Burial of Ghosts Read online

  ‘The bloke from the garage phoned,’ I said to Jess. She had her head in the larder, putting away the tins of tuna and chopped tomatoes. ‘He thinks he’s found me a car. I wondered if Ray would be free sometime to give it the once-over.’

  She was in a quandary then. She didn’t want me to have a car. If I had a car, who knew what other scrapes I might get into? How many dead bodies might I stumble across? But she wanted Ray and me to get on. If he sorted me out a good deal, perhaps I’d be grateful to him and I might not kick up too much of a fuss if she moved him in.

  ‘I’ll give him a ring,’ she said, emerging bum first from the pantry. ‘See how he’s fixed. He’s only working down at Sandy Bay. Put the kettle on, pet. He’ll probably fancy a brew when he gets here.’

  No competition, then. Ray would win every time. I’d got what I wanted and I still didn’t like it.

  It was a sunny day with a gusty wind, the sort of day that makes schoolkids flighty and wild. As soon as I was out of the house I had the urge to run. Along the beach and far up the coast, away from Jess and Ray and the neighbours across the lane who were peering out from behind their nets to see the lassie who was caught up with that murder case. But I didn’t. I got into Ray’s van and drove south with him towards the city, proving to Jess and myself that I was sane and well behaved.

  When I got out at the garage Ronnie appeared at the office door immediately, as if he’d been waiting for me. I noticed again how small he was, then forgot it at once as he came closer. There was that smile and a handshake and I was hooked once more. A boy had died and I was a suspect in a murder inquiry but none of that mattered because a middle-aged man seemed to find me attractive. And at that moment I didn’t even see anything wrong with it. I was an addict who’d had another hit.

  It didn’t occur to me then to wonder why he was at the garage in the first place. It was less than a week since his stepson had been stabbed. Even if he didn’t care about Thomas, shouldn’t he have been at home comforting his wife? All I could think of then was that I wanted to touch him again. I wanted to slide my hand from the back of his fingers to his wrist, then up the sleeve of his jacket, stroking the fine hair against the way it was lying. Which was sick, of course. He was a married man, old enough to be my father. But there was something about him which provoked that reaction. I would see it again with other women. Despite his apparent shyness, he had an energy which was contagious, which made the people who were with him feel more alive too. You could see it in the way he moved. He had a controlled power. You must have seen those slow-motion wildlife films on the telly, of wild cats moving across grassland. That’s what he made me think of. He had a great body. Anyone would have been impressed by it. And I tell myself now that I was vulnerable, under stress, in need of comfort and reassurance.

  He was speaking. ‘I’ve already had one offer.’

  I must have looked blank, stupid.

  ‘For the car. I couldn’t take it, of course. Not after having promised it to you.’

  ‘Oh.’ I managed a grin. ‘Right.’

  ‘You are still interested?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I can take you out for a test drive if you like.’

  I looked over to the office. I had supposed he must have someone else working for him. The garage was surely too big to run single-handed.

  ‘I’m on my own this afternoon,’ he said, as if he guessed my thoughts. It still didn’t tell me how many people worked for him. ‘It doesn’t matter, though. I’ll just lock up. To be honest, my heart’s not really into selling today. There’s been a death in the family.’ He looked out across the busy dual carriageway as if he were lost in thought.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I stepped back and tried to put a bit of distance between him and me so I could think more clearly. ‘Look, I can always come back. There’s no rush. If you’d just prefer to go home . . .’

  ‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘I couldn’t face that either. I’m better off here. I need to keep busy. It doesn’t do to brood.’

  ‘Was it someone close?’

  For a moment I could almost believe I didn’t know. I suppose that’s what acting’s all about. You have to believe yourself into the part. Perhaps that’s where Dan goes wrong. I turned to listen to Ronnie, but a lorry rattling down the coast road blanked out his answer.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘My stepson,’ he said. ‘He was murdered. We weren’t as close as I would have liked, but he didn’t deserve that. He was only nineteen.’

