by Lucy Banks
Miss Wellbeloved choked slightly. Larry Higgins nodded, rolling his fingers smugly across his large stomach.
“No problem at all,” he said grandly and delivered a significant wink to his team. “In fact, probably too much time, if we’re honest.”
Mike muttered something under his breath that definitely included a vulgar word or two.
“Righty-ho,” Philpot concluded as he shut his briefcase with a dry snap. “Any questions then? Or shall I leave you to discuss the details?”
“Er, may I ask a question about payment?” Miss Wellbeloved asked tentatively, hand quivering in mid-air.
Philpot frowned. “Yes,” he said slowly. “What about it?”
“Is there any advance payment for this contract, to cover expenses and so forth?”
“We pay expenses one month after you’ve filed them,” Philpot announced curtly. “Standard procedure for national cases, unless it’s a priority project. I trust this isn’t a problem?”
“Oh dear,” Higgins said, voice dripping with barely concealed glee. “Are we a bit short on cash, Jennifer?”
Miss Wellbeloved ignored him. Despite her glacial composure, Kester could see that she was getting irritated. Her left eye was twitching ever so slightly, which was a sure sign that a severe, headmistressy outburst would shortly follow.
“Don’t worry,” Higgins continued, then he waved a flabby hand in the air. “If you need to borrow any, we’d be more than happy to lend it. Anything to get the case completed. We’re dedicated to the job.”
“What a load of cobblers,” Mike muttered.
“I shall bid you all farewell then,” Philpot said as he shut down his laptop and folded it under his arm. “If you require any further information, you can contact me via email.”
After the door had closed, Larry Higgins leaned back in his chair and sighed with obvious satisfaction.
“So,” he began, eyes twinkling with unbridled hostility. “Old Ribero didn’t want to face me today, did he?”
Miss Wellbeloved clucked irritably under her breath. “He’s not very well,” she muttered. “Though of course, he asked me to send his warmest affections.”
Higgins snorted, sounding uncannily like a piston firing on a steam engine. “Like hell he did. Is he cowering back in Exeter, sending you to do his dirty work for him?”
“That’s my father you’re talking about,” Kester piped up suddenly, quite forgetting himself. “I’d rather you didn’t refer to him like that.”
Larry’s gaze slowly shifted to his direction, then narrowed. “Ah, so you’re the prodigal son, are you?” he spluttered and eyed Kester with open scepticism. Kester reddened, noticing that the gazing seemed to focus rather disproportionately on his pink tie. He wished he’d taken it off before he’d entered the building.
“I’m his son, if that’s what you mean.”
“And the famous spirit door-opener,” Lara Littleton interrupted, then leant across the table. “I’ve never met anyone who could do that; it’s damned amazing, my friend. How does it work?”
“Well,” Kester began, feeling rather pleased with the response, yet somewhat embarrassed at the same time. He never had been very good at talking to women, especially when they were very good looking and dressed like cowboys. “Um, I’m not sure really. It just kind of happens.”
Higgins snorted again, even more loudly than he had done before. “Well,” he wheezed, crossing his arms across his chest. “If you’re that talented, why don’t you join a decent agency? I’m sure the whole country would be willing to hire you. Your talents are something of a rarity.”
“I’m happy where I am, thank you,” Kester snapped. “I like working with my dad.”
“Hang on,” Higgins replied as he took a deep breath. Kester realised with foreboding that the man was clearly just starting to get into his stride, like a sumo wrestler limbering up before a big fight. “You’re telling me that you feel loyal towards the man who never bothered with you? Why?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Miss Wellbeloved said crisply. “And exactly what it has to do with the case, I have no idea. You always were a stirrer, Larry.”
Larry Higgins held his hands up in protest and cast a wink at his team. “Ah, come now Jennifer, I’m just asking,” he said, batting his hand against his thigh. “No need to get hostile. Though I did always wonder why you stuck around with Ribero too. Given that he was giving Gretchen a good seeing-to behind your back . . .”
