by Lucy Banks
Miss Wellbeloved stepped forward. “Hello there, Mr—?”
“My name’s right here.” He flapped his cardigan, revealing a battered-looking name tag.
“Hello, Mr O’Nions, we’re—”
The old man roared with laughter. “O’Nions? O’Nions? Do I look like an Irishman? It’s Onions. Mr Onions.”
Kester bit his lip. Don’t laugh, he thought. That man doesn’t look like he appreciates guests at the best of times.
“Well, Mr Onions, I believe my colleague, Mr Higgins, booked your meeting room for us today?”
The man wheezed before erupting into a succession of hacking coughs. “What meeting room, dearie? Do we look like we’re running some fancy conference centre or something?”
She grimaced. “Well then, I presume Mr Higgins has made a reservation of some sort?”
Mr Onions trailed a bony finger down the book in front of him, then tapped it. “Biggins, you say?”
“No, Higgins.”
“Ah. I see. Mr Higgins. In the Corfe Suite. Down the hall, second door on your left. Teas and coffees at eleven. We don’t do lunch though.”
“No lunch?” Pamela squawked as she peered over Miss Wellbeloved’s shoulder.
“There’s a café just down the road. Does a lovely fry-up, it does. Good local grub, nice and greasy.”
To Kester’s amusement, Mike paled and clutched at his stomach. “Please,” he muttered. “Don’t.”
“Not in the mood for a nice bit of meaty sausage and gooey fried eggs?” Serena said, smiling innocently.
Mike gagged. “Shut it.”
They pressed down the narrow corridor, desperately trying to avoid touching anything. Everything about the décor looked dated, from the stained carpet to the hideous flock wallpaper, not to mention the peculiar wall lights that were obviously designed to resemble flickering candles. It reminded Kester of being in a cross between an old person’s residential home and a Hieronymus Bosch painting.
In the Corfe Suite, things got even worse. To call this a suite, Kester thought, is rather over-stating it. Wallpaper was peeling so badly around the window frame, it seemed to be taking a gentle walk to the floor. Patches of damp spotted the ceiling. The sum total of furniture in the desolate space was a single round table, a cluster of stacked plastic chairs, and an ample layer of dust over everything. Plus, it smelt as though something had died in there. The vague reek of decay was enough to make Kester feel ill, and he hadn’t even drunk much the night before.
“Christ, someone get that window open,” Mike muttered and pulled his shirt collar over his nose.
“Is this really the best that Larry could get?” Serena ran a finger across the window’s ledge, then groaned. “It smells like Mike’s underwear in here.”
“I’d love to ask how you know what Mike’s underwear smells like,” Pamela began with a chortle before catching Serena’s eye, which silenced her in an instant.
After five minutes or so, the door flew open and Larry Higgins burst through. Lara and Dimitri scuttled behind, looking distinctly nervous.
“This is an absolute, grade-A catastrophe! Look at this!” Without pausing for breath, Higgins slammed a newspaper on the table. The noise echoed flatly off the nicotine-stained walls. Miss Wellbeloved scooped the paper up, scanned the headline story, then clasped a hand over her mouth. She swore. Kester gasped. He’d never heard her utter a single swear word before. It was worse than hearing his own late mother doing it.
“Yes,” Higgins agreed before pulling a plastic chair off the pile and thrusting it under himself. “Bad, isn’t it? Absolutely hideously nightmarishly bad.”
Miss Wellbeloved placed the newspaper back on the table. Kester huddled across and jostled next to Serena, who was trying to grab at the paper first.
“Are Lyme Regis’s murders linked to the supernatural?” he read aloud. “Blimey, that’s a bit of a headline, isn’t it?”
Higgins snarled. “It’s not just a ‘bit of a headline’, Kester,” he snapped. “It’s a complete disaster. Once the press gets hold of the fact that there’s spirits involved, it causes serious problems for us. No wonder the government was so furious.”
Kester scratched his head. “But no one will believe it, will they?” he said, looking from face to face. “I mean, I wouldn’t believe it, if I read it.”
