missed her uncomfortable look. He had apologised for his behaviour, and although she had told him that it wasn't him, that she'd got an evening meal booked with Stephen, and was wondering what time they were clocking off, he had not been convinced of her response. He had apologised again, telling her that he had some personal paperwork to finalise before he called it a day, and that she should 'get herself off,' and with a fake smile, he had added, ‘And make sure you have a good time, you never know in this job when the next opportunity will come,’

  The comment about the paperwork had been a lie. He had nothing pressing. The bottom line was that he couldn’t face his ghost house. So, in the quiet of the office, he had made himself a fresh cup and settled back, briefly re-visited the notes he and Fabi had made on Carrie, and then spent two hours with his head resting in his hands trying his best to shake away the images of his wife lying dead in the bath and thinking what turmoil she must have been going through to make her take her life the way she had. The thoughts of Clair had been triggered by Fabi revealing how Angel had died. The moment she had told him how Angel had been found surrounded by pills, his conscience was attacked and he’d had difficulty shifting the vision no matter how hard he had tried.

  ***

  Back home Mollie greeted him the moment he stepped over the threshold, eagerly pushing against him to be fussed and more pangs of guilt overcame him. Not bothering to change he repaid his dog’s greeting by taking to the streets with her for her evening walk. He covered most of the village inside twenty minutes and then took the track out towards Mousehole. The fields he tramped across were muddier than he had anticipated and he cursed every time he lifted a caked foot. At the same time, he knew that the walk was just what he needed to lift his spirits and so he picked up his pace. Ten minutes later, catching his breath, he looked back to gather his bearings. He could just make out the dim glow of one of Paul’s edge-of-village streetlamps, making him realise he had come farther than intended, and with the way ahead offering only pitch darkness, he called Mollie to heel, patted her shoulder and headed back.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, back in his hallway, he toe-heeled off his damp and muddy shoes, slipped off his jacket, slackened his tie then fed and watered Mollie. He made himself a cheese sandwich, poured himself a whisky and drifted into the lounge. He switched on the TV just in time to catch the late news. Within minutes he realised there was nothing of interest so he turned off the TV, tucked Mollie in her basket and made his way upstairs with his supper.

  He ran a bath and went into his bedroom, dumping himself down on the edge of the bed, listening to water fill up the bath while he ate his sandwich and sipped his nightcap. Ten minutes later, putting down an empty plate and glass he undressed and returned to the bathroom for a long soak.

  ***

  Jack couldn’t sleep. No matter how hard he tried rest was elusive. For the umpteenth time he checked the illuminated clock on his bedside table, 3:12. Giving the clock another look with a heavy sigh, he decided it was pointless trying any more, and he flung aside the duvet, swung his legs out of bed and made his way to the back bedroom. Claire’s room. Where she’d taken herself off to during her darkest periods. He switched on the light and waited for the temporary white blindness to fade. Within seconds, his sight readjusted, he began exploring her room – taking in the décor and sniffing the air. There was still the odd moment when he was certain he could still smell the floral bouquet of her perfume. Tonight, though, wasn’t one of those times. He dropped his gaze. On the bed were photographs similar to the ones on the coffee table downstairs. Claire and himself, each one a memory that provoked a tug of his heartstrings. They began to blur as his eyes filled up. Picking up one of the photographs he clutched it to his chest, flopped onto his side and started to sob. Why did you do this to me Claire? I miss you so much.

  19

  Mathew Tobias Alexander checked his face in the bathroom mirror. He had two days of stubble and panda-like rings circled his bloodshot eyes. I look as bad as I feel. But that wasn’t surprising, given his lack of sleep since his sighting of the mysterious stranger at the bottom of his garden and that phone call two nights ago.

  Did someone know something, he wondered?

  He had thought about it endlessly, more so since his interview with those two detectives. They were suspicious. He could tell. He had distinctly seen it in the man’s eyes when he had questioned him as to whether he and Carrie had fought. The query had sent the hairs at the back of his neck on end and made him feel sick. Now, reminiscing on that had settled one thing in his mind – he had to completely get rid of any incriminating evidence. That day. Just in case.

  He brushed his teeth, showered quickly and dressed in some of his old painting clothes. Then he made his way downstairs to the kitchen, filled up a bucket with boiling water, took out the bleach from under the sink, and, rolling up his sleeves he slipped on a pair of rubber gloves, lowered himself onto his knees and began hand washing the floor, pouring bleach as he scrubbed. He had seen it on CSI on TV. Bleach was the best way of getting rid of bloodstains. The next thing he needed to do was burn the clothes he’d been wearing last Sunday. Just in case.

