Curse of Weyrmouth (Curse of Weyrmouth Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  “Not mushroom risotto?” said Holy Joe in trepidation, looking up from his bunk. He had on a pair of glasses held together with tape, and was holding a fat, dog-eared Bible.

  “No, it's allegedly a slice of meat feast pizza with the usual limp bits of greenery you can ignore,” said Carr. “That's the good news. Unfortunately for dessert, I'm afraid we have lemon sorbet.”

  Holy Joe snorted.

  “Flavored water, frozen, is as far from a decent pudding as the human mind can conceive. And in November such a confection constitutes a mortal insult to one's gut!”

  Carr tried to stifle a laugh. The old man's denunciation of canteen food was as intense and sincere as his open-air sermonizing.

  “I share your pain, believe me,” he said, putting the tray down on the small fold-out table. “But I did manage to get you a decent cup of tea by raiding a certain officer's supply of teabags.”

  “You're a good lad,” said Holy Joe, swinging his long legs off the bunk.

  “Would you like to use the shower?” asked Carr.

  Now that they were close together in a confined space, he could not help noticing the smell of the vagrant. It was compounded of familiar human odors, plus damp clothes, and something else.

  Incense, maybe?

  Holy Joe began wolfing down the pizza, talking at the same time. Carr struggled to hear what he was saying.

  “Privacy?” said the detective. “Of course. Nobody's going to spy on you, Joe. One complaint about that sort of thing, I get about twenty forms to fill in, believe me.”

  The old man laughed.

  “Always more forms, more writing, more supposed facts to compile. While the truth goes in rags, its voice unheard.”

  Carr sighed, sat down on the end of the bunk. He had a few minutes and genuinely wanted to help the old man. The first stage, he felt, was getting to know him better.

  “What is truth?” he asked. “And don't give me that stuff about jesting Pilate not staying to hear the answer.”

  Holy Joe stopped eating, pizza drooping from a gray mitten-covered hand.

  “I'm impressed!” said the old man. “You know your gospels, then?”

  “Raised as a Methodist,” explained Carr. “Not so religious now. Perhaps I've seen too much of God's creatures and their evil doing to believe He has a wonderful plan. If he exists.”

  Holy Joe gave another snort.

  “The sin of despair!” he growled, resuming eating. “You'd believe in God if you'd seen as much spiritual evil as I have.”

  “Like what happened this morning?” asked Carr. “Professor Maspero?”

  The old man nodded, finished his pizza, and wiped his hands on his threadbare woolen overcoat.

  “They were nearby when it happened,” said Joe.

  “The Seven? Now you talked about–” began Carr, but Joe shoved a dirty hand over the officer's mouth.

  “Don't mention them unless you need to! Even then, think twice!”

  Gently, Carr detached Joe's palm from his face.

  “I don't think we'd get very far skipping from six to eight when we count stuff, would we?”

  “It's not the number, lad!” insisted the old man. “It's thinking of – the number of Them, of those who watch us.”

  Leaning closer, Joe went on, “They move among us, unseen. When They see something that offends them, They deal with it.”

  Carr leaned back, trying not to make a face as Joe's foul breath enveloped him.

  “You're talking about ghosts, aren't you? I've heard this sort of thing before.”

  “Then why are you so skeptical, Mister Detective? Why don't you–”

  Joe trailed off in mid-rant, and stared past Carr at the doorway. Twisting around quickly, Carr saw nothing but an empty corridor and the door of the cell opposite.

  “Jumpy, aren't you?” asked Carr, getting up. “I think I should get the duty doctor to give you the once over. He could refer you for some sort of–”

  “No head-shrinkers, no trick cyclists,” said Joe dismissively, and slurped a mouthful of tea. He was still looking past Carr, but seemed more wary than alarmed now. “I'm not barmy. I just see things others don't. And hear 'em, too.”

  Shrugging, Carr turned to leave.

  “I'll send someone along with towels for your shower,” he promised. “And I promise that nobody will be peeking at your–”

  Carr stopped, puzzled. The view from the doorway was the same as before, of course.