Higgins went purple, then made a noise that sounded remarkably like a duck being strangled. Miss Wellbeloved nervously tucked her hair behind her ear before grabbing a chair. She settled next to Larry, clearing her throat. “Kester,” she began. “You’re still relatively new to all this, which goes some way to explain—”
“—why you’d ask such a bloody stupid question,” Higgins concluded, eyes narrowing to furious slits. He waited until the others had collected chairs for themselves, then continued. “The fact is, people do believe what they read in the press. All the time, in fact. And that’s our sodding job, isn’t it? To make sure that the world runs smoothly and people don’t get wind of any supernatural goings on.”
Miss Wellbeloved nodded. “Essentially,” she carried on, “once people start to read about spirits—”
“—especially bloody murderous ones!”
“Yes, thank you, Larry—especially murderous ones. Once people start to think that there’s even a remote possibility that spirits could exist, it rocks their foundations. They start to question what else could be out there. Fear starts to creep into their lives. Then, before you know it, you’ve got widespread panic. Do you see?”
“I think so,” Kester said as he pondered over her comments. “But surely one little local newspaper isn’t going to have much impact, is it?” He gestured at it. “I mean, I wouldn’t take it too seriously, if it was me.”
Higgins laughed: a sour, humourless bark that made Kester shrink against the back of his seat. “Oh, it gets worse. Much worse. Dimitri, do you want to tell them what Curtis Philpot also shouted at us down the phone yesterday?”
Dimitri sighed. “It is not just the local papers. The Serial Suspector has been in contact with your government. Saying that they know there is a story. Threatening to expose us all. Bribery.”
Serena groaned. “Oh god, it couldn’t get any worse!”
“Hang on, you mean that really rubbish paper that no one reads?” Kester interrupted.
“That ‘really rubbish paper’ gets 152,000 readers worldwide every month,” Dimitri muttered, his brow furrowing to Neanderthal proportions. “No supernatural agency wants a story to be leaked in The Serial Suspector. It is not good.”
Kester chuckled in disbelief, then hastily turned it into a cough under the force of everyone else’s glare. “But everyone knows that their stories are just made up,” he said, raising his hands soothingly. “They just write about vampire attacks and alien autopsies and fake stuff, don’t they?”
Pamela sat back, lacing her fingers across her cardigan-clad stomach. “Most of the time, yes. But the thing is, Kester, people still believe it. The Serial Suspector’s readers think that every word of the paper is gospel truth. Last thing we need is Lyme Regis becoming some hotspot for dreadful ghost-hunters and supernatural tourists.”
“Why not? It might bring some money into the area.” Kester suggested. The collective frustration radiating out of his colleagues made him swiftly close his mouth again.
“The journalists that work for The Serial Suspector are slimeballs,” Dimitri continued, pronouncing the word with deliberate disgust. “When they find out about a supernatural case, they call the government and bribe them for as much money as possible, saying if they are paid, they will keep quiet.”
“Couldn’t the government just pay it?” Kester said.
Higgins slammed his fists on the table. “Goodness me, does this boy not listen to the news?” he cried. “Aren’t you aware there’s a recession going on? Cuts are being made
everywhere! The government simply does not have the money to pay reporters off every time a supernatural agency messes it up!”
“Hang on,” Kester replied, his cheeks reddening. “I think that’s unfair. How have any of us messed up?”
“How have we messed up?” Higgins squawked incredulously, nearly toppling off his chair. “How have we messed up? Kester, we’ve been working on this case for nearly three weeks now, and so far, we’ve not managed to get anywhere with it! This case was of utmost importance, and the government wanted us to get it sorted as soon as possible!”
“We’ve made progress!” Kester retorted, leaning across the table. “We’ve found out valuable evidence!”
Higgins erupted into cynical laughter, then slapped his hands across his belly. “Don’t make me laugh!” he spat, face suddenly turning thunderous. “All you lot have been doing is poking around in old ladies’ drawers, interviewing people with no connection to the case whatsoever, and having a right old laugh at the government’s expense!”
“We think we’ve discovered that the spirit is a fetch!” Kester snapped back.
