Now We Can’t Sleep At Night (The Dead Speak Paranormal Mysteries Book 2)

by Robert Wilde

  “We have this picture,” Pohl interjected. All turned and looked at the shape on the wall.

  “Okay, we have a picture, of what exactly?”

  “Err…”

  “I don’t know. But that’s the mystery isn’t it. If we can work out what that picture is, then we’re in.”

  “Let’s take some photos,” Nazir said, pulling a proper SLR camera out and snapping away.

  “If we can work out what it is? It’s chaos painted by a man who jumped into a river.”

  “I also have the feeling Dulcimer that you’re not prepared to give this your all,” Pohl chided.

  “I didn’t study art criticism.”

  “Well you’re fucking good at general criticism.”

  “Shut up Nazir. Anyway, you two can go and play analysing clouds with whatever the hell this is, I’m going home to get drunk.”

  “Again?”

  “Again. Wake me if something fun happens like an alien invasion, and bring booze and a telly.”

  Dee drove back to her house, locked the car once Nazir and Pohl had also got out, walked to her fridge, removed a beer, then went and flopped on her sofa like a slacker seeking missile. She realised then she hadn’t got a bottle opener, regarded the beer warily, and then pulled the top off with her teeth. “Well what do you fucking know.” Then she picked the remote up, sighed in shame, and turned on evening television. It was a little better than daytime television, but she refused to watch any crime dramas which seemed to halve the choice.

  Pohl saw Dee disappear into the house, turned, put a hand on Nazir’s arm and promised “I’ll make sure she’s alright.” Then Pohl also went inside, closed the door behind her, and decided to go upstairs and do some reading. She’d more than caught up with the other historians in her field, but you could always expand, and she’d done a lot of that these last two months. In fact she’d become a hermit whose shell was a pile of journals and who only ventured out when the tide was low and Dee had become a talkative drunk.

  This left Nazir, who went to his car and executed the drive home. As he got inside he let the door swing shut and went straight to his laptop, switching it on and settling into his favourite chair without even taking his jacket off. If the other two were going to be defeated by this mystery, he was going to kick it back into life himself. He’d find something that would get them interested all right, and he’d do it without a box.

  It wasn’t a simple matter to hack into the police files of the local constabulary, but Nazir was very good at his job, and he’d soon established enough access to read case files. Well, download them and read them offline later, and he first stole the one they’d been looking into. But what were the salient points of that? A man who killed himself, and a picture, so he began to scan through all the suicides the police had on record, which was itself interesting as there was a definite spike in the last year. Then he worked quickly through all those records, identifying any and all which involved graffiti, art, pictures, anything similar, and all those files were sucked down.

  He allowed himself a smile and the removal of the jacket when it became apparent there was a spike in these too. For some reason there were a lot of people topping off with shitty artwork nearby, and the same black and whites dominated. There was something here, there really was, now all he had to do was solve it.

  No, all they had to do was solve it. Best leave it till lunchtime the next day, when Dee’s hangover would have reduced. Actually, do day drunks still get headaches? Best not find out himself.

  Dee opened an eye, found the world hadn’t ended, so opened the other, and realised she was staring at her ceiling, but that kind of spiky white artex suggested she was downstairs, so either she’d fallen asleep and spent the night here, or she’d fallen asleep after getting up and making some breakfast. Head arguing at movement, she cranked her neck round to see cold toast on a plate. Ah. Then the doorbell went again, and she knew why she’d been woken.

  Dragging her carcass up, she got to the living room door just as Pohl came down the stairs, and her mind cursed her for not remembering that could happen. Then it realised the fault was its own, and sloped back off behind the pain.

  “Ah, Nazir,” Dee said after opening the door, “this better be tales of your latest conquests and not more suicides. Ideally not your latest conquest killing themselves, because I don’t think my head could cope with the laughter.”

  “I have all day breakfast banquettes for us all.”

  “You crafty fuckstick.”

  Soon everyone was sat around the kitchen table eating delicious grease and pig parts.

  “If only my parents could see me now,” Nazir sighed.

  “Pork must be low on your list of ‘things my parents would be horrified to see’.”

  “This type of pork, yes.”

  “So, this is bribery to look at the suicides.”

  “Indeed. I did some research…”

  “You hacked somewhere.”

  Nazir held his hands up. “These fingers pay the bills. If only you were a man Dee then you’d see.”

  “Right, thank fuck for that, what did you find. I assume you found something.”

  “I hacked the police.”

  “Oh good, they’re very relaxed about that sort of thing.”

  “And we have a case all right, we have a case!”

  “Go on.”

  “There has been a series of suicides, all adult professionals with no obvious financial causes, and no obvious ties to each other. All that ties them together is these,” and he produced a series of printouts from the bag, “a series of pictures. But they’re black and white, and even the gang crime expert they bought up from London had no idea what they mean.”

  Dee spread the now greasy paper on the table and closed an eye. “Am I really hungover or is this all nonsense.”

  “Yes and yes,” Pohl said putting glasses on. “But this is the clue. This is the solution.”

