by Lucy Banks
Ribero’s email was typically curt, asking for updates on the case. It featured several expletives and exclamation marks. He shut it down. He simply didn’t have the energy to go through it all just yet. It was far too early in the morning to try to write an email about their progress so far, especially without mentioning Larry Higgins, which he knew would only set his father off again.
Kester lingered a little longer over the final email from the SSFE. Finger hovering on the mouse, it took a while before he finally clicked with weary resignation. Let’s get this over with, he thought, not even quite sure what outcome he was hoping for. He was desperately hoping that his application had been rejected but felt nettled at the prospect of not being considered good enough for the course. It was a strange mix of emotions.
Just get on with it, he ordered himself and began to read.
Dear Kester,
Many thanks for your recent application to study a Bachelor of Arts in Spirit Intervention and Business Studies. Upon reviewing your application, we’d like to invite you to a Skype interview on Tuesday the 13th of December, at 10 a.m., with Dr Barqa-Abu, who is principal lecturer on this course.
Please let us know if this time is not convenient for you.
Yours sincerely,
Miranda Trollope
Secretary to the Headmaster, SSFE
Kester leaned back with a low whistle. Oh boy, he thought. Dr Barqu-Abu. That’s the genie woman that Dad told me about. Am I seriously going to have an interview with a genie? Tomorrow?
His bunk shuddered with a seismic rattle, nearly knocking the laptop off his knees. Dimitri appeared soon after, hand clasped over his forehead. He muttered something in Russian, then glared darkly at Kester as though it was somehow his fault.
“These stupid English beds,” he concluded. “They are so low down that I bang my head every time I stand up.”
“Try looking where you put that big old head of yours then, mate,” Mike suggested, yawning, stretching, and taking up most of the available space in the room in the process.
“My head is not so big.” Dimitri glowered, then patted himself as though to verify the fact. “Why do you call it big?”
“It’s a fairly sizeable cranium. Come on, you must have noticed.” Mike’s expression lit up.
Here he goes again, Kester thought.
Dimitri bristled and tugged his jumper over his head. “No, I have not noticed. I think my head is the right size for my body. And I think you are trying to pull my leg.”
“Your head is a perfectly adequate size. Do stop fussing about it,” Larry barked as he squeezed himself into his jacket. “Now, are we going to get some breakfast or not? I’m absolutely starving.”
“We have to buy some toiletries too,” Kester said, shutting his laptop. “If I don’t clean my teeth soon, I think I might pass out with nausea at my own horrible breath.”
“It is pretty bad,” Mike agreed whilst smoothing down his duvet.
“Trust me,” Kester retorted, “yours is hardly fragrant.”
“Yes, well the simple fact is that all of us utterly stink,” Higgins snapped. “But there’s not much we can do about it now, so let’s go. I have an urgent physical requirement for fried breakfast goods. Right now.”
“Any word from the archaeologist about the grave?” Kester asked. He leapt nimbly from the bunk, then wished he hadn’t. His muscles ached from the previous day, and his neck felt horribly stiff, like someone had used it as a punch-bag while he’d been sleeping.
“Good god, boy, give the man a chance!” Higgins huffed past him, tugged the door open, and let in an unpleasantly damp, malodourous draft from the corridor outside. “He hasn’t even had twenty-four hours yet.”
“I think the point Kester’s being too polite to mention is that we’ve only got until the end of the week,” Mike said, striding out of the door. “If we don’t nail this case by Friday, we’re all officially skint.”
“Yes, no results, no pay. We must not forget this,” Dimitri added as he wrapped himself in his jacket.
Higgins grunted, ushering them out of the room. A quick round of knocks on the neighbouring bedrooms summoned the ladies from their rooms, though no one looked very happy about the prospect of the forthcoming day.
After a mirthless trudge to the café, followed by a quiet breakfast of bacon, parched baked beans, and some hideously slimy mushrooms, they commenced planning.
