The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(46)

‘You’ve spilled your tea, Inspector.’ Lockwood handed him a handkerchief.

‘Thank you.’ Barnes mopped the table. His voice was quieter now. ‘You know I’m not in full control at DEPRAC any more,’ he said. ‘These past couple of years Penelope Fittes has placed a lot of her people in the organization. They’re slowly skewing the way we work. Of course, there are still good men and women there, and plenty of them, but we don’t have any say in wider operations. I stamp forms, issue orders, go through the motions on a day-to-day level. I can’t influence what’s going on. But I see things clearly enough. Just as I see that you’re lying now. It’s in your eyes. It’s in the way Cubbins sits there, all smug and self-important, puffed up like a frog. I see it, plain as plain. And if I can, you can be sure other people see it too.’

He finished dabbing with the handkerchief and gave it back to Lockwood.

‘Mr Barnes,’ Lockwood said hesitantly, ‘all we’ve been doing is … just a little research here and there. We could tell you about it. We’d value your help.’

The inspector glared at us from under hairy eyebrows. ‘I don’t want to know about it.’

‘It’s important. Seriously, it is.’

‘I don’t want to know. Mr Lockwood, you’ve impressed a lot of people over the years. Personally, I expected you all to be ghost-touched long ago, but your agency has flourished. Impress me again now.’ Barnes touched the handle of his cup with a stubby finger, rotating it gently on the saucer. ‘Keep your heads down. Let them forget about you.’

We sat in silence around the table in the dark and dusty room.

‘Let them forget about you,’ Barnes repeated. ‘Even now, it’s probably not too late.’





12




Whether Inspector Barnes’s warning left any impression on George was doubtful. The following morning, as I made my way downstairs, his bedroom door hung open. For reasons of hygiene it was never wise to venture inside, but even from the landing the rumpled, unmade bed and strew of papers on the floor told their own tale.

In the kitchen, a scrawled note had been left on the thinking cloth:



But George was back even before lunch. Holly, Lockwood and I were in the basement office when a crash from the kitchen sent us scurrying up the iron staircase. George stood at the table. He had swept the fruit bowl off and dumped a great pile of documents in its place. He had a pen between his teeth; with ferocious speed he was swapping papers, selecting maps, spreading the pile around.

‘Um, are you ready to chat?’ Lockwood ventured.

George made a flapping motion with one hand. ‘Not yet! Just a couple of things to sort! Give me an hour!’

‘Do you … do you want a sandwich?’ Holly asked.

‘No! No time.’ George was peering at a photocopy of an old newspaper article. He frowned at it, cast it aside. ‘Oh, but, Lockwood …’

‘Yes?’

‘Can you get Kipps over? He should be here too. One hour.’

‘All right. We’ll leave you alone till then.’

George didn’t answer. He was in his own world, buoyed by the thrill of discovery. At such times a physical transformation seemed to come over him. His extra weight fell away; he was swift of movement, light of foot – Lockwood at his most panther-like and predatory moved with no greater velvet grace. His spectacles shone with light from the garden – in just such a way, one felt, the goggles of a fighter pilot would catch the spark of the sun as his plane performed miracles of flight high above the earth. Even his hair crackled with new energy, swept back from his pale forehead like that of a racing driver negotiating hairpin bends. It was as if the sinewy intelligence that lay concealed behind his doughy frame was suddenly laid bare; its quick workings transferred into the deftness with which he organized his papers, flipped from one file to another, danced around the kitchen table, pausing only occasionally to scribble something on the thinking cloth. As Lockwood said later, it was like watching an artist at work; you could have sold tickets for his exhibition on that sunny morning.

In the end Holly volunteered to hunt down Kipps. While she slipped out, Lockwood and I retreated to the rapier room, where our straw dummies, Floating Joe and Lady Esmeralda, hung on their chains. Lockwood rolled up his sleeves and practised moves on Esmeralda. I did the same with Floating Joe. As always, the simplicity of this action worked wonders on our mood. The tension between us fell away. Excitement rose; we felt mounting expectation at what George might reveal. Soon we left the dummies swinging and began duelling with each other, grinning as we circled, feinting, dodging, making ornate patterns with our clashing blades.

The hour passed. Hot, sweaty and in need of tea, Lockwood and I went back upstairs. In the kitchen, the table and most of the other surfaces were invisible beneath a sea of papers. George sat waiting. He looked sweaty too.

‘I’m ready,’ he said. ‘Put the kettle on.’

Up on the sink, documents lapped at the base of the ghost-jar. The skull rolled its eyes at us. ‘Thank goodness you’re here. He’s been like a plump whirlwind. And there was a most distressing glimpse of pink flesh when he bent down to pick up a paperclip. I’d have feared for my life if I wasn’t already dead.’

While we were setting out the tea, Holly returned with Kipps. Every member of our essential team was there. Lockwood shut the door to the hall and drew the blinds at the windows. The light in the room became blue, dim and conspiratorial. We drew up our chairs. In the jar, the face grew faint and unobtrusive; even the ghost seemed keen to listen. Our mugs were filled, some sandwiches and biscuits handed out. It was time for George to begin.