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

by Robert Wilde

  If Murphy was rankled he didn’t show it. “Shall we have a coffee, I will be paying.”

  Nazir now raised an eyebrow. “Once is an accident, twice is something else.”

  “Exactly, so a chat?”

  “The chocolate horn is calling.”

  “What did he say?”

  Dee turned towards the nearest café, “toot fucking toot.”

  They were soon sat around a range of hot drinks, which Murphy had paid for. He decided to begin. “As you know, I am a private investigator. I deal in the unusual and the strange, and am something of a legend in my circles.”

  “A legend without a website,” Joe noted.

  “Technology is sometimes a mystery to me. When you spend your whole time dealing with the esoteric…”

  “We’re not a middle class household afraid of creaking floorboards, we don’t need the flannel.”

  “Quite Miss…”

  “Nettleship.”

  “But will you tell me what you are?”

  They all looked around, and nods were exchanged. So Dee said “we are also private investigators specialising in the strange.”

  “I knew it!” and then he looked a little embarrassed as the shop turned to look at him, scowling all the more.

  “Will you piss off now?” Dee finished.

  “I have a question,” Pohl dived in.

  “Go on.”

  “Why are you here? What’s paranormal about the hammer murder?”

  “Err, business has been a little slow. Just a dog which has the memories of its owner’s dead child. So I thought I might try and crack a major case.”

  “And do you have any clues?”

  “Do you have any clues Miss Nettleship?”

  “Let’s be honest,” and Pohl had divined, “if he knew who did it he wouldn’t be asking us.”

  “There might be some truth in that.”

  “So do you want to do a superhero team up?” Joe asked.

  “Yes!” Murphy exclaimed.

  “No,” said Dee.

  “I sense you have secrets you don’t wish to share yet.”

  “Ever,” Joe added quietly.

  “Well let me give you my card, and you can contact me if you need to.” One was handed over and Joe looked at it.

  “You’re called Murphy Murphy?”

  “My parents were, how would you put it?”

  “Cunts?” Dee tried.

  “Yes, let’s go with that. Ring me if you need me.”

  “Trap One, Trap One, this is Trap Two calling.”

  “Joe, if this is some X-Files shit you’ll be walking home.”

  Joe smiled, she loves me really, hence all the negative comments. She just had to see it. But back to the mission. “The target has just left the building, I repeat the target…”

  “The target is the building, he’s the suspect.”

  Fuck. “Look, we can go in all right.”

  Steven had a far smaller house than his brother, and one that was no less easy to get into. The group now split up with Dee and Pohl searching upstairs, and Joe and Nazir down.

  The plan was simple: don gloves and conduct a fingertip search of the house in search of anything that could be used as evidence. Obviously a bloody hammer and a handwritten murder plan would be ideal, and stranger things had been found in the world before, but today they were open to anything useful. Which was how Joe found himself looking through at the cutlery in the kitchen.

  “Joe,” Nazir called out, “the guy didn’t get mashed to death.”

  “He did in a way.”

  “You know what I… good lord, all the ABBA albums on vinyl.”

  “We’re not allowed to steal anything. Dee’s rules.”

  “Who are you?”

  Well that voice didn’t sound like Nazir, and it came from be…oh.

  Joe turned, and found a man stood there. Over six foot, sandy hair, beard which looked like a paedo.

  “Hi.” Joe said quietly.

  “Oh my god, you’ve come to kill me. After my brother…”

  “I assure you sir, we are here to have you arrested, nothing more.”

  “Arrested? You’re Police?”

  “Private Detectives, and we know you killed your brother.” Joe didn’t need hindsight to realise he shouldn’t have said that.

  “Kill my bro… you think I killed him? You think I went over to his house and beat him to death?”

  “We know you have.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Your brother told us.”

  “He’d dead.”

  “Not a barrier these days. I can chat to a camgirl in Indonesia as if she was in the next room, and I can chat to your brother as clearly.” Okay, really shouldn’t have said any of that either. He could see why the others did the talking normally.

