D. I. Ghost: A Detective Inspector Ghost Murder Investigation Read online

  D. I. GHOST

  By

  LAUREN WHITE

  A Detective Inspector Ghost Murder Investigation

  Published by Tizz Publishing

  ISBN: 978-0-9930187-0-1

  D.I. Ghost©copyright Lauren White

  http://detectiveinspectorghost.blogspot.co.uk

  Tizz Publishing:

  http://TizzPublishing.blogspot.co.uk

  [email protected]

  With thanks to: Lesley Dixon, Roman Ryczkowycz, Thecla Geraghty, and Laetitia Rutherford.

  For sisters and friends, dead and alive.

  Other books by this author:

  The Chalk Cliffs.

  http://thechalkcliffsbylaurenwhite.blogspot.co.uk

  Mirror, mirror...This is a modern fairy story as disturbing, enchanting, and humorous as any of the traditional ones we all know. Set in the recession of the 1980’s a desperate young couple take their two daughters away on holiday with the intention of killing them. It is an act that flies in the face of everything they have done to nurture them, and they believe they are motivated by love, but over the course of a week they are forced to confront every assumption they have made about themselves, and each other. Damaged by the past and driven to breaking point, they have made a pact, but do they both want to go through with it, or does one of them have more influence, than the other. Some experiences are so traumatic, they cannot be resolved in one lifetime, but are passed on to the next generation. Seen through the eyes of the two girls, ultimately, this is a story about the nature of survival, the fragility of adulthood, the power of family relationships, and most of all, a child’s determination to live.

  SUMMER

  I love to lie like this beside my sister watching her breathe. Why she fascinates me so much, I'm not sure. It must be because she’s my mirror image. I look into her face and my sense of being quickens. Her olive-coloured skin, her brown eyes with mustard flecks, her thin fluted nose and burnt berry jam lips, so precisely replicate my own, my existence is confirmed by them. We are lying on our sides in the foetal position, facing each other. This is how we shared our mother's womb. We are indistinguishable but for one thing, my sister has a tiny cross on her forehead from the time, when as a small child, she fell and smashed her head against her bike. She needed three stitches and unbelievable to us both back then, I didn’t. It was the first warning we had that looking the same would be no guarantee of life treating us the same.

  I brush a silky black strand of hair away from her eyes. She’s asleep but I feel it tickling for her.

  You should leave him, I whisper in her ear.

  I’ve been telling her this since the day before yesterday when she packed ten years of married life and motherhood into half a dozen suitcases, only to change her mind at the last minute. He - the creep - rewarded her loyalty by not coming home from work, until the early hours, and by the looks of it, he will do even better tonight. He has been keeping this up forever. He never explains where he’s been. Poor Carrie thinks he’s having an affair.

  Why didn't you go through with it? When she is awake she does nothing but cry. You worry me, Carrie. You really worry me.

  She should never have married him. This was our mother's mantra right up until the day she died and she was right. It was such an absurdly old fashioned thing to do; getting married at only eighteen because she was pregnant. She has been giving birth to baby boys ever since – three of them – while I went to university without her, joined the police force and, during those same ten years, worked my way up the ranks to Detective Inspector. By some miracle we stayed close. An identical twin is unavoidable. I can feel Carrie in my own soul. I know what she is thinking without her telling me. She is the same. That's the whole point of me lying here talking to her in her sleep. I know she'll be able to hear what I’m saying. Whether she will find the courage to act upon it is another matter.

  There's a faint clicking sound downstairs. I lift my head from the pillow. He’s back. That was his key in the front door. Sensing my withdrawal, Carrie rolls over away from me, breaking the symmetry of us. I ease myself off the bed to go out onto the landing to listen. He’s gone straight to the kitchen. As I descend the stairs, I can see him by the light from the open fridge. His face is grimy. He can't have been fixing a car until this hour. Why would he bother? He employs five mechanics in that garage.

