“Thank you, Doctor, you have lifted my spirits no end…”
Another change of subject was needed.
“Laya. Remember that Saudi Arabian lady in the veil? Debbie said she saved my life. Apparently, when it all went tits up, and Andy and I got trapped by the entity, she got rid of it and then saved my life as I wasn’t breathing. She performed chest compressions on me and got me breathing again… Debs said she was sure I was dead, but Laya brought me back; impressive, huh?” recalled Rachel.
“Laya is certainly special…” he confirmed.
She saw him look away. “Have you seen her since?”
“No, but she has asked me to drop in from time to time. I think her life, with all the wives and the sheikh, is a lonely existence.”
“Then you should go to visit her.”
“Really?” He turned back to her. “You… wouldn’t mind me going to see her?”
“Why would I? It’s nothing to do with me what you do.”
He went to open his mouth, looked down, then sniffed. “No, I don’t suppose it is…”
A nurse walked by, looked at Rachel, frowned and walked on. Although she was speaking to Dr Maxwell in her mind she needed to be more careful of her facial expressions, as she didn’t want to end up in the psychiatric ward again.
“At least the entity and the furry ape thing have gone. Laya sorted them out,” said Rachel.
“The ape… thing?”
“Yes, the physical manifestation of the entity or whatever you call it. I don’t mind seeing ghosts, normal dead people who used to be alive, but I certainly want nothing more to do with evil stuff. Andy said that, now the entity has gone, the furry ape-like thing cannot bother me anymore, being as they were one and the same thing.”
“Andy has been here? I thought he was injured as well?”
“You know Andy…” She looked down at the bed. “He wants to know how his investment is doing… Without me, there wouldn’t be a Spirit of London Paranormal Investigations team. Apparently, his phone is red hot with jobs. Someone even offered us a piece on a digital channel, talking about ghosts.”
“‘Dig-it-all’ channel? What in Jesus’ name is that?”
“It’s on TV… television…”
“Oh, the moving-screen thing with the people inside… yes, I see.”
Again, there was silence.
He stood up abruptly, looking crushingly sad. “I will be off then.”
“Yes, thank you for coming.”
He did a little bow and left.
Rachel didn’t know why she felt down. There was nothing between her and Dr Maxwell. He was too old for her, and too dead. How could one date a ghost, especially a ghost from another era? She would consider a young man who had died in the 1960s, but a Victorian? That was ridiculous; it would be all penny-farthing rides, hat doffing and corset wearing. No thanks. Besides, where was he when she was dying on the floor of her kitchen? He was probably somewhere polishing his pocket watch. It was a good job Laya had turned up when she did; perhaps Andy had somehow managed to get word to her. Maybe she owed Andy a debt of gratitude, as it was probably right what the paper had said, that he had helped her out; she had probably been too harsh on him by far.
Rachel lay down on her side, pressing her head into the scratchy, hard hospital pillow. She felt a gentle throb, as if her artery was saying, “Hey, look at me; I am still here.” Closing her eyes, part of her hoped William would come back, say he didn’t want to go to Laya and that he wanted to be with her. It was sheer stupidity, but…
She felt the weight of someone sitting on the end of her bed. It brought a smile to her face as she sat up, expecting to see the familiar face of Dr Maxwell at her side, forgetting, of course, that a ghost does not usually carry weight. But it wasn’t William. The man sitting there was about forty, smallish in stature, with short, dark hair, a cheap suit, a shiny briefcase and piercing, brown eyes.
“Miss Holloway?” He leapt up from the bed as she sat up, blinking. “I am so sorry; I thought you were sleeping… I was about to leave a card.” Like a magician, he flipped his hand up for a business card to appear, which he then offered to her. As their fingers touched, she felt that his were ice cold.
Rachel looked at the card through blurred eyes. It said ‘Rennison Wright – Publicist’ and included his contact details.
“Sorry… What do you want?” She propped herself up.
