Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place (Ghosts of London Book 1) Page 4

  Her face reddened slightly. It became her well, he thought, before instantly stomping on this thought. She was a suspect. Nothing more.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry about that,” she murmured, looking mortified.

  “I can’t imagine that you are. I mean, you must have told him, right? You must have called him last night and asked him to put in a word on your behalf.”

  She frowned. “No, I didn’t. Well, not directly. I mean, I called my cousin. But all I asked her was if her dad knew someone at Scotland Yard.”

  “And now he does know someone at Scotland Yard. And you do, too.”

  “I meant someone I could talk to about…” she gestured ineffectually. “…stuff.”

  He pulled out a chair in the kitchen nook and took a seat. “Let’s cut to the chase, Miss McCabre.”

  “Harry, please.”

  “Where are you on your alibi, Miss McCabre?”

  She gulped slightly. “My… alibi?”

  “Yes. Remember I asked you where you were yesterday between three and four and you failed to inform me? Now perhaps, after mulling it over, you might be able to elucidate me? Or did your uncle advise you not to disclose this information?”

  A blush mantled her cheeks. “My uncle said no such thing. I haven’t spoken to him in ages.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You spoke to your cousin,” he said skeptically.

  “Look, I could tell you where I was,” she said with a shake of the head as she flipped another pancake onto a plate, “but I’d rather not, you see?”

  “No, I don’t see. This is very serious matter, Miss McCabre.”

  She smiled. “Why don’t you just call me Harry? All my friends do.”

  “I’m not your friend, Miss McCabre. I’m a Scotland Yard inspector investigating a murder,” he insisted. “And what I’m most interested in right now is ascertaining where you were yesterday between three and four. In other words, around the time your employer was brutally murdered.”

  She sighed. “Look, you’ll probably think this is all very silly, but if I tell you where I was… There’re other people involved, see? I mean, if it were just me, I’d tell you where I was in a heartbeat, but it’s not just me, is it?”

  “Who else is involved?” he asked, following her movements with an interested eye. Those pancakes really did smell quite delicious.

  “I can’t tell you! That’s just the point! Look,” she said, taking a seat at the table across from him, “Mr. Buckley did some of his deals, erm, well, under the table. I mean, they weren’t exactly shady deals or anything like that, it’s just that his clients preferred… discretion, I guess you could say.”

  “I’m well aware that Buckley was one of the more prominent fences in the world of antiques, Miss McCabre,” he said, eliciting a gasp of surprise from her. “Which is probably the reason he was murdered. In those circles, a life is often worth a great deal less than some nice painting or fancy old cupboard.”

  She deftly picked up a pancake and started slathering it with butter and jam. “Well, if you know about Buckley’s business, then you must know that he used me to, well, deliver some of his packages to some of his clients.”

  “So what package were you delivering to which client yesterday?”

  She threw up her hands, then licked some jam from her wrist. “I can’t tell you, can I? Otherwise I’d be implicating my client, see?”

  He gave her a slight smile, like a cat about to devour a mouse. “If you don’t tell me it implicates you. It turns you into one of our prime suspects in this murder, and I may very well have to take you in for further questioning.”

  Her eyes went wide, and he was surprised to find how expressive they were. Her every emotion was very clearly reflected in those golden orbs.

  “You mean arrest me? What would you go and do a silly thing like that for?!”

  “Because you’re refusing to tell me what I need to know!” he shot back, his smile gone. “Look, I don’t know what your uncle advised you, but—”

  “My uncle didn’t advise me anything! Like I said, I talked to my cousin.”

  “Is she also a cop? Is she the one who told you to keep secrets from the police? Is that how they do things in the States?”

  She eyed him huffily. “My cousin, if you must know, works as a mortician’s assistant, gun store clerk and tea room waitress. Though at one time she did want to become a cop and even went to police academy. But that’s neither here nor there. What matters is—”

  “What matters is that you tell me what I want to know,” he cut in, “or I’m going to have to arrest you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder.”

