The Case of the Four Fingers

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  What To Read Next

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by Liz Hedgecock

  Copyright and Dedication

  Chapter 1

  ‘Guess what, Steph?’

  My desk creaked. I looked up from the report I was reading to see Huw Jones half-sitting on it and grinning at me.

  ‘What, Huw?’ I replied, trying to sound matter-of-fact and cool, though inside I was anything but. I was dying for a bit of excitement. Even new biscuits in the tin would have been something.

  ‘It’s your lucky day: Inspector Farnsworth wants to see you in his office.’

  ‘Really?’ I was already out of my seat, smoothing my hair and checking I had no traces of lunchtime’s hummus and salad wrap around my mouth. A horrible thought struck me. ‘Do you know what it’s about?’

  I racked my brain for anything I had done that might land me in trouble. My conscience was clear, as far as I knew. To be honest, I hadn’t had much to do since arriving at Erskine Street police station the week before. I’d been out on the beat once with Huw, a fellow constable, during which he’d pointed out every coffee shop and takeaway along the route, together with a review. The rest of the time I was glued to my desk. Sergeant Doughty had set me some reading: an email full of links to hefty reports on Liverpool and its crime statistics. When I had requested a transfer from rural Cheshire to the big city, spending my days staring at a screen wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind.

  Huw continued to smile. ‘You’ll like this, Steph. Bit of responsibility for you.’

  ‘Oh.’ I straightened up. Whatever my previous boss, Inspector Bostock, had written about me must have been good. I mean, it wasn’t that I thought she’d say anything negative. But, well, you never know.

  ‘He’ll be waiting, Steph.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Sorry.’ I checked my pocket for a notebook, then set off at a fast walk for the inspector’s office, careful not to trip over my own feet.

  Inspector Farnsworth was a tall, broad man who somehow managed to fade into the background, even in an office with his name on the door. I imagined that was good for shadowing people, but it made him strangely unmemorable. I was glad the meeting was in his office, as otherwise I didn’t think I’d be able to pick him out of a lineup.

  ‘Constable.’ He looked at a scribbled note on his blotter. ‘Stephanie, isn’t it?’ He smiled at me.

  ‘That’s right, sir. PC Jones said you wanted to see me.’

  ‘Yes, Constable.’ He gazed at something over my right shoulder. When I peeked round I realised it was the open door.

  ‘Oh, sorry, sir.’ I leapt up and closed it.

  ‘Thank you, Stephanie.’ He fiddled with a paperclip for a few seconds. ‘We wouldn’t normally do this, but in view of your exemplary record…’

  ‘Yes, Inspector?’ I was practically on the edge of my seat. I had studied the case board, I’d asked questions – without being intrusive, of course – and I was confident I knew as much as I could possibly be expected to know about any of the high-profile and juicy cases currently under investigation.

  ‘We’re putting you in charge of your own police station.’

  My mouth dropped open. ‘Really, sir? I mean, it’s a great honour, but surely a constable couldn’t possibly—’

  A laugh popped out of the inspector like a cork from a bottle. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got your hopes up, Constable. It is a police station, but … it’s the Bridewell.’

  My heart sank. The Bridewell stuck out like an old-fashioned thumb in the middle of the shiny new buildings off Prescot Street. It was still a police station, just. I’d heard other officers talk about doing a stint at the Bridewell. That seemed to involve taking a good book, a pint of milk and a supply of teabags, and whiling away a shift with perhaps one report of a lost dog or a missing wheelie bin. Line of Duty it was not.

  A loophole presented itself to me. ‘Are you sure I’m senior enough to do that, Inspector? Should managing a police station be a constable’s job?’

  Inspector Farnsworth shook his head regretfully. ‘I’m afraid we are so chock-a-block with cases that I can’t possibly spare anybody else.’

  I tried to hide the sting of that remark. Was I the worst possible option for proper police work? What had Inspector Bostock written about me in her report?

