The Dead Speak Ill Of The Living (The Dead Speak Paranormal Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Wilde

  “Starting to give me the creeps,” Bear noted, without turning round.

  “You get used to the weird stuff after a while,” Maquire commented, not feeling this was true but wanting to put on as brave a face as possible.

  “Well you might.”

  “We’ve got the machine, it’s back with my friends.” Maqure said it as a flat statement.

  “I see” was all Bear replied.

  “I figured we have some time to sort this out.”

  “Oh really?”

  “I want you two out of it. Leave my friends and the machine alone.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Can I appeal to your better nature?”

  “I got into policing to legally fuck people over. Hardly.”

  “You have always reminded me of the arseholes from school.”

  “Don’t picture you as a prefect.”

  “I wasn’t…” Maquire didn’t get to reply further, as a car pulled up. There seemed to be two people in it, one driving, one with a bag over their head.

  “Does he look alive?” Bear asked.

  “Hard to tell. But get ready.”

  The cars had been parked at opposite ends of the layby, and a woman got out of her car and walked halfway down. The detectives got out of their vehicle, Maquire carrying a plastic box he removed from the middle, and they went to meet.

  “You’ve got them all?” the woman asked.

  “Yes, we packed them carefully, didn’t want anything to happen to them.”

  “Good, good. I have packed your colleague carefully. Now…”

  “You’ve never done this before have you?” Bear noted calmly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, most criminals who try and do an exchange, they don’t leave their side of the bargain sat in a car at a distance.”

  Eyes widening, the woman swung her head round and saw uniformed officers emerging from the undergrowth and going to her car.

  “I knew it, I knew you’d set me up, I knew it!”

  “Then you shouldn’t have come,” Bear smiled, pulling handcuffs out from his pockets.

  “No officer,” she spat the word, “I was prepared for this, very prepared. I knew you’d betray me, but I had to have my eyes, had to have them, and so I made sure whatever happened I’d have one final pair!”

  “What does she mean?” Bear asked, and Maquire lowered his head sighing.

  The woman pulled a small jar from her jacket pocket, which contained two eyeballs. Behind her, a uniformed officer had taken the bag off Stride’s head and started yelling in terror.

  “Is he alive?” Dee asked.

  “He’s alive. But blind, royally screwed up, and he’s being retired.”

  “They throwing him out?”

  “No, he wants to go, but they’re doing their best to give him a pension. So he doesn’t have to resign.”

  Dee and Maquire were sat on a worn out and rotting bench in her back garden, and both were smoking cigarettes they’d otherwise avoid. It wasn’t the warmest day, but neither were paying any attention to the atmosphere.

  “How did your other colleague react to that?”

  “Detective Constable Bear has had a change of heart.”

  “He’s apologised and is very sorry? I don’t see chocolate and flowers being delivered to Joe.”

  “He hates my guts, more than he ever did before, but he’s also disgusted with the whole incident and wants nothing more to do with ‘your weird fucking shit’. He’s so repelled our secrets are safe, because taking me down involves dragging himself back through it.”

  “Any chance he blames himself?”

  “Actually, every chance, and that’s what I’m counting on. Luckily the main thrust of his wrath is on the, what did your statement say?”

  “Witchcunt.”

  “Right, her; I think he’s trying to find prisoners he can bribe into shiving her at the first opportunity.”

  “Non-standard.”

  “At least it’s something else I can use as a shield.”

  “So another mystery mostly solved.” Dee leant back and took a deep drag.

  Maquire looked at her sideways. “Is that how you see it?”

  “Yes, we got her, she won’t do it to anyone else.”

  “But you nearly got blinded!”

  “I think that’s an occupational hazard we have to get used to.”

  “We? No Dee, no. I have to get used to threats on my life, but I’m a detective. You don’t have to, you shouldn’t have to. You’re civilian, a journalist. You don’t need to risk your life and do all this.”

  Dee leant forward and looked quizzically at him. “But I want to. I feel we’re doing good, real tangible good, and I want more of it. I want all this. And if that means I have to accept danger, why wouldn’t I? You do, you can’t tell me I should do less than you.”

  Maquire looked back, uncertainty across his face. “What if I said I don’t want you to?”

  “Want? What is this, the nineteen fucking twenties?”

  He snapped his head round. “Dee, Dee, I don’t know how to say this, or whether to say this, I know if could go awfully wrong, or it could go awfully right, and I don’t know what to do.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Maquire lowered his cigarette, reached a hand out and moved Dee’s fag arm away from her head too. Then he leaned in and kissed her. They explored the situation for a few seconds, kissed deeply, then both suddenly pulled apart.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Maquire said, and he stood, flicked the cigarette on the ground, stamped it out with one swift motion, and added “I better go.” Dee saw his cheeks had gone red as he turned and walked down the small side passage and out to the road.

  Mouth slightly open in surprise, unsure of what just happened, Dee watched him go.

  Six: Your Truth

  “We should go on holiday.”

  “What, us?” Dee said as she looked back from the window, where she’d been watching the rain swirl round her garden, and over to Nazir who was checking whether his curry was coming along nicely.