  I wanted to tell him that I’d found the body and that I’d known Thomas’s natural father. It would have been something to connect us and a good story. But I didn’t. Some impulse for self-preservation stopped me. The same impulse which made me refuse when Ronnie offered to drop me home after the test drive.

  ‘If your dad wants to go,’ he said, ‘we can drive you all the way home in this. It’ll give you a real feel for the car.’

  The thought of Ray as my dad entertained me for a moment. I couldn’t really imagine that he’d had a fling with a gypsy when he’d been a young man. But perhaps he had hidden depths. I didn’t explain our relationship to Ronnie, though. The less he knew about me the better.

  ‘Nah,’ I said. ‘I can’t be that long. He’ll not mind and besides he’ll want to check it out before I part with my money.’

  I explained to Ray what was happening and he settled down for the afternoon with his Ramblers’ Association newsletter and his yowly music. If he resented not going back to work he didn’t show it.

  It was strange to be driving again. I’d always loved it. It had come naturally to me. Something about the way the hands and the feet and the eyes all work together. It had been a symbol too of my new respectability because I’d done it properly. I paid for driving lessons from my first wages, bought a car from a mate of Jess’s after having asked the RAC to report on it, got it an MOT and a tax disc before taking it onto the road. The kids from the home would have been horrified. Most of them had been driving since they were ten. That first car had taken me all over the county, places I’d only heard people talk about. On days off I’d go exploring, north as far as Berwick, inland to Wooler and Rothbury. A stomp along an empty beach or over the hill, then afternoon tea in a little caff. Brilliant.

  I pulled out of Ronnie’s garage and drove east towards the coast, thinking too hard at first about the gear changes, fumbling for the indicator though he’d told me where to find it. Soon it was coming automatically, no thought needed. He was right. It was a nice little car.

  I hadn’t intended to go very far, but we hit the end of the dual carriageway before I’d realized. There was a view of the sea, the wind blowing the waves into white spray and the spire of the big church on the front at Cullercoats. I remembered going to a carol concert there one Christmas with my primary school choir. Ronnie and I hadn’t spoken all the way.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to come so far. I got carried away. I’ll take us back now.’

  ‘It’s a shame about your dad.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A day like this. You just feel like driving,’ he continued. His voice was suddenly angry, mirroring my thoughts and memories in a way that scared me. ‘I mean out of the town. Away from all these people.’

  ‘Yours is a strange business to be in,’ I said, ‘if you like open spaces. Didn’t you ever want to do anything else? Live somewhere else?’

  ‘I’ve responsibilities. A family to support. And I’m a countryman at heart. Country people need cars more than people who live in towns.’

  I didn’t know what to say, so I indicated at the roundabout to show I wanted to go back towards the city. He must have realized how intense he sounded, because he snapped suddenly back into salesman mode. ‘You drive very well.’

  ‘For a woman?’ I wanted to lighten the mood too.

  ‘I didn’t say that. Most of the best drivers I know are women.’ He paused. ‘Why haven’t you got a car now? Accident?’


  ‘Nah,’ I said. I was pleased that the conversation had taken a less threatening turn. ‘Nothing like that. I’ve been abroad for a while. That’s all.’

  ‘You’re very lucky. I’ve always wanted to travel. I managed a bit when I was younger. Now it’s not so easy. Where did you go?’

  ‘Morocco.’

  ‘Really? A friend of mine said Morocco was his favourite place and he’d been all over. You might have heard of him. The gardener. Philip Samson.’

  I was too shocked to say anything. At the time I couldn’t take in the implication that Philip’s world and Thomas’s had met through Ronnie Laing. All I felt was another stab of loss.

  Chapter Twenty

  My first solo trip in the car was back to Wintrylaw. It was a compulsion. Something I’d been planning at the back of my mind since the interview with Farrier. My memory of Philip’s funeral glittered, sharp and hard-edged as cut glass. I remembered the silhouette of Dickon wading out from the empty beach towards the horizon, Joanna’s foot on the spade in the churchyard, Stuart Howdon’s face as he mouthed the words of unfamiliar hymns in the little dusty church. But according to Farrier my memory was unreliable, tricked by the chemicals in the brain. I needed to check that the details of the place were as I imagined them, that the wild flowers in the wood, the house with the slate roof tiles and tall chimneys weren’t a fiction I’d created.

