The Ghost Page B

play-park and into Lisa Goldstraw’s neighbourhood, with its deep driveways and stone-clad semis, and children who didn’t know him well enough to risk any catcalls. Cook’s heart quickened at the thought of Lisa, and his lungs greedily inhaled the oxygen of anonymity.
    To Cook’s consistent astonishment and envy, Lisa’s house had a back-garden veranda bursting with toys and books and board-games. Baby Rebecca had transformed into Toddler Rebecca, and she teetered and stumbled from one primary-coloured object to the next, yelling with delight. Lisa showed Cook her latest acquisition – a plastic ‘barber-shop’ chair with a crank-handle which oozed Play-Doh through the perforated skulls of grinning models, like a benign meat mincer. Rebecca held a pair of blunt orange scissors in both hands, cropping the coloured strands while Lisa styled them neat with a broad-tooth comb. As ever, though, Rebecca was more interested in Cook himself – cuddling him, gaining his attention for babbling announcements, stroking the claggy comb through his hair.
    The midday heat, which had been brooding all morning, was now fuming – up in the low 80s. Lisa’s mother had thrown open all the veranda windows, inviting a weedy breeze which drifted around to little effect. As she lifted Rebecca away for a nap, Cook noticed a small, slitted scar underneath the toddler’s chin, scored across the width of its tip.
    â€œCome on, Trouble! Let’s get you down for an hour.”
    They listened as Mrs Goldstraw settled Rebecca in an upstairs room before returning with two glasses of blackcurrant squash, a single ice-cube bobbing in each.
    â€œLittle Becky fell out of her pram last week. Didn’t she, mum?”
    â€œShe did, darling, yes. It was a really nasty cut. She’s okay, though.”
    â€œAnd she now calls Dorian ‘Dor-Dor’.”
    Mrs Goldstraw chuckled and stole a sip from her daughter’s glass.
    *
    Cook scootered home through the afternoon haze. At the forking point to Lowther Street, he was surprised to see David Brereton, Michael Howell – and John Ray, all on Tomahawk bicycles, pedalling uphill towards the park. They shouted and waved but didn’t stop. Cook span round his scooter and followed them, along the perimeter cycle path and, eventually, into an upscale estate where the houses hid behind tall double-gates and pruned hedges. He tracked the cyclists to the back of a mid-sized house with a dark blue facade. By the time he emerged from a corridor of topiary, tracing the edge of a lawn as green and pristine as snooker baize, all three bikes had been laid flat on a panel of decking outside open French windows. Cook hopped off his scooter and wandered inside – to a broad and tidy dining room adjoining a kitchen that was laboratory-clean and lavishly equipped. Brereton and Howell stood before the wardrobe-sized fridge, guzzling fizzy pop and cooling their faces in front of the open freezer door. Ray was crouched down, face hidden inside a cupboard, searching for something.
    â€œHey, Dor!” said Brereton. “Where did you get your scooter from?”
    â€œYeah!” spluttered Howell, through a mouthful of Tizer. “Really want one of them!”
    â€œShut up…” muttered Cook, too focused on his surroundings to compose a comeback. Having previously visited both Brereton and Howell’s houses, he assumed – correctly – that this was where John Ray began his journey to school each morning. The opulence enthralled him. Everything – layout, surface materials, colour choices – blazed with the gloss of good taste empowered by ample income. Esther’s walls were bare, her shelves loaded with Toby jugs, cadaverous imps and awkwardly posed porcelain figures. Here, the pattern was reversed, with shelves free of ornamentation and walls displaying what could confidently be called art – abstracts, landscapes,