  What time do you call this? She’s been worried sick – as usual. Why didn't you phone?

  He ignores me as he stands there picking at the chicken carcass on the top shelf of the fridge.

  That's for the kids sandwiches, tomorrow.

  He closes the door, but not before he’s grabbed a bottle of beer. He caps this with his teeth. One of those tricks we used to think was clever in our teens. His only claim to fame, opening beer bottles with his teeth. What a loser. Swigging it down in one, he burps, loudly. Something else we thought endearing back then. Now, we have to warn the boys not to copy him.

  Despite his disgusting habits, he’s in good shape, Phil, good looking even, or he would be if the world were in black and white. In colour, there's something not quite healthy about him but you have to look past the blue eyes, wheat blonde hair, firm jaw, and fine boned nose to notice it. It takes practice. His handsomeness beguiles. By the time you find him out, it is almost too late.

  He walks out of the kitchen and climbs the stairs two at a time, his long skinny legs racing each other, not out of eagerness but for the exercise. He likes to keep fit does the creep. Fit for nothing.

  Don't go waking her up. She’s only just got off.

  Two seconds later, I know he hasn't taken my advice. I can hear Carrie crying and accusing but in a pleading, wheedling way because, although she refuses to admit this to me, she is frightened of him.

  I don't have to answer to you, or anyone else, he yells at her.

  Pack it in the pair of you, I mutter. You’ll wake the kids. You can discuss this in the morning.

  Caleb, my youngest nephew, is already out of bed. I can hear him padding across the floor. I don't want him to see this. It will only upset him. He doesn't understand why his parents row all the time. Their disappointment in each other is as passionate and selfish as sex. Lust, rather than love, turned sour. It crackles like static above the murmur of the city night.

  I rush upstairs and slam their bedroom door shut to bring them to their senses and keep Caleb out. The noise shudders through the house.

  What the hell did that?

  Phil sounds startled. He pushes the door ajar to glower across the landing but I've retreated into the shadows where he can't see me.

  The wind must have caught it, Carrie hurriedly reassures him. She doesn’t want him to blame me. She knows I wouldn’t tolerate him having a go at me, the way he does with her.

  What wind? There is no wind, he growls. Loud enough to wake the dead, that was.

  My sister shrugs. But, not the boys, luckily. Come on, Phil, let's get to bed. We can discuss this in the morning.

  Caleb is standing in the open doorway of his room, listening. I hold out my hand to him and he runs towards me, his gait lopsided, lurching slightly, in the uncoordinated way a three-year-old has.

  Back to bed, Caleb.

  I lead him inside his room, pop him under his covers, and sing him his duck song. He made this up himself several weeks ago. It is just a lot of quacks to the tune of London's Burning really but it seems to soothe him. He is asleep in seconds.

  What time is it, Auntie Kate?

  Jethro, his older brother, is awake on the top deck of their red, London, double-decker bus b
unk beds. He has only recently learned to tell the time and he is obsessed with it, as though time itself were something meaningful.

  Time you were asleep, young man.

  He makes a face. Caleb is snoring his head off so I wedge myself between the bunks and the wall, where I can peer over Jethro’s pillow and chat to him. I wouldn't admit this to my sister but he’s my favourite nephew - only because six is a more interesting age than three and nine with boys, or so I tell myself to assuage my guilt for having a preference. Caleb is cute but he has the attention span of a gnat. And, Sam, who has his own room across the landing, has caught football fever already. Jethro has more space inside him somehow. He is a true philosopher. He runs deeper than imagination. He is the one I feel closest to.

  Who's the lady downstairs, Auntie Kate?

  What lady?

  She sits in the rocker while I'm doing my piano practice.

  The sweetness of his face moves me. He is going to be a heart breaker this child. I know that handsomeness doesn't always follow the milky skinned innocence of youth but Jethro has the kind of beautiful bones which will deliver a promise made. His eyes, chocolate pools in the half glow of the night light, are alert. I can tell he believes what he’s just told me. I'm not sure what to say to him about it though. He’s a bit old for imaginary friends, isn’t he? Or did I awaken him from a dream when I put his brother back to bed?

