Restless Dead (Harry Grimm Book 5)

by David J Gatward

  ‘About that,’ Liz said. ‘There really is every possibility that he did see someone outside. We can’t just assume he was seeing things, regardless of the circumstances and the death of your mother.’

  ‘I know,’ Ruth said, ‘but I can’t see it, can you? Why would anyone want to come out here and look at the house? There’s no reason to it! No reason at all!’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Liz said, ‘but we still have to take it seriously and treat it as we would any other report of an intruder. That’s why we’re here. But what we’ve seen today, what you’ve told us, perhaps we can all keep an eye on him for a while?’

  ‘You have a job to do,’ Ruth said, ‘and if doing that in any way helps Dad realise he needs some help, then all the better, if you ask me.’

  A noise from the kitchen door interrupted the conversation.

  ‘Anthony!’ Ruth said, as Liz turned to see a pale, teenage boy walk into the room. He was wearing a faded green army surplus jacket over a black Motley Crue hoodie, black jeans, and black lace-up boots. ‘What are you doing here?’

  The boy stood there for a moment, staring at nothing.

  Liz said, ‘Didn’t you say he was at school?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ruth said, ‘and he is, just not today. Migraine, isn’t that right, Anthony?’

  ‘Yes,’ the boy said with a faint nod, though Liz thought with the height on him calling him a boy was pushing it because he was getting into young man territory now. She noticed scratches on the backs of his hands. They weren’t bleeding, but they looked fresh, like he’d caught them on a rose bush.

  ‘I saw the police car outside,’ Anthony said.

  ‘Look,’ Ruth said, ‘let’s get you home, shall we? If your head is still bad then getting up and walking around isn’t going to do it any good, is it?’

  ‘Why are the police here?’ Anthony asked.

  Liz rose to her feet. ‘I’m PCSO Coates,’ she said, then looked at Ruth, who gave a quick nod. ‘Can I just ask if you saw or heard anything strange around the house today at all, perhaps outside in the garden?’

  ‘Strange how?’ Anthony asked. ‘What do you mean? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing has happened,’ Ruth said. ‘It’s just that your grandad thought he saw someone outside the house earlier, that’s all.’

  ‘Really?’ Anthony asked. ‘Where? Who?’

  ‘It was round at the back of the house,’ Liz said. ‘Have you seen anything?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Anthony said, and Liz caught him flick a glance at his mum. ‘I’ve been off, with a migraine.’

  ‘And you didn’t hear or see anything?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Anthony said.

  ‘You’re sure?’ Liz pressed.

  ‘Totally,’ Anthony said. ‘I’ve been out for the count. And I’ve had my curtains closed the whole time. Darkness helps with the headaches a little.’

  Ruth looked over at Liz. ‘I think I’d better get him back home, if that’s okay?’

  ‘You do that,’ Liz replied. ‘I’ll go and see if I can find your dad and Constable Blades.’

  Following Ruth and Anthony out of the kitchen, Liz made her way back into the main body of the house.

  ‘Thanks for your time, Ruth,’ she said. ‘And nice to meet you, too, Anthony.’ But as she went to leave them, she asked, ‘Those scratches on your hands, Anthony. They look fresh.’

  Liz watched Anthony turn his hands over and stare at them.

  ‘There’s a bush outside,’ he said. ‘I must’ve brushed past it when I came over. Didn’t even notice it.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that would be it,’ Liz said.

  ‘It could be the ghost,’ Anthony said then. ‘What Grandad saw, I mean.’

  Liz caught the roll-of-the-eyes from Ruth as the boy’s mother tried to hurry him on.

  ‘Less of that, young man!’ she said. ‘Honestly, far too vivid an imagination!’

  ‘I’ve not seen it myself,’ Anthony continued, his mother trying to shove him along the hall, ‘but that’s why the house has that bit missing, you know, in the middle?’

  ‘Right, that’s it, enough!’ Ruth said, her voice louder now, firm and commanding. ‘Into bed, or I’ll drive you to school this instant!’

  Before Liz could ask Anthony anything more about it, he was bustled off along the hall, his mother shooing him with her hands.

  ‘Ah, there you are!’

  Liz turned to see Jen and Mr Fletcher approaching.