  “Yeah, the pair of us.”

  “You haven’t added more chillies to that while I was looking away have you?”

  “No,” he said innocently.

  “Good, because you nearly killed Pohl last time, I could do without having another ghost hanging around the place.”

  “You’re all heart.”

  “Practical. So why are we going on holiday?”

  “Find somewhere nice, sun, sea, sand, sangria and slutty men.”

  “I see, you want to go on a two week shagathon and you think I’m interested in that sort of thing.”

  “What happens on holiday stays on holiday.”

  “What happens on your holiday can only legally be told in under the counter publications and credit card necessary websites. When I go on holiday it’s mild flirtation and a few cuddles.”

  “And you expect me to believe that?”

  “No Mr Bond, I expect you to die if you make me out to be a holiday turbo slut again.”

  Nazir looked back to the curry smiling. “Your hymen’s probably grown back anyway.”

  “Do you want me to cover that spoon in chili powder and shove it up your arse?”

  “Oh I don’t know…”

  “Typical. Anyway, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re a family of four now and we’d have to bring mother. She won’t exactly be up for tarting it.”

  “She can go and look at old buildings. Or we can find her a man.”

  “Besmirch me, but not the Professor.”

  “Sorry. Does that make Joe little brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “A little brother that wants to fuck his sister?”

  “Err… he’s just confused.”

  “Your analogy is worse than a BNP policy leaflet.”

  “Did we get another one through?”

  “Yes we did.”

  “
Inbred donkey rapers.”

  “Hey, you two, come here,” Joe called from the other room.

  Nazir regarded his curry. “If this burns I won’t be happy.”

  “If this burns we’ll all be saved.”

  They went through and saw Joe and Pohl watching the television.

  “What’s so urgent? Lost the remote?”

  “Have you seen what’s on the screen?”

  Although it wouldn’t make any difference, both leant several inches forward. “That’s the reporter off the Beeb?” Dee said, wishing she had that job.

  “Not him, the case.”

  “Oh, yes, the Somerset Hammer Killing,” Nazir said, but then had to add “what, I read the papers!”

  “So you know the story,” and Pohl explained what they’d just seen on screen. “A wealthy businessman, Herbert Hughes, is alone in his large and expensive house when someone breaks in and beats him to death with a hammer, causing death and the entire swimming pool to be drained and extensively cleaned.”

  “One of these things is unlike the other,” Joe thought out loud.

  “Have they caught them yet?” Dee asked, and then realised where this was going.

  “No, and the case is starting to get traction on the news. The victim was a major figure in his community and raised large sums of money for charities...”

  Dee had a point worth interrupting Pohl. “Well he looks like the sort of person who lives near a school.” Okay, maybe not worth it.

  “I admit the moustache is a faux pas.”

  “You think we should go down, talk to ghosty, and crack the news headline case?”

  “Yes Nazir, exactly.”

  “I’m fine with that, can I go back to our tea now?”

  “It’s a curry, you’re not painting the Mona Lisa,” Dee interrupted.

  “My cooking is an art. Whereas yours is Etch a Sketch.”

  “Why don’t you pair just have sex and get it over with.” Everyone else was surprised by Joe saying this and they turned to look at him. Dee opened her mouth to say ‘you meant you and I didn’t you’, but Nazir touched her on the elbow and stopped her.

  As Dee’s car was being repaired everyone got into Joe’s, which was arguably cleaner but no more spacious. However, this meant Joe was driving, so as he was focusing and Pohl was reading a book while Nazir and Dee sat in the back playing tablet games designed for two.

  “Have you been practicing at this?” Dee asked, as she was defeated yet again.

  “Technology and I have a natural relationship.”

  “If it’s like your relationships it’ll vanish tomorrow and never be seen again.”

  “And I never even know their names.”

  “Humph.”

  “Right, we’re nearly there,” and that was Joe’s call for everyone to start looking out of the windows. They weren’t heading to a chocolate box village but a town of twelve thousand residents, nevertheless they weren’t disappointed by the vast array of flowers.

  “Fuck me that’s bright,” was Dee’s comment.

  “Winner of the Britain in Flower contest 2010, 2011 and 2013,” Pohl explained.

  “What happened in 2012?”

  “Someone planted the roundabout in such a way as to make a giant penis and scrotum visible.”

  “Someone’s been reading the guidebook,” Nazir smiled.

  “Naturally.”

  “And this is that roundabout, right in the middle.”

  Dee had been looking at the people. “Everyone looks really miserable. Is this really a shit hole or something?”

  “No idea, but I’ve got the chocolate horn.” Even the eyes which couldn’t turn to look at Nazir looked in the mirror.

  “The what?”

  “I’m hungry, I fancy chocolate, there’s a shop over there. Park up. Toot toot!”

  Joe did indeed swing his car into place, and Nazir hopped out. “Anyone coming in?” he asked.

  “I fancy a leg stretch,” Joe said, and the pair entered the shop. After getting a basket they filled it up with snacks and drinks. But while Nazir was selecting he noticed something.