  What does she look like?

  He considers this. Blonde, pretty, except for her eyes.

  What's wrong with her eyes?

  They're sort of glassy.

  The word, hallucination, bounds unwanted into my mind. Does she bother you? Do you want me to talk to her? I could tell her to go away, if you like.

  Can you see her too?

  I don't want to commit myself, one way or the other. I'm not sure. I'll take a look the next time you're practising. Okay?

  My relief at finding a full stop to this conversation soon breeds more anxiety. I wrestle with myself. It is no good. I am going to have to ask him. I've protected Carrie ever since she was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the world seven and a half minutes after me.

  Have you told Mummy about this?

  He shakes his head, his black fringe flopping over his eyes. It needs cutting.

  Best not to for now, I advise him. She has...She is a bit preoccupied with... well, you know, with mummy stuff.

  Which is probably the reason for all this, I decide. Yes, of course, that’s it. Why didn't I realise it sooner? Jethro is feeling neglected. He’s not getting enough attention from his warring parents so he has invented this woman who listens to him while he does his piano practice.

  She must really like listening to you play. I know I do, I lie.

  But who is she?

  Ignoring the urgency in his voice, I shrug, playfully. A big fan of yours, obviously.

  He smiles. The crooked grin of his father but I never hold this against him.

  That's better. Now, go to sleep. You've got school in the morning, young man, I chide, pressing my lips to his forehead.

  I sit in the same rocking chair as Jethro's glassy-eyed lady. How worried should I be about this? He doesn’t seem to be upset in any other way. Not that I've noticed. But, he is the middle child. People say they get missed.

  I sense Carrie standing beside me without having to look up at her.

  Can’t you sleep?

  She answers me by going to the curtains and opening them. It’s morning - watery beads of light spill into the room. I liked it better in darkness. I told her not to paint the walls this colour. Only trees look good in green. She calls this the family room because it is filled with comfort furniture. These are the old friends she inherited from our mother. The survivors of so many fights and spillages of hers and mine, the odd scratch and stain the boys manage to contribute doesn't much matter. A generous use of throws has replaced the worn dignity of their ancient admiral blue with yet another shade of yucky green.

  We have to talk, Carrie. Are the kids still in bed?

  I turn to listen for myself. The house is quiet.

  She sits on the sofa, opposite me, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging them to her. She is wearing my red plaid pyjamas. I don't mind but she should have asked me. She'd have a fit if I commandeered something of hers without mentioning it first. Her face is puffy. She has been crying again.

  I'm concerned about, Jethro. He’s invented a woman to listen to him play the piano. This can't go on, you know. You have to do something.

  She sighs, deeply. She understands where this is heading. I'm offering her another reason why she should leave Phil.

  I wish I had your strength, Kate.

  I say nothing. I'm too angry. She’s staying put. Not even the effect this is having on the boys makes a difference to her. I shall have to go on watching her fade from her life in silence. She’s a good act, Carrie. During most of her marriage, her definition of pride has been pretence. It is no wonder she has a Green Room.

  I can't leave him. You do see that, don't you? Not now. I'm not even sure I can...go on...not without ...She starts to sob.

  For God's sake, Carrie, I can't bear it. What would you have me do?

  She cries harder.

  Okay, okay. You win. I'll investigate what he’s up to before putting any more pressure on you to leave him but it might be nothing, you know. You might have to find the resolve to move on without the excuse of him having an affair. I promise you I'll dig around though. I'll go to his garage and I’ll try to discover why he is coming home so late.

  It’s the funeral tomorrow, isn't it?

  I spin around. It is him. Did he hear me? No, he can't have. He hasn't even glanced in my direction. I'll say this for him. He looks better on hardly any sleep than I feel.

