The Dead Speak Ill Of The Living (The Dead Speak Paranormal Mysteries Book 1)

by Robert Wilde

Pohl leaned back. “It seems to me like we all agree this went well, and that our first experiment in monetizing ghost communicators was worthy of a second effort. In fact, if I may be so bold, more than a second effort. I think we should pursue this with all our skill and vigour.”

  “I agree,” Dee said holding her wineglass up ready to clink. The others joined her, and the glasses came together in the middle.

  “Now,” said Pohl, “let’s talk a bit more about ghost animals.”

  “Oh no,” Nazir said laughing.

  Dee joined in giggling. “I don’t care what anyone says, a ghost cat would shit a lot less than the normal ones.”

  “And you couldn’t stroke them!”

  “I didn’t say I want to adopt one, I want to discuss them.”

  “You so want to adopt one.”

  “You could adopt the ghost of a Panda.”

  “Somebody give Joe a hug for the best idea ever.”

  Three: Curriculum Vitae

  Before

  There had been loud thuds all morning, somewhere in the distance, perhaps in the suburbs, it was hard to tell without going to look. War was a confusion, and no one really knew what was happening, not the shifting coalition of rebels, not the government. There were no clean front lines, no smooth advances, just ad hoc movements forward and back. But then the need to look had evaporated, as the thuds had come closer, and the buildings had started to shake as artillery came crashing down onto buildings and roads all too close. The danger was heightened by the clear popping of small arms fire, which meant people were close by, people with desperation in their eyes and adrenaline in their blood, people who’d shoot and kill and count it a success if they were still alive.

  Nazir should have fled a long time ago, but he was trying to squeeze the last bit of information out of these computers. He’d been employed here by the government in their cyber warfare division, well before the civil war, when things had been largely academic: develop this, prove this can’t be hacked, it’s not as if we’re going to use it on anybody. And then, of course, they did use it, as the country descended into civil war and hell, and as Nazir found he’d ended up on the side he opposed. A flight to the rebels seemed sensible, but it was hard to give up your life and throw yourself into the cauldron. And then, of course, the rebellion, such as it had ever been unified, splintered, into a mass of groups each with their own agenda. In weeks Nazir went from a boring, regular grind through the thrill of opportunity for change into the disillusion of war. Now there was no one to run to, except outside this country. But the only thing he had to bargain with was what was on the computers, and his fellows in the unit had long since fled, and so Nazir was filling up the largest hard drive he could find.

  Finally finished, Nazir unplugged it and went down the stairs, but he heard voices and the popping of bullets from below. He flattened himself against a wall, because that was what people did wasn’t it? Creeping down the stairs, giving as low a profile as possible, Nazir found a body lying sprawled there. Eyes open, staring out, mouth twisted in pain, this man was dressed much like Nazir, although with a rifle lying across him and spare magazines in a bandolier.

  Hearing movement downstairs, Nazir hesitated and picked up the gun. Then he continued creeping down, until he peered round a corner and found his only exit route blocked. Two men stood there, both armed, both smoking, a dead body at their feet. Rebels? Government? It could be hard to tell, and neither would be pleased to see him. They were talking about whether to search the building, to go up the stairs Nazir had been on and see who else they’d have to shoot. And that would take them past Nazir.

  The gun felt heavy in his hands, the smell of blood came into his nostrils, and he felt a metallic taste in his mouth. He looked down at the rifle, a fully automatic weapon, and back up at the gunmen.

  Now

  Detective Constable Maquire was sat in his car, elbows on the wheel, fingers knitted together in front of him. There was a CD playing in the stereo, but he wasn’t listening and the music drifted unused. He should have been sat at his desk in the office, but he needed to think, and the best place to do that was in his car, the same place he’d sneak out to and have a quick nap on those endless days when a case just wasn’t closing.