  “Is it me or are people staring?”

  Joe, having also seen it, whispered “they really are.”

  “And not looking too happy about it either. Fuckers can’t have seen a brown guy before.”

  They were soon paid up and back in the car.

  “Guess what ladies,” Joe said as he strapped in, “we’ve found the lost cavern of the racists. Pitchforks hit on a D4.”

  “Are supposed to be getting the Dungeons and Demons jokes?”

  “Dragons,” Joe corrected.

  “Whatever. How long until our lodgings?”

  “About two minutes.”

  On the drive there, off the main road and through smaller streets, everyone was looking out, and all they were getting were scowls. It was getting disconcerting by the time they parked up again, and all four got their cases and went inside the bed and breakfast.

  A rotund man stood there, glasses on the edge of his nose. “Yes?” he barked.

  “We have a booking,” Nazir explained, “in the name of Nettleship.”

  “Ah, yes. Yes you rang yesterday.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” Nazir said as he leant forward, hands on the counter, and the rest of the group knew he would be, “but you’re acting like you don’t want us here.”

  “That would be correct. Our town has had enough of ambulance chasing journalists turning our quiet home into a horror story. This is not Twin Peaks.”

  Everyone went ‘ah’ with realisation. “But we’re not journos,” Nazir smiled, “I’m a software technician, Joe’s a scientist and the professor is a historian.”

  “And what does she do?” the man said to Dee.

  “I’m a stripper.”

  Nazir briefly closed his eyes, then resumed smiling. It worked. “In that case do enjoy your stay, I’ll sort out your rooms.”

  “Have you ever really been a stripper?” Joe asked.

  “No I have never, well, there was this one night in university where, anyway, have you been stewing on that for the last hour?”

  “Just interested.”

  Ah, thought Dee, he really does still want to fuck me. I should probably have a quiet word with him or something. Still, I’m sure I make a cracking wank fantasy.

  “Are we even allowed to be walking here?” Pohl asked, looking around. The houses were big, set back, and immaculately gardened. Just not by the people living in them. “It’s as if they just forgot to add the gate and the security guards.”

  “Lovely English countryside,” Nazir said, “where you can walk freely without landmines.”

  “Was that a problem back home?”

  “It will be now for fifty years.”

  “Do you ever want to go back?”

  “Oh yes Professor, they’ll welcome me with open arms when we’ve used the machine to save the world.”

  “Sarcasm?”

  “A grain of truth in every joke.”

  “Right, we’re here,” Dee said, casually looking at the map on her phone. “Has anyone got a plan more advanced than breaking in and talking to the dead?”

  “Nope.”

  “No.”

  “Ditto.”

  “The usual way it is then.”

  They were through the front door soon enough, and past so much police tape you wondered exactly how much of their budget procurement had to burn before the financial year ended. Then, as promised, they were in a large open space, with a glass roof and a large tiled hole in the ground.

  “Big pool,” Nazir noted, walking to the edge and looking in. “You could keep a crocodile in that.”

  “Well he wouldn’t have died any slower. Right, switch us on and get going.”

  “Hello?”

  “Is that Howard Hughes? Charity legend and retroactively famous moustache wearer?” Dee had decided to take a more casual approach to the dead.

  “The v
ery same! And who are you?”

  “We are private detectives investigating your death. As we can speak to the dead, we can take a statement from you and get your killer convicted.”

  “Excellent, I’ve been dreaming of this.”

  “Good, let me just switch this recorder on, okay, what can you tell us about your killer?”

  “Six foot three, sandy hair, trim figure, a beard which makes him look like a rapist and a fear of chickens.”

  Joe screwed his eyes up. “That last point is quite specific. You knew your killer?”

  “Of course, it was my brother!”

  “Your brother killed you?” Pohl exclaimed.

  “Didn’t I just say that? So what else do you need?”

  “That’s it, we’ll now be off to poke around your brother and find the evidence. We work back towards the crime.” Dee smiled proudly.

  “Good, good. And then you’ll let me know?”

  “We sure will.”

  “And you’ll want to be paid?”

  “If possible,” Nazir grinned.

  “All that can be arranged.”

  “Well team, we have a case.”

  “So are we just going to break into Steven Hughes house then, or have we developed any more subtle surveillance techniques?”

  Dee looked at Nazir. “You’re the tech guy, you’re supposed to come up with err, drones or whatever.”

  “He’s the scientist who built a machine,” he replied.

  Joe nodded, but kept his mouth shut because he wasn’t going to admit the luck behind that.

  “My point stands.”

  “Alright, but they seem to have a more elegant approach on CSI.” Nazir had been watching.

  “That’s the hairdressing” Dee explained.

  “CSI isn’t real,” Joe cautioned, “you’re probably better off watching X-Files.”

  “Which has another lively red head in it. I can see a theme.”

  Joe replied to Dee by looking at his feet.

  “We meet again,” came a familiar voice, and the four turned to find a figure stood before them.

  “Have we met before?” Dee asked, smiling politely.