  There was a momentary silence as they gazed at each other, the tension palpable. Then she simply said, “Very well. I’ll tell you what I know, which isn’t much, mind you.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that, Miss McCabre.”

  “Harry,” she corrected him.

  “Just tell me already, will you?!” he yelled.

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right! But if he’s cross with me I’ll tell him you made me tell on him! And if he tells me I’m a tattletale I’ll tell him it’s all your fault!”

  “Miss McCabre!”

  “Harry!”

  “Talk!”

  She stared at him, biting her lip. “Actually… I don’t know his name.”

  Chapter 6

  “Description?”

  “Big, bald… Oh, that’s right. He had two gold teeth.”

  He blinked, as the description registered. “What was in the package?”

  “A book of some kind? A very thick tome, actually. And don’t ask me what book. Buckley never told me. All I know is that it was worth a million pounds to the client.”

  Watley whistled through his teeth. “Must have been some book.”

  “Yes, though it wasn’t exceptional for Buckley to make deals like that.”

  “Did he always tell you to make these exchanges under the underpass?”

  “How do you—”

  “I have my methods, Miss McCabre.”

  She looked a little defeated. “Yes, he usually sent me there, because—”

  “Because there are no traffic cameras or other CCTV devices to capture the transaction, thereby guaranteeing the client’s wish for discretion.”

  She nodded, then was alerted by the plaintive mewl of a white cat. “Oh, Snuggles. Forgot to feed you again, didn’t I? No wonder you want to find yourself a new owner.”

  The Persian jumped onto Watley’s lap, and he eyed it hostilely. He wasn’t much of a cat person. Especially the way they liked to dig their claws into his legs. Harry seemed amused by his response, for she shoved the plate with pancakes across the table. “Here, give her one. Unlike you, she actually loves my pancakes.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t like pancakes, Miss McCabre. Just that I don’t eat when I’m on duty.”

  “That’s just about the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,” she shot back. “I mean I can understand a policeman not drinking while he’s on duty but not eating? You have to eat sometime, don’t you? Otherwise how are you going to catch the bad guys when they make a run for it? You need your strength.”

  He gave her a piercing look but had to admit she had a point there. Reluctantly he picked up a pancake, crumbled it into little pieces and started feeding it to the cat. Harry was right. The creature greedily gobbled it up.

  “Go on. Try one,” she prompted. “If I say so myself, they’re pretty good.”

  “Your own recipe?” he asked after he’d tasted a morsel and found she wasn’t lying. They were indeed remarkably tasty. So tasty, in fact, that soon he found himself spreading Nutella on one and devouring it with relish.

  “My grandmother’s,” she said with a wistful smile.

  He watched her and saw the shadows chasing one another across her expressive face. He’d learned from her file—and Chief Whitehouse, of course—that her parents had died in a nasty traffic collision on the M1 on the day of h
er graduation. She’d been the only one to survive the crash, both her parents dead on the spot. It must have been quite a shock to the young woman, and he could see now why Whitehouse was so concerned about his niece. Which still didn’t give him the right to butt into his investigation, of course.

  “Did you see anyone else at the exchange?” he now asked, licking his fingers and taking a sip from the cup of coffee she’d offered. “A third party?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. I don’t think this guy was the client, though.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “A hunch? I had the impression he was just a messenger, like me.”

  Watley reached into his pocket and took out the picture he’d printed. He placed it on the table in front of Harry. “Was this the person you met?”

  Her jaw dropped. “Where did you get this?”

  “Just answer the question, please,” he said tersely.

  “Yes, that’s him. I heard him ride off on his motorcycle.” She stared at the picture, eyes wide and, he now thought, a little fearful. “Who is he?”

  “I have some idea,” he said. He wasn’t willing to share the man’s identity just yet. If he was right, he was plumbing some seriously deep and murky waters.