  Steven tilted his head. “You spoke to my brother, and he told you I did it? And you’re going to prove it?”

  “Yes?”

  Joe had been expecting many reactions from the murderer, but not him sinking to his knees exclaiming “oh God he still blames me.”

  “Well you did kill him.”

  “He blames me, he blames me for it, and he’s reaching out to get revenge.”

  Joe felt Nazir appear behind him. “Why is he crying?” the newcomer asked.

  “I don’t know,” but now Steven stood, reached out and drew a carving knife from the stand.

  “No need for that,” Nazir said, moving in front of Joe.

  But rather than attack them, Steven slashed his own throat and slumped to the floor as his artery fountained blood.

  “We can’t leave you two alone for a fucking second can we?” Dee said from the door behind them.

  “We can stop the evidence search,” Nazir noted.

  “Right, what did you say to him, and can you say it to my accountant?”

  “This would be a perfect moment to practice the art of fucking off quickly.”

  Everyone agreed with Nazir, and soon they’d sneaked out leaving nary a trace. They hoped.

  The restaurant had a television on the wall farthest from the door, and beneath it four newcomers were sat polishing off most of a cow. As they chewed, they paused to watch the news, which was showing a family tragedy. Not only had Herbert Hughes been savagely slain in his own house, but now his brother had died, and there were rumours of suicide. Police were having to caution viewers that there wasn’t a serial killer about to hit them. The coppers were confidant this was family business.

  “We’ll get more bloody journos around,” another diner noted, as his table turned and looked over at the foursome. Nazir smiled back and put an arm around Dee.

  “What are you doing,” she asked, “has the sight of death turned you?”

  “I’m thinking if we pretend to be a couple people won’t think we’re journalists and we might get out of this place alive.”

  “Well seeing as we just got the killer to kill himself, I’m feeling very safe.”

  “I’m not sure this counts as a victory.”

  “Bad guy caput, victory. Now we just need to go and collect our reward.”

  “I wonder what it’ll be,” Joe wondered aloud.

  “Cash would be nice. Gold would be interesting. Bank transfer unlikely.”

  “I can see a theme.”

  “How are you this evening?”

  They looked up to find Murphy stood there. “Ah, shit it’s you again.”

  “Lovely to see you Miss Nettleship. And boyfriend?”

  “No, a marriage of convenience.”

  “May I take a seat?”

  “Well we can’t really throw you out bodily, so you might as well.”

  “Can I squeeze in next to you?” he asked Joe, and was soon seated.

  “I’m surprised you’re here,” Pohl asked, “given the murder’s been solved.”

  “Solved? What happened?”

  “The brother killed himself. Case closed.”

  Murphy leant
forward and whispered, “oh, no, it’s not closed, it’s opened. Steven Hughes had an alibi for the evening of the first murder, it wasn’t him at all, and now he’s been killed.”

  Mouth going dry, Dee asked “what sort of alibi?”

  “Karaoke. Whole pub saw him.” There was a long pause, and then “are you okay Miss Nettleship, it looks like you’ve gone green.”

  “Nothing, just could do with some air. That’s all air.”

  “So what do you make of the place?” Murphy asked.

  “Have some pie,” Joe said, sliding his plate over, “I suddenly don’t feel that hungry.”

  “Ooh, lovely, if you don’t mind.” A spare fork was acquired and Murphy tucked in. “I have to admit, when I’ve seen you before you’ve been chattier. I do have a quietening effect on people.”

  “Do you have any leads?” Nazir asked.

  “I do, as I’m sure you do. Feel like sharing?”

  “Still not yet.”

  “Well when you’re ready.”

  “Actually,” Dee said standing, “I think we have somewhere we need to be. So it was nice meeting you again, good luck with the search.” She forced a smile that looked like a concentration camp guard, and the group processed out.

  They reached the Hughes residence with long striding steps, entered, went to the swimming pool and put the machine on the ground. This had happened with silence, but as Joe fumbled pressing one switch Dee spoke. “I’m trying to imagine the next conversation, but I’m just running into horror.”

