The Unquiet Dead (42 page)

They sat in a nearby cafe and ordered tea. Jessie sipped the hot drink and felt her bruised throat struggle with each swallow. It felt like the first symptoms of flu. She touched her neck gingerly with her fingertips. She now had plasters dotted all over her forearms, a face that looked like she’d stepped too close to a seventies sun-lamp, and now the mark of Mr Romano’s fingers embedded in her neck. And she’d still not had time to get a proper haircut.

‘I suspected he was hearing voices, but it didn’t occur to me it was Doyle’s voice he heard. That was brilliant deduction on your part. How did you work it out?’ asked Father Forrester.

‘Inspiration. Notebooks,’ said Jessie with difficultly. ‘Writing was,’ she swallowed, ‘different.’

‘Inspiration or divine intervention?’ said the ever-smiling Sister Beatrice.

Jessie shook her head.

‘It would have taken a cataclysmic event to split his personality like that,’ said Father Forrester.

He was right. Killing his son had not caused Mr Romano’s personality to split, it was killing his wife that brought about the seismic shift. Doyle had taken the blame for the first crime, so Doyle could take the blame for the second. Once again Mr Romano’s guilt got buried and Doyle became the guilty one. And as the blunt object came down on Mrs Romano’s head, Mr Romano became Ian Doyle.

The nun continued: ‘His actions have made him especially susceptible to demonic attacks.’

Jessie shook her head again, remembering the prayers and the sprinkled water. ‘You thought … exorcism would … cure him?’ she croaked.

Sister Beatrice chuckled. ‘Good heavens, no. Your Mr Romano is as mad as a fish. We didn’t think a person of restricted growth and an arthritically riddled old man made up much of an opponent. He certainly had you in a good grip, though. So we decided we’d put on a little performance. The “Holy water” you might have felt was Father Forrester’s tea. It did the trick – he let go.’

‘So convincing, he …’ Jessie made a diving motion.

‘Now, perhaps that was divine intervention,’ said the nun.

Jessie frowned. ‘That he …?’ She repeated the diving motion.

‘No, that there were eight well-built firemen ready to catch him.’

Jessie’s phone rang. It was the hospital doctor attending the unconscious Mr Romano. He’d come round with no apparent memory of his leap of death, his assault on a police officer, or that he’d answered to the name of Ian Doyle. Mr Romano had returned, the injured man searching for justice for his dead son. It was Doyle’s turn to sleep, until a doctor with the right qualifications could entreat him to reappear.

Jessie’s phone rang again. She clutched her throat, shook her head and passed it to Father Forrester. She couldn’t talk any more. It was Burrows. Nancy was asking for a priest. A priest answered the call.

Nancy died a few moments before sunrise on what would turn out to be a glorious day. Charlotte was with her, Father Forrester blessed her and Dr Turnball was summoned to ensure that she did not suffer. Peace had come to her at last. Jessie walked Charlotte back to the car.

‘It was beautiful really,’ said Charlotte. ‘Thank you for finding her.’

Jessie nodded, accepting the thanks.

‘She was lucid, almost up to the end,’ said Charlotte. ‘I can’t believe I thought she was a poltergeist.’ She looked seriously at Jessie. ‘She’ll cross over now, won’t she? Father Forrester granted her absolution …’

Jessie squeezed her arm. She still couldn’t answer questions like that.

‘She was talking to Malcolm at the end, as if he was right there. She said she’d always forgiven him, that she wanted him to come with her. She even thanked him for protecting her, for keeping her secret – I don’t know where she would have got an idea like that.’

Jessie said nothing. People were getting used to her silence.

‘Like I said, she was confused by then. Still, she asked Father Forrester to forgive him too.’ She stopped walking. ‘Do you think that’s the key to all relationships – forgiveness?’

Jessie looked back at Charlotte, her throat tightening. She nodded.

‘Do you think I can forgive my mother for leaving me?’

Jessie blinked once.