  “Oh great. It’s like those 3d magic eye posters again, and we’re the kids who can’t see anything and wonder if everyone is having a joke on us.”

  “Pandas,” said Pohl.

  “Sorry Professor?”

  “Nazir, look at them. Black and white, circles in circles, lots of variation yes, but we’re looking at highly stylized Pandas and Panda faces.”

  Dee and Nazir tilted their heads back and forth. “Well fuck me with a breadstick, she’s right, they’re Pandas.”

  “What a shitty animal,” Nazir replied.

  “Shitty? You can’t say Pandas are shitty!”

  Nazir rejected Dee’s complaints. “They sit around all day just eating, barely move, and they won’t even do the one thing they need to save their species, have sex. What useless animal won’t even fuck to save itself.”

  “So you’re saying they’re the exact opposite of you.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s good, that’s good miss padlocked vagina.”

  “We can’t all be sluts.”

  “A slut is just a social construct.”

  “So are human rights.”

  “Can we just focus on the important things,” Pohl tried.

  “Unlike the pandas.”

  “Yes, we’re looking for something connected to Pandas, some reason people committing suicide painting Pandas. How hard can that be?”

  Dee looked over at the professor. “You’re just trying to dare me into doing some research.”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe they’re all environmentalists. Emphasis on the mentalists.” Nazir was grinning at himself. No one else joined in.

  “I think we’ve reached the point where the skills of a journalist are required, is our resident journalist willing to use hers?”

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “Well?”

  “Aaagghh. Alright, alright, Nazir, make some coffee, Pohl, warm up the laptop, I’ll clear my head with a shower and we can take a look.”

  Ten minutes later Dee reappeared in a dressing gown,
picked up laptop up and began looking. As did the other two.

  “Nothing’s going to happen with the pair of you staring at me. Go and clean the kitchen.”

  “Oh, we’re your bleach bitches now are we.”

  “Is that off the cuff or do you have a cleaner chained in a basement somewhere?”

  Nazir and Pohl disappeared in search of rubber gloves, and Dee tapped away. Start with some key words, limit to local area, trawl through loads of esoteric nonsense, and maybe you’d eventually find something.

  And then, after half an hour, there was something. A quick yell bought her makeshift cleaners back in, and she looked up proudly.

  “I’ve found a local dating society.”

  “Good, but after you’ve got yourself shagged can we get back to Pandas.”

  “No Naz, I mean, it’s a Panda themed dating society.”

  “Don’t people just use apps these days?”

  “What you have on your phone is your business. And MI5’s. But this society ‘aims to provide a safe, respectful way for professionals to meet.’ It’s the anti app.”

  “And this has what to do with Pandas?”

  “Well, here’s the thing, they’re called ‘Don’t Be A Panda’, tagline, ‘stopping the classy from becoming extinct.’”

  “I hate them already.”

  “They sound interesting,” Pohl said, then blushed, “I didn’t mean like that. I meant for our investigation.”

  “I suppose they have a panda as their symbol?” Naz checked.

  “Oh yes. And all those suicides you found, they’re the target audience, and all were single. If this lot aren’t connected, they really need to advertise and help a few people.”

  “Good work Dee!” Pohl enthused, then worried she sounded like she’d just cheered a child on for writing their name right. She did sound exactly like that, but as Dee was two parents down she didn’t mind. In fact she found it oddly calming.

  “We just need to get you signed up professor.”

  “Me? But, me?”

  A woman paused on the empty street she’d been walking down, checked a number on a piece of paper, looked up at the nondescript doorway and concluded somebody liked discretion. She then went to the recently painted wooden door and pressed a buzzer, which summoned a member of staff so fast they must have been sat in the hallway, which had a tasteful selection of flowers on the shelves and magazines on the table. Soon the woman had given her name and was ushered through to a smart wooden door, which was knocked on and opened, and the woman was handed over to a lady inside who dazzled in an immaculate suit.

  “Good morning, please, do come in. May I just confirm your name?”

  “Dulcimer Nettleship.”

  “Excellent, excellent, we at Don’t Be A Panda have been expecting you.”

  Dee was now inside the interview room, which had a large mascot occupy much of one wall. The Panda seemed to be staring down at her suspiciously. Maybe they were shitty animals.

  “I expect you’re fully briefed on what we offer here Miss Nettleship?”

  “Yes, an introductions service for the successful and rarified.”

  “Indeed. May I be so bold as to suggest you are among the younger age bracket of our clientele.”

  “I understand, but men my own age are still boys.”

  “Indeed. And I understand you were a journalist.” Clipped tones, polite but loaded with hate.

  “I was indeed, but I retired a year ago to manage my investments.”

  “I see. These details are pertinent to your application, so if you would like to sit and expand on them.”

  “My father was killed when I was a child,” she said truthfully, “and all the money he left was held in trust,” she lied, “and I was only given access when I turned twenty one, at which point I’d begun my journalism career. But there’s only so much you can take, and now I am a woman who follows the markets.” That was so much of a lie she wasn’t even sure if markets was the right word, or whether her nose would drop off instead of grow.

