Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place (Ghosts of London Book 1)

by Saint,Nic

  She shook her head, still not fully comprehending what was happening. “But what do you mean you’re a Wraith Wrangler? This Brian, who is he?”

  “He runs a big business conglomerate called the Wardop Group, but in his spare time he likes to help out ghosts. It’s what he does. Like us, he has the gift and decided early on he wants to use it for good.”

  Harry thought about this for a moment, then the inevitable question popped into her head. “Does he… pay you guys?”

  “Expenses, mainly. It’s not like we’re salaried employees or something.” She frowned. “Although that’s not such a bad idea. He probably should pay us something. I mean, it’s not like he can’t afford it. He’s basically a billionaire.”

  “So he’s like Jarrett,” she muttered.

  “Huh? Who?”

  “Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton. I just met him. He’s nice.”

  Alice wiggled her eyebrows. “Nice, huh?”

  “Not like that. He’s just a friend.”

  “Yeah, right. For someone who doesn’t date you’re knee-deep in men these days, hon.”

  “I never said I don’t date!” she cried, aghast. She laughed. “It’s just that I never found the right guy, I guess.”

  She had dated a bit, but then her parents had died, and she’d lost any interest in that part of her life for a long time. She’d actually fallen into a kind of depression for a while, and her dating life had more or less fallen by the wayside as a consequence. She thought back to what Alice had told her about Brian and his Wraith Wranglers and suddenly decided to be bold for once. Who dares, wins, right? “Look, if you can get this Brian of yours to pay me a decent salary, I might consider doing this kind of stuff as a regular job.”

  “I’ll ask him,” Alice said immediately. “In the meantime, stay safe, will you? I don’t like the sound of this Jingoist guy. He seems like a real meanie.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, he’s a meanie all right. A real killer.”

  “Weird, for a priest to go on a killing spree like that.”

  “I don’t think he was ever much of a spiritual person to begin with,” Harry opined. But then she heard the door and decided to ring off. She didn’t want Alice to see Darian and get all kinds of strange ideas about her and the police officer. Alice not only possessed a very vivid imagination, but she was also a gabber. It wouldn’t be long before Darian would get an irate phone call from Uncle Curtis demanding to know what he was doing with his favorite niece.

  She’d be mortified if that happened. Not because she was interested in Darian, of course. She wasn’t. Absolutely not. Or was she?

  Chapter 25

  “I didn’t think you’d have the guts to show up,” the croaky voice announced from the bedroom.

  Darian entered the man’s lair, distaste written all over his features. He didn’t enjoy paying a visit to Bill ‘Master’ Edwards, but it was inevitable as the man’s handwriting was all over this case. He was the one who bought the book, and he was the one who had the most to gain from its use, even though Darian personally didn’t believe in the kind of mumbo-jumbo that was involved.

  He practiced his best scowl as the old fossil stared back at him from his sickbed, eyes sunken deeply within his skull. Master Edwards had never been a handsome man, and the disease hadn’t made him any prettier. His once plump face was gaunt, his bulbous nose veiny and sprouting wiry black hair, and he was sporting a sickly yellow hue. Since Philo was in jail, he’d hired other goons to be at his beck and call, for two thickset young men stood sentinel by his bedside, eyeing Darian with overt hostility. In fact, the entire atmosphere was thus that the inspector couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  “Why wouldn’t I show up? You thought I’d wait for the funeral?”

  The man bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. “There won’t be any funeral, Watley. Not if I can help it.”

  “Ah, yes, the famous Clavicule Necroire. Unleashing the secrets of health.”

  The old gangster was still grinning. It wasn’t a pretty sight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s this Clovis Necris you keep mentioning?”

  “You know very well. Philo told me the whole story,” Darian said, taking a seat and making himself comfortable in spite of the glares from the two goons. “In fact, he told me that the book is being delivered to the third party as we speak.”

  “Don’t listen to that moron. Everybody knows Philo talks too much. And he’s so dumb that whatever comes out of his mouth is a bunch of nonsense.”

