Restless Dead (Harry Grimm Book 5)

by David J Gatward

  ‘Not really, no,’ Ruth said.

  ‘My view is that humanity has been searching for answers about what lies beyond death for all of time,’ Beverly explained. ‘Religion, spirituality, whatever you want to call it, it’s all about trying to find that answer. I don’t think we have and I don’t think we ever will, either. Just got to keep on searching, I guess.’

  ‘And you can talk to the dead? I mean, that’s what you do, isn’t it? You go into a trance or something, or have a spiritual guide, is that right?’

  Beverly’s smile was warm and genuine Ruth thought.

  ‘I do and I don’t,’ she said. ‘By which I mean, I don’t sit here and have conversations with ghosts. Though I think that would be pretty awesome, don’t you?’

  ‘So, what do you do, then?’ Ruth asked. ‘If you communicate with the dead, but you also don’t talk to them, then how does it work?’

  ‘I sense things,’ Beverly said. ‘Sometimes I see faces, hear voices or words. I can smell things sometimes, then maybe I’ll get a picture of something, a person or a place. It’s never the same.’

  ‘And you do this, why?’ Ruth asked. She was intrigued now. Not because she thought there was anything in what the woman did, but because she couldn’t help but warm to her. She was certainly dressed the part, yes, but she also struck Ruth as genuine.

  ‘Good question,’ Beverly answered. ‘It’s certainly not because I want to, or because I make money from it.’

  Ruth was surprised by this and was about to ask what Beverly meant, when in walked her dad.

  ‘Mr Fletcher?’ Beverly said, standing up.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ James said, walking over to clasp Beverly’s outstretched hand. ‘Honestly, this isn’t something I would usually do.’

  ‘And why would it be?’ Beverly said. ‘All you need to know is that if I can help, then I will.’

  Dan came in then.

  ‘Do you need me or . . .?’

  ‘No, we’re fine, I think,’ James said.

  Ruth stood up.

  ‘You can stay if you want,’ Beverly said to both Dan and Ruth. ‘It may help anyway, to have someone else here, another member of the family.’

  Ruth hesitated. ‘Oh, well, I’m not sure, I mean . . .’

  ‘I’d prefer it if you did, Ruthy,’ James said, looking over to his daughter.

  Ruth saw the beckoning smile, the weariness in his eyes. ‘Okay, Dad,’ she said, ‘but are you sure about this? I mean, why are you doing it?’

  Ruth saw thoughts come together behind her father’s eyes as he worked out how to answer her.

  ‘It’s a lot of things really,’ James said. ‘I miss her, we all do, but it’s more than that.’

  ‘You mean what happened, when you think you saw her, Mum I mean, don’t you?’ Ruth said.

  ‘I do, yes,’ James said. ‘And there’s something about this house, too,’ he continued. ‘Like she’s still here.’

  ‘They’re memories, Dad,’ Ruth said. ‘And that’s okay. You don’t need this. Remember what that police officer said? There’s loads of support out there. Professional.’

  James reached out and gently held Ruth’s hand. ‘I do, Ruthy. I really do. But this? I need it, too. Please . . .’

  Ruth, despite her own misgivings, gave a nod, and with that settled, Beverly asked James if there was anywhere in particular in the house, the garden, where Helen would have often been found.

  ‘You mean a favourite place of hers?’ James asked. ‘Well, there’s the tree out back. The old oak. She loved that.’

  ‘And in the house?’

  James pointed across the room to a chair beneath one of the bay windows. ‘There,’ he said. ‘She’d curl up and read and I’d have to come and wake her. I swear she was part cat!’

  Beverly walked over to the chair. It was nothing special about it, Ruth thought, just an armchair worn by years of use, the original tartan fabric faded and patchy.

  ‘Do you mind if I sit in it?’ Beverly asked.

  ‘Of course, go ahead,’ James said.

  ‘I ask, because this is a special place,’ Beverly said. ‘And I don’t want to do anything to get in the way of your memories. So please, do tell me if there’s something I’m doing that doesn’t feel right.’

  Beverly sat down and Ruth watched the woman as she leant into the chair, closing her eyes. And there she stayed for a few moments, still and quiet, her breath slow and steady. When she sat forwards, it was quicker than Ruth had expected and she jumped back.