  ‘All checked, then?’ she asked.

  All the windows are secure,’ Jen said. ‘I’ve checked all the locks, doors, and windows in every room. I’ve advised he get a proper security system installed, but he’s not exactly keen.’

  ‘All utterly unnecessary,’ Mr Fletcher said. ‘But thank you anyway. Did you have a nice chat with Ruthy?’

  ‘I did, and I met your grandson,’ Liz said. ‘He mentioned something about the house . . .’

  Liz paused then, thought about what Ruth’s son had said, about what the family had gone through, about Mr Fletcher’s not entirely stable state of mine at that moment, and decided to say nothing more.

  ‘Mentioned what?’ James said. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Oh, it was nothing,’ Liz said, and she shone a bright smile at the man. ‘We’ve got everything I think, Mr Fletcher. So, we had best be off. If we do find anything out about who you saw, then we will obviously be in touch.’

  ‘And if you see anything at all, you know where we are,’ Jen added.

  James walked them to the back door, then waved goodbye as they wandered over to the car.

  ‘Well, that was fun,’ Jen said, as Liz shut the passenger door. ‘Not a happy house, is it?’

  Liz shook her head. ‘No surprise, really, with what’s happened.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s pretty much the worst thing ever,’ Jen said.

  Jen turned the car around and headed them back down the track leading to the main road, ready to turn left and back on towards Hawes. ‘I think we all know, though, that there was no intruder,’ she said. ‘He’s obviously just tired, dealing with something truly horrible, and just not coping well.’

  As they waited at the road for a sudden flurry of traffic to pass, Liz glanced back up to the house, her eyes drawn to the dark space between the main dwelling and the smaller one off to its left.

  ‘It is an odd place, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘What with that gap in the middle.’

  ‘You know why that’s there, don’t you?’ Jen asked, the traffic finally clear, accelerating them out onto the road. ‘Why it was knocked down?’

  ‘So, it used to be one big house, then?’ Liz asked.

  ‘I’m not sure when it happened, like,’ Jen explained. ‘And for all I know it’s not even true, but remember when I said about my boyfriend in Appersett? It was him that told me.’

  ‘Told you what?’ Liz asked, remembering what Anthony had said.

  At this, Jen became quiet, then took a long, deep breath.

  ‘Come on, then,’ Liz said. ‘Tell me! What did this boyfriend tell you? Did something happen at the house? What?’

  Jen changed gear then slowly turned her head to stare at Liz.

  ‘It’s haunted,’ she said. ‘And the ghost is why the rooms in the middle were demolished.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  When the funeral came around, just over a week after the accident, darkness, James realised, was the only word which could even come close to describing how he’d felt since his beautiful Helen had been taken so suddenly, and so terribly, from him. And it was how he felt right now, as he leaned on his stick, his leg still aching from the accident, and watched her coffin be lowered into the ground. Grammatically, such a description wasn’t entirely correct, he knew that, and he smiled to himself, thinking of how it would have annoyed his wife for him to describe his feelings in such a way.

  ‘You can’t say you feel like darkness!’ she would have said, her voice a sweet mix of affection and irritation. ‘It just doesn’t
make sense! Darkness isn’t a feeling, is it?’

  Well, it was, James thought, very much so, in fact. And it was all around him now, a blanket of darkness so thick, so suffocating, that it was all he could do to not fall into the ground with her and on into oblivion. It mattered not that the cemetery sat at the Bainbridge end of Hawes, was easily one of the most picturesque in the world, the deep green hulk of Wether Fell laying far up and beyond them in quiet slumber, tucked up tightly under its own blanket of meadow, moorland, and field. The beauty of the place, James knew, would now be forever marred by his loss, as bright and clear as a splash of blood on freshly washed linen hung on a line to dry in the sun.

  ‘James?’

  James heard the voice but didn’t respond. His eyes were lost to the grave.

  ‘Mr Fletcher?’

  James took his eyes away from the casket containing the remains of his heart and soul and turned to the owner of the voice, aware now that he was still wearing the smile from the memory of Helen’s voice, an unwelcome visitor on his face. He would give anything to hear it again. Absolutely anything. God, how he wished he could.