  What could have changed? So why does it seem like something has.

  Carr looked more closely at the opposite cell door. It needed repainting, and was flecked with brown streaks that might have been blood or excrement. But now there were fainter streaks lower down, perhaps three feet above the floor that shone dimly under the corridor lights. Carr went closer, bent down to look. The streaks were fading. He touched one, felt cold, damp.

  Condensation? Oddly specific.

  Then he realized that the damp streaks seemed to spell out words in crude, childish lettering. The words had gone before he could make them all out. But the last two seemed to be NO or maybe NOT, and TELLE.

  Telle? Somebody can't spell...

  Behind Carr, Holy Joe shut the door of his cell.

  “Anything wrong, Johnny?”

  Carr straightened up to face Detective Constable Jen Deighton.

  “Nothing a bit of TLC can't fix, m'dear,” he replied, with a well-practiced leer.

  Deighton punched him on the arm.

  “I could have you done for sexual harassment!” he warned. Then, moving closer, she breathed, “Or you could just do me, that would work too.”

  “Not while I'm on duty,” said Carr, removing her hand before it could stray below his waistline. “Remember, we are public servants!”

  “Yeah, but we're not supposed to be a care home for smelly old hobos,” she replied, nodding at Joe's door.

  “I know,” sighed Carr. “But it's pissing with rain, so–”

  “Too soft-hearted, that's your trouble,” she began, then paused, frowning.

  A loud barking could be heard.

  More than one dog. Wonder what's spooked them?

  “Okay,” said Deighton, “that's a real mood-killer. They've been going barmy lately, I wonder what's up?”

  “Lots of weird things happening,” agreed Carr. “But when was this town normal?”

  ***

  “Yes, thank you, I was already aware of the tragic situation,” said Park, and ended the call abruptly.

  Rufus Maspero dead, he thought. And they reckon it's an accident? Hardly likely, given the circumstances.

  Unconsciously he reached inside his shirt, clutched at a small velvet bag suspended from his neck by a stout cord. It was at best an uncertain safeguard, but he had others.

  Defense in depth, he thought. Sound tactical doctrine. But not infallible against an enemy whose capabilities one simply does not know.

  Park rose from his armchair, dislodging a black cat. The creature leaped gracefully to the floor and looked up at its human companion with a resentful meow.

  “Sorry, Salome,” said the cadaverous man, “But duty calls.”

  He went to his desk, switched on a laptop, and pulled up the email notifying him of the monthly meeting of the Antiquarian Society. The agenda, prepared as usual by Saffron Weldon, seemed normal enough. A discussion of Weyrmouth during the Great War, a look at scrimshaw made by French prisoners of the Napoleonic era, and of course Maspero's regular talk.

  Park frowned, leaned closer. The title of Maspero's paper bothered him.

  On the Significance of the Quincunx in High Medieval Church Architecture.

  Park struggled to recall the meaning of the obscure term, gave up, and Googled it. Salome leaped up onto the desk and tried to walk back and forth over the keyboard. Park picked her up and secured the protesting cat in his lap, surfing one-handed. Soon he had more than enough information about the quincunx.

  “So that's what it means,” he
said. “I might have known – five points. But that in and of itself should not be enough to attract their attention. What we need, Salome, is a look at the actual paper he was going to deliver. Now where might that be?”

  The cat finally struggled free, and began to parade up and down the laptop keyboard again, sable tail brushing Park's gaunt features. He smiled, thin-lipped, and scratched Salome between her ears.

  “I quite agree,” he said. “But how are we to gain access to his computer, hmm?”

  The cat purred, eyes half-shut, oblivious to mere human concerns.

  ***

  In the late afternoon, the rain eased up and Erin decided to go for a walk. She had been going stir crazy in her room. She changed into sneakers, jeans and a warm jacket. She checked her phone for what might have been the hundredth time just before stepping out. As before, she had no messages.