  So here he was, deep in thought. Police work wasn’t usually easy, it wasn’t solving clues and moving from point to point in a straight line until you found a criminal who then got locked away. It was easy enough to work out when someone had committed a crime, say a murder, but after that there was a succession of increasingly difficult battles to be fought, in fields not of your choosing, even the courtroom where lawyers lined up to tear a hole in things, and at each one a case could flounder. And it was one of these difficult cases he was worried about today.

  And here was the issue: he felt he’d found something, a series of linked crime. But he couldn’t find any evidence which would tell him who’d done it using normal police methods, using forensics or interviews or any of the other methodologies available to him. Which would tell him for sure if they were even linked. And that left non-standard methods, and that left him in a quandary.

  By non-standard he wasn’t talking about violence. He wasn’t going to go and threaten or beat up a potential grass or criminal, not at all. What he was talking about was something that could invite only ridicule, could damage his career, could see him laughed out of the service, or at least promotion for the next ten years. And yet… and yet it might work, and he felt he had no other option, because people were dying.

  So as he sat and thought about Dulcimer Nettleship, her friend Joe, and the machine they were supposed to have that could talk to ghosts. He wondered if he was really going to go round and talk to them, appeal for them to help. If he was really going to stake his career on a machine that couldn’t exist to save lives and risk ruin. Could he do it? It was ludicrous, so could he do it?

  Feeling like his head would burst, Maquire leant it on the steering wheel.

  Dee, Joe, Nazir and Pohl had gathered for an evening meal. The idea to meet that night had started as a communal film evening, but when it became apparent the group’s diverse tastes in films made finding something to watch tricky everything had morphed into gathering for an experiment in cooking, which was why Nazir had volunteered to cook them some traditional Syrian food. He was certain the three wouldn’t have tried it before, and he wasn’t wrong.

  Dee had conceded use of her kitchen, and had instead been put in charge of keeping the glasses topped up, a task she was expert in, and soon everyone was chatting and then eating.

  “What’s the furthest any of us have travelled?” Pohl asked.

  “Ooh, I’ve been to Amsterdam,” Joe said.

  “Did you spend the whole day stoned?” Dee smirked at him.

  “Actually we went to a cat sanctuary on a barge.”

  “Sorry?”

  “It was a cat shelter, with cages and everything, but on a barge.”

  “On a river?”

  “Yes Dee.”

  “I told you he spent the whole day stoned.”

  “There was a barge full of cats!”

  “Okay,” Pohl said to try and guide things, “we believe you. How about you Dee?”

  “I’ve been to France on an exchange programme while I was at school, and holidayed in New York a couple of times. Very busy place, like London only everything is larger.”

  “I’m sure they’d quote that on the tourist leaflets,” Joe replied.

  “What about you Nazir?”

  He turned to Pohl and said utterly deadpan, “I’ve been to Britain.”

  “I see what you did there,” Dee grinned back.

  “How about you Professor?”

  “Well Joe, I’ve been to Rome, Greece, Turkey, all around the history of the books I’ve studied.”

  Dee had a thought. “You said you hadn’t been off campus in years?”

  “I haven’t, I did all that in my twenties. I had a great old time. Then I retired m
y travelling shoes.”

  “Did something bad happen?” Nazir asked.

  “No, not really. I just… felt happier at home.”

  The doorbell interrupted them, and Dee rose to answer.

  “Expecting anyone?” Pohl asked.

  “Not unless you’ve ordered a stripagram for dessert.” She opened the door and her stomach fell. “Hello Detective,” she said to Maquire, “you look like shit.”

  “Thanks for noticing. I’ve got something to ask you, and I’m still unsure about it.”

  “I’m having a dinner party, could it wait…”

  “A dinner party of the people I want to speak to.”

  Dee raised an eyebrow. “Are we in trouble Detective?”

  “No, but I might be.”

  They looked at each other, then Dee nodded, backed up and let Maquire in.

