by Lucy Banks
Ribero leaned over and rolled his thumb down the page until he found what he was looking for. “There,” he said with a significant nod. “This one.”
Kester read on. “A BA in Spirit Intervention and Business Studies? Well, I suppose that does sound plausible.”
“It is very plausible!” his father barked, jabbing at the brochure. “So, you will enrol, yes?”
Kester glanced out of the window. The pines brushed against the panes, reminding him suddenly of his old home in Cambridge: how the branches of the beech trees used to scratch at the windows and keep him awake. Except back then, I thought monsters and ghosts were all make-believe, he thought with a dry smile. Rather ironic that I was completely wrong about that. Still, it’s a good thing I didn’t know at the time, I suppose. “Can I take the brochure away with me and have a think about it?” he said finally.
His father’s eyes narrowed. “Well, don’t think too long. I know what you are like. All thinking and no doing.”
Kester smiled. He glanced down at the page again. A BA in Spirit Intervention and Business Studies, he mused as he tapped at the smooth surface of the page. I suppose that might be interesting.
“The teacher of the course has a strange name,” he said, looking over his glasses. “Dr Ark’han Barqa-Abu. He sounds fascinating.”
“She,” Dr Ribero corrected. “Dr Barqa-Abu is a very respected supernatural expert. I went to many of her lectures when I was studying there.”
“Blimey, how old is she?”
“I think about three thousand, give or take?”
Kester choked on the remnants of his wine and sprayed his father with red droplets.
“Excuse me?” he spluttered, pounding his chest to dislodge the wine. “I presume you didn’t mean three thousand years old, did you?”
Ribero reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a silk handkerchief. He dabbled his face deliberately, tutting his disapproval.
“I mean exactly what I say,” he replied with a stony glare. “Dr Barqa-Abu is a Jiniri.”
“What the heck is one of those?”
“Ah, my goodness!” Ribero exclaimed as he shook his fist towards the ceiling. “A Jiniri! You know, one of the Djinn. You know what I mean.”
“Nope, haven’t got a clue.”
“A genie!” Ribero stormed. “Have you learnt nothing since you have been with us, eh? How can you not know this?”
“A genie?” Kester repeated, blinking furiously. “You mean, like an Aladdin-style genie that lives in a lamp?”
“I pray you never say that in front of Dr Barqa-Abu, for your sake,” Ribero said with a dark look. “The Djinn are ancient spirits. Very respectable. Not nasty gimmicky things that live in lamps. They get very upset if people say that. Understood?”
Kester scratched his head. “But I don’t get it,” he said, struggling to get his head around the concept. “I thought you were trying to get rid of spirits, now you tell me that some of them are teachers?”
“Not many,” Ribero clarified. “Only few spirits are able to live alongside humans. Mainly the very old ones, like daemons and the Djinn, who are also very sensible. Well, most of them are.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about being taught by a genie,” Kester replied. He thought back to all the spirits he’d encountered so far and shuddered.
“Oh, don’t you let Jennifer hear you say that,” Ribero cackled. He eased off the bar stool and paced elegantly towards the lounge, glass in hand. “She would say you were being a spiritist.”
“What the heck is a spiritist?”
“Someone with the prejudice towards spirits,” his father explained before settling into the largest of the leather sofas. Kester ambled to the other, which was pleasingly close to the crackling open fire.
“What, like a racist? But I thought everyone didn’t like spirits? This is all very confusing.”
The sofa squeaked as Ribero leaned slowly back, draping his arm across the leather like a contented king. “This is why you must go to college,” he continued as he twirled the corner of his moustache. “Then these things will not be confusing to you anymore, and you will be a very successful supernatural agency owner, like me. Yes?”
The fire popped suddenly and spat a glowing ember onto the wooden floorboards. Ribero paid it no attention. Indeed, judging by the sheer volume of black marks dotting the floor, it was obviously something that happened on a fairly regular basis. Given that the whole house was built of timber, it was remarkable it hadn’t been burnt to the ground.
