The Unquiet Dead (25 page)

Jessie peered through the plain pane of glass and saw a kettle softly exhale a curling line of steam. The sink was full of dirty plates; on the sideboard were half-eaten tins of beans and congealing Pot Noodles. Mr Romano was at home. Jessie looked at her watch.

‘He’ll be here,’ said Niaz.

She waited until Burrows came into view before knocking on the door. The man who opened it bore no resemblance to the well-groomed individual they’d questioned a couple of days earlier. Without saying a word, Mr Romano retreated to the sitting room.

A quick glance through one of the open doors revealed his bedroom to be in a similar state to the kitchen.

Burrows whispered, ‘Doesn’t look as though he’s ventured out since we were last here.’

‘Couldn’t be a guilty conscience, could it?’

‘Boss, he’s spent years looking for a man who’s been dead all that time. So long as he was searching,
he never had to come to terms with the death of his son. He’s had to do fourteen years of mourning in a matter of days. Go easy on him, okay?’

Mr Romano was seated on the edge of the sofa. At his feet were strewn empty beer cans. He did not look up when they entered the room.

‘Mr Romano, do the names Glen Thorpe, David Peart or Malcolm Hoare mean anything to you?’

Nothing in his body language changed. ‘Huh?’

Niaz shook his head.

‘What about Peter Boateng?’

With a jolt, he straightened up. ‘Toe-rag. Always getting into trouble. Always getting my boy into trouble.’

‘Was that why you went to talk to him at the baths?’

His eyes looked around the room nervously. ‘He had to have something to do with it. Jonny loved Pete. He would have done anything that Pete told him. I don’t know how that boy had such a hold on my son. Those African types, they do voodoo and stuff, you know.’

‘Mr Romano, did you have any specific reason not to like Peter Boateng, other than the colour of his skin?’

‘They’re all the same.’

‘Who are all the same?’

He looked to Burrows for support and found none. He slumped back down.

‘Jonny would never have taken drugs if it hadn’t been for that –’ he rubbed his forehead with the
heel of his hand – ‘Bastard.’ The last word was whispered under his breath.

‘Peter Boateng says he doesn’t remember Ian Doyle now.’

‘I cannot forget him so easily.’ He tapped his temple. ‘He is always here!’

‘But you never saw him there, did you?’

‘I’ve seen him,’ said Mr Romano. ‘I’ve seen him. He comes back to taunt me, because he knows he got away with it. Read my notebooks – you’ll see, you’ll see where he’s been.’

‘Perhaps you’re right, Mr Romano. I know I told you that Ian Doyle was dead, but I believe the body we found is not Doyle,’ said Jessie, treading cautiously.

‘I told you!’ he said triumphantly. ‘He’s not dead. Not yet. I’ll kill him. It’s him or me.’

‘You think he killed your son because of what Peter Boateng told you?’

‘The Boatengs were a foul-smelling –’

‘Mr Romano,’ warned Jessie. ‘I think that Peter Boateng was a scared boy. He was in trouble, so he made the drug dealer up.’

The man on the sofa winced. ‘No. I saw him, they were talking.’

‘When?’ asked Jessie, surprised.

‘You can’t trust him,’ said Mr Romano, frowning. ‘He’ll twist things. Confuse you.’

‘When did you see them talking?’ She placed herself in front of him.

‘It’s a bit of a muddle now. It’s all in the note-
books.’ He turned to the dresser. Once again Jessie declined the offer; she couldn’t face wading through the ramblings of an increasingly deranged mind. She was more interested in this new piece of information.

‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’ Jessie felt a hand on her arm. Burrows signalled to her to back off. The man had started to shake.

‘Okay, Mr Romano. What about your wife? When did you tell
her
about Ian Doyle?’

‘She knew straight away. She was mad with rage. She wanted to kill him, but I talked her out of it. At that time we didn’t know for sure that he’d done it.’

Niaz and Jessie exchanged looks. ‘That he’d given Jonny the drugs?’

Mr Romano nodded.