  “This is the man who solved the Grell case,” Dee said without irony as she led the detective into the kitchen cum dining room, and everyone said hello. “Are you off duty and would like a drink?” She asked, sensing this wasn’t police business.

  “Please,” and he was issued with a glass of red wine as he shrugged his coat off and laid it carefully over the back of a sofa. Underneath he still had his work suit on.

  There was then a nervous pause, which Dee ended. “Do tell.”

  Maquire cleared his throat and went into it. “I have reason to believe you have a device that lets you speak to the spirits of the dead. I have reason to believe you can travel with this device, and used it to obtain valuable information in the Grell case.”

  “Extraordinary claims,” Pohl said, “but surely nothing illegal if it were true?”

  “Nothing illegal no, I’m not here to arrest anyone. I’m here to hire you all.”

  “Sorry, you want to pay us to use the machine?”

  Dee sighed. “Yes Joe, that’s what hiring means.”

  “But that’s an actual job!”

  “I take it that means you do have such a machine and are keen to help the police.”

  “How much does the government pay?” Nazir asked.

  Maquire looked down. “Actually, you won’t be helping the police. I want us to do this off the record, in secret. I want us to do this with the minimal disruption to my career and savaging in court. I’m sure you can see how the machine would be treated by a defence lawyer without the sort of thorough scientific examination you evidently don’t want.”

  “Then how can it help?” Joe probed.

  “Just like you did with Grell. I want to know who’s doing it, and then I can work backwards.”

  “Doing what?” Dee asked.

  “I want to know you’ll help before I tell you sensitive case details.”

  The foursome all looked at each other, tilted their heads, and nodded.

  “That a yes?”

  “Yes Detective, that’s a yes.”

  “Call me Maquire, everyone else does.”

  “How friendly.”

  “Okay, this is the case. Over the last eighteen months seven people in our region have died by having their throats cuts. As far as we can tell the people are entirely unconnected with each other, but were killed with a similar knife with a similar cut. It seems fair to ask if this is a serial killer at work.”

  “So you’re sure they’re connected?”

  “Yes, err, you’re Nazir yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am convinced the same person is doing it, and as we’re out of clues I want you to help.”

  “Great,” said Dee leaning in, “what do you want us to do.”

  “Whatever it is you do. How you use this machine. In fact can I have a look?” Joe nipped to where the coats were placed and produced his rucksack. “So you really do carry it everywhere?”

  “I can’t build a new one if it gets nicked. I don’t like leaving it.”

  “He touches it at night,” Dee smirked.

  “Will it work in here?”

  “One hundred per cent ghost free zone,” Dee continued.

  “But I assure you it does work.” Joe was adamant. We can interview the ghosts of the deceased.”

  “That will be perfect.”

  None of the foursome had been in a position to drive that evening, so a decision was taken to begin the next morning. Maquire would excuse himself from work for an hour and meet them at the site of the murder, and the others all arranged to meet at Dee’s and car pool their way along. This was why Dee was driving, Pohl was in the passenger seat, and the two chaps were in the back.

  “Do you think we ought to get a van?” Joe asked, fantasising.

  “A van?” Nazir repeated.

  “Yes, something a bit more spacious for us all, somewhere for us to move heavy bags, just an all in one transport solution.”

  He didn’t seem as pleased with himself when Dee said “like fucking Scooby Doo?”

  “Err, maybe?”

  “I’m definitely not being Shaggy,” Nazir said, and he turned to Dee “so I suppose you’d want to be Daphne?”

  “I’m not giving us roles, and we are not being Scooby Doo,” she replied.

  “I’d like a dog,” Pohl said.

  “Oh Jesus.” Dee shook her head. She saw Joe in the rearview mirror. “I’m not saying a van wouldn’t be handy, but I’ve just got a new house, so someone else will have to buy us one.”

  “Something to aim for in the company kitty.”

  “We can have a company kitty if you’re doing the accounts Nazir.”

  “I know a guy who can do that.”