  I exhaled slowly, rather than heaving the sigh that was struggling to escape. ‘When would you like me to start, sir?’

  The inspector turned to his computer, pressed a couple of keys and peered at the screen. ‘Sam Davies is there at the moment, and we could use her on the Kensington off-licence break-in. Can you get your things together and head down now, Stephanie?’ He gave me an encouraging, you-can-do-it kind of smile.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I got up, finding it a struggle as my heart had sunk so low, and made a swift exit.

  ‘Bridewell duty, eh, Steph? You’ve arrived.’ Tasha Saunders gave me a gentle punch on the arm. I was slightly in awe of her, mostly because she seemed entirely too glamorous to be a police constable. She looked more as if she was dressed as one for a photoshoot.

  ‘Um, thanks. If you want to swap—’

  ‘You’re OK.’ She grinned at me, then fished in her bag and handed me a Snickers. ‘Emergency chocolate. You can thank me later.’ But even unexpected chocolate couldn’t cheer me up.

  I thought of something I’d forgotten to ask Inspector Farnsworth. ‘How long does it normally last, Bridewell duty?’

  Tasha tossed her auburn mane. ‘Till someone comes to replace you, generally.’

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. ‘I wish I hadn’t asked. Seriously, is there nothing to do there?’

  ‘Not a thing. Sergeant Doughty tried getting people to take a laptop down and type up statements, but the laptop kept going funny. Static on the screen, wouldn’t save the document, that sort of thing. Get yourself a few magazines on the way. Catch up on some sleep, if you like. Maybe grab a snack, too.’

  I forced a smile. ‘Maybe I’ll get a takeaway delivered from one of Huw’s recommendations.’

  A tiny frown creased the skin between Tasha’s arched eyebrows. ‘Nowhere delivers to the Bridewell.’

  I made a face. ‘This gets better and better.’ And so, after thumping my copy of Blackstone’s Police Operational Handbook and the latest issue of Police magazine into my bag, putting on my hat, clattering round the kitchenette gathering supplies, and generally making it clear that I wasn’t happy about my new work location, I set off for the Bridewell.

  Chapter 2

  Despite using my phone as a satnav, it took me some time to find my way into the Bridewell.

  I arrived first at a metal gate which was locked, with the doorbell hanging from a wire. I stared up at the building, an uncompromising square block of red brick and yellow stone, with large many-paned windows. It was in surprisingly good condition. However, I hadn’t seen inside, and when I’d overheard the others talking about it, the word I recalled was ‘dump’. I sighed, and kept walking in search of another door.

  I found a more promising door, but when I tried it it was locked, and it looked thick enough to drown out a knock. Maybe it’s a sign that I shouldn’t be here. Maybe I should go back to the station and say I couldn’t find my way in. But the thought of the sniggers from the team, and the ribbing I would receive, possibly for the rest of my career there, made me keep going.

  At last I found a door on the third side of the building which had been left ajar. I knocked, then pushed it open.

  The building seemed solid, with municipal brown tiles halfway up the walls and a wooden floor like a school hall, but bits of wood and broken furniture were propped against the walls, along with a box of light fittings.

  ‘Hello?’ I called. My voice echoed in the curtainless, carpetless space.

  Eventually, the reply ‘Coming’ floated from above. I glanced up the staircase, which looked as if it was made of concrete – was that even possible? – with the metal banister painted a surprising bright blue. At the bottom was a sign, white lettering on dark grey. A hand pointed upwards, next to the words DETECTIVE OFFICE.

  A few seconds later, Sam Davies’s head appeared above the balustrade at the top. ‘Are you taking over?’ she asked.

  I briefly considered saying no, I’d come to bring her teabags and milk, but there was no point. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’ She practically ran downstairs. ‘I was climbing the walls.’ She saw my expression and her grin faded. ‘You’ll be fine. This is new to you. It’s just that I’ve done a lot of shifts here. There’s only so many shopping lists you can make and magazines you can read. No wi-fi, you see. Anyway, it won’t be for long.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re so sure,’ I said.