The impact of fist on table made everyone jump. “Are you being serious?” Higgins exploded. “Fetches don’t exist in this part of the world. It’s common knowledge! How would it get here? Do any of you ever do anything of any use, apart from researching fanciful ideas and wasting time?”
“Larry!” Miss Wellbeloved shouted, rearing up in her seat like an aggrieved cobra. “How dare you say that? What have you been doing, I’d like to ask?”
“I’ve been co-ordinating it all!”
“Then I would suggest the blame lies firmly on your shoulders, not ours!”
“How very dare you, Jennifer! If we didn’t go way back, I’d have serious words to say to you right now, you and your joke of an agency!”
“My joke of an agency? Are you aware what people say about you behind your back, you pompous prat?”
Mike sniggered, then quickly converted the noise into a sneeze.
“What the hell is going on here?” Lara suddenly shouted. Miss Wellbeloved and Larry fell silent, both breathing heavily and shooting vengeful glances at one another.
Lara shook her head, looking at each of them in turn. “I think, with the greatest of respect, Mr Higgins, Kester has done some mighty fine work so far. More than any of the rest of us has done. And Miss Wellbeloved, with respect to you too, I don’t find it professional that you called my employer a prat.”
“She was only speaking the truth,” Mike muttered, giving Kester a wink.
“Now see here, I didn’t want to come today.” Lara adjusted her collar and took a deep breath. “I doubt any of you fine people wanted to be here either. But we’re here, and we’ve got a job to do. So let’s just get to work and stop this fighting, which ain’t getting us nowhere.”
“Never a truer word said,” Mike agreed energetically. Kester noticed that he suddenly looked much perkier.
Miss Wellbeloved sighed, then adjusted her hair. “Very well.” She looked over at Larry, who looked as deflated as a helium balloon with a puncture. “You’re right, of course. Larry, you have my apology for calling you a prat.”
“Notice that she didn’t apologise for calling him pompous though,” Mike whispered.
“I can actually hear what you’re saying, you know,” Higgins said, delivering him a glower of pure, portentous dislike, which would have withered even the world’s thickest-skinned person. Mike shrugged, then gave him a grin. Larry’s lips pursed tightly before he turned deliberately to Miss Wellbeloved.
“My apologies, madam,” he said stiffly. “As I’m sure you appreciate, being shouted at by one of the government’s highest officials wasn’t terribly pleasant. Not to mention the rest of it, which I haven’t told you yet.”
“Oh gosh, you mean there’s more?” Pamela stuttered.
“Oh yes.” Higgins massaged his brow, as though the memory alone was enough to spark off a migraine. “The government wanted to pull us off the case, as you know. Dimitri and I had to think fast. So we requested that we have one more week to work on this, and if we don’t deliver any results—”
“Please don’t say what I think you’re about to say,” Miss Wellbeloved said flatly.
“—we don’t receive any payment.”
“Oh god.” She pressed her head downwards, disappearing into the narrow crook of her folded arms. Kester couldn’t be absolutely certain, but judging by the vague bobbing of her head, she seemed to be head-butting the table over and over again.
“So we have a week to solve this case,” Dimitri added, ignoring the anguished scene playing out only half a metre from him. “Or we do not get paid.”
“Yes, we figured that much out,” Mike said as he rubbed his beard. He’d started to look vaguely pale again. “That’s not great, is it?”
“As I said before,” Higgins continued. “It’s a catastrophe. I don’t even know where to start.”
“Why don’t we just quit now?” Serena said, chewing her nails. “At least that way we get a week off for no pay, rather than slogging our guts out and wasting more time for nothing.”
“No!” Miss Wellbeloved’s finger shot up first, closely followed by the rest of her. A tell-tale red splotch on her forehead confirmed Kester’s suspicions about the head-butting. “No, we’re not giving up. This is not over.”
Higgins winced. “What do you propose we do? How the heck are we going to solve this case with hardly anything to go on?”