  “Well, I have to admit his statement stretched my credulity.” He checked off on his fingers. “First you buy the Clavicule Necroire from Buckley for a cool million pounds. Then you have Philo deliver it to a popular drop-off point in Chinatown, where an accomplice of this mysterious Jingoist picks it up. And, still according to Philo, now you hope he’ll turn you immortal.”

  “A load of poppycock, Inspector,” the man croaked. “You don’t believe all that nonsense, do you? Immortal. Ha! As if such a thing could even exist.”

  His eyes were glittering now with a feverish intent, and Darian knew that even though immortality didn’t exist, this man was a firm believer that it did.

  “Just tell me where the book is, Edwards. Whoever stole it is now a suspect in the murders of Sir Geoffrey Buckley and Lakesha Fenton.”

  “I don’t have anything to do with that,” the man sneered. “I don’t go around murdering people, Inspector. Do I look like I have the strength to murder anyone? Especially a nice big wallop to the head like that Buckley fella?” He lifted a skeletal arm. “Look at this,” he said, pointing at a non-existent bicep. “I don’t even have the strength to lift a spoon these days! My people have to feed me! What about that, huh? Talk about an alibi!”

  “We both know that you never personally murdered anyone, Edwards. You had Philo and those other lowlifes you keep on your payroll do your killing for you.”

  “You haven’t caught me yet, Watley, and you never will!” suddenly hissed the man malevolently, and Darian knew himself to be in the presence of pure evil.

  He abruptly rose. It was obvious there was nothing to be gained from talking to this monster. Even though Philo had sung like a canary, this old gangster was much too savvy to do the same.

  “What, leaving already?” Edwards cried with a smirk. “But I haven’t even told you the best part!”

  “What’s that?” he asked gruffly, staring down at the living carcass that was Master Edwards.

  Edwards licked his lips. “Soon I’m going to be healed, Watley, and then you and I can go back to playing our little game of hide and seek. How about that, huh? You trying to catch me and me making sure that you can’t?”

  Darian gritted his teeth. “You’re a piece of scum, Edwards, and I sincerely hope you die a gruesome death. God knows you deserve it.”

  The other man laughed a hacking laugh. “I’m never going to die, Watley! Didn’t you get the memo? I’m going to live forever!”

  And even as Darian left the room and started down the stairs, he could hear the old man’s cackle, and his eerie message: “I’m going to live forever!”

  He certainly hoped that wasn’t the case. And as far as he was concerned, he would do whatever lay in his power to make certain that it wasn’t.

  And as he stepped from the Edwards mansion and set foot for his car, his phone rang and he picked it up with a curt, “Watley.”

  “Darian!” a chipper voice sounded at the other end, and he groaned inwardly. That was just what he needed: Chief Curtis Whitehouse.

  Chapter 26

  “I heard from my daughter that you put my niece up at your place?”

  “Yes, I thought she’d be safer there after the attack on her person.”

  “Good call, Darian. I hope you have someone stationed outside as well?”

  “I have.”

  “Listen,” Whitehouse began, “I’m hearing that this guy who’s coming after Harry isn’t just some regular bad guy but some Chinese priest
who fashions himself to be immortal. Is that true?”

  “Well, all of this is based on myth,” he said cautiously. “The Absinthian Church does believe in the concept of immortality, but I’m sure it’s simply part of their mythology. Not something that should be taken literally.”

  “I don’t think so, Darian. This dude really seems to believe he’s immortal. And according to Alice he can even fly through walls and kill with impunity, leaving not a single trace.”

  “That is just a load of bollocks,” he said irritably.

  The chief sighed. “You know? At one point I would have agreed with you wholeheartedly, but lately I’ve had certain… experiences that have convinced me there are more things in heaven and earth than what I always believed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We have to consider the fact that this guy really is who he says he is. That he really is immortal and in possession of some kind of superpowers that make him invincible. Have you considered that?”