  ‘Can you give me a moment, please?’ she said. ‘Alone?’

  ‘Oh, right, yes, of course,’ Ruth said.

  Dan didn’t move. ‘Are you sure, Ruth? We don’t know her at all.’

  ‘You can search me afterwards if you don’t trust me,’ Beverly said.

  ‘Come on, out,’ James said, proceeding to shoo his daughter and son-in-law out of the room like small children. ‘How long do you need?’

  ‘Five minutes, if that,’ Beverly said. ‘I’ll come out when I’m done.’

  Out in the hall, Ruth stood somewhat awkwardly between Dan and her father. She had nothing to say and yet also so much, but she couldn’t find the words, her voice held fast in her throat as though caught like fishing hooks in a tree.

  The lounge door opened and Beverly walked out. ‘You mentioned a tree?’

  ‘Yes, it’s out the back,’ James said. ‘Do you want to see that as well?’

  ‘Show me,’ Beverly said.

  ‘If you don’t need me . . .’ Dan said, excusing himself.

  Outside, Ruth followed her father and the medium he had invited into their house, across the back garden, and on towards a huge oak tree. The day was a bright one, though cold, and Ruth half wondered if it was the threat of snow she could sense just at the edges of the wind.

  ‘It’s a beautiful tree,’ Beverly said, staring up into the branches, where darkness hung from them like ribbons, as though ripped away from a night retreating over the horizon.

  ‘She’d sit over there,’ James said, pointing at the bottom of the thick trunk.

  ‘Reading again?’ Beverly asked.

  James nodded.

  ‘Did she have a favourite book or author perhaps?’

  ‘Actually, she did,’ James said. ‘She loved Alan Garner. Kid’s books, I know, but there you go. She was a big kid herself, really. She loved this place because she thought it was sort of magical, at least that’s what she said. And the stories about it, you know? She loved those, too.’

  Ruth, keen to hurry things on, particularly with her dad rambling a little, said, ‘Is any of this relevant? I’m sure my dad’s tired, so . . .’

  ‘Weirdstone of Brisingamen, Elidor,’ Beverly said, as though reading titles from a library. ‘She had good taste, then. He’s a superb writer.’

  ‘You know him?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Everyone should know him,’ Beverly said. ‘Would it be possible to maybe take one of her books?’

  At this, Ruth looked to her father. She couldn’t think of a reason as to why Beverly would want to take anything from them at all, other than money, she thought. And how much was this going to cost anyway? Not that money was a problem, but still, she would like to know.

  ‘Do you mean home?’ James asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Beverly said. ‘You see, this first bit, well, it’s a bit like a consultation I suppose. You get to meet me and I, you, we have a chat, I see what the situation is, get a feel for what’s happened or is happening. Then, if I can, I take away what I’ve learned and felt and experienced, along with something that belongs to, or was used by, or was important to the person you want to contact. Then, I come back at a mutually agreed time, and we can see if we can make contact.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ James said. ‘So, this isn’t it, then?’

  ‘No,’ Beverly said, shaking her head. ‘Not all of it, anyway. I always do two visits, more if required.’

  ‘And there’s a cost, I assume?’
Ruth said, preparing herself for the charlatan to reveal her true colours at last.

  ‘Cost? Of course, there isn’t,’ Beverly said, and Ruth heard just the faintest note of both irritation and hurt in the woman’s voice, as though to suggest such a thing was to deeply wound her. ‘Like I explained earlier, I don’t do this because I want to. And I certainly don’t do it to make money! I do it because I have to. I’ve no choice in the matter.’

  At this, Ruth wasn’t sure what to say, and as she followed the woman and her dad back to the house, where James found a book for Beverly, she remained quiet.

  ‘So, when would suit you for me to come back?’ Beverly asked. ‘Evenings are best really, but it doesn’t have to be.’

  ‘No, evenings are good,’ James said, ‘Aren’t they, Ruthy?’

  Ruth had said, ‘Yes, fine, not a problem at all,’ before she’d even had a chance to think.

  ‘Then how about you decide when would best suit, then give me a call?’