Miss Wellbeloved’s eyes glowed with desperate, feverish energy. “Firstly,” she began slowly, “we move up to Lyme Regis for the week. All this driving backwards and forwards is a waste of time. We need to be here 24/7.”
The others groaned.
“Secondly,” she continued as she pointed around the table at each of them, “we work our backsides off, every day. We interview everyone we can. We visit every crime scene; we search for every clue. We get researching. We don’t sleep or eat unless we’re sure we’ve done as much as we can.”
Mike nudged Kester in the ribs. “Sounds like a fun week.”
“You’re expecting us to spend out more money to stay in Lyme Regis for a week?” Higgins said, rolling his eyes. “It’s one of Dorset’s most famous seaside towns, it’ll cost an arm and a leg!”
“So we cut corners where possible!” Miss Wellbeloved retorted. “We share rooms. We stay in the most unpleasant, cheap motel we can find. It doesn’t matter, as long as we get the job done. Right?”
Lara raised her hands and started to clap. “Right on,” she agreed. “You nailed it, Miss W. If you don’t care about what you do, if you don’t want to make a difference, what’s the point anyway?”
Miss Wellbeloved beamed at her. Even Serena looked fairly impressed.
Larry Higgins stuck his hand in the air, a sarcastic smile pasted on his large face. “Excuse me? Hate to break up the love-in here, but where exactly do you propose we’re going to find accommodation for all eight of us at such short notice? This is Lyme Regis you know, not Chernobyl. Hotels are always in high demand around here.”
Kester looked around them. “Except this one, perhaps?”
Mike clapped his hands over his face.
Serena groaned. “No,” she stated firmly. “Just no. Not a chance.”
“Yes, the bedrooms will be filthy,” Dimitri added with a shudder.
“Well, it looks pretty empty,” Kester continued. He pressed a finger on the table to emphasise the point, felt the years of sticky grime, and wished he hadn’t. “I reckon we’d easily be able to book rooms for us all.”
Miss Wellbeloved observed the browning walls and the balding carpet and grimaced. “Hmm. Perhaps we should try other places first?”
“Agreed,” Higgins added. “There’s absolutely no bloody way I’m staying in this appalling dung-pile of a hote
l. I’ve got standards, you know.”
“Well, how about you go and find a nice £100 a night hotel by the seafront and the rest of us stay here?” Kester snapped.
Higgins raised an eyebrow. “You’re a cheeky young whippersnapper, aren’t you?”
“He does have a point,” Miss Wellbeloved conceded. “It’s probably very cheap.”
“No.” Mike said. He leaned back on his chair until the two back legs wobbled alarmingly. “Please. Don’t make me do it. Things have died here. I can smell it. It’s a horrible place and I think it would actually kill me if I stayed here.”
“Don’t be such a whining baby,” Serena said as she prodded him in the stomach. Unfortunately, it was a poke too far. The chair toppled like a trapeze in motion, and the back legs bowed uncontrollably outwards, releasing their burden with sudden energy. All Kester saw was Mike’s terrified expression whizzing through the air before disappearing under the table, immediately followed by a deafening crash and a howl of rage.
“Oops,” Serena said. “Sorry.” Her amused expression indicated the contrary.
Mike released a tornado of wild expletives, closely followed by a bellow of pain.
“I’ve done my back in!”
“Of course you have, you ridiculous man,” Miss Wellbeloved snapped. She hauled him up like a fisherman pulling an ungainly fish from the water. “Honestly, Mike, it’s like having a toddler on the team sometimes.”
He whimpered, clutching his back, and pointed at Serena. “She bloody started it, pushing me off my chair like that!”
Serena held her hands up in defence. “Hey, I wasn’t the one leaning back on my chair. Don’t pin this one on me.”
The door to the suite opened abruptly and brought with it a gust of cold air. Mr Onions peered at them all in amazement, shaking his ancient head.
“You lot are making a right old noise in here, and no mistake,” he announced, then folded his arms and leant against the doorframe. “I did say on the telephone, Mr Biggins, that the room weren’t suitable for lively activities. We’ve got some cracks in the walls, you see. Loud noises makes ’em worse.”