  “I haven’t, and I can’t believe that you would,” he said, growing more and more upset. What was it with these people? Edwards, Philo, and now Chief Whitehouse, they all seemed to believe this immortality nonsense. “Look, we’re dealing with a cunning killer, no doubt about it, but he’s still human, and he’s still mortal, and he will make a mistake and I’ll be there to catch him when he does,” he said with conviction.

  “I hope you’re right, Darian. For the sake of my niece. But if I were you I’d widen my scope. Never hurts to look at alternative explanations.”

  “What alternative explanations? That an immortal killer can murder with impunity? I for one refuse to believe that, Curtis, and frankly I’m surprised that you’ve allowed yourself to be swayed by a bunch of crackpots.”

  “Well, if you’d seen what I’ve seen…” His voice trailed off. Then he cleared his throat. “Anyway, just to be on the safe side, I’ve decided to recruit some extra help to protect my niece.”

  Alarmed, Darian asked, “Extra help? What do you mean?”

  “I’ve pulled a few strings, and made sure that Harry is safe from now on.”

  “Harry is safe,” he assured the chief. “She’s at my apartment, watched over by one of my people.”

  “That’s just great, Darian, and I really appreciate all that you’ve done. But she’s my flesh and blood, and I have to do what’s right by her. So from now on she’s going to be watched twenty-four seven by my guy as well.”

  “Your guy? What guy?”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about him. He won’t be in your hair, Darian. In fact you won’t even see him, he’s that good at hiding in plain sight.”

  “Well, he’s not setting foot inside my apartment,” Darian said grimly.

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of trespassing, Darian.”

  “Good. Because I wouldn’t accept it either.”

  “That’s why I’ve set him up at your mother’s place.”

  “You did what?!” he yelled.

  “She was most forthcoming, too. When I explained the situation she agreed right away.” He chuckled. “Great gal, your mom. Very spirited.”

  Darian held the phone away from his ear for a moment and stared at it as if suddenly it had turned into a rattlesnake and had bitten him on the ear. “You can’t be serious,” he finally said in a low voice.

  “When it comes to my family I’m dead serious, Darian. That’s something you should know about me. Now if there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you to it. You’ve got a killer to catch and I’ve got a town to police!”

  “Hey! You can’t involve my mother in this!” he yelled, but Curtis Whitehouse had hung up on him again, as was apparently his habit.

  Chapter 27

  When Harry heard the door open, she fully expected to find Darian on the mat. Instead, she found a distinguished woman of middle age with curly platinum hair, expertly made up face and piercing green eyes, who studied her with interest. “Hi there,” the woman said, once she’d drunk her fill. She had the air of the theatrical as she swept into the apartment, her long black Vera Wang dress swishing about her legs and descending to a pair of silver Jimmy Choo slingbacks.

  “Hi there back,” Harry said, darting curious glances at Constable Fret, who stood behind this surprise guest, gesturing frantically. Unfortunately Harry could make heads nor tails of her sign language. Probably some sort of secret Scotland Yard code, she gathered.

  The woman, apparently satisfied with her inspection, extended a perfectly manicured hand, gold bangles dangling from her wrist, and when Harry shook it hesitantly, said, “I’m Emmanuella. Darian’s mother. I live next door and I’ve been asked to look after you.”

  This bit of news surprised Harry somewhat. Somehow she’d suspected Darian had a mother, in an abstract sort of way, but coming face to face with her she looked nothing like she’d expected. The woman looked more like a mature fashion model than the motherly type she’d associated with the policeman.

  Emmanuella had waltzed right in, not even waiting to be invited. But then of course she was probably more at home at her son’s apartment than Harry.

  “Well, well, well,” she said as she emerged from Harry’s temporary lodgings. “I see that my son has put you up in the guest bedroom.” She gave Harry a smirk. “About as cozy as a convent cell, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, it is a bit… spartan,” she admitted.

  “As is the entire place, in fact,” Emmanuella said critically, surveying her son’s habitat with motherly scrutiny. “I keep telling him to have a decorator come in and redo the place. Right now it looks like something from American Psycho.”