  She looked disappointed. “Aren’t you going to tell me who he is?”

  He gave her a cold look. “At this point in the investigation I don’t see how that is relevant,” he said and was surprised when she snorted a laugh.

  “At this point in the investigation?” She leaned forward and keenly tapped a finger on the table. “Look, Inspector Watley, if this guy is a murderer, he just might come after me next. And then what?”

  He eyed her closely for any sign of deceit and found none. She was innocent, he saw. Chief Whitehouse was right. She was just a hapless tool in another man’s game. “Look, I don’t know all the pieces of the puzzle yet, but I can assure you that you have nothing to worry about.”

  “You mean this man isn’t dangerous? He looks dangerous to me. To be honest, when I was talking to him? He gave me the willies.” She shivered.

  Both Watley and Harry stared at the picture. It depicted a hulking man straddling a motorcycle, a black hoodie obscuring his features. The only thing visible was a slight grin, and two gold teeth glittering in the lamplight. That was the detail that had given him away. There weren’t a lot of guys fitting that description in London. Philo Bovine-Marks was a lowlife hood working for well-known East End crime boss Bill Edwards, also known as Master Edwards. Why Edwards would want a book worth a million pounds, Watley didn’t know, nor did he know if the book was related to the murder of Geoffrey Buckley. All he did know was that Philo was a very dangerous character and that he was going to look into his involvement very closely. He didn’t think he’d come after Harry, though. Why would he?

  “If this guy knew I was talking to you, don’t you think he’d be very annoyed?” Harry suddenly said. “I saw his face. I know he was there.”

  “The fact that he was talking to you at the exact time of Geoffrey Buckley’s death gives him an alibi as watertight as yours,” Watley pointed out. “So I don’t see how you pose any threat to him. Quite the opposite.”

  Harry nodded, looking relieved. “Thank you, Inspector Watley.”

  He quickly rose, expertly transferring Snuggles from his lap to the floor. “Enjoy your pancakes, Miss McCabre,” he said. “Oh, and you were right.”

  She glanced up at him, looking surprised. “Right about what?”

  He gave her a rare smile. “Your pancakes are indeed quite tasty.”

  Her face split into a wide smile, and two dimples appeared in her cheeks. The attraction he felt suddenly deepened. All the more reason to take his leave, he knew. She was still an element in this investigation, and as such absolutely off limits. Besides, she probably had a boyfriend stashed away somewhere. Women like her always did. Some loser who was too lazy to show up when she was being put through the wringer. To his surprise, he found that he disliked the guy, whoever he was and wherever he was. He shook off the strange sentiment and gave her a nod of the head.

  “So am I free to leave London now, Inspector? Or am I still a suspect?” she asked as she escorted him to the door.

  He gave her a level look. “You’re not a suspect at the moment, Miss McCabre, but I would advise you to keep yourself available to the investigation anyway. This isn’t over yet.”

  Eyes wide, she said, “All right, Inspector. I’ll keep myself available to you then.” She blinked. “I mean, to the investigation.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, then Watley cleared his throat, where a small lump had inexplicably appeared, gave her a curt nod, and stepped onto the landing. “Good day, Miss McCabre.”

  “Bye-bye… Inspector Watley.”

  Chapter 7

  Jarrett woke up with a yawn and stretched himself luxuriously. Sunlight was already streaming in through the curtains, which was exceptional. This was London, after all, a city which had seen nothing but rain in the last fortnight. In fact the only reason Jarrett was still on the island at this time of the year was because he was training with Vance Crowdell, otherwise he’d be in the South of France right now, or St. Barts. Or some other place where he could keep up his natural tan. As it was, however, his ice skating dream was so all-consuming that he was prepared to weather the dreadful weather and suffer the horrendous chill. And then, of course, there was his trusty sunbed.

  And as he opened his eyes, his vision initially a little blurry, he noticed that an irate-looking man was staring back at him unblinkingly from a chair next to his bed.