“Mr Higgins!” Miss Wellbeloved snapped, composure finally broken. “That is Kester’s mother you’re talking about!”
“Not to mention the fact that you’re being bloody rude to Miss Wellbeloved here,” Mike growled, then rolled his sleeves up threateningly. The atmosphere darkened considerably as the two agencies glared at one another furiously across the table.
“This Doctor Ribero. He sounds interesting,” Dimitri commented. He scooped up one of the case note files, completely oblivious to the hostile looks around him. “I want to meet this man.”
“Well, you’ll be seeing lots of him soon,” Mike said sarcastically. “Given we’ll all be working together like a big happy family.”
“I’m really looking forward to it!” Lara proclaimed. “I think this case sounds so interesting. I literally cannot wait to get started.” She leant across the table, patting Kester on the arm. “And I wanna hear all about your talents. I ain’t never met someone who could see spirit doors before. Your gift is like gold dust. It’ll be great to see you in action.”
Mike sniggered and gave Kester a wink. “You’re in there, mate,” he mouthed in a manner that was horribly obvious. Kester blushed furiously.
“Well, moving forward,” Miss Wellbeloved snipped, trying her hardest to regain her composure. “Where do you propose we start on this case, Larry?”
“We need to visit the houses where the murders took place,” he answered as he settled himself to business. “Interview the spouses. See if we can get any clues about where the spirit is likely to strike next strike next.”
“Perhaps we should collect a list of old people living in this Lyme Rebus place?” Dimitri suggested in a voice so clipped it was verging on robotic.
“Lyme Regis,” Miss Wellbeloved corrected automatically. “That’s not a bad idea though. Especially if this spirit is targeting people within a two-mile radius. Mind you, the town is known for being a popular retirement location. There might be rather a few OAPs there.”
“OAPs?” Lara asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Old aged pensioners,” Miss Wellbeloved explained. “People in their sixties or above.”
“Much like Larry here,” Mike added with a snigger.
“No need for that, thank you very much.” Higgins fixed Mike with a glare of magnificent proportions. “Let’s start with arranging interviews, then go from there. I’ll get things coordinated, then get back to you with times.”
“I suspect Dr Ribero will want to take a more active role with the organisational side of things,” Miss Wellbeloved reminded him.
“If that’s the case, he should have bothered coming to the bloody briefing then, shouldn’t he have?”
“Yes . . . but he’s not very well at the moment.”
“Not very well, my arse. But let’s not waste any more time discussing that idiot. No offence intended, Kester.”
Lara gave Kester a sympathetic look, which made him feel a little better. He stared at the floor and resisted the urge to give Larry Higgins a piece of his mind. After all, he thought morosely, we’re stuck working with him for the next few months at least. I suppose I have to be polite or risk jeopardising the entire project.
“Let’s be off then,” Mike announced as he shoved his chair back with considerable enthusiasm. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m finding it a bit stuffy in this room.”
“Stuffy?” Higgins retorted, standing up to show them out. “I’ll have you know I’ve got full air conditioning in here.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of the ceiling, pointing out the large, shiny unit mounted to the wall.
Mike shrugged. “Perhaps it’s the smell that’s doing it,” he said casually as he pulled open the door. Miss Wellbeloved smiled, then hastily covered her mouth.
“Smell?” Higgins grunted, eyes narrowing to suspicious slits. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Not sure really. There’s just a very unpleasant whiff circulating around this office area.”
“I doubt that very much,” Higgins spat, scuttling behind them as they marched out into the main office. “We’ve got expensive air fresheners all over the place.”
Mike paused and frowned, then clasped his chin for added dramatic effect. Kester fought the urge to laugh. He had learnt to recognise when Mike was winding someone up, and it was always enjoyable to watch, particularly if the recipient was a colossal prat like Larry Higgins.
“I’ve got it!” he announced abruptly, then clicked his fingers. “I knew I recognised that smell from somewhere.”