‘But what if he didn’t give your son the drugs?’

‘But he did!’ he shouted.

‘Okay, Mr Romano, let’s concentrate on your wife.’

‘Ex-wife.’ Tears sprang to his eyes. ‘She left us a fridge full of food and a note. Everything I’ve eaten since has tasted bad … except my tomatoes. They remind me of her.’

‘Us? Who’s “us”?’

‘Me and Jonny – I know he’s dead, but sometimes I can feel him right here, sitting next to me. How could I leave here, how could I leave him here alone?’

‘Why did she walk out on you?’

‘She said she wanted to escape the memories. But you can’t escape the memories, can you?’

‘Where did she go?’

‘I don’t know. But I’d have her back. I still love her. There hasn’t been anyone else. No room for anyone else.’ He put his hand to his heart.

‘Do you ever hear from your ex-wife?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know where she went?’

‘No.’

‘Have you still got her note?’

‘No.’

‘She’s never been back?’

Pause. ‘No.’ He was sobbing now. ‘I try to think of her in Spain,’ said Mr Romano, his shoulders heaving. ‘She always liked Spain. She liked to feel the sun on her bones. She liked tomatoes, too.’

Jessie moved away. It was never easy to see a grown man cry. Burrows went to comfort him, but Jessie had her doubts.

‘One last question, Mr Romano. You said your wife wanted to kill Doyle. Is it possible she did?’

‘No,’ said Mr Romano.

‘How can you be sure of that?’

He tapped his chest. ‘Because he’s still alive. I can feel it.’

The following morning Burrows drove Jessie and Niaz down the cobbled road towards the rectory for the second time. Sister Beatrice opened the door and welcomed them before they’d had a chance to ring the bell.

‘Don’t worry,’ she smiled, ‘the dog’s in the back. And the kettle’s on.’

Tentatively Jessie pushed open the door to Father Forrester’s office. He was precariously balanced on a ladder, reaching for a book on the top shelf.

‘Let me do that,’ said Burrows, rushing forward, ever the decent one.

Jessie held him back. ‘No, Burrows, let me. Perhaps you should offer Sister Beatrice your help in the kitchen.’

‘Niaz is –’

‘Please.’

Jessie helped Father Forrester down the ladder. She took his hand and was surprised to find a
feeling of calm sweep over her as she settled him into the chair.

‘I’d like to accept your offer of help, Father Forrester.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I gather Mary went to visit you.’

‘Actually, this isn’t about that. I was hoping you could talk to a colleague of mine. I believe you know him – DCI Jones. He isn’t handling retirement well. Says he’s haunted by the victims of the murders he investigated.’

‘Of course I can go and see him. He’s a fine man.’

‘Funny, he said the same about you.’

‘You didn’t have to come all this way to ask me to do that, Detective. Is there anything else on your mind?’

So many things, she didn’t know where to begin. ‘Marshall Street Baths,’ she said finally. ‘Mary tells me you’ve been approached by prospective developers.’

‘A whole series of developers,’ said Father Forrester. ‘They’ve been experiencing troubles in that place for some time.’

‘What kind of troubles?’

‘Well, often it’s just a sense of foreboding, as we have discussed. In the case of Marshall Street Baths, one poor builder was chased down the corridor by an empty gas cylinder.’

Jessie laughed nervously.

‘That’s just one of a number of unexplained phenomena to have occurred on that site.
Unfortunately the developers keep changing. I hadn’t actually been in until the day I met you, and that wasn’t long enough.’

‘I spoke to the council, they were unable to recall enlisting your help.’

‘They wouldn’t, would they? Calling in a Christian Sensitive to perform a ritual that was nearly banned by Parliament until the Bishop of Canterbury stepped in is a political hot potato in this multi-ethnic society. Sometimes I am asked to go into a place without my dog collar and robes in order to draw less attention to what is taking place. I refuse point blank. Would you go into battle with your enemy unarmed? Of course not. Nor would I.’

‘What happens when you do go in?’