  Mr Michael Rawlings, the Methodist Minister, was staring at James with concerned eyes, his rarely worn dog collar a band of white noosed around his throat. He was a man James didn’t really know that well, having only been in touch with him since Helen’s death. But he had visited him and said all the right things, and not in a churchy way either, James remembered, and he’d appreciated that. He had thought about telling him about the visit from the medium, what she’d said, and that she was coming back to the house, but had decided against it in the end.

  ‘You said you wanted to say something, James. We talked about it last week when I came over?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Some words, remember?’ Mr Rawlings said. ‘About Helen? But don’t feel like you have to. That’s absolutely fine as well. And I mean that. Everyone would understand. And we can come back another day if you want, just you and I, have another little private ceremony together.’

  For a moment, James’ mind was blank, and he just stared back at the minister. Then a cold wind snapped its way through those gathered with him around the grave, a whipcrack of ice against skin, and he remembered.

  ‘Good God, yes, sorry,’ he said, fumbling in his pockets. ‘Yes, it’s here. I wrote something down, I’m sure I did . . .’

  His jacket pockets were empty. His trouser pockets, too.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ James apologised once again. ‘It’s here, I know it is . . .’

  He searched again, willing the notes he had written down to be there. Because that’s where they were, they had to be, it was where he had put them, and he wasn’t one for misplacing things, not ever.

  ‘Shitting hell!’ James hissed, his searching growing more frantic. ‘Where the hell are they? Where, damn it?’

  A hand rested on his arm.

  ‘James, it’s fine, honestly,’ the minister said. ‘I’m sure Helen—’

  ‘It bloody well isn’t fine at all!’ James snapped back, working hard to control his emotions, but failing terribly. ‘I put it here! In my pocket! I swear that I did! Right bloody here! Words about Helen, yes, I remember. Could probably say it off by heart, you know? But I don’t want to, I don’t want to make a mistake, that wouldn’t be right . . .’

  James was very aware now of the eyes on him from the small gathering of family and friends. Not that he cared right then. And he pulled his pocket inside out.

  ‘I put it here! Right here, didn’t I? I did! So, where in damnation is it?’

  ‘Dad?’

  James stopped searching.

  ‘Dad!’

  James looked up to see Ruth, his youngest daughter, staring up at him. Dear God, she looked like her mum, he thought. It was almost uncanny. Helen had always been a bright thing, hadn’t she, and here she was, shining out through the face of her beautiful daughter, a shimmering thing of gossamer caught in a sunbeam. No, a bee’s wing, that was it, like in the song, James thought. But in the end, it wasn’t wind that had taken her away, was it? And Ruth’s face, usually so warm, so vibrant, well now there was no warmth to it, was there? James thought, as she stared at him now with eyes as hard and dead, and yet as beautiful as a Da Vinci statue carved in marble.

  Behind Ruth, James saw Patricia and her husband, Dan, and Ruth’s teenage son, Anthony. His family, he thought, and all of them hurting. Behind them, he saw other faces, of friends, relatives who were little more than names on Christmas cards. And then there was a face he took a moment to register, because he didn’t immediately have a name to place with it, but the scars he remembered, and that was enough. That the police had turned up to the funeral, well, that said a lot, he thought. And what was the name of that new one, now? Grimm, yes, that was it. And there he was, with two more from his team. It was very good of them to be here at all, wasn’t it?

  ‘Dad!’

  The shout was a slap at a window, and James jolted out of his rambling thoughts.

  ‘Yes?’

  Ruth held out a hand. ‘I saw them fall from your pocket, while you were searching.’

  James looked down at his daughter’s pale hand and saw his notes. He snatched them back, didn’t mean to, but also didn’t feel quite in the mood to apologise.

  Ruth took a long, slow breath and James knew that she understood, that she wasn’t hurt by his behaviour.

  James turned from his daughter and moved to stand at the foot of Helen’s grave. To his side, Ruth walked back to stand with the rest of the family.

  ‘Right then,’ James said, clearing his throat, unfolding the notes to read. ‘Best I get this done so we can all get home before the rain comes in, eh?’

  James cast a look around the small gathering, unable to fully grasp the reality of it, that he was there, that any of them were, and Helen wasn’t.