“I’d like to make some suggestions,” Miss Wellbeloved began. She tugged her tiny notepad out of her handbag and dislodged a sea of tissues in the process. “If that’s acceptable, Larry?”
He grunted, sipping his tea. “Be my guest.”
“I think we need to divide into teams.” She looked around expectantly and nodded at each of them in turn. “One team should head to the library, see if they can find anything out about this Celtic graveyard, or, indeed, anything to do with the case. I’m sure Lyme Regis’s library is small, but hopefully they’ll have some good books on local history and a computer at least.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Serena said, mopping up the last of the baked bean sauce with a piece of cold toast.
“Well, we must try our best. I finally got through to Dr Jürgen Kleinmann’s widow, so I propose some of us head over there. Obviously we’ll need one of the psychics to assist—that means Pamela or Dimitri.”
Kester raised his hand. “Can I suggest something?”
“What’s that?”
Kester delved into his pocket and pulled out the ancient Celtic brooch that they’d found yesterday. “This might not come to anything,” he began, “but I think it’s worth trying to find out if this can give us any clues. I’d like to get in contact with Peter Hopper again, see if he can shed any light on it. Presumably, as a local historian, he might have some insight.”
Miss Wellbeloved nodded. “I don’t see why not. It can’t hurt to try.”
“I’ll go to the library,” Serena offered. “I’ve got a stinking headache, and I could do with a bit of peace and quiet.”
“Excellent,” Miss Wellbeloved said. “How about Mike and Dimitri join you?”
“Oh goodie, books,” Mike said sarcastically.
“Don’t worry, I’ll let you play on the computer,” Serena said with a consoling pat on his shoulder.
Larry rapped his fist on the table for attention. “Right. Jennifer, how about you and I tackle Dr Kleinmann’s wife and take Pamela with us?”
“Does that mean I’m teamed up with Kester again?” Lara slapped him enthusiastically on the back, nearly making him spit out his tea.
“No,” Higgins retorted, finishing off his food in a flourish of toast crumbs. “Someone needs to trot to the woods and see how our archaeologist friend is doing. His phone’s gone dead, I can only presume he’s struggling to get a signal. Lara, you’re best qualified for the job because you’re the only one of us that can run up a flight of stairs without getting out of breath.”
“Aw, nuts.” Lara looked out the window and directed her attention to the sky, which was filled with portentous clouds. “Well, you’re the boss, I guess.”
“You guess correctly.” He nodded pompously. “Kester, I suppose you know what you’re doing? Actually, I don’t know why I just made that statement. You’ve never shown me any evidence to prove it.”
“I’ll be perfectly fine, thank you,” Kester muttered. “Leave it with me.”
After scraping together enough money to pay, they trooped out into the cold, oozing a general demeanour of exhaustion and gloom. A lone gull shrieked from a neighbouring chimney-pot, then circled twice into the sky before wheeling out towards the seafront.
“Shall we meet up in three hours?” Miss Wellbeloved suggested as she peered at her watch. “Will that give everyone enough time?”
“Enough time to nod off in the library, I should thin
k,” Mike said, rolling his sleeves down and stamping from foot to foot.
“Don’t even think about it.” Flinging her handbag over her shoulder, Miss Wellbeloved nodded to Larry and Pamela. “Shall we?”
Kester waved the rest of the group off. He wished that he was heading to the library, rather than getting stuck out in the cold. Well, best get on with it, he thought, then pulled out his phone and dialled Peter Hopper’s number.
To his surprise, the phone was answered after only a couple of rings. A familiar northern voice issued a brisk, wary, “Hello?”
“Hello Peter, apologies for bothering you, it’s Kester Lanner again.” He waited for a response. Nothing was forthcoming, so he continued. “Do you remember we spoke the other day?”
Peter Hopper didn’t even bother to conceal his sigh. “Yep.”
Oh boy, he sounds cheerful, Kester thought. This should be fun. “I hope you don’t mind,” he pressed on, “but I wanted to ask you about something I found the other day. I believe it may relate to the case.”