When Jessie could speak again, she went to visit Don in hospital. He was tucking into breakfast and talking animatedly to a man in a dressing gown when Jessie walked into the busy ward. Don had colour in his cheeks, he’d put on weight and he was smiling. He waved at Jessie and introduced her to his new friend. She stayed long enough to assure herself that in his heart Don was strong and in his mind, he was well. On leaving, she pulled the nurse to one side and asked him what Don’s new medication was.

‘Medication?’ he repeated, shaking his head. ‘He isn’t on any. He’s been right as rain for a few days now and we’ve seen no reason to put him back on. The symptoms of stress and exhaustion often mimic mental illness. He probably just needed a good rest, some regular feeding, and a change of scene.’

‘Probably,’ repeated Jessie, looking back at Don. A free man.

He smiled at her.

She smiled back.

In the mortuary Jessie was handed the results of the routine autopsy. She glanced down at the death certificate. At 05.58 Dr Turnball had pronounced Ann Eugenie Valeria Rose Scott-Somers dead, of natural causes. She read the name again.

‘There’s been a mistake,’ she said to the man at the desk. ‘She wasn’t called Ann. Her name was Nancy.’

‘Checked it off the birth certificate myself,’ said the clerk. ‘She might have been called Nancy, but she was christened Ann, so she dies Ann. They’ll probably put Nancy on the gravestone in inverted commas – that’s what they do with nicknames or abbreviations. I assure you, there has been no mistake.’

Jessie set off in the direction of the station. It was another blissful day, crisp blue sky and bright sunshine that dazzled her eyes every time she stepped out of the shadow of a building. She wasn’t sure what to think any more. Was there a benevolent old man sitting on a throne somewhere above us? She didn’t think so. Was there something in the energy of the individual, some force-field that a sensitive person is able to read and feel? Possibly. Could that forcefield remain after our death? Perhaps.

Her walk took her to the end of Dufour’s Place.
She looked left and saw the cul-de-sac that led to the entrance of the grand old building. The developers were circling, planning consent was imminent, soon it would make way for modern housing, cafés and offices, holding within them a secret. A huge swimming pool consisting of 286 hand-laid Italian marble tiles that hadn’t leaked a drop of water since the day it was built. Jessie walked the length of the truncated street. Parked at the end of the road was a car displaying a disabled sticker; on the back seat was a well-worn brown trilby. Jessie glanced sideways; the door to the baths was open.

The miniature nun leant on the back of Mary’s chair. They both waved at Jessie as she entered the foyer. Sunshine was streaming through the high windows. The Art Deco tiles gleamed.

‘Looks better now that it’s been cleansed, doesn’t it?’ said Mary.

Jessie chose to deliberately misunderstand her. ‘The windows certainly look better.’

‘My Lord, you’re a stubborn one,’ said Mary.

‘We’re on a PR exercise,’ said Sister Beatrice. ‘The developers don’t want future investors thinking this place is haunted. They’ve got Father Forrester down there in full regalia. Still, the place probably needed a blessing – right, Mary? Turns out it was built on the site of a workhouse, so perhaps it wasn’t your Malcolm Hoare causing all the trouble, after all.’

‘I couldn’t say,’ said Jessie.

‘Rather like the Bermuda Triangle, though on a far smaller scale.’

Jessie wasn’t sure she’d heard right. ‘Bermuda Triangle?’

‘I don’t think the detective is ready for that story, Beatrice.’

‘Right now I’m about ready for anything.’

Sister Beatrice took a deep breath. ‘That area of the ocean covers the old slave trade route between West Africa and America. At first only the weak ones were thrown overboard, but when the market became saturated entire shiploads of Africans were dumped into the sea. Chained up. Alive.’

Jessie recoiled in horror. The nun continued.

‘The ship owners could claim more in insurance per head than live slaves would fetch on the open market. They died violently in their multitudes, after great suffering.’

Mary joined the discussion: ‘Most churches are built on places of human sacrifice to counterbalance the negative energy created by the displaced souls.’

‘But you can’t build a church on water,’ offered Jessie.

‘Exactly. All that negativity had nowhere to go.’