  “Hello, how are you all?” came a cheerful voice.

  “Mr Hughes… Mr Hughes we have some news.” Dee forced it out.

  “How poetic. Are you Celtic?”

  “Flirting is verboten this evening.”

  “Then you have news. Have you got my brother arrested?”

  “We have to report your brother killed himself as a result of us confronting him with the evidence.”

  “Oh that’s excellent. No, I mean tragic, of course, no, I mean excellent, justice is served.”

  “We do have one further question Mr Hughes.”

  “About your reward?”

  “About how the cunting fuck your brother killed you when he was in a karaoke bar at the same time.”

  There came a laughter which they only hoped was distorted by the machine. “Oh, dear me, how could that have happened? Ha ha, I must have made a mistake.”

  “A mistake? Didn’t you see who did it?”

  “Well, not a mistake, maybe a white lie. No, my brother didn’t kill me, I just wanted him hurt.”

  Dee put a hand to her head. “Jesus wept piss.”

  “But dead will suit me fine. Oh sweet is the da…”

  Joe took over. “So who did kill you?”

  “Oh, that was my wife.”

  “Your w…aren’t you mad at your wife? Don’t you want her in prison?”

  “Good lord no, I love that woman, love her with all my heart until I die. And now I’m dead I still love her. Not her fault she was seduced and ran off with my brother.”

  “You led us into killing your brother because you were cuckolded?”

  “I know you’re old lady,” he said to Pohl, “but that’s no excuse for using ancient words.”

  “I’ll have you know I’m a professor of…”

  “Right,” Dee snapped back to the world. “how are we going to fix this?”

  “Fix it?”

  “Your wife is free, your brother is dead. This is wrong.”

  “No, it’s perfect. And you all deserve your reward.”

  “We don’t want your fucking money,” Dee snarled.

  “I think the brown chap does.”

  “Let’s be pragmatic, we could do with some cash,” Nazir tried.

  “I have money in a safe upstairs, no one knows about it. It’s yours.”

  “I agree with Dee,” Pohl said sadly, “I don’t think we can take the money.”

  “Okay, okay, I understand,” Nazir conceded.

  “Right, pack up Joe and let’s get the fuck away from here.”

  “I’ll pay you more if you strip.”

  “Don’t you start too, just because you’re dead and I can’t lamp you one.”

  “Feisty.”

  “Joe, turn him off before I set fire to his house.”

  “How long do I stay here, as a ghost?”

  “With any luck,” Pohl said, “there’ll be a hell and you’ll go to it.”

  “And I’ll meet you four there!” And he laughed and laughed until Joe flicked the switch.

  A front door opened, and Mrs Hughes stepped out. She was immaculately dressed, which was a minor marvel considering her partner had just stabbed himself to death. But if there was one thing Mrs Hughes would be remembered for, besides running off with her husband’s brother (that kind of thing tended to stick), it was for always being presentable, so today all sins and tears were covered in makeup.

  Getting to the end of the road, Mrs Hughes found a man standing there.

  “Excuse me,” he said, holding out a hand.

  Mrs Hughes paused, expecting another journalist, more pictures of her in the paper, and wondered whether to just spit in his face, but the old British resolve came through and she held a hand out and shook it. Then she said “anything else?” When the man meekly said “no,” she walked off.

  Murphy looked down at his hand. Close, so close, but Mrs Hughes had been wearing gloves. Dammit. Double dammit. So close.

  He looked up frustrated, to find Dee’s foursome walking down the street. Right, he thought, time to get sneaky, and he walked right up to them. He’d been seen beforehand obviously, but the group weren’t as spry, weren’t as quick, and they just let him approach.

  “How are you?” he said holding a hand out, and Pohl could be seen sighing as he shook it… and stepped back in shock.

  “Whatever is it?” Pohl asked.

  “Nothing, nothing…”

  “You recoiled as if struck by a snake.”