“So,” Kester began slowly, momentarily hypnotised by the dancing flames, “was that why you dragged me over here? Just to tell me to go back to college?”
“I did not do any dragging,” Ribero corrected irritably. He glanced down at his hands. Kester glanced too and noted, with surprise, that they were trembling slightly. I suppose I sometimes forget how old he is, he realised, feeling a little sad. It’s a shame we didn’t know each other when he was younger.
“Why did you want me to come over tonight, then?” Kester asked. “You could have easily given me this brochure at work tomorrow.”
“Well,” Ribero began slowly, “it is more than just that. I want to share something with you. Something that I cannot tell the others. Not yet.”
Oh god, Kester thought as he scanned the old man’s face. He’s going to tell me something awful. “Go on,” he said aloud, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible.
“There is a reason why you need to be ready to take over the business, okay?”
“What’s that then?”
His father sighed, then leant his head against his hand like a weary, woebegone lion. “I’ve been seeing the doctor recently. And they have finally told me what is wrong with me.”
“What?” Kester asked. His father’s expression was worrying. He gulped. Don’t tell me the old man’s dying, he thought with sudden panic. I’ve only just lost one parent, I don’t much fancy losing another.
“I have got the Parkinson.”
Kester bit his lip. “You mean Parkinson’s?”
“That is what I said!” his father snapped indignantly. “The Parkinson, yes.”
“Parkinson is a talk-show host on television.”
“Ah, this is no time to get technical, is it?”
“No, I suppose not,” Kester agreed quietly. He thought about it, letting the words sink in. “Gosh,” he said finally.
“Yes. Gosh,” his father echoed bitterly. “Big lots of gosh.” He grasped his wine glass. Too firmly, Kester now noticed. Firmly so his fingers don’t tremble, he realised. Poor old man, I wonder how long he’s been keeping it from us all?
“But you can carry on running the agency for now, can’t you?” Kester asked. “I mean, it’s not a death sentence, is it?”
Ribero shrugged, watching the flickering fire. “It’s impossible to say, yes? Some people, they get worse quickly. Some people it takes longer.” He leaned forward, then surprised Kester by taking him by the hand. “Look,” he began, fixing his dark eyes on Kester’s own. “I know I was not there when you were a boy. I know you feel like you don’t know me. But this agency, it is my life. I have given myself to it completely. And I could not bear shutting it down. It needs to go on. You see?”
“I do,” Kester replied, then gently slid his hand away. “But I’m not convinced I’m the man for the job.”
“Well, if you aren’t,” Ribero replied bitterly, returning his hand to his lap, “then I do not know who is.”
Chapter 7: On the Case
The following week in the office was a flurry of activity, quite unlike the ponderous calm that Kester had become accustomed to. Although it was never said aloud, it was quite obvious that everyone was keen to swot up on the doppelgänger case as much as possible, to ensure they gave Larry Higgins absolutely no reason to ridicule them whe
n they met up in Lyme Regis.
Dr Ribero, ruffled by the continual ringing of the phone and the uncharacteristic bustle of his team, retreated to the smoky sanctum of his office, only emerging at small intervals to demand a cup of coffee or a cream cake from the local bakery. Miss Wellbeloved was more severe than usual, and Serena more sarcastic. Even Mike was focused on his work, busying himself with the development of his latest piece of equipment, which, as far as Kester could tell, consisted of some sort of dented tin box with a few red wires popping out the sides. He was relieved when the week was finally over, even though it meant having to face the odious Higgins once again.
The day of the Lyme Regis meeting was portentously stormy. As they drove along the dreary main road into Dorset, weighty clouds rolled restlessly overhead, hanging over the surrounding trees like steel-wire pillows.
“Ah, here we go,” groaned Mike as the first raindrops patted against the windscreen. He flicked the wipers on, which squealed in protest on every downward stroke. “Told you it was going to pour down.”
