Dream of the Dead

CHAPTER ONE

They waited for her to jump.

Her red sweater was clearly visible to the motorists, lorry drivers, and school children below. They watched as the girl moved repeatedly toward the edge, lingered, and stepped back again. Some people feared the sight, others tried to estimate the drop to the river, and a few just hoped to record the drama and upload it on YouTube. But everyone simply wanted it over. For god’s sake, she was holding up the morning rush hour. Couldn’t she have done this later? It didn’t seem fair that one girl, no older than her mid-twenties, could bring the entire Clifton Suspension Bridge to a standstill. How did she even get up there? No one had seen her climb over the railing or mount the scaffolding erected around the side of the bridge. Authorities must have left it unsupervised, the repairs on the cables and stone towers probably abandoned today due to high winds. Long before the first emergency call went out, she’d already scaled the structure to the very top, four storeys over the bridge deck.

Bristol police soon arrived and stopped the traffic flow in both directions. She didn’t move, they didn’t move, and so a stand-off commenced. Cars waited in frustrated lines. Lorries droned with boredom. Engines thrummed and rattled impatiently. Behind rows of windscreens, fingers tapped on steering wheels, drummed on dashboards, or flicked through radio stations. A small crowd of people left their vehicles, smartphones out, hoping to get a better shot. Heedless of the many warnings given by two constables, they pressed closer and began yelling up at her.

Go on! shouted a young man.

Yeah, some of us have got jobs!

Jump, jump, jump!

The baying voices and eager eyes discovered another spectacle, just as fascinating as the girl. Behind the police line, a young officer, possibly a detective, vaulted the railing and ventured onto the first level of the scaffolding. Camera lenses zoomed in on him with interest…

If the crowd shouted things at him, Detective Inspector Jack Ravenshaw couldn’t hear anything once he left the bridge behind. All the plastic sheets and metal bars of the scaffolding enclosed him, as if he’d entered the skeleton of a colossal beast. Wintery gusts rose off the River Avon below, buffeted the wooden planks, whistled through the steel tubes. Ropes danced at his sides and timber planks chattered underfoot. Everywhere polyethylene sheets flapped wildly, the plastic streaked with driblets of condensation. Once or twice, he spied the scenery beyond – steep green hillsides, black bent trees, and the hard grey water two hundred and fifty feet below.

Of course, this wasn’t really a job for a CID inspector, but he’d been driving nearby when the call went out. Once he’d seen her at the top of the scaffold, he couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t resist the desire to help. Too many memories forced him into action. He assisted the constables and took control of the scene, swiftly arranging for backup. Ambulance and fire were on their way. Possibly a helicopter, too. Five minutes and the safety equipment should arrive. Unfortunately, every time the girl stepped nearer to the edge, she hesitated longer, staring at the river, psyching herself for the fall.

She didn’t have five minutes.

Ravenshaw found a ladder and climbed, his shoes slippy on the rungs. Wind tickled at his trousers as he moved, teased his hair, gyred around him. The ladder on the next story felt looser. The whole collection of poles and wood was more rickety than he feared. Despite this, as he clambered to the level above, he became anxious about reaching the girl. When you get to the top, he told himself, whoever she is, whatever she’s doing, you have to control your reaction, try not to spook her. Stay calm. Act as naturally as possible.

You do still remember how to act, don’t you, Jack?

By the time he ran up the ladder to the third level, he caught glimpses of her through the chinks in the planking overhead – red top, brown hair, thin legs. Her footsteps scuttered over the boards, scraping to a stop. She noticed him straight away. An eye peered down at him through a crack, gleaming sharp.

No police, no police! she called frantically, nearly gasping. Her accent sounded Polish.

He climbed up to the highest level and raised his hands.

Alright, it’s okay, I just want to talk with you.

Go away! I not want – I not want police!

I haven’t come to arrest you, I promise. You’re not in any trouble. I’m just here to see if I can resolve this without anyone getting hurt. That’s all. Just to speak, okay?

He waited for her answer.

She thundered over the wood straight toward the side. Just before the edge, she halted, stared at the river again. Slowly, she leaned forward inch by inch, crouching, as if bending her legs might somehow lessen the fall.

His heart squeezed against his ribcage as he watched her. She was going to step back again, right?