  I decided to take a picnic. That seemed enough to keep Jess off my back. Perhaps she thought a woman who took the trouble to make a pile of cheese and pickle sandwiches was unlikely to get into mischief. I couldn’t see the logic myself, but it convinced her.

  ‘Will you be back for your tea?’ she asked. She was expecting Ray for the afternoon and I thought the question wasn’t prompted so much by concern for me but because she wanted to know how long they’d have on their own together.

  ‘No.’ I was feeling generous. ‘I’ll stop on the coast somewhere. That place in Amble maybe. Get some fish and chips.’

  I hadn’t told her I was intending to go back to Wintrylaw, but she must have had some last-minute premonition that this wasn’t just a day out because she shouted after me when I was halfway across the yard, ‘Just take care.’ Guilty, perhaps, because she’d put her enjoyment ahead of my safety for once.

  It was a Saturday. The weather still and hot again, like the day of Philip’s funeral, and it was probably the sunshine which had prompted me to make the trip. I couldn’t expect Wintrylaw to match up to my memory in mist or rain. I’d started off in jeans and T-shirt but just before leaving went upstairs and changed into the white dress. It was loose around my hips and I thought I must have lost a little weight. It’s good for the figure, being the suspect in a murder inquiry.

  I wanted to find the back road into the estate, to take the secret, unused track between the stone pillars and through the wood. Ray would have pointed out the spot on the map but he still hadn’t arrived and once the picnic was packed I wanted to be off. The map wouldn’t mean much to me and I thought once I was in the area I’d recognize the landmarks – the overgrown hawthorn hedges and the way the trees came right down to the lane.

  In the event I must have approached the house from a completely different direction. I suppose it was the road along which Howdon had driven me to Morpeth, but we’d gone so quickly then that I’d not taken in any features of the countryside. And on that day the route had been deserted; all the other mourners had left before us. Today, the lane was packed with traffic, all moving slowly in the same direction. I followed a silver Range Rover, then turned a corner and had to brake sharply behind it and a queue of cars. There was nothing to do but wait and inch forward with the flow. None of the other drivers showed any curiosity about the hold-up. There was no resentment. No blaring of horns. Almost there was a carnival atmosphere. From my wound-down window I heard distant music. In the Range Rover two little girls were strapped in the back. They turned to wave down at me. They had pink ribbons in their hair and sparkly make-up. Even they seemed resigned to wait patiently for the traffic to clear.

  Eventually the cars began to move. We turned another corner and there was a view of the house, caught in full sunlight, framed on one side by the church and on the other by trees. In my memory I always saw it from another angle, but it was the same place. A little shabbier and not quite so grand perhaps, but don’t we always enhance the pictures in our heads over time? There was no fiction, here at least. I could see now what had caused the queue: all the cars were turning into the drive and at the gate stopped to pay an entrance fee. Wintrylaw was hosting some sort of event or open day. At least it provided an excuse for my being there and wandering around the grounds. It couldn’t have worked out better.

  As I approached the gate myself I realized it was the church’s summer fair. A notice painted onto a piece of tarpaulin and strung across the drive explained it. In aid of St Bede’s roof repair. £5.00 per vehicle. The woman collecting the money apologized for the steepness of the entrance fee. ‘We were hoping to encourage car sharing. Joanna’s idea. Philip was a great environmentalist. And it does include tea.’

  She had cropped grey hair and was wearing a loose jacket of velvet patchwork, strangely exotic for the occasion. Her voice was familiar. I thought she was the elderly woman I’d heard discussing Philip’s Cornish garden at the funeral. I drove on and was waved into a parking space by a teenage lad with a scowl and acne. He had a power complex and made me reverse and come in again close to the neighbouring car. So close that I had to squeeze out, holding the edge of my door. I didn’t want chipped paint this soon. There was an immediate smell of crushed grass which took me back to school sports days and the Newcastle Hoppings, so I forgot the hassle with the teenage lad and felt like a kid again.