  ‘It won’t be: they’re selling it to developers in a couple of weeks. It’s going to be luxury flats.’ I looked doubtfully around me and she giggled. ‘I guess they’ll knock it down. Someone’s already started taking anything of value out.’
She glanced at the box of light fittings.

  I felt a pang of something – sorrow? regret? – but it was quickly replaced first by relief that this would last two weeks at most, then horror that I might spend two whole weeks cooling my heels, with no chance of anything interesting happening.

  ‘Want me to give you a quick tour?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Come on then.’ She took me into a big square room, empty apart from more stacked debris, two folding chairs, and a low table beside a plug socket. On the table stood a kettle, a carton of long-life milk, half a packet of biscuits and a selection of mugs. ‘If anyone comes to the station, bring them in here. Make them a brew, maybe, but you don’t have to.’ She led the way out to the corridor again. ‘Toilets are upstairs.’ She jerked a thumb at the concrete staircase. ‘If you like, you can look in the detective offices. Not that there’s much to see, but there’s an armchair. Don’t use any other staircases apart from this one – we’re not sure how safe they are.’ She grinned at me. ‘Want to see the cells?’

  ‘Erm, I suppose so.’

  She led me through the corridor until we came to a large, stout door. Beyond was another, smaller corridor with a row of doors on the right hand side, each with bolts and locks. ‘Here we are,’ said Sam, opening one. ‘Step right in.’

  The cell was a rectangular room with a curved ceiling, entirely clad in the sort of cream tiles that belonged in an old-fashioned toilet. At the end was an arched, barred window set high on the wall. It was surprisingly light and well-made, but completely bare. It probably hadn’t been used as an actual cell for many years.

  ‘Two-person job, this,’ said Sam. ‘When I joined, the old sergeant who showed me round told me they used to nip out at pub closing time, round up anyone who looked a bit bevvied, and put them in the cells to cool off. As soon as they filled the cells, they could brew up and play cards for the rest of the shift.’

  I thought of the state I’d been in after going clubbing sometimes, and felt relieved that that sergeant and his colleagues hadn’t been around at the time. A draught found the back of my neck, making me shiver, and I glared at the window. About time this place came down. As if it had heard me, the breeze intensified.

  ‘You all right?’ said Sam. ‘Come on, back to the main room and make yourself a brew. I’ll nip upstairs and collect my stuff.’ The big square room was warmer, and I switched on the kettle. At least there’s electricity. And hopefully, a flushing toilet.

  Before the kettle had boiled Sam was back, clutching a supermarket carrier bag and a dogeared sudoku book. She reached into the carrier bag and brought out a large ring of keys. ‘Big one’s for the main door and you probably won’t need the others. Just make sure all windows and doors are locked when you leave. This place is meant to be open eight till six, but I doubt you’ll see anyone before half nine or after half five. If then, frankly. So if you want to nip out, put a note on the door. You’ll find one in the letter rack thingy. See you!’ And with a cheery wave of her hand, she strolled off.

  I made tea, rejecting the long-life milk in favour of the pint I had brought and helping myself to a couple of ginger nuts from the pack. I sat in one of the folding chairs and looked around me while I sipped. It felt weird. Not as if the walls were closing in: more the opposite. As if the room was getting bigger and bigger. Or maybe I was getting smaller and smaller.

  I stood up, slung my bag over my shoulder, and decided to check out the detective offices. First, though, I went to the front door and put up a sign, scribbled in biro on an old envelope: PLEASE CALL LOUDLY FOR ATTENTION. My first idea had been to ask callers to ring my phone, but when I checked it there was no signal. It’s like going back in time, I thought as I pushed the drawing pin into the door, in a place where it had clearly been pushed many times before. There were so many little holes in the door that it looked as if it had woodworm. Perhaps it did.