  20

  At 6a.m. Jack had given up trying to get some sleep and got up and breakfasted, walked Mollie around the churchyard and then drove into work. The CID office was desolate, but on mornings like this when he needed to sort out his head he preferred it empty. Checking his watch, he knew that in half an hour this room would be full of chatter and he wanted to be prepared and in the mood for it. He slipped off his jacket, booted up his computer then walked to the far side of the office where the windows overlooked the rear car park, then he made a strong cup of tea before returning to his desk. Placing the steaming drink on a coaster he cracked back his fingers and opened up his e-mails. He was hoping there might be something there from the phone techies about Carrie’s mobile location. There wasn’t. With a sigh he closed them down and turned to his desk phone. Entering his code, he checked voicemail. There was one message waiting for him. He noted the time of the caller 8.45 last night. He had just missed it. He hit the play button and listened. The caller was female. The voice sounded young. Early twenties, he thought. She introduced herself as a friend of Angel’s, though she didn’t give her name. She spoke for thirty seconds. The intonation was brittle, nervous, disjointed, but the message she delivered gave him a burst of adrenalin and, on a high, he played it again, this time scribbling a few notes. The information she relayed sent his heartbeat racing. He was disappointed she hadn’t left a number and he knew there was no way of getting one. He stored the call, pushed himself back in his chair and mulled on the significance of what he’d just heard.

  He was still in that position quarter-of-an-hour later when Fabi arrived.

  Dropping her bag and unbuttoning her overcoat she said, ‘You look pleased with yourself.’
>
  ‘This case has just taken a very interesting turn,’ he replied slowly.

  Draping her coat around her seat she pulled a mystified face, ‘That’s very cryptic Jack.’

  Leaning forward he answered, ‘Someone left me a very interesting message on my voicemail last night. Just listen to this.’ Putting his phone on speaker he quickly punched in the dial-up number and code for his voicemail and waited for the message to play.

  Within seconds the female voice, which had a London accent, began, ‘I’ve been given this number, and been told you are looking into Mathew Alexander, about his girlfriend going missing. I don’t know anything about that but I do know about what happened to Angel…’ There was a pause. In the background Jack could make out lots of voices. They were indiscernible in terms of precise conversation, but they were part of significant background noise. It sounded as if the girl was in a pub. After a brief moment the she continued, ‘…Well I don’t know exactly, but Pippa from the gallery does. You should speak to her. She knows what Mathew is like. It was what he did to her that caused them to argue that night Angel died. I don’t think it's right what he did and got away with.’ Then she hung up.

  Listening to the burring sound of the ended message Fabi’s eyebrows met. ‘What Mathew did to who? Angel or Pippa?’

  Jack shrugged and killed the call, ‘I interpret it that the girl is telling us that Mathew did something to Pippa Johnson and that caused Angel and Mathew’s bust-up on the night she died.’

  ‘I wonder what that something was?’

  ‘Well we’ll soon find out. Fancy a trip to London again? I noticed when we were there that the gallery closes at 5.30p.m. We’ll wait for Pippa to leave and see if we can talk to her without David Muir finding out. I don’t trust him and I don’t want this getting back to Mathew. Not just yet.’

  ***

  Jack and Fabi got a late morning train from Penzance into London. They worked it out that they should be in Kensington a good hour before the gallery closed. They were hoping that, like many others who worked in the capital, Pippa wouldn’t be using a vehicle but would make her way to the nearby underground station and travel home on the tube. They also hoped that she would leave first, and David, the owner, would be the one who locked up.

  In the quiet carriage Jack and Fabi sat opposite each other, a table between them. Jack had his elbows resting on it, hands in a prayer-like gesture, staring out of the window at the countryside flying by.

  Fabi eyed him closely. He appeared to be in deep thought and she thought that his gaze didn’t seem to be going beyond his ghost-like reflection in the glass. She deliberately cleared her throat getting Jack’s attention.

  ‘Can I ask you something Jack?’

  He gave her a quizzical look and dropped his hands onto the table.

  ‘About your wife, Claire?’

  She watched him studying her for a moment before responding with, ‘What about Claire?’

  ‘I don’t mean to pry Jack, but what was behind what happened to her? How did she get depressed? If you don’t mind me asking?’

  For many seconds Jack’s eyes never drifted from hers, then with a look of resignation he said, ‘We lost a child. Our only child.’

  ‘Oh I’m sorry Jack.’

  He held up a hand, ‘Don’t be. It was one of those things. Just not meant to be. It was a long time ago.’ For several seconds he was silent. His gaze drifted somewhere beyond Fabi’s shoulder, then, locking eyes said, ‘I was twenty-seven, Claire was a year younger. We’d been married five years and talked about having a family ever since getting together at eighteen. We tried for years and nothing seemed to happen so she went to the doctors. They referred her to the hospital and the specialist there found that Claire had a blocked fallopian tube. She had an operation and within a year got pregnant. We were over the moon.’ For a moment his face lit up, then the corners of his mouth drooped. ‘Six months into her pregnancy Claire felt something wasn’t quite right. She couldn’t feel the baby move and so went to the hospital. She was admitted and they discovered that the baby had died. Some genetic problem. Labour was induced but complications occurred and it damaged her womb. She couldn’t have any more children.’

