Watching the Ghosts
Boothgate House is a recently converted apartment building with a sinister past. Once an asylum for the insane known as Havenby Hall, it was where serial killer Peter Brockmeister was sent on his release from prison. But three years later, Havenby Hall closed. And Brockmeister died in mysterious circumstances. Solicitor Melanie Hawkes is investigating Havenby Hall when her young daughter is kidnapped. Meanwhile, Boothgate House resident Lydia Brookes is burgled.
In both cases, DI Joe Plantagenet believes there may be a connection to the house's disturbing past. And why is a paranormal researcher so fascinated by the building's basement? As Joe uncovers the appalling truth, he is forced to face an evil that threatens those closest to him.
forward, notebook at the ready. ‘Patrick Creeny. He’s been working with me on the Boothgate House project.’ ‘Havenby Hall?’ ‘Boothgate House. We’re hoping people will forget about . . . It’s not good for business. Patrick gave me the cash from his safe and when I got home the kidnapper called again and told Melanie to take the money to the car park behind the Museum Gardens. They said she’d receive further instructions when she arrived.’ ‘She went alone?’ ‘I . . . we thought it was best if
not me I’m thinking of. It’s Miss Newson. She’s getting very nervous, poor woman.’ ‘In that case go round in daylight. Tell the constable on duty you have my permission . . . and make sure he hangs around.’ He replaced the receiver hoping George wouldn’t do anything risky. But he knew that if Beverley Newson was in a state of panic, George’s conscience wouldn’t allow him to ignore her. He saw Emily making for his desk. She’d just been briefing the Superintendent on their progress and she
his assurances hadn’t convinced her. And a small, nagging inner voice told him that he wasn’t altogether convinced himself. She’d dropped off to sleep but had awoken a couple of hours later, shaking with tears coursing down her face. It was the nightmare again. The clock. At that moment Joe felt tempted to march to Cecil Bentham’s shop and take an axe to the ugly thing. But he was a police officer, a responsible member of society, so vandalism wasn’t an option. The following morning she went to
their large square kitchen with its hand-painted units and glossy granite worktops, playing absent-mindedly with her untouched toast while Jack opened the morning post: bills as usual; it always seemed to be bills these days. He looked over at her and she could sense his irritation. He had enough problems without all this. ‘What time are you getting the money?’ ‘It’s all in hand. If they call just keep calm and write down any instructions they give you.’ ‘I will.’ The words were said as
to be there but he was comforted by the presence of another human being. ‘Stay back and keep quiet,’ he hissed as they came to a wooden door. It was closed but Joe put his hand on the rusty handle and pushed. He could smell cigarette smoke from somewhere. Somehow he hadn’t imagined the killer as a smoker. When the door opened the first thing he saw was Lydia. She was lying on an operating table underneath a brilliant surgical light that left everything else in the room in gloomy shadows. Her