  Harry had to laugh at that, as it mirrored her own thoughts exactly. “It reminded me personally of Fifty Shades of Grey,” she said.

  The woman eyed her closely. “I see we share the same sense of humor. Very well, why don’t we set you up next door? I’m sure you’ll find it much cozier over there than in this sterile bachelor’s pad.”

  “Next door?” she asked, confused. “You mean…”

  “I mean in my apartment.” She started to walk away, her high heels clicking on the black tile floor. “Pick up your things,” she commanded, “and follow me, darling. I’m saving you from this hellhole.”

  She hesitated. “But won’t Darian…”

  Emmanuella turned around sharply. “Won’t Darian what?”

  “Won’t your son mind? He gave me strict orders not to set foot from his apartment.”

  The woman waved a deprecating hand. “Don’t you worry about him. Darian is used to giving orders that nobody heeds. He’s been trying to boss people around ever since he was little and he has yet to succeed. No,” she said, crooking a finger at her, “you’re staying at my place and that’s the end of it. It’s what your uncle wants, after all.”

  “My uncle?” Now she was completely lost. “You know my uncle?”

  Emmanuella laughed a tinkling laugh. “Of course I do! When Curtis and Demitria were living in London they used to drop by the house all the time. Of course Darian wouldn’t know. He never attended my dinner parties. He’s so absorbed in his work he never does anything else.”

  Vaguely Harry remembered Uncle Curtis mentioning something about dinner parties, but she’d never actually connected the dots. “I didn’t know,” she said, reeling a little. Here was a person who didn’t take no for an answer, she saw, and she wondered why Darian hadn’t told her he lived next door to his parents. “But won’t this be an imposition? On you and your husband?”

  “Darian’s father and I are divorced,” the woman announced with lips pressed together. “And no, you’re not an imposition at all. In fact I’ll rather enjoy having some company for a change, as I rarely see Darian at all.”

  Harry followed the woman out of Darian’s apartment and into the one next door, giving Constable Fret, who stared at her, aghast, a helpless shrug.

  Even though the floor plan of the apartment was the same as Darian’s, Emmanuella’s home couldn
’t have been more different from her son’s. Warm colors, opulent furnishings and carefully considered lighting made it look like something out of Downton Abbey. Once she was past the hallway and standing in the living room, she immediately felt at home. Her feet sank ankle-deep into thick-pile beige carpet as she surveyed the taupe wallpaper, the impressionist paintings adorning the walls, the dark oak furniture and… an oasis of green beckoning from the balcony. Apparently Mrs. Watley had quite the green thumb.

  “Oh, wow,” she exclaimed. “What a great apartment, Mrs. Watley.”

  “Sheetenhelm,” the woman said primly. “I took back my maiden name when I divorced Darian’s father.”

  She walked over to the balcony, where evergreens mixed with fall-bloomers. “Gorgeous,” she gushed, and then caught sight of a substantial ginger cat relaxing on the hardwood balcony floor. She let out a yelp of surprise, and crouched down to stroke its fur. The cat, weighing at least twenty pounds, gave her a curious look before stealing out its tongue and giving her hand a quick lick.

  “Mr. Morris likes you,” Emmanuella said contentedly. “That means your staying here is the right decision, Harry, as of course I knew it was.”

  Her new hostess escorted her to the guest bedroom, which turned out to be the exact opposite of Darian’s rather austere guest bedroom. The walls were pink with a motif of tiny quills, the ceiling yellow and sporting an impressive chandelier, the curtains purple and the floor a cheery green parquet. The bed was heart-shaped and there was even a couch in the shape of a gigantic cow! The only thing that seemed odd was a smattering of curiously shaped erotic statuettes placed on every available surface.

  Emmanuella stood in the doorway, eyeing Harry intently once more, this time a smile playing about her lips. “I think you’ll like it here, darling.”

  “I think so too,” Harry agreed as she bounced up and down on the bed, still feeling a little out of sorts after this unexpected invitation.