  In Newbiggin, St Bartholomew’s has a summer fair. They hold it in the primary school hall. There’s a ten-pence entrance fee and the Brownies run a lucky dip with sweeties and pencils and lollipops as prizes. The other stalls play a variation on the theme of jumble – white elephant, bric-a`-brac, toys and books. The Mothers’ Union provides tea in plastic cups and fairy cakes with thick white icing and hundreds and thousands. I get dragged along by Jess because one of her Asda friends is Brown Owl. They’re pleased if they make fifty quid.

  This summer fair was in a different class. I stood for a moment to get my bearings and wondered if my mind was playing tricks after all. It was as if I’d wandered into one of those bizarre, dreamlike television ads which win all the media prizes. A sinister white-faced man walked past on stilts. A woman in a leotard and a bowler hat rode a mono-cycle down the drive. The theme for the event was circus and everyone had bought into it. The two little girls from the Range Rover were dressed in pink tutus and spangled tights. They walked away from me, hand in hand with their mother, who had a boa of pink feathers. The boy with acne wore clown’s trousers and braces. Everywhere there were acrobats and lion tamers and ringmasters. I turned slowly, letting my skirt spin out, taking it all in, impressed by the grandiose folly of it, by the effort which had gone into creating the spectacle.

  Of course there were stalls. This was all about raising money. But they were decorated with bunting and they sold homemade sweets, plants and paintings. This was a classy craft market with street theatre thrown in. I wondered briefly if Dan was here, in one of his disguises. It would be his sort of thing. Beside me a band began to play. They were of all ages and wore red waistcoats and red bow ties and played that rumpy-tumpy, brassy music you get on a fairground. I would have been glad to see Dan. Now I was here I wasn’t sure what I hoped to achieve, and the music and the costumes were disturbing and left me disconnected. The cars kept coming and the crowds were getting thicker. I walked past the stalls at random, picking up objects every now and again to appear interested, and to stave off the panic. There was a milk jug with a blue luminous glaze which I’d have liked to buy for Jess but I’d spent so much to get in that I couldn’t afford it.

  They were serving teas
in a large striped tent shaped like a big top. I was making my way towards it, thinking I would have my free tea then escape, when I came to a stall run by the Countryside Consortium. They weren’t selling anything, but they were handing out leaflets, car stickers and helium-filled balloons with SAVE OUR COUNTRYSIDE in big black letters. And they were recruiting members. That seemed to be their main pitch. They were doing a roaring trade too. While I waited, three people filled out forms and cheques. I watched from a distance for a while. It was possible that Ronnie was there. Perhaps he had first met Philip at an event like this. Apart from an interest in country affairs, I found it hard to think what else they might have had in common. The thought of bumping into him again made my heart race. I told myself it was ridiculous, but it did no good.

  After circling for a quarter of an hour I sauntered over. I didn’t think Ronnie was manning the stand, but it was hard to be sure. The Consortium workers all wore animal masks – shaped-paper cutouts held on by elastic which hid the tops of their faces except for their eyes. A bear peeled away from his position at the back of the table and came to stand beside me. I pretended not to notice him and studied a leaflet about the importance of field sports to the traditional English countryside.

  ‘Can I help you with anything?’ The voice was young, well educated. I turned and looked at him. He wore khaki shorts and a white polo shirt. Sandy hair was caught up in the thin elastic of the mask, but I couldn’t get any impression of the shape of his face. His eyes were brown. I didn’t think I’d know him again. Pinned to the shirt was a green badge – Marcus Tate, Volunteer. Marcus had shared a house with Thomas in Seaton Delaval. He’d worked for the Consortium during his gap year; now he was back, helping out. Filling a space left by Thomas? If he hadn’t been murdered, would Thomas have been here, working in the house where his father had lived?