  A few minutes later, Beverly was gone and Ruth was alone with her dad once more.

  ‘You’re sure about this?’ she asked. ‘I mean, it does seem a little bit, well, not really you, if you know what I mean, Dad. And I don’t mean that to sound bad or anything. It’s just, well, you’ve never been one for church or anything spiritual, have you?’

  James smiled and Ruth saw within it the need the man had to be allowed to do what he was doing, to at least search for some answers in his pain.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ he said, and that, very clearly, was that.

  Back next door, in the cottage, Ruth called up to her son Anthony. There was no answer, so she called again. Still nothing. Probably on that computer of his, she thought, plugged into an imaginary world, and she headed upstairs to check in on him.

  Outside Anthony’s bedroom door, Ruth leaned in but could hear nothing, though he was probably wearing his earphones, because he knew full well that the sound of all that violence wasn’t what she wanted to hear echoing around the house.

  Knocking at the door, Ruth waited a moment, then pushed on through.

  ‘Hi, Love,’ she said, ‘just thought I’d pop in to see if you wanted anything?’

  Except her words fell into dead air and darkness and Ruth was staring at an empty room. Anthony was gone. Again.

  Ruth closed the door and headed back downstairs. In the kitchen, which was night-dark and quiet, she opened her fridge and allowed the glow from inside to flood out across the floor. She pulled out a new bottle of Pinot Grigio and a moment later had a large glass of the stuff in her hand. She then headed through to the lounge, sat down on the sofa, scooching up into it and under a blanket, before flicking on the television.

  As she sipped the wine, Ruth stared at the screen, not really aware of what was on, not really caring. Her mind felt so pummelled by the week’s events, that taking in any more information right now was impossible. And to add to it all, she had Anthony’s disappearing act to deal with once again, just like earlier in the week, when the police had been around. She knew where he went, knew he was safe, that it was his way of escaping, getting a little bit of peace, but it was still a worry. And even more so now, with Pat and Dan around, because Pat was the kind of person to ask questions, then jump to conclusions. But he would be back later, like he always was, slinking in through the silence, taking himself to his room, and tomorrow they wouldn’t talk about it, but they would hug, and that would be enough. Soon though, Ruth thought, it wouldn’t be, would it? And they’d have to deal with it.

  So, with what was left of the day to herself, and doing her best to not worry about everything all at once, Ruth opened the book that she’d taken from where her dad had pulled the one he had given to Beverly and started to read.

  Chapter Ten

  Harry knew that really, with it being a Sunday and all, that he should have been taking the time off, not least because the force owed him probably a fair few months’ worth over the years. But with Ben pulling in some overtime down at the garage, he’d had the choice of sitting on his own watching snooker—which had been very tempting indeed—or heading through Hawes to see how things were down at the community office.

  He knew that Jadyn was on duty. Matt, too, if his memory served him right. And it would be good to have a natter if nothing else. And the company of other people was a good way to avoid thinking about that thing Firbank and Swift were now starting to pester him about. He’d promised he would call Firbank at some point in the following week with a decision, not that the decision was in any way a finality. He would still have an interview to go through, and there would be other people up for the same role, and really, did he want the hassle? He knew that the answer was yes, because it wasn’t just about him anymore, but he still needed just a little longer to think it over.

  Walking down through the marketplace, Harry was pleased to be just out for a stroll. Rain had managed to gate crash every day over the past week, but today was bright and cool, so considerably more pleasant. Rain in the dales had the capacity to come down not so much like stair rods, as he had been informed, but drill bits, with the power to give you a headache if you were daft enough to stay out in it for too long.

  Outside the office, Harry found Jadyn updating a community noticeboard with various bits of information and advice on staying safe, reporting crime, and somewhat incongruously, a cake sale for charity.

  ‘Any word from Jim?’ Harry asked. Since the theft, Harry had given Jim the time and space to make sure things were okay back home with his dad and the farm. Whenever he had managed to catch up with Jim, Harry had sensed the brooding anger the lad clearly felt about what had happened and about how little any of them had been able to do to bring back his dad’s flock. And the worst of it was, Harry had a feeling that they’d never be able to, either. But he’d never say that.