  ‘Jack, that is so tragic.’

  He momentarily stiffened, ‘That was the start of her depression. I didn’t realise at first because I was out long hours with the job. I’d got into CID. I just thought she was tired with what had happened to her, but then there were whole weeks when she wouldn’t get out of bed. Wouldn’t wash herself. I finally got her to see a doctor who prescribed her anti-depressants. But she just never got any better. She was referred to a psychiatrist and over the years she had to be admitted to the psyche ward on several occasions.’

  ‘You must have had a terrible time. Both of you,’ Fabi interjected.

  Jack nodded, but it was half-hearted, ‘To be honest I just wrapped myself up in my work. There were some days I couldn’t face going home. Claire wasn’t the person I married. Don’t get me wrong she had some good days, but it was just that – days. Then, she’d be back to being depressed again. The last few years we didn’t have a life, just an existence. Then, when she took her own life that day I felt so guilty, even though I knew deep down it wasn’t my fault. If it hadn’t been that day it would have been another. The counsellor I’ve been seeing told me that.’

  So why should you feel guilty about it Jack?’

  ‘I argued with Claire that day. I’d been working on a murder. Three weeks of fourteen hour days in a row and I was knackered. I tried to get her to get up before I went to work but she’d gone into one of her dark moods and I just snapped. I told her she needed to buck herself up. She was making my life a misery, and stormed out. I should have finished at five that day but couldn’t face going home and so went to the pub.’ He broke off for a few seconds, his gaze going distant. Then he brought it back to her, ‘When I got home I found Claire like that. I just keep thinking if only I’d gone home, maybe I could have prevented it or saved her. I really regret what I did and I can’t make amends.’

  Fabi caught Jack’s eyes starting to glass over and she reached across for his hands.

  21

  Fabi and Jack found a coffee shop on Kensington High Street, almost opposite the gallery and, although at an angle, the window seats they had secured gave them a decent enough view of the entrance to see and identify who came and went.

  Jack checked his watch, noting that in less than an hour, according to the opening times on the sign, the gallery would close. He said to Fabi, ‘I haven’t seen any activity inside the place since we got here I hope Pippa’s there. I don’t want this to be a wasted journey.’

  Fabi rested her lips on the wide brim of her cup. Looking over the top she replied, ‘I’m sure she will be it’s still open I saw a couple coming out of there as I sat down and you were ordering the coffees.’

  Jack acknowledged with a nod and picked up his cup. For the best part of a minute he locked his eyes on the front door of the gallery, then he started to sweep his gaze. After a couple of minutes, he said, ‘I’d hate to live here. It must be a nightmare. No peace and quiet, constant traffic congestion. Can you imagine what it must be like to police?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know about policing Jack. I bet it would be quite exciting.’

  ‘If you were young, it would,’ he interrupted.

  She quickly lowered her cup, ‘I am young, you cheeky devil.’

  He let out a short laugh, then, his face changed. ‘Hey up, eyes front, we’ve got movement.’

  Fabi turned just in time to see Pippa Johnson closing the front door of the gallery. She stood, momentarily looking up and down the street, while fastening her coat around her. Finally, she hooked her bag onto her shoulder and headed their way.

  Jack pulled himself back from the window and Fabi turned her back. Jack’s view was over Fabi’s shoulder and after thirty seconds he announced, ‘She’s gone past, come on, chop, chop.’ He set down his half fu
ll cup and made for the door.

  Fabi took a last quick slurp of her coffee and followed.

  Outside, giving the gallery entrance door the final once over, satisfying himself that David wasn’t following his assistant out of the premises, Jack immediately turned his attention on Pippa. Watching her stride ahead, it wasn’t as he anticipated – she wasn’t heading in the direction of the tube station, but in the opposite direction to Knightsbridge and she wasn’t strolling. He set off after her at a smart clip, drawing his coat around him. Behind, he could hear the clop of Fabi’s ballet pumps skipping across the pavement to catch him up. It didn’t take her long. Within seconds she was by his side, the pair making progress as they outpaced Pippa’s footwork. Within a couple of minutes, they had caught up opposite her. Jack checked the slow ribbon of traffic passing and with a shout of ‘GO’ made a dash, Fabi hanging on to his coat-tails. A couple of cars blasted their horns as they sprinted past their grills but it didn’t impede their progress, and in less than five seconds they were leaping onto the footpath next to Pippa. She gave a startled jump and immediately went to grip her bag’s shoulder strap. The look she engaged them with was one of recognition and she instantly released the hold on her bag.

  ‘Sorry about that Pippa,’ announced Fabi. ‘We didn’t mean to make you jump.’

  ‘Jesus! You frightened the life out of me, I thought you were muggers.’

  ‘Well we’re not,’ said Jack straight-faced.

  From Pippa’s expression Jack could see she had twigged that their being there wasn’t for social pleasure.

  ‘This is about Mathew isn’t it?’ She bounced her gaze from Jack to Fabi.

  Both detectives nodded.