Watching the Ghosts by Kate Ellis Page B

blotchy skin and a body that looked as if it had consumed too much junk food over the years. As Joe held up his warrant card, the man rolled his eyes but he stood aside meekly to let him in.
    â€˜You’ve heard that your neighbour’s been burgled?’
    â€˜Yeah. Why?’ He sounded defensive – like a man with something to hide. Perhaps this one would be easier to clear up than they’d feared.
    The hallway was wide so he didn’t have to make physical contact with Proud as he passed him, made his way into the living room and sat down uninvited. It was a spacious flat and although the room was neat there were no homely touches; no cushions, no ornaments, nothing unnecessary. The only thing approaching decoration was an array of framed letters, almost filling one wall. Proud stood hovering in the doorway as though he was preparing for a swift getaway.
    â€˜I take it you know Ms Brookes?’
    â€˜Who?’ Proud’s mouth was hanging open as he adjusted the belt on his dressing gown.
    â€˜Your neighbour in Flat Three. Lydia Brookes . . . the one who’s just been burgled.’
    â€˜Just to say hello to.’
    â€˜You haven’t been in her flat?’
    â€˜Never been invited.’ He sounded disappointed.
    â€˜Where were you yesterday afternoon?’
    â€˜I was visiting someone. It was to do with work.’
    â€˜What do you do?’
    The man hesitated, as though he was wondering whether to share a confidence. ‘I deal in memorabilia.’
    â€˜What sort of memorabilia?’ There was something cagey about the man’s replies to his questions that aroused Joe’s curiosity.
    â€˜Crime memorabilia.’
    â€˜Do you mean things like Dr Crippen’s toupee and Jack the Ripper’s false teeth?’ Joe couldn’t resist lightening the mood.
    Proud stared at Joe as if he wasn’t sure how to react. ‘As far as I know Dr Crippen never wore a toupee. And the Ripper was never identified . . . for certain.’
    Joe knew his attempt at humour had fallen on stony ground. He walked slowly over to the framed letters and peered at them, trying to decipher the spidery handwriting. ‘What are these?’
    â€˜Letters.’
    â€˜I can see that. Who wrote them?’
    The secretive smile that played on Proud’s thin lips made Joe uneasy. ‘Ever heard of Peter Brockmeister?’
    Joe caught his breath. ‘They’re from him?’
    He stared at the one of the letters. The handwriting was almost illegible but he could make out a few words. From the little he could read the author seemed to be complaining about the quality of the food and enquiring about someone called Darren. But he didn’t know what he’d expected – a detailed confession perhaps or a description of where he’d left other bodies?
    â€˜They put him in here, you know, when it was a hospital.’
    â€˜From what I’ve heard he should never have been released from prison.’
    â€˜He was transferred here in 1978 after he’d served almost ten years for his alleged crimes. The authorities decided he was mentally ill – mad not bad. He might have spent the rest of his days here if the place hadn’t closed down. Mind you, the psychiatrists reckoned he was cured by then so . . . And he died a few weeks after his release so he didn’t get to enjoy his freedom.’ He sighed, as if the killer’s death was a matter of great regret. ‘I got these letters from a relative of the man Peter shared a cell with in prison. They kept in touch after Peter was transferred here . . . until Darren got killed in a fight with a fellow inmate. Sad.’
    Joe opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it.
    â€˜Look, I can’t help you. I didn’t see anything. And I’ve got things to do.’
    â€˜I’m sure you have, Mr Proud.’ He walked to the door and turned round. ‘What do you think of Lydia