  “Aargh!” he cried, when the man’s angry eye hit him amidships with the full force of its owner and proprietor, Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton the Second. “Father!” he cried. “What in God’s name!”

  “I was watching you,” snarled his father quite unnecessarily, his mustache billowing in the breeze blowing from his nostrils. “I was watching the wastrel I’ve raised enjoying a peaceful slumber while his family is going to blazes!”

  These last words had been spoken with such vehemence Jarrett pressed his back against his pillow, his silk pajamas rippling in this sudden storm.

  “Did or didn’t I ask you last night to pick up that parcel?!” the old man now bellowed, shaking an infuriated fist, his eyes boring into his offspring’s. His was a ruddy face, small eyes set deeply within the fleshy pockets that covered its acreage. As the richest man in England, he had access to the best cuisines in this and other lands and had sampled them all with obvious relish.

  “You called me with some unintelligible message,” Jarrett said, recovering from the shock of seeing his father. Only very rarely did he show up at the Ritz-Carlton, where Jarrett occupied his usual suite, simply because whenever he took one good look at his son, the old man’s blood pressure shot through the roof.

  “I asked you specifically to go to Chinatown and pick up a parcel,” huffed his father. “I told you how important it was, and still you blatantly refused!”

  “I didn’t refuse,” he pointed out, “for the simple reason I didn’t know.”

  “I shouldn’t have been fool enough to trust you with such an important errand,” his father grumbled, rising from his chair and pacing the room, his hands angrily clasped behind his back. “I was holed up in Geneva for some dreadful business conference, or I would have done it myself. I thought you of all people would want to do this for your mother, but oh, no, you just had to put your own hedonistic pleasures first as usual.” He suddenly turned on Jarrett, an accusatory finger trembling in the air between them. “You couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger to help your long-suffering mother, could you?”

  “Father,” Jarrett said with a yawn, disentangling his long limbs from the bed and tying a dressing gown around his slender frame, “if you’d managed to get your message across more clearly I’d have told Deshawn to pick up Mother’s Chinese food. But the fact of the matter is that I—”

  “It wa
sn’t Chinese food,” the old man said, his mustache still quivering with indignation. “As I told you last night, it was a very important parcel.” He stared peevishly at a particularly cherubic angel painted on the ceiling, a harp pressed into its chubby little hands. “It was the parcel that was going to make it all go away. The parcel that was…” Then he seemed to catch himself, for he closed his mouth with a click of his dentures.

  Jarrett couldn’t help but be intrigued. “The parcel that was going to…”

  “Oh, if you must know,” suddenly burst out the old man, “your mother isn’t well, Jarrett. In fact she hasn’t been well for quite a long time.”

  “Not well? You mean her migraines have been troubling her again?”

  “Blast her migraines,” grumbled the old man. “Migraines are the least of her worries.” He darted a look over at his offspring, then looked away again, almost guiltily.

  “What is it, Father?” Jarrett asked, now genuinely curious. “What’s wrong with Mother? And what does a Chinese parcel have to do with anything?”

  “Your mother,” said this father, puffing out his chest, then deflating like a hot air balloon, “has cancer. There, I said it. I know I promised her not to tell anyone, not even you, but seeing as how you managed to miss this unique opportunity to make the disease go away, there’s no reason now to conceal the truth any longer.” He sagged onto the chair again, now looking defeated.

  “Cancer?” Jarrett cried. “Mother’s got cancer?”

  “Yes. We’ve known for eight months and initially had high hopes. High hopes that the doctors would find some cure, that the right treatment would result in a full recovery, only it hasn’t. We’ve consulted the best specialists in Zurich, America, and even visited a witch doctor in Brazil. All to no avail.” He looked up, a pained expression on his ruddy face, his mobile mustache now drooping. It usually reflected the mood of its owner. “Your mother is dying, Jarrett. She only has a few more months to live, at the most.”