She tilted, body tipping forward… tipping farther… and farther…

No! Ravenshaw yelled.

He rushed across, grabbing out and catching her before she could pass over the edge. Snagging the red sweater, her hood, her arm, he yanked her inwards again, almost tackling her, forcing her back onto the scaffolding beside him. She screamed, thrashed out in response, tried to push him away. He didn’t let go. She crumpled, flumped onto the boards by his feet, furling herself into a foetal position, shivering and sobbing in defeat.

For a moment, he knelt beside her, shaking with adrenaline, almost shocked at what he’d just done. The wind whorled around their bodies. Plastic sheets boomed and fluttered at their sides. From such a height, the river looked vast, smooth, harder than concrete. The momentum of her body could have easily dragged them both over the side. He could have tripped or fallen by accident. Yet the fear of death hadn’t even compared to the idea of failing to save her, failing to save a life that was in his power to protect.

He gulped as the memories returned. Two shots in the night. Footsteps running away down a riverbank. A man’s shadow falling into swirling water. He blocked it out instantly.

Beside him, her sobbing deepened into panting, wheezing heavily, nearly unable to breath. Her hand fumbled at the pocket of her jeans.

What is it? he asked. What do you need?

He delved into her pocket and discovered a small plastic device – an inhaler. She put it to her mouth and sucked, her chest gradually relaxing with the medicine. Despite her smallish build, she wasn’t as young as he’d first guessed, nor quite as frail. Her hands bore callouses and scars from manual work. Her limbs appeared wiry beneath her sweater.

Suddenly, he felt the scaffolding judder. A constant tremble moved from top to bottom. Two levels above, a coupling clinked loose and fell, plinked downward, striking the ladder and thumping into the planks.

The girl recovered her breath. She twisted towards him, strands of hair covering her eyes, lips quivering, face tear-soaked.

Not… not my fault… she blurted.

Let’s just get you down, okay?

I mean Mr Maitland. Charlie Maitland. What I saw.

He shook his head.

Who’s Maitland? I don’t understand.

Inquest. They call it murder now.

Whatever you’re worried about, we can sort it out later.

No, but I… should have… say something before about it… scared me… and I didn’t… was wrong… a sin not to…

She began crying again and took a puff from the inhaler. The sheer desperation in her voice made him pause. Charlie Maitland? He didn’t recognise the name and yet it seemed familiar for some reason. Was it from a newspaper headline or magazine article, perhaps?

The whole structure shuddered violently. Wooden boards tumbled and blattered downward. Metal tubes wrenched and grated. The scaffolding jolted, sagged, clanged, and clacked in all directions. The wind tried harder to sever it from the bridge.

We need to go! he said. I mean it! Right now! It’s about to drop!

He slung his arm around her and heaved her tiny frame upright. She had no more fight left, her limbs pliable and weak, easy to guide. As the lights of an ambulance arrived, they descended from the fourth storey, half plummeting down the last ladder, rushing back onto the bridge.

Minutes later, the scaffolding screamed, tore itself free, ripped away from the side, and finally disintegrated into the river. Video clips were already on YouTube before it sunk beneath the water.

CHAPTER TWO

Computer screen light fell on Ravenshaw’s face with a soft, lazy, drugging glow. The blank page of an incident statement lay before him. It was still incomplete after an hour. His mind was blocked over what to say about this morning’s bridge incident.

Half-dazed from the descent from the scaffolding to the road below, the moments afterwards had been somewhat dreamlike. He was only dimly conscious as the scaffolding pulled away at its holdings, scraped the side of the bridge, and plummeted into the Avon. He remembered seeing the girl on her knees, apparently undamaged, her face crimson in a paroxysm of wheezing. Paramedics had taken her away. He remembered the open car doors, the faces, the eyes watching. An audience. The terrible scrutinizing glare of an audience trained directly on him. Sharpest of all, though, he remembered what she had said to him. The name. He now recognised it and wished that he did not.