“Oh aye? What’s that then?”
“We visited the Celtic site the other day. The ancient graves, up in the woods.”
Peter Hopper was silent. What is his problem? Kester wondered, waiting for a response. Why does he freeze up whenever we discuss that place?
“And?” The voice was distinctly hostile.
Kester cleared his throat. “We found what appears to be an ancient Celtic brooch in the ground. As you’re the local history expert, I wondered if you might have a look at it for us. See if you can shed any light on how old it is, or where it originally came from.”
“I’m not the right person to ask.”
“I thought your history club studied the Celtic burial ground quite extensively?”
The other man cleared his throat. It sounded unnervingly like a growl. “We did. But I know nothing about these sorts of things. You should ask Grace McCready.”
A spot of rain landed on Kester’s cheek, closely followed by another. He quickly darted to the grocer’s shop across the road, phone still pressed against his ear, and sheltered under the bright red canopy—the only splash of colour in the granite-grey street. “Why Grace McCready?” he asked.
“Celtic history’s her thing. She moved here from Scotland,” Peter Hopper replied. “Better hurry, though.”
“Why?”
“Well, the rate we’re dropping, she’ll be murdered too by the time the month’s out.”
Kester winced. “My condolences about Denzil Powers.”
“Yeah,” the other man grunted. “It wasn’t a shock. Not really. We’re all on the list, aren’t we? Just catch whoever’s doing it, so the rest of us can sleep easy at night.”
“I’m working on it. Where can I find Mrs McCready?”
“Miss. She never married.” Hopper cleared his throat awkwardly. “She and her daughter live up on Smuggler’s Path, on the outskirts of town. Go past the Cobb and head up the main road from there. It’s right at the top of the hill, on your left.”
“What’s the house number?”
Peter Hopper chuckled humourlessly. “It hasn’t got a number, it’s the only bloody house up there.”
“Right, okay. Do you have her phone number, so I can let her know I’m coming?”
“Goodbye, Kester.”
The line went dead before he could reply. He looked blankly at the screen before stuffing it into his pocket. Weird old man, he thought as he stepped back out into the road. I don’t see why he needs to be quite so rude. After all, we’re trying to help him. He was getting the distinct impression that Peter Hopper was hiding something, though exactly what, he couldn’t imagine.
A fine mist of rain, blown in from the sea, glued itself to his face. It was eerily quiet for a Monday morning. Does nobody work in Lyme Regis? he wondered as he strode towards the seafront. Or are they all retired? If so, he envied them, still being tucked up in bed on a day like this. He’d have given anything to be snuggled under his duvet back in Exeter, even if it was in the same house as Pineapple and Daisy.
Once he’d reached the beach, he turned left, paced down the promenade, and headed towards the Cobb. On a sunny day, he could imagine the ancient stone walls lined with people eating ice creams or strolling along with dogs straining at their leads. However, on this wintry morning, it was devoid of life. The stones looked forbiddingly black, and the shack at the end, which he’d been told was an aquarium, was ominously boarded up.
Trust us to end up having to come out of season, he thought, hands stuffed even further into his coat pockets. Just to make everything even more unpleasant than it needs to be.
The road that led up the hill was far steeper than he’d imagined, not to mention rather precarious, given the speed at which the cars seemed to zip around the corner. Even pressing himself into the ferns and nettles of the rocky verge didn’t seem to do much good, and twice his foot nearly got squashed under the wheels of a passing vehicle.
He was thoroughly damp and depressed when he finally reached the road at the top. The aged street sign with “Smuggler’s Path” written upon it was only just visible, poking out of the dense hedgerow. Even the impressive view of the cove below couldn’t cheer him up. Instead, he pointedly turned away from it and focused his attention on his destination, keen to get the whole thing over and done with, so he could return to the café for another cup of tea.