  I'm not sure I can face it, Phil. I can't believe...It doesn't seem real. I can’t ...Carrie splutters the rest of the sentence into her hanky.

  I get up from the chair. I've had enough of her gloominess. She can't leave him but she is miserable as hell with him. What sense does that make?

  I'm going to get the kids their breakfast, I call over my shoulder to her.

  Sam is already up. He’s filling a bowl with cornflakes. He acts like I'm not here. It is the age, I tell myself: nine, going on plain rude.

  Look at that!

  I glance back through the open doorway into the room I’ve just left. My brother-in-law is staring at the rocking chair in astonishment.

  It’s moving by itself.

  I roll my eyes to the ceiling. What is it with this family and that chair?

  What does it mean, Auntie Kate?

  Oh, you're up too, Jethro. Good, it saves me coming to wake you. It means your dad's brain is still asleep. I was sitting there. That’s why it is moving.

  He is standing transfixed by the front door, pouring over a photograph in the newspaper he has picked up off the mat.

  I go to take a look. She is missing, I read aloud over his shoulder.

  Missing?

  Mistake! I’ve been an aunt long enough to know that one careless little word like that can develop into an epidemic of sleepless nights and nightmares. I need to back pedal, and rapidly.

  She'll turn up. She probably has already. There's no need to worry.

  But, what does it mean?

  Mean? What's he going on about?

  Come on Jethro the time's getting on and you haven't had any breakfast yet. You don't want to be late for school, do you, I nag to change the subject.

  He is still glued to the spot staring at the photograph.

  But, it is the same lady who listens to me practising, Auntie Kate. The one with the glassy eyes.

  My sister's house is an Edwardian semi situated on a wide, tree-lined avenue, which flows between a parade of commuter shops and a major roundabout, on the way out of London towards Kent. It comes with traffic, accordingly, which makes its upstairs view of Blackheath affordable. A wreck when she and Phil first bought it,
they’ve had to render over the settlement cracks and then paint it bitter-chocolate to make it look half way decent. It is still Carrie’s private revenge over every raised eyebrow her rushed wedding provoked. It means to her that she has arrived - granted, via a different route than going to university as originally planned - but at least she’s visibly comfortably off. Her boorish young husband comes from a prosperous family and, as soon as his father retired from the garage, he took over the running of it, and later when he died, he inherited it.

  Carrie moves through this house like a ghost. It is a shock when I suddenly stumble upon her. It is as though she has materialised right in front of my eyes.

  I didn't realise you were in here. I thought you'd gone out. She has slipped into the room where I usually sleep when I stay over. Why are you dressed in black? You know it isn’t our colour.

  She doesn't answer me.

  There’s no need to be pissy with me. I followed him about all day, yesterday, but I didn't find anything. Not really. The business isn't in brilliant shape but that's only because he has taken out a loan on the premises. Did he mention that to you?

  Carrie is staring out of the window.

  There isn't any sign of another woman, not at work anyway. I checked his desk and his mobile, and there was nothing remotely suspicious about either. He’s a bit flirty with the female customers but that's probably good for business.

  She crosses the room to the door and leaves without speaking one word to me. What's wrong with her? I hate it when she’s like this.

  I think he’s just worried about keeping up the payments on that loan, I call after her. That's why he’s doing some of the mechanical work himself, at night. It has to be cheaper than employing another worker.

  When she doesn't return, I take up her position by the window. In the distance, I can see a paper dragon kite, brightly coloured, with a long thin tail, undulating on the air currents above Blackheath. I wouldn't have thought the wind was strong enough to get it airborne today. It is the first summery day we've had, though it is already half way through June. Where does the time go? The days bleed one into the other without me being able to keep track of them. I can no longer recall for how long my sister has been enveloped in this cloying sadness. I only know I'm sick of it. Her domestic situation is upsetting but resolvable so why is she bullying me with her ill humour? I haven't done anything to her; it’s not my fault her life is crap and mine isn’t. I wasn’t exactly born with a genetic advantage.