The cursor on the screen kept blinking, the rhythm hypnotizing. It drew on the hollows of his eyelids, tugged them down, pleading for sleep. The screensaver appeared with a scrollbar that read:

Avon and Somerset Constabulary… Avon and Somerset Constabulary… Avon and Somerset Constabulary…

Around him, as usual, the Bristol office was cheerless and airless: fluorescent lights sagged in long strips, blinds drooped across windows cutting out the view of the streets, phones and photocopiers droned, chairs creaked, detectives mumbled into receivers, sergeants clomped over the carpet, pens filled-in slips for future actions, and printers spat out reports that were shuffled onto in-trays, out-trays, or tossed into bins.

DI Ravenshaw! I want a word with you!

The voice pitched through the doorway, turning heads, preceding its owner by a few seconds. Superintendent Dawkins followed it into the office, doing his best to look surly. He paraded across the room, past row upon row of desks, and arrived at Ravenshaw’s computer at the very back.

Ravenshaw sat straighter in his chair. A round face, obscene comb-over, and starched white shirt loomed over his keyboard.

The report? said Dawkins, his voice rasping. I want it now, I want it ten minutes ago! I’ve just had an earful from the Chief Constable. Your antics on the bridge this morning didn’t go down too well, I can tell you! It was a job for uniform, not a detective. Clifton isn’t even your area, for Christ sakes!

Ravenshaw clenched his teeth, trying to appear intimidated. Dawkins took a breath and whispered:

Have a look. Are they buying it?

He glimpsed over the Super’s shoulder at the office. Everyone was silent, disconcerted, pretending to carry-on with their work, but really they listened to the brabble. It was a reverence that would have been unthinkable only a few weeks ago.

Very convincing this time, sir. Lowering the voice did the trick.

Glad to know it. In fact, I’ve had a go at all the pointers you gave me. Been practicing as much as time allows…

Ravenshaw stifled his smile. Ever since Superintendent Dawkins had been transferred into the constabulary, replacing his popular and retiring predecessor, no one had taken him seriously. The short stature, awkward hair, and desperate-to-be-respected tone in his voice had fast made him into a joke. When he gave orders, people shrugged. When he spoke, so did everyone else. Worse yet, he used to ignore the disrespect, or randomly explode and make an example of some poor constable. Office bitchery had risen to new levels as a result. Many senior detectives even fanned the discontent, fancying his title for themselves. Things had looked increasingly grim for old Dawkins, until one day he stumbled across Ravenshaw’s file and read about his unique past. Soon after, he called Ravenshaw into his office for a private chat, a discreet plea for advice on how to improve the authority of his performance.

Actually, there’s just one tiny thing, sir.

Yes.

Ravenshaw nodded to Dawkins’s hands. They fiddled in front of his stomach.

Keep the front of your body open as much as possible. Don’t check your watch or clasp your hands. It shows more confidence that way.

Really?

The chest is full of vital organs. Psychologically, if you don’t try to cover up, it sends out the signal that you’re not afraid, that you don’t need to protect yourself.

Dawkins immediately let his arms drop. Now that the commotion had died down, the office churned back into life, unable to hear what was being discussed between the two men.

Anyway, Jack, I’m afraid at least some of what I said is true. The chief did corner me a little while ago, and he was rather…

Nonplussed?

Quite. And in light of your past troubles… well… therapy, counselling, what have you… and your general lack of achievement recently, I think you might be in for a poor result this time.

I see.

All hope is not lost, however. A friend of Gerald Dawkins does not go in need. You’ve scratched my back once or twice, now I might be able to scratch yours.

Ravenshaw struggled not to wince. Dawkins leant over and put his hands on the desk, nearly knocking a pot plant. The leaves were crisp and brown. He looked at it in surprise.

That thing’s dead.

Dorothy.

I beg your pardon?

"Dorothy is dead. The plant has, or at least had, a name. She died last week, I believe. Agatha, my plant before that also died. Someone should look into it."

Dawkins creased his mouth, unsure if Ravenshaw was serious or not.

As I was saying… it turns out that the woman on the bridge this morning has a connection that might be interesting for you. Her name is Zofia Ostrogska. We ran a check and the system places her as a witness in the Maitland case. You’ve heard of it, I presume?

Charlie Maitland. He was a theatre producer in the West End. Committed suicide. That’s really all I know.

Do you know who his wife was?

Nope.

Can’t think of her name myself… she’s in that film about the knights… you know, played a princess. It was a big hit. And she’s always in those period dramas on the telly. Red hair. Big eyes. A really hot-looking girl.