He shook her hand briskly. “You are becoming very famous, Miss Holloway; there’s talk of your psychic ability, of being able to see ghosts, and how you defeated some kind of dark force in your home. You need to protect yourself.”
“From ghosts?”
“No, Miss Holloway, from unscrupulous newspaper articles such as this one…” He drew a copy of the Burwood Echo from his briefcase and flipped it in front of her, helpfully opened to the page she featured on. “I will also guide you through TV appearances and shield you from cranks demanding your help. I would like to meet you, perhaps for coffee, to discuss how we could enter into a mutually beneficial professional relationship.”
“I don’t have much money, Mr Wright. I live from hand to mouth nowadays.”
“Don’t you worry about that; you are hot property right now… Goodness, you are modest.” He leant forward and smiled at her, showing slightly uneven teeth; his brown eyes flashed again. “Promise that you will give me a ring when you get out?”
“Why pick you? I mean, there are lots of media people out there… I would have to see what they offered first.”
“They are not like me.”
“I am sure.”
He bobbed his head towards the exit door. “I saw him too you know… the vintage-looking guy who was here a moment ago; he had a pocket watch, right? Took it out and put it back?”
She looked up, stunned.
“The girl over there…” He nodded towards a spirit girl, standing in the corner. “About eight years old, wearing a white petticoat and with a large bow in her hair… you see her?”
Yes, of course she saw her.
“I see ’em too… You aren’t the only one, you know.”
What had she to lose? Dr Maxwell had obviously cooled towards her, and it was clear that Andy was only in it for the money and his own self-promotion. “Yes, sure, but I need to rest.”
“Of course.” He leapt up and clutched his briefcase to his chest. “Don’t go making any media deals without speaking to me first, though, OK?”
“Yes, OK.” She smiled weakly.
The same nurse who had frowned earlier appeared at Rachel’s bedside. “Are you family, sir?” she quizzed him. “Only family is allowed in here.”
“I am her brother, can’t you tell?” he said, winking. Lying obviously came easily to him. He flashed another quick smile, and then disappeared behind the plastic curtain.
The nurse walked away, leaving Rachel to examine the card he had left. “‘Rennison Wright’,” she said aloud, reading from the neatly printed text, “‘Get the Wright deal for you and your business’; Jesus God.”
A psychic publicist; could things get any odder?
She lay down again, her mind filling with Dr Maxwell and Rennison Wright. She never dreamt for a moment that she was the only living person who could see ghosts (why would she be?), but it still jolted her to speak to someone who could do it with the same apparent ease that she could.
Slowly, she fell into a slumber, and, for once, her dreams were not haunted by visions of dark figures, only William and Rennison, standing either side of what looked like a never-ending fence, just staring at each other.
Chapter 47
Rachel found herself, once again, in a police interview room. A week had passed since she had been discharged from hospital. She had only been into her second day back at home when she received the initial phone call from the police. They said that
they wanted to speak to her regarding the murder case. She had tried to put them off, but they had proved to be quite persistent over the days that followed, and had phoned her numerous times in an attempt to coax her into helping them with some ‘further enquiries’.
So, here she was, back on familiar territory, except that, this time, she was waiting alone because she didn’t want Andy butting in. In fact, Rachel had told him nothing about this visit to ‘the feds’, as he would probably refer to them. She sat in the same kind of drab room as before, dominated by one large, charcoal-coloured table in the exact centre of the floor space, with recording equipment placed on the side of it. A barred, tiny window allowed in a pointlessly small degree of sunlight, like a half-hearted afterthought.
Above Rachel’s head, a yellowed light fitting cast a defined circle of luminescence on the table’s surface in front of her. A single poster on the wall depicted an old-fashioned cartoon police constable, blowing a whistle, with the slogan:
If you want to report a crime,
don’t ask a policeman,
do it online!
A website address was included beneath the slogan.
