Worthless Remains by Peter Helton

broom earlier; don’t tell me she climbs these stairs.’
    â€˜No, I’m the only madwoman in the attic.’
    â€˜So who was it I saw earlier?’
    â€˜Old woman? No idea, you must have imagined it.’
    â€˜I quite clearly saw—’
    Carla snorted with pleasure. ‘I’m only kidding. That was Mrs Cunningham. Olive to her very few friends.’
    â€˜Not a ghost, then, I
am
relieved.’
    â€˜Not Olive. Quite solid, in fact. But the place is definitely haunted. You’ll find out if you stay here. The Cunninghams owned the Hall until she was forced to sell it. But she retains the right to live out her life in the granny flat in the north wing, right next to the pool.’
    Pool. Of course there was. There would be a helicopter pad somewhere. ‘She was staring at me.’
    We reached a narrow corridor, largely unadorned and flimsily carpeted with a narrow worn runner. ‘She does that a lot. Thinking. Remembering, probably. I’m not sure she sees what we see. You probably won’t see much of her, though. She made it quite clear she disapproved of the TV circus, as she described you.’
    â€˜I’m not actually part of the circus.’
    â€˜Really? That’s good. I’m not really a servant, either. Here we are.’ She opened the second door along. ‘I put you in here. I hope you’ll be comfortable; it’s quite a nice room, no
en suite
though. Bathroom’s at the end of the corridor and naturally you’re welcome to use the pool, where there are showers too.’
    â€˜Thanks. No, I’m not TV; I’m just here to look after Mr Middleton while he’s in Bath.’
    â€˜Rather you than me, I think.’
    â€˜And you’re here to look after Mark Stoneking. What’s that like?’
    â€˜Delightful,’ she said. It sounded almost as though she meant it. ‘If you need anything, give me a shout. Though, please, not literally.’
    She left me to get acquainted with my new home. It was a cosy attic room where a queen-size bed left just enough space for a narrow wardrobe and a small writing desk and chair by the little window. There was a tiny fireplace with a grate wide enough for three lumps of coal. From the window I could see the lake, the woodland and the glasshouse roof but had only a partial view of the lawn. Now all I had to do was go and get my jim-jams, as Cy put it.
    As I drove out of the front gate, which closed behind me with a gothic groan, I reflected that with twice my usual rates, pool, a baronial breakfast each morning and upmarket TV catering for the rest of the day, staying at Tarmford Hall really was no hardship; though naturally I would have to make sure it sounded like that to Annis.
    On the way there I drove through Combe Down and snuck up on Mike Dealey’s place. I was just in time to see him park his red Honda in front of his garage. It was my first good look at my prey. He still had the walrus moustache from the picture but had probably put on some weight since then. He was wearing baggy blue jeans and trainers and a faded black tee-shirt. The driver seat swivelled sideways. Out came the wheelchair from where it had been stashed behind the seat. Dealey opened it up and with no doubt well-practised movements swung himself into the seat. It looked like an uncomfortable manoeuvre and I thought I saw him wince. I called Haarbottle at his office. ‘I’m still patiently staking out Dealey’s place,’ I told him, as though I’d been doing nothing else all week.
    â€˜Any luck?’
    Dealey pulled a Co-op carrier from inside the car. ‘Not so far; he hasn’t slipped up once. But don’t worry, I’m sticking to him like glue.’
    â€˜I’m glad you’re on the case and keeping in touch. Naturally, as a company, we have to justify the expense of a private investigator and weigh this up against the very real—’
    â€˜Oh,