  “I bet you know a lot of guys.”

  “But of course, a man for every moment.”

  When Dee and Nazir had finished talking the journey was almost over, and they parked up. Maquire had spotted them and came over. “Okay, the killing took place in his property. It remains empty, and I have a key, but I want everyone to let me do any talking if we’re interrupted.”

  “With pleasure,” Pohl said, and they went inside, but she was soon able to say “I know someone’s died here, but I wasn’t expecting it to look so… obvious.” She, and they all, were looking at a large stain on the carpet.

  “That is bodily fluids, yes. Does this machine need power, the electricity is still working.”

  “It operates on batteries, and should have a life of…” but Joe realised Dee was giving him the ‘you’re being nerdy get on with it’ look. So the machine was unpacked, placed on the coffee table, and switched on.

  “What happens now?” Maquire asked.

  “We talk to the spirits, if any are present.”

  “Are you buying my house?” came a voice from the box.

  Maquire screwed his face up, then decided to take the initiative. “Hello, I’m Detective Constable Maquire and these are my… associates. We’re here to ask you some questions about your murder.”

  “Did that feel as weird as it sounded?”

  “Yes Dee, it really did.”

  “They’ve been showing people round my house you know, as if I wasn’t here.”

  Not wishing to get into the philosophy, Maquire tried again. “Did you see the person who killed you?”

  “You’ve not caught them then?”

  “Not yet, inquires are progressing, so…”

  “I got a good look at their head, but they had a balaclava on. Couldn’t describe them.”

  Maquire looked surprised, because he hadn’t expected that. “You didn’t see the assailant?”

  “No.”

  Joe realised Maquire was looking at him, so replied “it lets us talk to the dead, it can only reveal what they know.”

  “Dammit. Okay, can you at least tell us what you did see?”

  “So are we calling that a failure?” Joe asked as they walked back to the cars.

  Maquire turned and looked at him. He was tempted to say something sarcastic and more in line with his thinking, but he was new to the group and should probably be making friends not destroying them. So he simply said
“on balance, yes, we are calling that a failure.”

  “Bugger.”

  They had now reached their vehicles, so Maquire explained another plan. “There was an earlier murder close enough to hear that we could get there easily, so have you got time to try that?”

  “Yes,” Dee answered for them, “but why is earlier relevant?”

  “It’s just possible he or she didn’t have the balaclava on then.”

  It took twenty five minutes given the traffic, and Maquire knew he should be back by now, but he thought let’s just see what happens here. It might be time to scrap the whole project if this didn’t work.

  They were at another house, and Pohl noticed this. “Where they all killed in residential buildings?”

  “Erm, yes, they were.”

  “Could that be a clue?”

  “If it is we can’t work out where it’s leading us.”

  Soon they were inside, but this house, while still empty, had been spotlessly cleaned.

  “It looks like only a ghost has lived here,” Pohl said before realising how accurate she might be.

  The machine was pressed into use, and Joe asked if anyone was present.

  “Hello? Hello?” came a voice.

  “Who’s this?” Joe asked.

  “It’s Susan. Am… Am I dead?”

  The people in the room looked at each other. “Yes?” Maquire tried.

  “Because I’m not sure what’s happened, but I don’t feel alive anymore, and everything is different, and I don’t want to leave but I can’t leave.”

  “You are dead, and I believe you were murdered. I’m DC Maquire, and I’m hoping you can answer some questions about your killer.”

  “You haven’t caught him yet?”

  Maquire swallowed. Was this how it was going to be? “No, not yet, but with your help we will. Did you see what, you said ‘he’, looked like?”

  “Yes, oh yes, I saw him clearly. Young man, about thirty, white, short black hair, silly little beard, stronger than he looks.”

  “Mexican Wave!” But Joe shut up again as soon as everyone stared at him.

  “Now, if I can just press you on these details we might be able to get an expert to draw him, is that okay?”