“For goodness’ sake, there is no smell!” Higgins barked, turning a dangerous shade of plum. “I should know, my nose is particularly well-tuned to odours.”
“It’s dog poo.”
Lara guffawed, then slunk back to her desk when Higgins fixed his furious gaze upon her.
“I’ll have you know that it is NOT . . .”
“Yep, definitely dog poo,” Mike repeated as he sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. He scooped up his shoes and pointed at the door. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to put my shoes on outside. Don’t want to get them dirty in here.”
“I don’t know who you think you are, young man, but I won’t have you saying that my carpet is riddled with dog faeces. This is finest woven Scottish sheep’s wool, for your information.”
“Hmm,” Mike mused, then opened the door slowly. “Perhaps it’s sheep poo then.” He grinned, slipping on his shoes and skipping down the corridor before Larry Higgins could think of a response. “Toodle-pip, Mr Higgins!” he called gamely over his shoulder. Kester laughed out loud. He couldn’t help himself. The sight of Mike’s burly shoulders merrily waltzing down the miserable concrete-clad corridor was just too funny.
Miss Wellbeloved cleared her throat and patted Larry Higgins on the arm, whose purple face looked alarmingly like someone had inflated it with a bicycle pump. “We’ll be in touch regarding the interviews in Lyme Regis,” she suggested in a valiant attempt to divert his attention. “If you’d rather we conducted them, just let us know. We’re much nearer than you are.”
“No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Higgins muttered darkly, still glaring down the corridor in fury. “I think it’s best if we handle the interviews, actually. We don’t want any mistakes made.”
“Perhaps we could take half each and divide the work?”
“Fine. Whatever.” Larry Higgins folded his arms crossly, his smug composure clearly shaken. “I’ll be in touch.”
Miss Wellbeloved nodded graciously. Kester gave a little wave, felt instantly silly, then quickly lowered his hand again. To his pleasure, he noticed Lara Littleton raise her hand in response. Even Dimitri managed a small, sharp wave before slinking back to his desk.
They walked to the van in silence.
“Well,” Mike said cheerfully as he switched on the ignition and ground the van into reverse. “I thought that went very well.”
Miss Wellbeloved said nothing, only buried her head in her hands and groaned.
Chapter 6: Bacon, Anya, and Supernatural Schools
Kester wearily pushed his front door open. It was one of those particularly unpleasant floral frosted glass and metal doors, which frequently got stuck in the frame, only to be released by a forceful shove. It was dark, cold, and the day had been an especially awful one.
The door did nothing to improve his bleak mood, and the strange ohmming noise coming from the lounge further darkened it. Another of Daisy’s yoga sessions, Kester realised, wondering if it would be a better idea to simply walk straight out again, phone Mike, and see if he wanted to go to the pub.
“Hey, mate, had a good day, like?”
Kester looked up to see Pineapple’s topknotted head poking from behind the kitchen door. He shook his head grimly.
“No, it’s emphatically not been a good day,” he replied, images of Larry Higgins still looming large in his mind. “In fact, it’s been bloody awful.”
“You’re home late, innit?”
Aren’t you, not innit, Kester thought instinctively but said nothing. Experience had taught him that correcting Pineapple only resulted in more confusion and yet more incomprehensible words. “Yes, I certainly am,” he said instead, creeping past the lounge to ensure he wasn’t spotted. The ohmming grew louder, and he caught a brief glimpse of Daisy and her friends sitting cross-legged in front of a yoga DVD. He scurried past, nimble as a mouse.
“What happened then, bruv?” Pineappple asked as he leapt up and sat cross-legged on the kitchen table. “Working long hours or something?”
“No, Mike’s sodding van broke down again,” Kester replied, putting the kettle on. “We had to wait just outside Poole for about two hours until someone came to help us out.”
Pineapple nodded, then pulled a couple of mugs from the cupboard behind him. “That’s tough, man, real brutal,” he said, throwing an herbal teabag into one mug and a builder’s teabag into the other. “Like, vans . . . they just do that, don’t they? I mean, it’s technology, innit?”