Georgia Foxley?

Yeah, that’s her.

Didn’t realise she was married.

Well, she is. Actually, she’s one of the main suspects.

I thought it was suicide?

So did the Met. But no one’s really sure what happened now. Dawkins perched himself on the edge of the desk. I’m not familiar with all the gubbins, but it’s back in April. At some posh London townhouse, Maitland wakes everyone up one night yelling for help. His wife and her Personal Assistant are next door in the master bedroom. Apparently, Ms Foxley was passed-out, too drunk to respond, but her PA goes to see what all the fuss is about. She finds Maitland in a right state, vomiting his guts out. She tries to help but can’t do anything to stop him from collapsing. When paramedics arrive, they suspect a heart-attack and rush him off. At the hospital, though, this is where it gets really interesting. Doctors decide it’s some type of poisoning – something corrosive that’s slowly burning through his intestines. Nasty, right? Two days and plenty of suffering later, most of it conscious, Maitland finally dies. All along, he is repeatedly asked if he knows what poison he took, and he refuses to answer. He also never blames anyone and never demands an investigation. Considering the odd behaviour, the lack of enemies or motives, it all begins to look self-inflicted – a straightforward suicide. That’s what his wife and the PA felt, and what the Met chose to go with.

So what changed?

"His parents didn’t like it. They’ve got a boatload of money, some high-priced lawyers, and they claim the original investigation was flawed. It just went to an inquest and the jury came back with a verdict of ‘Unlawful killing by a person or persons unknown’. It’s really put the wind up Scotland Yard."

How’s the girl linked to all this?

She was the housemaid in London. By all accounts, she’s not been very forthcoming with inquires. It seems she panicked when she heard the coroner’s verdict. Detectives contacted her again for questioning, but she bolted from London, tried to get over to Weston-Super-Mare where she’s got some relatives working in a B&B. Nearly made it there, too, until her meltdown this morning.

What’s happening to her now?

We were considering possibly making charges against her for the bridge incident. Then I get a call. Guess who.

The yard of Scotland?

Dawkins squinted, a little disappointed.

How did you know?

Superior deduction.

I’ll bet… anyway, it wasn’t just any old person from the Met. No lesser authority than the Assistant Commissioner himself. You didn’t know that, did you?

No.

He wanted me to offer Ms Ostrogska a deal. We don’t press charges over the public nuisance, trespass, etc., from this morning, on the condition she returns to London, enters a counselling program, and cooperates in the Maitland investigation. She’s already gone back up there now.

They’re continuing it, then?

Have to. God knows how they’ve got time to go over the same ground again, though, with everything else that’s happening in London. Dawkins hesitated, checked over his shoulder, lowering his voice still further. This is where you get involved, Jack.

Ravenshaw frowned.

Involved? I don’t understand.

The AC asked about you. We were discussing the incident this morning and he perked up when I mentioned you.

Mentioned what exactly?

Dawkins looked sheepish.

"Um… well… I mentioned your name, of course… he just wondered how you spelled it, if the ending was ‘s-h-a-w’ like Sir James Ravenshaw the actor."

Oh god.

He brought it up, not me, I swear! But naturally, after that, I couldn’t help but explain things.

Ravenshaw closed his eyes.

I thought we had an understanding. I give you some help, and no one hears about my past.

Careful, Jack, I’m still your superior. What choice did I have? I’m hardly going to lie to the Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Come on. And it wasn’t just gossip, either. The fact that your related to a famous acting family could have a bearing on the Maitland case. God, it’s like having a Redgrave or a Fox in the service. Not many officers have that kind of background or knowledge about the West End.

It was a long time ago. There’s no one I know and nothing I can do that will be of any use.

We’ll see. But whether you realise it or not, I did you a favour.

Dawkins took a scrap of paper from the desk, then patted his pockets for a pen. He passed Ravenshaw the paper, a telephone number scrawled across it:

Give him a call ASAP. There could be an opportunity for you here. It won’t hurt to make yourself helpful to senior brass. An officer in your shaky position needs all the help he can get. Opportunities like this don’t come along every day, you know.