  That done, I went upstairs, checked out the toilet, which appeared old-fashioned but serviceable, and stood outside the door of what was presumably a detective office. I caught myself in the act of raising my hand to knock. You idiot, Steph. As if anyone’s in there. I opened the door and surveyed the room. As if anyone would stay here of their own free will.

  The room was maybe ten feet square, with a yellowed net curtain at the window, a small cream-tiled fireplace (square tiles this time), and a wing-back armchair with stuffing leaking out of the seat. Beside it was a side table with a beer mat on it. The carpet was threadbare, and showed signs of where furniture had once stood. There had been two tables or desks, and maybe a cabinet against the wall. On the wall opposite the window was a noticeboard covered in green cloth with a wooden frame, empty except for a list of regulations in case of fire and three spare drawing pins, all rusty.

  I wrinkled my nose. ‘Home sweet home.’ I put my mug on the beer mat and lowered myself carefully into the armchair.

  It didn’t break, but it wasn’t comfortable. The springs had lost their spring some time ago, and I suspected my bottom was inches from the floor. Oh well. I checked my watch. Half past three, and Sam had said people didn’t usually show up after half five. I could get a bit of reading in, maybe explore a few rooms and lock up at six on the dot. And tonight I could make sure I had plenty to keep me busy tomorrow. I saw the IKEA catalogue sitting on the breakfast bar in my bare, slightly grim flat, waiting for me to make decisions. My mind’s eye scanned the flat. I could bring a couple of recipe books and do a proper meal plan, then shop for the week like a grown-up instead of living on microwave meals. I could bring my yoga mat, buy cheap dumbbells and do some exercise. I could even—

  The chilly breeze I’d felt earlier wafted over me, bringing me back to reality.

  I blinked.

  Standing in front of me was a woman in her mid to late twenties, medium height and slim, with red-gold hair. My first thought was that she must have sneaked in and crept upstairs without me hearing her. ‘What do you w—’

  I blinked again.

  She was wearing a black jacket with bright metal buttons and a calf-length skirt. It looked like an old-fashioned uniform.

  Her hair was pinned up in a bun on the back of her head.

  And most worryingly of all, I could see through her to the noticeboard beyond.

  Chapter 3

  I’m not sure what I said next. I think I was too stunned to hear. I heaved myself out of the chair as the ghost said, with an outraged expression, ‘Wash your mouth out, young lady!’ I edged round her – I couldn’t bear the thought of going through her – and wrenched the door open.

  ‘Wait!’ the ghost cried. ‘You can see me.’

  I didn’t reply. I was too busy clattering down the stairs. Two weeks on my own planning recipes and doing bicep curls was infinitely preferable to this.

  ‘I don’t mean you any harm,’ said a voice that was far closer than I’d like. I turned at the bottom of the stairs and almost jumped out of my skin. She was right behind me.

  ‘I don’t care!’ I snapped. ‘Go and haunt somebody else. Or go back to the graveyard, or wherever you came from.’

  The ghost shifted from foot to foot silently. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t? You’ve got no business scaring people. No wonder no one wants to work here.’

  She twisted her hands, which were clad in little white gloves. ‘You’re the only one who’s been able to see me.’

  My heart sank like a stone. ‘I can’t be.’

  ‘You are. I’ve been invisible for a hundred years, more or less. Imagine what that feels like.’

  I tried. Sometimes I felt invisible, in meetings where I made a point which went unnoticed until two minutes later a colleague said the same thing and it immediately went up on the board. ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked the ghost. ‘I’m Nora.’

  ‘I’m – no, wait a minute. For all I know, if I give you my name you’ll do something weird like possess me.’

  Nora started laughing, which didn’t reassure me. ‘Right, that’s enough,’ I said. ‘I agreed to come here and twiddle my thumbs, not chat to ghosts.’

  ‘You have to help me.’ Nora stretched out her hands towards me.

  I took a step back. ‘I absolutely do not.’