  “Static electricity, nothing more.”

  “Hang on, hang on,” and Dee waved a finger in the air. “You’re a detective who specialises in the weird. You went up to Mrs Hughes, shook her hand, and did fuck all else. You shook the professor’s hand and stepped back.”

  “What are you implying?” Murphy asked.

  “It says on our skills list that I’m an expert in the esoteric, and you’re doing something. Something with shaking hands.”

  “And why would a paranormal investigator need something unusual, some skill. Do you happen to have one?”

  Murphy and Dee stared at each other, until Joe broke it up. “I think we should exchange information.”

  “You don’t have to Joe.”

  “No Dee, it’s fine, let’s talk.”

  “Chocolate horn?”

  “I’ll shove it up your arse hacker…”

  They were in a pub five minutes later, and Murphy leaned back in a very creaky chair as the other four drank a variety of liquids.

  “I can see fragments of people’s memories by touching them. Skin to skin contact, and the more we touch the more I see.”

  “Must make sex interesting,” Nazir observed.

  “Makes sex impossible,” Murphy sadly noted.

  “Well you’re talking to the right fucking group,” Dee bemoaned.

  “I tried to touch Mrs Hughes, but couldn’t, and when I shook Professor Pohl’s hand I saw the images of a violent death.”

  “That could all be in your head,” Pohl protested.

  “Your secret is safe with me as long as we’re all open. And I also saw why Steven Hughes died. So, tell me, why did you think he did it? How do you solve cases?”

  Joe did so, explaining about the machine, allowing a peek into the bag, and then Dee narrated how Herbert had lied to them to harm his brother, and how they had fallen completely for it. But if Murphy had taken all this in, he didn’t let it change his expression.

  “We all make mista
kes, our business isn’t a perfect one. We have no rules of the game. But you are absolutely convinced the ghost is being honest and Mrs Hughes is the killer?”

  “Yes,” Dee said sadly.

  “Good. That chimes with my researches, and I was one touch away from confirming, and hopefully finding something incriminating.”

  “Well now you can really get amongst it,” Nazir sighed as he downed his remaining half a pint.

  “Why me? Don’t you want the prize?”

  “We fucked up,” Joe said, “I think we need a step back.”

  Murphy looked at their sad faces and despondent posture. “But you know who did it. Don’t you want to fix it?”

  “Fix it?” Dee said cautiously.

  “Mrs Hughes must have her comeuppance. And I have a plan for how our talents could be used to achieve it.”

  Mrs Hughes was feeling better today. The body in her house had been removed and specialist cleaners had restored the kitchen to its previous state. Many women might be worried by spending time in a kitchen, or even the house, where they’d found their partner dead on the floor, but Mrs Hughes had several advantages here. Firstly, the partner had killed himself, which led Mrs Hughes to conclude he was a weak willed fool not worthy of her love or attention. Secondly, she’d beaten a man to death with a hammer, and wasn’t even remotely squeamish. Both of these combined into a perfect storm of feeling pleased to inherit and move on. Single and fancy whatever it was, that was her.

  And what better way to start her new life by spending some of that money, so Hughes had gone shopping. Not in the town, but into the city, where she was now buying some clothes in a shop so up market you didn’t have to queue. Now she just had to slip her credit card in the doohickey, enter her pin and… oh, it didn’t take it.

  “Terribly sorry,” said the assistant, “please try again.” But it didn’t take that either.

  “It’s the right pin,” Hughes insisted.

  “Of course madam, of course, do you have another card we could try?”

  “Yes.” But these didn’t work too, and soon a humiliated Mrs Hughes was forced to leave both her new clothes and the store in disgrace. Someone at the credit card company was going to be feeling her tongue very soon.

  Hughes returned home, got out her laptop, logged on to her bank. Or at least she tried to log onto her bank to check things out, because the bank wouldn’t accept her details. But why? Frustrated, Hughes really was going to abuse someone over the phone, but first to make a Tweet about it.