  ‘Just had a message from him, actually,’ Jadyn said, a smile in his voice.

  ‘And what did it say?’

  Jadyn lifted his phone up for Harry to see the screen.

  ‘That’s a picture of a cat,’ Harry said. ‘A cat wearing a face mask over its mouth.’

  ‘It’s Bane Cat,’ Jadyn laughed. ‘You know, as in Batman? And it’s a video, not a picture. Want to see? It’s properly funny, like!’

  ‘Bane Cat?’ Harry said. ‘Who or what is Bane Cat?’

  Harry watched Jadyn’s face twist itself in confusion.

  ‘Well,’ Jadyn said, ‘you know the Dark Knight trilogy, right?’

  ‘No, can’t say that I do,’ Harry said.

  ‘It’s Batman, like I said.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of Batman,’ Harry said. ‘But that’s not Batman, is it? It’s a cat. A cat in a muzzle.’

  ‘No, it’s Bane Cat,’ Jadyn said, and Harry noticed, much to his well-hidden amusement, that Jadyn had started to talk a little slower now, as though he was trying to explain something to someone who was either very, very young, or very, very old. ‘You see, in the third film in the Dark Knight trilogy, there’s this dude called Bane, played by Tom Hardy, and he wears this mask to give him constant pain relief for some trauma or something. Anyway, he talks in this very—’

  Harry held up a hand to stop Jadyn from talking.

  ‘I think it’s only right to tell you now, Constable, that I’m not really listening to anything you’re saying. In fact, I think I’d stopped listening when you said “it’s Bane Cat.”’

  ‘So, you don’t want to watch the video of Bane Cat, then?’ Jadyn asked. ‘It’s proper funny, like!’

  ‘Not really, no,’ Harry said and made his way over to the kettle. ‘Don’t suppose we’ve got any more on what happened out at the farm? Any surprising little titbits of information from forensics?’

  ‘No,’ Jadyn said, putting away his phone. ‘We haven’t.’

  ‘Can’t say I’m surprised,’ Harry said with a heavy sigh. ‘Wasn’t really much for them back when it happened, was there? Not that it’s any consolation for Jim and his parents.
’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ said another voice, joining in the conversation, as Matt walked in through the main door.

  ‘Well now, that’s a rare thing,’ Harry said, staring at the detective sergeant.

  ‘Is there?’ Matt asked, looking behind himself. ‘What?’

  ‘You, walking through that door, not carrying a paper bag full of pastries, cakes, and pies.’

  Matt laughed and sat down opposite his boss, then reached into a jacket pocket.

  ‘You didn’t . . .’ Harry said.

  Matt pulled his hand back out to reveal a paper bag.

  ‘Brownies.’ He winked. ‘Nice and gooey. Get the kettle on, Constable!’

  Jadyn was over at the kettle in a heartbeat, grabbing three mugs from the cupboard.

  ‘You didn’t even know I was coming in,’ Harry said, shaking his head in fake dismay.

  ‘And who’s to say that there’s enough here for either of you, anyway, eh?’ Matt asked.

  Leaving Jadyn to make the tea, Harry said, ‘Wish we had more to go on with what happened over at Jim’s farm. Can’t help feeling we missed something, but I can’t see what. There was nothing there to find and that’s all we’ve got, isn’t it? Nothing.’

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ Matt sighed.

  Harry was silent for a moment, thoughtful. Then he said, ‘We’ve not even done a board for it, that’s how little we have.’

  Jadyn whipped around from squeezing tea bags. ‘You want me to do a board, Boss? I can, it’s not a problem at all. Happy to, in fact. And it might help, right?’

  Before Harry could say anything, the police constable was at the board, wiping it clean of some old notes from a previous meeting, and had a red pen poised and ready.

  ‘That’s not exactly what I was saying,’ said Harry. ‘I’m not even sure it’ll do much good.’

  ‘It might,’ Matt said, then looked to Jadyn. ‘Get our heads together on it? Why not? Brews first though, eh?’

  Jadyn grabbed the tea, then was back at the board. Harry watched as the young police constable went to write something, then paused, the end of the pen stuck in his mouth like a lollypop.