’And you think that’s why all those planes and boats disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle?’

Mary and Beatice nodded ‘Until it was exorcised, yes.’

‘By Father Forrester?’

‘A man very like him, but more psychic.’

‘Father Forrester isn’t psychic?’

‘He’s pretty sensitive, actually,’ said Mary. ‘But not an actual psychic.’

‘He’s always looking over my left shoulder,’ said Jessie, ‘as if he can see someone.’

Mary and Beatrice laughed. ‘That’s just a sleepy eye. Very off-putting, I know.’

Jessie pretended to laugh with them. She couldn’t explain why, but she felt a tinge of disappointment inside. Mary reached up for Jessie’s hand. ‘I understand your resistance to all of this. But, you know, there are many people who appreciate what you do for them. This is your calling, you do it well.’

Jessie met Mary’s eyes. ‘Her name was Ann,’ she blurted out unexpectedly.

They stood in silence for a long moment. Then Mary nodded, let go of Jessie’s hand and turned the chair to the door. ‘We ought to be going.’ The heat on Jessie’s palm slowly dissipated.

‘Tell me,’ Jessie called after her.

The wheelchair stopped. ‘Tell you what?’

‘Whatever’s on your mind.’

Slowly the chair rotated. ‘Jessie, the messages sent from the other side aren’t always the ones we want to hear. Because of that they claim not to have been heard. This causes distress on either side.’

‘Please.’

Mary studied Jessie. Jessie held her breath. ‘Send the letter.’

‘What?’

‘She wants you to send the letter.’

‘What?’ Jessie said again. ‘Who does? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Remember what I said, Jessie.’

Jessie marched away from the baths crossly. They lured you in, that was the trouble. They made you want to believe. Burrows was right all along. Belief demanded such an enormous leap of faith because a rational mind would see the gaping holes in any religion. What was it that she wanted, what had she been expecting? Jessie stopped walking. She knew what. A message in a bottle. A message from the big blue. From her mother. She wanted a hand to stroke her forehead, a voice telling her it was all going to be all right. That she was doing okay. She always thought she’d been striving for her brothers’ approval; now she wondered if it was in fact her dead mother’s approval she’d been striving for.

She found a step and sat on it. Jessie was exhausted. Utterly exhausted, and the day was just beginning.

Jessie ended up walking home. She didn’t have the energy to go to work. She didn’t have the energy to face Mark’s grief, fight over the office, or do the paperwork on the Marshall Street Baths case. She didn’t have the energy to be brave about P.J. She rounded the corner to her street, trudged along
the familiar pavement and inserted the key in the entrance. She checked her mail. There was a postcard of a gnome. She smiled as, turning it over, she recognised Jones’ writing. Father Forrester had sent him on retreat in Wales.
No beer
! said the postcard.
Send supplies
! Jessie put the postcard in her pocket. Everyone wrote letters. She wasn’t falling for that old trick. The corrosive power of suggestion.

Someone knocked on the door. There was a woman standing the other side of the mottled glass. Jessie pulled it open.

‘Bernie.’ She was stunned to see the woman standing in front of her. P. J. Dean’s long-term housekeeper and friend had never liked Jessie, especially after she’d forced out some painful home truths.

‘P.J. doesn’t know I’m here, I’d like to make this quick.’ She reached into her pocket and held out a set of keys. ‘These are for you. It’s over there –’

Jessie stepped out into the raised porch. Parked a little way off to her left was a pink Triumph Bonneville.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Jessie.

‘Believe it – P.J. bought it for you.’

‘I was only joking about the bike. Pink Bonnies don’t exist. They only come in one colour – burgundy. I thought he knew it was a joke.’

‘He had it custom made. It’s been sitting at home for days. P.J. along with it.’

Jessie knew that wasn’t true.

Bernie glared at her. ‘When are you going to learn that you can’t believe what you see in the paper? That photo was taken ages ago. Look, I’m not going to pretend I like this, but I can’t watch him be so miserable. I’ll do whatever it takes if it means he’ll be happy again.’