  “I understand entirely Miss Nettleship, and may I say, looking at your hair,” which was a wonderful real red, “and at your portfolio,” which had been faked the day before by Pohl and Naz as they’d sat round the Financial Times, “you’ll attract a lot of interest. And I hope you will find a lot to interest you too.”

  “If you have weeded out every man who hangs around pubs and watches football, I hope I will too.” She smiled, and thought her face was going to crack open and wave a ‘I hate you fucking pretentious rat balls’ flag. Amazingly, she looked totally sincere.

  “Now, Miss Nettleship, I do have something to interest you. We’re running a little party in a few nights, of our most recent applicants, at a lovely palatial house we’ve hired for the night. I hope you’ll be interested?”

  “I do love a party that doesn’t involve balloons.”

  Dee Nettleship had come out in force, exiting a taxi gracefully and moving smoothly up the steps of a large manor house despite wearing heels, her hair poised for maximum effect, and her dress crease free. Given that it was the same dress she'd worn for her graduation, and the shoes were hurting her only slightly less than immersing her feet in acid, her smile was entirely faked, but she took a flute of champagne from a waiter, downed it, took another, and moved into the hallway, where she was greeted, signed in, and allowed through to the main hall.

  She’d been in meat market night clubs where everyone was after a shag, but here it looked like everyone had outdone themselves to show off money and 'taste', and probably wouldn't have sex until it cost a thousand quid on a bearskin rug. A tastefully fake bearskin rug. Still, the night was young, and Dee drifted over to a corner, but had to pause as a man approached.

  He was easily twice her age, and a watch that cost more than her car could clearly be seen. If she ever wanted that career in sex work, she could have started now.

  “You look ravishing,” he said, with no apparent sense of shame.

  “Thank you kind sir,” she replied, “I expect you've seen a dress similar to this on your daughter.” That confused him, so she walked over to a buffet and picked up whatever that pastry parcel was called. Then she heard a voice behind her.

  “Did it hurt?”

  “What?” She said turning.

  “When you rose up from hell and burst out of a grave.”

  Dee laughed and shook her head, then held her hand out. “Dee Nettleship.”

  “You can call me Sheik Nazir.”

  “Subtle.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Any clues yet?”

  “None. But here's the professor,” and they turned to see Pohl coming into the room, wearing her summer ball gown.

  “She’s actually quite the hotty underneath,” Nazir judged.

  “Don’t tell me she's turning you.”

  “As if. But I am officially straight for the night.”

  “The poor men, how will you cope with a false sexuality.”

  “It'll be like growing up all over again.”

  “Fair point.”

  “Hello, I'm Professor Pohl.”

  “Hello.”

  “What do you make of the party so far?” The newcomer asked.

  “If I could inflict this room with Ebola I would suicide vest myself for the good of humanity.”

  “I see Dee's getting into the groove. And you Nazir?”

  “I feel like a vegetarian in a sausage factory.”

  “If you don’t mind sheik, please never, ever, explain how that image works.”

  “What's the plan?” The sheik asked.

  “We schmooze and look for clues. And we don’t get drunk and vomit in a plant pot. Not that I have ever done that in this dress.”

  Pohl was growing increasingly pleased both that Dee had never been her student, and that she had a chance to keep this version of Dee out of trouble. Except the whole going undercover at a suicide trigger thing. “Have you noticed how all the men in this room h
ave started to congregate around Dee?”

  The trio turned and looked, found she was right, and looked back at each other. “Like flies to shit,” Nazir grinned at her.

  “You're supposed to say moths to my flaming hair you obtuse fuckwit.”

  “Where would be the fun in that.”

  “At the end of my foot, which is soon to be shoved up your arse.”

  “Now you're just being tempting.”

  “Is the plan to make everyone else in the room look better?”

  “Excuse me,” said a man who'd either been two sizes larger than his current frame, or really couldn't buy a suit, “have I seen you somewhere before?”

  “Don’t tell me,” Dee only just didn’t sigh, “you watch science fiction.”

  “Yes, yes! You're a dead ringer.”

  “Good. I'll have someone to swap with when I rule the world. I can think of somewhere I’d like to fire an airstrike.”

  “Where's that?”

  Money but zero imagination, no wonder he needs someone else to create it for him. “I think I’ll have another pastry thing,” Dee said, ignoring the man who followed like a duckling after her. If only she could get him stuck in a storm drain.

  She picked up another pastry thing, and eyed the green and red bits. What was this, and exactly who are you supposed to ask? This didn’t matter in the end as a door slammed open then, and a man in a full dinner jacket came storming out muttering under his breath, while the woman who’d invited Dee along chased after him. Nazir caught Dee’s eye, and both leapt forward.

  “I’ll speak to him,” Nazir told the interviewer, “man to man,” and followed the man out of the entrance, while Dee went over to console / probe the interviewer.

  Outside the air was still and the night was warm, and Nazir soon caught up with his target.

  “Steady, mate, steady, have a cigarette and calm down.”

  “Calm down,” the man said incredulously, “I’ve never been so insulted in my life!”

  “What did she say?”

  “Watch out, mark my words, watch out, I bet they’re after the best.”