As Rachel pondered over the poster, a sharp click from the door latch broke the silence, and a strikingly handsome man entered the room. She guessed he was mid-thirties, with a lean, muscular physique, bright-blue eyes and short, mid-brown hair. To Rachel, he looked more like a catwalk model than a police officer.
“Miss Holloway,” he said with a radiant smile.
“You can call me Rachel, if you like.” Did that sound flirtatious?
He sat opposite her. “Rachel…” He opened a folder and placed a couple of papers straight onto the table in front of him.
She strained to see if she could make out any words on them, but the font was too small. She saw a photo of what looked like a large water tank. It made her shudder.
“I am Detective Sergeant Jack Milton, and I have invited you in to tell you what has happened regarding the case of Kayleigh Lovall and Mia Logan.” He looked up from his papers to meet her gaze. “You are no doubt aware that Kayleigh’s brother, Sean, has been charged with both murders, so it seems that you were correct in implicating him. He is currently remanded in custody until he goes to Crown Court. It looks like we have our man.”
He smelt vaguely of sandalwood. Rachel always had a thing about the smell of sandalwood.
“Do you have enough evidence to condemn him?” she asked.
Milton smiled at her again. “Absolutely. Thanks to your tip-off, we organised a second, more-thorough search of Sean’s room and belongings. The first time, he wasn’t really in the frame, but this second sweep gave us a shoe, with both Kayleigh’s blood and mud from Shore Moat on it. All it took was a little push under questioning, and he admitted his guilt for both murders. We got a result.”
“Oh… right,” Rachel mumbled. He really is bloody handsome, and he has no wedding ring. “Did he say why he killed them?” She reflected his smile back. “I’m just being nosey.”
“Lust.” He paused fleetingly. “It was lust, apparently. Sean felt strongly for Kayleigh in a sexual way. Remember, they weren’t blood relatives; Kayleigh was his stepsister. It often happens, but, on this occasion, Kayleigh didn’t feel the same way. She told him nothing would come of it, so… he killed her.”
“But how did he lure her to the moat?”
“He didn’t. He had been stalking her for quite some time up to that point. But when she walked through the wood to get home that night, he struck. It was pretty straightforward, really.”
“And Mia? What of her?”
“Apparently, Kayleigh had told her about Sean stalking and bothering her, so when Kayleigh was killed, Mia confronted him and rightfully accused him of murdering her. He told us he couldn’t risk her mouthing off about him, so, one evening, whilst following Mia, he attacked her when she was paying her respects at Kayleigh’s memorial.”
“It almost sounds too easy… You give the impression that there was no real planning behind what he did. That he just struck almost randomly, when he felt like it.”
“Yeah. Murders are often unplanned. In fact, most are done on the spur of the moment.”
“Yes, but two…?” Rachel mulled it over for a moment. “If you don’t mind me asking, Sean didn’t mention anything about paranormal influences, demons or entities, did he?”
Milton looked into Rachel’s eyes. “No, he confessed that the only thing that drove him was lust and anger, nothing ghostly.”
“I see.” She gathered her thoughts again, them having been scrambled by Milton’s gaze. “Did he mention anything at all about Kayleigh’s shrine and why he chose to kill Mia there?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I feel… You see, it was my idea to build a memorial for Kayleigh. It makes me think I am somehow responsible.”
Milton placed his hand on hers. “Rachel, your actions have done nothing but help our investigation and assist in giving those girls a proper funeral. You had absolutely nothing to do with the murders; this was all down to the evil of one man.”
Rachel smiled, but she did not remove her hand. Her eyes fell to the photograph on the table. “So you found Mia in the water tower. Did he explain how he managed to get her body in there?”
He removed his hand and sat back. “I’m afraid we haven’t got that out of him yet. Sometimes, though, when people are aroused in anger or passion, they can have superhuman strength. I’ve seen some pretty crazy things over the years. Anyway, he gave a full confession, so that’s that.”