  She was about to put the phone back into her purse when an email appeared with a cheerful beep. It was from something called 'Five Plus Two'. She'd never heard of it, and assumed it was simply junk. As she was moving the message to her spam folder, though, her thumb must have slipped. The email opened.

  “Crap!” she exclaimed, sitting down on the bed.

  Great, a virus on my phone. That would make this a perfect day.

  However, the email did not seem sinister. There was no attachment to open for starters. Just a series of pictures, slightly blurred and washed-out. However, they clearly showed places in Weyrmouth familiar to Erin. Here was her hotel from just outside the lobby. Then there was the station, the university, the museum.

  Erin stopped scrolling down, gasped.

  The picture of Weyrmouth Museum showed Erin taking off her shoes in the portico. It was not a flattering shot, taken from behind at a distance. The illuminated blue sign on top of Abdul's cab was just visible to one side in the foreground. So the snooper had been across the road.

  Crap on a cracker. A stalker, now? This is worse than a virus!

  She scrolled back up the email, examining each picture more closely. Enlarging the pic of the Premier Inn she could just make out someone standing by the reception desk. It was Erin, first thing, talking to Val. Closer examination of the other images showed Erin just visible.

  Telephoto lens, maybe? Not taken on a regular phone, that's for sure.

  Thoughts whirling, Erin tried to focus. If someone had been waiting for her at the station, they knew about the interview. That narrowed it down to a few acquaintances in London – none of whom were crazy stalker types – and the museum staff themselves. Louise Tarrant did not strike Erin as a suspect, either.

  But Saffron's a ditz, she thought, so maybe she just leaked the information to somebody?

  None of which explained why someone thought Erin was worth stalking.

  She jumped, almost dropped her phone, as another email beeped into existence. This one was from Keith, her ex. After Dasha left him, he had bombarded her with 'Please come back to me I always loved you really' messages but they had tailed off recently. She assumed it was because he had lost interest, or maybe found another love of his life.

  Maybe he's taken it to a new level, full on crazy?

  But stalking had never been Keith's style. Hell, he'd never even bought her chocolate or flowers, let alone cared about where she was from one day to the next. Of all the things she could accuse her ex of, control freakery was not one.

  Erin flicked through the pictures again, looking for clues. She remembered watching an old movie in which she had glimpsed the camera crew and director reflected in a shop window. She eventually decided that she ought to be able to see the snooper in the window of the store at the station.

  No dice. Hmm. Okay, wrong angle.

  She tried the picture of the Premier Inn, enlarging it and scrolling around the image. Again, there was nothing reflected in the glass of the automatic doors. Or rather, nothing human. There was a low, four-legged shape that she took to be a dog of some kind. Possibly a greyhound. It was blurred, clearly moving fast.

  “Ah, screw it,” she muttered, and put her phone away. “I'm gonna find me a bar and get really, really drunk.”

  ***

  Saffron Weldon knocked timidly at Louise Tarrant's door. She was under orders to leave her boss to contemplate the candidates until five pm, and it was only four thirty-two. But Saffron had terrible news to deliver, and felt that it could not wait.

  “Come in.”

  Entering the inner office Saffron found her boss standing at the window looking out at the gray vista.

  “Do you ever get the feeling you're being watched, Saffie?” asked the director.

  Saffron pondered a moment and said, “Well, in pubs and nightclubs I do, but then of course people are watching me then, and sometimes when I'm walking alone and I think I feel eyes on the back of my neck, well I don't mean literal eyes rolling down my body, of course, that would be all slimy and gross–”

  Louise lifted a hand gently, gesturing her assistant to silence. It was almost an automatic response in a conversation with Saffron.

  “I mean, do you ever feel you're being watched when there's nobody around?”

  “Like, when I'm in the bath?” Saffron shuddered, eyes wide. “Ooh, no. Not unless I've just seen a scary film or something. And I try not to watch those alone, not since that Korean one with the little boy in the house. Why?”

  “Probably nothing,” said Louise, shrugging and turning from the window. “I take it you have something urgent for me?”

  “Yes!” said Saffron eagerly. “It's about the meeting of the Antiquarian Society!”