Ravenshaw raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Dawkins stood up straight, puffed out his chest, keeping his hands carefully at his side. For the benefit of the office, he bellowed:

So that’s it. And I’m not asking you, DI Ravenshaw. It’s an order. An order, understood? Now bloody well keep yourself out of strife for the rest of the day!

Unseen by the others, Dawkins gave him a wink, then swivelled around and marched back through the room. As he passed, sergeants and detectives doubled their efforts. Eyes burrowed deeper into monitors. Hands tapped briskly at keyboards or shuffled paper that didn’t need shuffling. Superintendent Dawkins was a laughingstock no longer, it seemed.

Ravenshaw held the number taut between his fingers. He glanced toward his phone, almost reaching for the receiver, almost dialling the digits, anticipating the conversation ahead, the awkward apologies he would make, the excuses. The muscles in his neck stiffened and his brow throbbed, promising a migraine. He nearly obeyed and made the call. Nearly.

CHAPTER THREE

The hot aroma of fish and chips wafted through the air. A plastic bag dangled from Ravenshaw’s hand as he walked. He turned the corner from the chippy and aimed for the village churchyard. Night closed around him. This was not city darkness, not a haze of streetlamps and fluorescent shadows. This was the dark found only in the countryside, deep and fresh and root-black.

Chipping Magna was a healthy-sized village, not far from the outskirts of Bristol. Yet to drive here was to snake down ancient rutted lanes brushed with hedgerows, to be delayed by tractors or flocks of sheep moving field, to be lost until a church spire struck above the horizon and a small bridge led you to brick cottages, medieval pubs, and a post office. The village was peace, an Arcadian retreat, an undiscovered burrow for Ravenshaw to hide in after work.

There was also another reason he lived here.

The gate to the village cemetery squealed. A crescent moon lit the way as he entered grounds guarded by yew trees, their silhouettes leaning on all sides. Eldritch shadows surrounded him with carved skulls, crumbling tombs, and crying angels. A path of moss-blighted graves stretched into the north-east corner. The tombstone was easy to find, the shape familiar even in the night. He sat on a patch of grass nearby and rummaged into the shopping bag, producing a bundle of paper wrapping now salty and warm with vinegar. Mounching into a handful of fat-cut chips, he glanced across at the grave.

Thought I’d come and have dinner with you, he said, his mouth full.

He ate a piece of battered haddock, licking his fingers.

So, how is everything? Fairly quiet around here, I imagine.

His teeth chittered in the night air. The cemetery echoed as he rustled paper. Ravenshaw chewed slower, distracted. He edged closer to the tombstone and bent his head down to inspect the surface of the stone. A patch of dewy moss.

What’s this? He poked the grey circle with his finger. Dad – you should be ashamed! You’re really letting yourself go. I’ve told you before, if you’re not careful, you’ll end up like the rest of them.

Ravenshaw surveyed the churchyard from wall to wall. Staggered in all directions, lines of graves marched away from him, their ranks tilting and ragged like a band of wounded soldiers. Almost all were shot through with decades of rain, centuries of sun, their chiselled names worn down by damp and frost, their identities a last casualty in the war with time.

He scratched at the moss on his father’s grave and tore it off.

His face becoming serious, appetite waning, he wiped the grease from his hand and placed the palm flat against the stone. Every contour and groove was known to the touch, still sharp, as if it had only been laid a year ago, a month ago even. The inscription read:

Sir James Elliot Ravenshaw

Actor. Husband. Father.

1943-2001

There was no need to read the words, but he read them anyway, and always with an abiding sense of disbelief.

So long ago…

The sounds, the images of that night were still raw on his senses, still undiminished, still unhealed. How strange to have such vivid memories of that incident and so few of all the years since. Ten whole years. Absent, dissolving years. How was that possible? Wasn’t he meant to have done something by now? Caught the person responsible? Taken his revenge? The bastard was still out there, in all likelihood, he knew that. How had his days fallen into such forgetfulness, swallowed into a black hole of boredom, a diurnal drudge, a grinding drive to work, a stultifying office, a round of rural thefts, domestic disputes, and petty assaults. Was there never a minute to spare on his father’s case? Not one?