“That’s that,” Rachel echoed. “So, I guess I’d better be going then. Nice talking to you.” She started to stand up.
“Rachel, before you go.” Milton’s hand shot out again and touched her forearm gently. “We have another case. A missing boy…”
Rachel reluctantly sat down again as the detective sergeant fumbled with some papers in his folder. Eventually, he handed her a photograph of a young boy with blond hair, who was wearing a red jumper. It was slightly blurred and very obviously a family snapshot. “His name is Oliver. He is seven years old and went missing two days ago. His father thinks someone may have kidnapped him, and the usual leads have gone cold. Can you help us find him?”
She looked sadly at the photo. “I’m afraid I can’t. Not if he’s still alive. But, if he… isn’t alive, well, then perhaps I can find out more.”
“Have you a spirit guide to help you? Is that how it works?”
Rachel put the photo down onto the table. What an odd question. Then she thought of Mia. “Yes. I might do.”
“Well, if you do, now might be a good time to… er… have a word with him… her… it.”
She tried to remember if she had ever met a police officer before who believed in ghosts. Aren’t they only supposed to deal in hard facts? The provable? This was a refreshing change. “I feel I should tell you at this stage that… I am not very well at the moment.” She looked up from the photo on the table. “I have a problem with my head. I will need an operation, and I don’t know how it will turn out.”
Jack Milton sat back in his chair and beamed again. “Rachel, I am positive you will be absolutely fine. So you’ll help us with the case, yes?”
“I suppose so.”
“Fantastic.” He scribbled something down on a police business card. “Here’s my card, with my personal number, should you ever wish to call me at any time of the day or night.” Their fingers touched briefly as he handed it to her.
The business card felt slightly warm in her hand. It somehow made her feel better. He somehow made her feel better, too. Yes, I’ll call him.
Chapter 48
Sheikh Mohammad bin al-Rahman was furious. Ever since that fool, Andy Horton, had been in his house, there had been unrest. Although the spiritual whispering had stopped, and he seemed to have removed the odd
thing that lingered on the stairs, this had been replaced with general unease amongst his staff, his wives and especially Laya, who was quieter than usual.
Very soon after Andy had left the sheikh’s home, he had been informed of two issues by his staff. Firstly, in the room that Andy had stayed in, an empty miniature whiskey bottle had been found at the back of the wardrobe, proving he had been drinking alcohol. He had been very clearly informed that alcohol consumption was strictly forbidden in the sheikh’s house. Secondly, and more worryingly, a gold bust of the sheikh, which had been cast by the famous Saudi Arabian artist, Rashid, had gone missing from the sun lounge on the same day that Andy had left.
Sheikh Mohammed had held an important meeting that same day with some influential Saudi men, hoping to get their support for a new hotel that he wished to build in Sardinia. It was, of course, possible that one of his brothers could have stolen the bust, but he doubted it. He was sure that Andy was the culprit. Over time, it troubled him more and more, and during a recent business trip to Dubai, he found it difficult to think about anything else. He considered arranging for Horton to suffer a ‘misfortune’, but then quickly banished the idea from his mind. The fool was not worth the aggravation of such a deed, and besides, if he was dead, the whereabouts of the bust would never be discovered.
So, when the sheikh woke up that morning, he came to the conclusion that something absolutely had to be done. His assistant had offered to report the crime to Scotland Yard, but the sheikh believed that if he reported it to the local police station, in person, in the same area where Andy and Rachel lived, more might be done. After all, Andy Horton was well known now. In Sheikh Mohammed’s view, the police would find the idea of investigating this so-called ‘local celebrity’ interesting, so might put more effort into finding the bust.
The sheikh was at the police counter, ranting at the clerk, flanked by two burly bodyguards. In the waiting area nearby, four of his wives sat in a dark line, in complete silence, like a row of crows. Laya sat watching from the end of the row, as her furious husband continued his tirade at the older man behind the counter.
Seeing Things Page 29