There was only one house on the narrow road, just as Peter Hopper had said. It was one of the most ramshackle buildings he’d ever laid eyes on: a craggy, whitewashed box that squatted below ground-level, shrinking into the grey rocks behind. Indeed, it looked as though it had glued itself onto the landscape, like a limpet clinging to a cliff face.
Approaching it cautiously, he noted the outhouse with the fallen-in roof, the weed-riddled garden, and the filthy windowpanes. None of the details filled him with great enthusiasm for meeting the residents inside. Who the hell lives like this? he wondered as he pushed open the garden gate, which was hanging off its hinges. It squealed loudly, breaking the silence.
Skipping around the sodden bin bag outside the door, he knocked against the peeling wood. He wasn’t sure which would be worse—nobody being in, or somebody being in. The idea of simply turning around and heading back down the hill was getting more tempting by the second, especially as he realised that nobody knew where he was. This old woman could bump me off and dump my body in the woods, he thought with a nervous laugh, and no one would be any the wiser. Except Peter Hopper, but I bet he’d be in no rush to help out.
The door creaked open. He jumped, just managing to supress a squeal of surprise.
“Hello?” A woman peered out of the gloom with a look of confusion. He wondered if he’d just woken her up.
She can’t be Grace, Kester realised immediately. This person was only about thirty-five at the most, though her unkempt appearance made her look more world-weary than her age implied.
“Hi,” he replied and twiddled his hands together self-consciously. “I’m looking for Grace McCready?”
The woman nodded and thrust her straggly hair over her shoulder. “My mother,” she said slowly as she eyed him with suspicion. “What do you want with her?”
“I’m from Dr Ribero’s Agency in Exeter. I need to speak to her about the deaths of her friends.”
The daughter studied him for an uncomfortably long time, looking from head to feet as though surveying a piece of meat in a butcher’s shop. “She wondered when you’d show up,” she said inexplicably and opened the door with a dismissive gesture inside.
“Oh, did she? Excellent,” Kester replied and shuffled past her. He looked around for a doormat to wipe his feet. There was none, only a balding red carpet stretching down the dark corridor. “Shall I take off my shoes?” he offered, pointing downwards.
The woman produced a sound that could h
ave been a laugh or a derisive grunt then walked away. Feeling rather unnerved, Kester followed. As he passed, he took in the crooked watercolour paintings and the low ceilings, not to mention the general atmosphere of neglect. He couldn’t imagine a place like this ever feeling like a home.
They entered a cramped lounge, overstuffed with ornaments, knitted cushions, and old armchairs. It was uncomfortably warm and silent, aside from a mantelpiece clock ticking quietly on the tiled fireplace. A bundle of old blankets twitched on the furthest chair, and Kester realised that it had a living creature underneath it.
“Miss McCready?” he guessed.
“Mum, it’s a man from an agency, wants a word with you.” Without waiting for an answer, the daughter stalked back out of the room.
The mass of material sat up straighter. A thin head jutted out, with wild white hair and black eyes.
“I wondered when you’d finally get around to me,” Grace McCready said, smiling. It wasn’t a joyful expression, but rather one of resignation. Although she looked old and tired, her eyes were bright and watchful as a rodent. They fixed upon him, and he shifted under her gaze.
I don’t like you, Grace McCready, he thought irrationally, then chastised himself for thinking it. After all, she was only an old woman, and a frail, helpless one at that. He forced himself to smile. “Did Peter Hopper tell you that we were investigating the case?” he asked as he looked for somewhere to sit. It was clear that nobody was going to invite him to do so, and he was fairly certain he wasn’t going to get offered something to drink either.
The woman shook her head and let out a dry laugh. “That idiot hasn’t been in contact for weeks. Word gets around, Mr . . . ?”
“Kester, just call me Kester,” he said, as he eased himself onto a chair. A sudden yowl alerted him to the fact that he’d just sat on a cat, and he hastily got back up again, nimbly shifting to one side as a set of claws flicked out to give him a warning scratch.