  “Short of petty cash for biscuits again?” asked Louise, reaching for her purse.

  Louise stooped to pick up her purse from the floor beside the desk.

  “No, I mean the meeting has to be called off!” explained the girl. “Because he's dead!”

  “Sorry, I think you jumped a track again, Saffie,” said Louise. “Who's dead?”

  “Professor Maspero! That lovely old man, it's so tragic! Apparently he fell over when he was chaining his bike up or something and this truck hit him, and they're saying he was killed instantly, which is a mercy I suppose.”

  Louise sat down heavily and let Saffron talk excitedly for half a minute more before raising her hand again.

  “Saffie,” she said, “you did right to tell me. Contact the other society members, and explain the situation. Then wait at reception to intercept anyone you don't talk to directly. Don't trust them to check their messages.”

  “Yes, Louise, good point!”

  Saffron was slightly surprised to see how much Maspero's death had affected her boss. As far as she knew, Louise and the professor were merely acquaintances, people whose paths crossed occasionally at local meetings and regional conferences. She dismissed the matter, focusing as best she could on her task. She backed out of the room and closed the door behind her.

  It was only when she got back to her desk at the entrance that she recalled another oddity about the conversation. It was not something about Louise – at least not directly. Saffron had assumed her boss was looking out at Weyrmouth, but just an instant before closing the office door she had seen a smear or smudge on the window. Louise had in fact been looking at this mark, Saffron felt sure.

  It was in the shape of a hand, from its size that of a woman or a child. Saffron could not be sure, but she had the impression that the blurred hand-print was on the outside of the glass.

  Chapter 3: Encounters in the Rain

  “Okay, eight ball in the corner pocket,” said Erin Cale, and took the shot.

  The cue ball hurtled away from the pool table in a graceful arc and crashed into a radiator with a tremendous clang. The crowd that had gathered to watch Erin's efforts gave a hearty cheer and a round of applause. Erin had been lucky to find exactly the kind of pub she wanted first time. After three pints of local ale, she was feeling no angst whatever about her interview fiasco.

  “Thank you fans,” she said, st
anding up and handing the cue to the pimply youth waiting in line. “I think I have punished you guys enough!”

  Erin wove unsteadily across the bar, clambered onto a stool, and ordered another beer. The barmaid was a cheerful bleached blonde with a fancy Celtic sleeve tattoo.

  “You've either had a really fab day or a bloody awful one,” remarked the girl as she worked the pump. “Am I right?”

  “Correct. About the second part,” said Erin, leaning on the bar. “As a certain annoying singer said, I was looking for a job and then I found a job. Damn good job. Job I could do well. But it turns out I'm an idiot who can't talk for five minutes without making a total–”

  Erin paused. The bar of the Seven Stars pub was crowded, hot, and very noisy, but she could just make out a tiny version of the Beach Boys' 'Surf City.'

  She groped for her phone, and saw an unfamiliar number.

  Answer? Don’t answer?

  Erin's thumb strayed to the green square and she heard a small voice that was vaguely familiar.

  “Is that Louise? Oh God, hang on a sec!”

  Suddenly feeling very sober, Erin walked briskly out of the bar into the doorway of the pub, where a group of damp smokers huddled in a chill drizzle.

  “…perhaps we can arrange a convenient time?” Louise was saying.

  “Time?” asked Erin, not daring to hope. “For what?”

  “Sorry, it seems to be a bad connection,” said Louise. “I want you to come in as soon as possible to look around. The usual thing; meet the rest of the team, get some idea of what will be your duties.”

  Louise continued to talk calmly, and Erin suddenly felt sober. After a few minutes, they agreed on a time the next day. The call ended.

  Erin looked at the bedraggled smokers.

  “Say hello to the Deputy Director of Weyrmouth Museums,” she said, grinning in a way she knew must be idiotic.

  “Hello!” said a sweet-looking teenage girl who seemed even drunker than Erin had been. “I didn't know we had museums! Where are they?”

  Okay, thought Erin, first thing I'll look at is their public relations.