‘It is the atmosphere of a place that often defines the nature of the psychic entity; that would be the first thing to concentrate on.’ He rubbed his hand over his chin. ‘You could take me back there, see what we could discover …’

‘I don’t think so. I can’t do that.’

‘Well then, tell me what has happened to you while you’ve been there.’

‘What makes you think something has happened to me?’

He gave her a penetrating look then his focus wandered to over her left shoulder.

‘Well, okay, like what?’ asked Jessie, unnerved.

‘Maybe there’s been a bad smell. Or a particular smell that doesn’t suit the surroundings.’

‘Yes, a bad smell,’ said Burrows, returning from the kitchen with Niaz.

‘Hmm,’ said the vicar.

‘The sewage backs up when it rains,’ said Jessie. ‘Of course it smells. And it’s cold too, just in case that’s another sign.’

‘Temperature rarely drops when a place is infested with an earthbound spirit. That is one of the most common mistakes made by those dreadful movie people. Occasionally you may feel as if you’re standing in cement and are rooted to the spot, but rarely would you get cold or shivery.’

‘Good to know,’ said Jessie.

‘The best way to gauge the presence of a psychic entity, however, is the effect on the mood of people within the place. Have there been any arguments, a combative mood while in the building?’

‘No more than usual,’ said Burrows, laughing.

Jessie didn’t reply. Burrows hadn’t seen her hit Mark. No one had.

‘Detective Inspector?’

It was hard to lie to a man of God, whatever her beliefs. Jessie tried to look thoughtful.

‘It can often leave a lasting impression, even though you’ve moved away from the source. I certainly got the impression that the caretaker was feeling oppressed.’

‘He’s mentally unstable,’ said Jessie, on safer ground. ‘He had a terrible breakdown and has been on medication for years.’

‘So the drugs aren’t working,’ said Father
Forrester knowingly. ‘There is a strong parallel between psychic infestation and mental illness. A maligned spirit will usually contaminate a weak person. By weak, I mean already depressed, someone who is guilty of some misdemeanour, or simply a person who has fallen away from their faith.’

‘He hears voices,’ said Niaz.

‘Aren’t you two supposed to be helping Sister Beatrice?’

Niaz grinned.

‘Don hears voices for a very good reason,’ said Jessie. ‘A boy drowned under his care.’

‘And you think
that
was what he meant when he said those strange words in the baths?’

He drowned. It was an accident
. ‘Yes.’

‘I have seen cases of schizophrenia where psychiatric assistance has offered no reprieve. Spiritual guidance, however, has borne some relief. These are the few cases where the tormented man or woman is suffering from genuine psychic attacks.’

‘He’s mentally ill,’ said Jessie. ‘Brought on by stress – which, as I’m sure you’re aware, is as responsible for mental breakdowns as biochemical disturbances of the brain.’

Father Forrester leant back in his chair. ‘So you haven’t felt it then, this feeling of oppression?’

She blamed it on the increasing pressure between her and Mark. She blamed it on the insult. She blamed it on the proverbial last straw. She blamed it on P.J. She blamed it on herself. She would not blame it on an angry ghost. She shook her head.

‘Very well, what about problems with the water supply, or the electrics?’ asked Father Forrester.

‘Yes on both counts –’ said Burrows.

‘No,’ said Jessie, cutting him off. ‘We’ve had a problem with water
in
the electrics when it rains, but the whole building leaks, so it really isn’t surprising.’

‘But the engineers –’

‘
Thank you
, Niaz. I checked with the engineers, and there isn’t a problem with the electrics until it rains. What they haven’t yet discovered is why, but they’re still working on it.’

‘Perhaps it was raining when the man was murdered,’ said the vicar. ‘Perhaps rain is the trigger.’

Jessie knew for a fact it had rained because the Met Office had confirmed that the rain started at 14.32 on the afternoon of February 23rd and had barely let up for three days. But that was hardly surprising. ‘It was February, in England – of course it was raining. Father Forrester, you’ve not yet convinced me that dark forces are at work here.’