“Yes, and it’s bloody freezing in here,” Serena said as she cranked the heating up. She folded her arms tightly, shivering. “I hate this van,” she muttered, mutinously glaring at the others as though it was somehow their fault. “It’s more like a bin lorry than a professional vehicle.”
“Oh, do stop moaning, Serena,” Miss Wellbeloved said from the back seat. She pulled a Tupperware pot from her handbag and opened it up. “Would anyone like a hemp-seed and vegan cream cheese slice?”
“No, but I’ll have that Mars bar in the glove compartment,” Mike said and clicked his fingers at Pamela, who was squeezed directly in front of it. “Go on love, fish it out for me.”
Kester tried hard not to feel jealous as Mike noisily chomped into the chocolate and, instead, peered at the homemade bars on Miss Wellbeloved’s lap. They looked disturbingly like slices of baked mud, smeared with curdled foam.
“Would you like one?” she asked hopefully. “I made them only last night.”
“That’s okay,” Kester replied. He patted his stomach. “I’m on a diet.”
Serena chuckled. “Doesn’t seem to be working out too well for you, whatever diet you’re doing.”
“I’ll have you know that I’ve lost three pounds!” Kester hastily sucked his stomach in as hard as he could and tried to look dignified. The rain began to fall in earnest, hitting the flimsy roof of the van like nails on a rusty drum.
“The only time you’ve lost three pounds is when you spent it buying a huge chocolate cake,” Serena scoffed. Kester bristled. The comment was unfair, he felt. He had lost three pounds. Admittedly, it wasn’t much, but he still felt rather pleased with himself, especially given that he was due to go on a date with Anya next week, who had texted him to confirm. Some people obviously don’t think I’m too fat, he thought, comforting himself. In fact, maybe she thinks I’m quite dashing, in a nerdy kind of way.
“So,” Miss Wellbeloved said with a stern look, “do we actually know where this café is that we’re meeting in?”
“Yep, I typed it into the sat nav,” Mike announced, then swerved, narrowly missing a yellow-ponchoed old man pedalling wildly uphill on a rickety bicycle. “I know exactly where we’re going.”
“You do realise that looking it up on your computer at home, then printing out the directions, isn’t the same as sat nav, don’t you?” Serena said archly. She scooped up the print-outs and waved them in the air. “In fact, this is just a list of directions. Not sat nav at all.”
“Same difference.”
“No, it isn’t,” Serena replied in a sing-song voice. “Sat nav would be a piece of technological equipment, mounted on a smart, modern dashboard, in a car that actually worked. What we’ve got here is a scrap of paper that’s been printed at home on a knackered old printer, in a clapped-out van that should have been written off years ago.”
“Will you stop going on about the bloody van?” Mike exclaimed.
“Bet Larry Higgins doesn’t drive around in a van like this.”
“No,” Pamela interrupted, “he probably swans around like an idiot in a convertible, I should imagine.”
Mike laughed. “Quite,” he agreed. Serena shrugged, conceding the point.
Eventually, they arrived in Lyme Regis. It was hard to see the harbour ahead, thanks to the thick mist rolling off the sea. As far as Kester could tell, it was a typical Victorian seaside town, with narrow streets, quaint houses, and a variety of tempting pubs lining the high street. After a brief argument about directions, they finally located the café down a tiny cobbled street close to the seafront.
Kester braced himself as he climbed out of the van into the soaking rain. He immediately spotted Larry Higgins sitting on a high-backed chair in the window and glowering at them suspiciously through the fogged-up glass.
“Looks like they’re here already,” Kester shouted over the noise of the downpour. The others didn’t react, only filed through the narrow door in grim silence. A large cowbell tinkled invitingly overhead as they crowded into the small, cosy space.
“Took your time,” Larry Higgins greeted them without preamble. “What happened? Van break down on the way? And Ribero still hasn’t bothered to turn up, I see.”
“Good morning to you too, Larry,” Miss Wellbeloved said and shook the moisture from her hair. She looked over at the blackboard above the counter, squinting at the menu. “Are we going to be here long, or are we just debriefing before heading over to Errol Baxter’s house?”