He stepped back from the grave, bagging the remains of his fish and chips. Frost hollowed his bones, making him shiver. He ceased rustling the plastic and listened to the night, the magnitude of silence around him. No owls screeched overhead, no black-eyed rabbits flopped in the shadows, no branches creaked in the forests, and no insects whirled in the grass. Alone. Totally alone.

The church bell clanged.

Ravenshaw flinched toward the spire behind him. The churchyard resounded with the heavy tone. The noise was unexpected, skull-shaking, far too loud for this time of night. The bell chimed out again and again. Dreadfully powerful, as if it might rupture the earth. He scanned the cemetery on all sides, hoping to see priests or a party of bell ringers. With a rising sense of fear, he saw the church windows were dim and the door to the bell tower was locked. Three strikes and the noise echoed away as quickly as it had arrived.

Odd, wasn’t it? Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him? It wouldn’t be the first time.

His mobile phone bleeped.

The change in volume was great, but no less startling. Ravenshaw jumped, scowled, distrusted this new intrusion as much as the last. He’d set the phone on silent mode. Yet no matter what he did, it always chirped whenever there was a new message.

He reached into his coat and yanked out the phone. An old model, cumbersome and heavy. The display held black digits on a grey background. Sure enough, the screen read:

New Messages: 1

The caller ID revealed a London area code. He guessed it would match the one still folded in his pocket.

He thumbed the green button and listened to the voicemail. A slick voice said:

This is a message for Inspector Jack Ravenshaw of the Avon and Somerset police. My name is Richard Silverton, Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard. Your Superintendent has already spoken to you about this matter, I believe. In fact, he also should have told you to give me a ring today. We have an urgent matter we need to discuss with you, Jack. Can you get back to me immediately. I’m available anytime tonight.

The voice stated a number, then hung up.

Ravenshaw stared at his phone, mortified. He squeezed it as if throttling a person.

Jesus Christ, I set you on silent! What is the point of a silent mode, if you bleep at me anyway? Now I have to call him back!

The battery sign flashed empty. He punched the off button to conserve power, snatched up the shopping bag, then rampaged toward the cemetery gate, muttering curses under his breath, keen to leave the church and its bell far behind.

CHAPTER FOUR

Ravenshaw’s flat lay only a short trek across the village. At the basement level of a Victorian terrace house, the entrance was invisible from the road, huddled down a flight of steps, tucked away from any village activity. The only windows opened onto a brick wall. Ravenshaw affectionately called it ‘the bunker’.

He hurried inside to the stale odour of trapped air, unwashed clothes and last night’s dinner. Rented straight after he left London, he’d Withnailed away in this place ever since, never wanting to leave. Coat slung into the corner, he thundered into his bedroom to fetch the phone charger. Shirts, ties and jeans lay in tangled heaps, mountains of grot. Nothing was ever put on hangers or folded into drawers. Books lay in piles on every horizontal surface. Hardbacks were built into towers, paperbacks wedged in corners, slim volumes sliced into nooks, and large volumes propped open doors. He told himself that such mess was not laziness, it was ‘bohemian’, which befitted a once artistic nature. Finding things quickly, however, could be a problem. After several minutes of searching his floordrobe, rummaging about for the charger, he finally discovered it on his nightstand beneath ‘1984’, ‘The Big Sleep’, and ‘Steppenwolf’.

Dreading the call back, he rammed the charger into a socket in his living room, and flumped down onto the sofa. After thirty seconds, the phone lit up. He dialled the number.

No, no, it’s fine, not a problem, replied Silverton, his tone smooth and slightly glib.

As you can imagine, it was bit of a hectic day, said Ravenshaw.

Understand completely. So, Jack, firstly I’d like to thank-you for your efforts with Ms Zofia Ostrogska this morning. Brave work. Some might say it was irresponsible, ignored protocol, and such. I say it was dynamic, steel-bollocks stuff. Just what I want in an officer. Someone who takes intelligent, well-considered risks. She’s a critical witness in the Maitland inquiry, one of the few people who can tell us what really happened in the house that night. Would not have been good to lose her. Not good at all. In fact, I conversed with Superintendent Dawkins today and he had a lot to say about you.

He may have exaggerated one or two things, said Ravenshaw.

He believes you have great vision as an investigator…

A tendency to hallucinate, he means.

…with a real head on your shoulders for complex interrogation…