  Mr Rawlings, the minister, coughed.

  ‘Right, yes,’ James said, realising he had fallen silent for a little too long. ‘I suppose I should just get on with it, shouldn’t I? Helen was never one for hanging about, was she?’ He laughed at the memory, imagining his wife chivvying him along, but his laugh cracked and broke apart, crumbling to dust around him.

  James unfolded the notes Ruth had handed him, brushing off a bit of dirt and grass, then stared at the words. At first, they were clear and he opened his mouth to start reading, but then all he could see was the grave, and the words turned to tasteless mush in his mouth, because the grave was the end, and Helen was down there, except she wasn’t, because she couldn’t be, could she? Whatever it was that was down there, it wasn’t Helen, she was gone, and he wanted her back, to hear her voice, to hold her and laugh with her and fall asleep with her and, dear God, the pain of it!

  James’ cry caught in his throat. He looked up at the people in front of him, at his daughters, his family, his friends, all of them waiting for him to say something, to somehow sum up what they were all thinking, what they were all feeling, to condense their grief into . . . into what? James thought. How could he? It was impossible, all of it! He just couldn’t!

  James rubbed his thumb over his notes, tried to read the words again, but there was water on the paper now, and the words started to smear because he was crying, and that was all he could do, just cry and weep and let the agony of this moment flow out of him until there was nothing left.

  A cough brought James back into the now and he wiped his eyes with the collar of his jacket, sniffed hard enough to burn the back of his throat. With another glance at those gathered around Helen’s grave, he folded up his notes and slipped them back into his pocket out of sight.

  ‘I can’t . . .’ James said, his voice breaking on the pain ripping him apart inside. ‘I just can’t do this. It’s wrong, all of it . . .’

  James turned on his heels, whipping himself around and away from the hideous thing at his feet, the deep, dark muddy hole that had swallowed his dead wife with silent glee. The whole thing was an abom
ination! Helen’s death, the crash that had taken her, this god-awful funeral!

  ‘Dad!’

  James didn’t stop. He was at the cemetery gate now, car keys in his hand, his walk now a run, even though his leg still hurt from the crash, because he couldn’t get away fast enough.

  ‘Dad! Stop!’

  James hit the button on the key fob and just ahead the lights blinked on the hire car he’d been driving since the accident.

  A hand grabbed at him, but he pulled away from it.

  ‘No, I’m not stopping here!’ he shouted, refusing to turn around and face whoever it was that had made chase. ‘I can’t and I won’t, you hear? I just won’t! I’m not doing this, not any of it!’

  ‘You have to!’ Ruth cried after him. ‘Please, Dad! You have to! You’re not being fair! It’s not just about you! It’s not! You can’t own this! You can’t own Mum’s death! Please!’

  At this, James jarred to a halt and whipped round, something rare broiling in his stomach, twisting his grief into a wild animal of teeth and spit.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You can’t just leave!’ Ruth said, standing in front of him now. ‘I know it’s hard, Dad. God, it’s hard for all of us, but we need you here. We all do!’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ James replied ‘She’s gone, Ruth! That’s it! And it’s not like she’s coming back, is it? So, what the hell is the point of any of this, can you tell me that? Can anyone? It doesn’t make sense! She should be here, with me, with us, not in that . . . that awful hole in the ground over there!’

  Ruth opened her mouth, but James didn’t give her a chance to speak.

  ‘I was with her, remember? When she died? Have you any idea what that was like?’

  ‘Of course, I remember that, Dad,’ Ruth said. ‘It was terrible, I know it was. We all know that, which is why you need to come back, please.’

  James stepped towards his daughter, his arms out in front of him now, as though carrying something heavy, his hands splayed open.

  ‘I held her, Ruth! Held her in these arms, and I couldn’t save her! I prayed, you know that, don’t you? I prayed like you wouldn’t believe! I screamed at that bastard up there in the clouds to do something as my wife bled all over me! I begged him to heal her somehow, because he’s God, right, and he can do that, can’t he? I mean, that’s the whole point of being God, isn’t it? I tried to put the blood back in, to scoop it up and just get it back inside her, but it didn’t work and it just kept coming and coming! Well, guess what? He didn’t! He just let her die, right there in my arms!’