Kester didn’t have a clue what he was talking about but nodded nonetheless, welcoming the warm smell of the tea being made.
“Kester-pops, I thought you’d come in!”
Kester resisted the urge to groan. He turned towards the lounge, smiling weakly. “Hello, Daisy,” he said; he tried not to grimace at the sight of his housemate, who was wearing a flowery bandana and a matching leotard, and dripping with sweat.
“Sounds like you’re stressed,” she said, her voice oozing syrup. “Bad day, hon?”
“Er, yes,” Kester replied uncertainly. “It was, rather.”
“Why don’t you join us for some Bikram yoga? Help unlock your chakras?”
Kester had no idea what a chakra was, but he didn’t particularly relish the prospect of unlocking one. Actually, all he really fancied was a large bacon sandwich, preferably followed up by at least five chocolate digestives.
“That’s kind, but I think I’ll just make myself a spot of dinner,” he said politely and reached for the fridge.
“Why don’t you let me cook for all of us?” Daisy offered with a breezy wave of the hand. “Me and the girls are nearly finished in here, I can rustle up a nice quinoa salad.”
“I’m alright babes, I’m heading out, like,” Pineapple said, tugging at his tie-dyed top. “I’m seeing this girl from Brixton. She’s proper tranquil. We’re off to a rave.”
“Sounds exciting,” Kester said flatly. Actually, he thought it sounded horrendous, but he didn’t like to say so aloud.
“Oh, that’s mega!” Daisy said enthusiastically. A lock of cherry-red hair fell into her eyes, and she glued it back against her wet forehead. “I’d be so up for coming too. Where is it?”
“It’s down in Plymouth, right? You fancy it too, Kester? Fudgella has some sweet, sweet mates, you’d be swimming in lady-lust.”
“No, I think I’ll pass on the whole swimming in lady-lust thing tonight, thank you anyway.” Kester pulled open the fridge, then let out a groan. “Hang on, where’s my bacon gone?”
Pineapple emitted a guilty cough and hastily tipped the rest of his herbal tea down the sink. “That was yours, was it?”
Daisy rolled her eyes and laughed. “Oh dear,”
she said dramatically. “I think I’ll leave you boys to it.”
Kester crossly swivelled around as soon as the lounge door was closed. “Did you eat my bacon?”
“Um, I can’t remember, mate. I think I might have had some today, right?”
“No, not right! Not right at all!” Kester spluttered. He felt a sudden urge to cry. He’d been looking forward to that bacon. It had been a long day, he was tired, and he felt he deserved some compensation for having sat by the side of a road next to a broken-down van for two hours.
“Ah, but I didn’t know it was yours, bruv. I didn’t realise.”
“You didn’t realise?” Kester repeated incredulously. “Who else would it have belonged to? Daisy’s a vegetarian!” He paused. “Hang on, aren’t you a vegetarian too?”
Pineapple nodded, then shook his head. Then nodded again. “I’m a porkatarian,” he said, clearly pleased with himself. “I only eat pig-based meat. Not any other sort. You feel me?”
“No. Not at all,” Kester muttered. He lurched towards the front door, feeling utterly furious with the world in general.
“Hey, where you going?” Pineapple called after him. “You only just come in, man.”
“I’m going to the shop to buy some more bacon,” Kester shouted angrily as he swung the door open.
“Oh sweet, could you pick me up some chocolate when you’re there? I really got the munchies.”
Kester growled and slammed the door behind him.
He trudged furiously down the pavement, tried to thrust his hands angrily in his jacket pockets, then realised he’d forgotten to put his jacket on. The autumnal evening air hit him with unpleasant coldness, making his dire mood even more lemon-curdlingly sour than before.
A car soared casually past, showering him in freezing puddle water. Kester wasn’t normally one to swear, but he felt the occasion called for it. His best work trousers were now plastered damply against his legs, and the positioning of the splash made it look uncomfortably like he’d wet himself.