“Well,” Larry said, peering over his half-rimmed spectacles in a horribly sanctimonious manner. “I wouldn’t order a full English breakfast and pull out your copy of War and Peace, if I were you. I was rather hoping to crack on with things. Keep to the deadline and all.”
Kester smiled at Lara Littleton and Dimitri Strang, who were sitting on either side of their boss. Lara gave a cheery wave, before raising her mug of steaming coffee in salute. Dimitri grunted, then looked away, rubbing his trimmed goatee as though pondering on a deep, philosophical matter.
“Have I got time to have a sandwich?” Mike asked as he looked longingly at the list of paninis.
“It’s not even ten o’clock yet,” Serena snapped. She turned to Larry Higgins and his team, eyed them with open hostility, then elegantly placed herself on the bench by the wall, swinging one stilettoed leg over the other.
“So,” she commenced as she patted the table. “Shall we get started?”
Larry Higgins chortled. “You must be Serena Flyte,” he said as he studied her with scathing interest. “I’ve heard about you.”
“You’ve actually met me too,” Serena replied, narrowing her eyes. “Back at the London networking event a few years back.”
“Did I really?” Higgins retorted. He polished off the last of his hot chocolate, then licked the cream off his lips in a manner that resembled a cow slobbering at a fence post. “Can’t say I remember. Anyway, Serena, you’ll be pleased to know you’re not the only spirit extinguisher on this job. Lara Littleton here is also an expert extinguisher. She graduated with honours last year.”
“Oh, so you’re new to the job?” Serena said, giving the other woman a hard stare. “I presume you’ve not had much experience, then.”
Lara rubbed her cropped hair. “Nah, I guess I’m the newbie,” she drawled with a grin. “I’ll just have to watch you, to make sure I learn the ropes.”
Serena smiled apprehensively, looking flustered. Kester sat down next to her.
“Right,” Larry Higgins began, leaning forward and taking up most of the table. “As promised in the email, Dmitri here has compiled a list of interview questions for the deceased’s husband, Mr Errol Baxter. I propose that I conduct the interview, and Lara will sit in with me.”
“And Dimitri will be working with me, I presume?” Pamela said, squeezing beside Kester and wedging hi
m uncomfortably close to Serena’s bony thigh. “As we’re both the psychics?”
Dimitri studied Pamela, his expression twisted into something that might have been a smile, or possibly a panicked grimace. Kester couldn’t tell which. Gosh, he’s positively sinister, he thought with fascination. He’s ideal for this sort of work!
“Yes, you’ll conduct the appraisal of the property,” Higgins continued. “See what you can pick up, if there’s any residual energy there.” He nodded in Mike’s direction. “And I take it you’ve brought along this frequency projector you were talking about on the phone?”
Mike squirmed in his seat. “Well, I thought I’d use my old thermo-projector instead for today.”
“What he means,” Serena added, “is that he managed to blow the frequency projector up yesterday and hasn’t got a clue how to fix it yet.”
Mike threw her a murderous look. She winked in response.
“Oh no, that really is a nuisance,” Larry Higgins tutted and poked his glasses further up his nose. “I don’t see how a thermo-projector will help us in this instance, given that the house has experienced no spectral activity since Deirdre Baxter’s death.”
“Yes, it’s a real cock-up, isn’t it?” Serena agreed with far too much enthusiasm. “Mike basically connected the battery to the wrong wire by mistake. We’re still finding bits of the frequency projector all over the office carpet now.”
“It was malfunctioning!” Mike snarled. “Anyway, the thermo-projector may still pick something up. Sometimes residual cold spots linger for a while.”
“Not three bloody weeks!” Higgins spluttered. Mike fell silent and glowered at Serena, who gleefully pretended not to notice.
“So, I presume that leaves myself and Kester to undertake a visual investigation of the property then?” Miss Wellbeloved continued crisply. “Do we know if we have full access to the house?”
