The Dead Speak Ill Of The Living (The Dead Speak Paranormal Mysteries Book 1) (11 page)

  
“Okay then, he’s completely Radio Rental.”

  
Pohl agreed, saying “I think he’s lost the plo…hang on, are Radio Rental even
still around?”

  
“A guy who works for the paper says it a lot. I gather it was some sort of
shop?”

  
“Yes, anyway, what do we do now?”

  
“Let’s get back to the car and make some calls, I’ll ring Joe, you ring Dee, we
have got to tell them this.”

  
They were soon on their way, but back in the house the conversation was still
going on, although now Stuart was sitting in front of the TV and Tompkins was
on his lap.

  
“What’s that, you have a task for me? Oh I’m all ears Tompkins. Yes, yes of
course I’ll do anything you say. Ah, I see, you want me to kill someone for
you? I can do that again, I can definitely do it. What number are we on now? Of
course you’d remember when silly old I can’t. And who is? I see, an interesting
choice. Hmm, hmm, excellent!”

  
Tompkins just sat there purring as he was stroked.

  
Pohl’s car slid into a parking space along the curb, and soon she, Dee and Joe
got out and walked a little way back up the pathway. It was a nice, bright day,
perfect for skulduggery, and they’d soon come to where Nizar was waiting, sat
in his.

  
“Having a fun time?” Dee asked as she peered in through the window.

  
It was soon unwound, and Nizar grinned back at her. “I feel like a proper
journalist doing this stakeout, not just someone who finds deleted work.”

  
“Well don’t get too used to it, the professionals are here.”

  
Nizar now got out, and the group huddled, which definitely isn’t in the MI5
handbook for this sort of thing.

  
“He left thirty minutes ago, in his car, won’t be back for a while if he
follows his normal pattern.”

  
“Excellent, you best lead the way,” and the group went off, looking like any
other foursome innocently walking with light bags and probably their mother.
They were soon going down an alley much lighter thanks to sunlight, pausing at
the back gate. After a tense moment when they thought it was locked, they
worked out Joe was just opening it wrong, and soon they were in.

  
“This looks much better in the day,” Pohl remarked, seeing even fish swimming
in the pond.

  
“If only we had time for a picnic,” Dee smirked.

  
They were soon at the back door.

  
“Are we really going to do this?” Pohl asked. “Are we really going to break
into someone’s home and rifle through it?”

  
“You have to admit, it’s better than going in to kill him,” Nazir counselled,
“we’re just looking for enough evidence to give the police.”

  
“And it’s not like we’re just going to nick all his hi-fi,” Joe added.

  
“Okay, I remain persuaded, wobble over. But how do we get in?”

  
“He keeps a spare key under the gnome with a red hat.”

  
“How do you know that?” Joe asked Nazir.

  
“Stop looking at me as if I’m psychic, I just checked the area out.”

  
“Right people, stop chatting, gloves on,” and Dee issued the kit.

  
Soon they were inside, and the first room was a kitchen. Joe casually opened a
cupboard door and found some cat food.

  
“That’s a fuckload of cat food.”

  
There were indeed an awful lot of cans, and when Joe opened the door next to it
found only more.

  
“How many cats does he have?” Pohl asked, expecting to be rushed by angry
moggies.

  
“And how many does he talk to?” Dee wondered out loud.

  
Soon they found themselves in a small hallway with a lounge and a study leading
off, and the group split in two, searching through drawers and desktops. It
turned out the best material was in the study.

  
“Okay, got something,” Joe called out, and they all gathered round. “This
appears to be,” and his voice was rising in incredulity, a set of minutes kept
at a series of meetings.” Joe waved the folder he’d just taken the papers out
of. “These meetings are a group of people, men and women judging by the names,
who are interested in cats. Very interested in cats.”

  
“Sexually?” Dee asked disapprovingly.

  
“Religiously. They believe cats talk to them, and they do what the cats say.”

  
“Like in Egypt?”

  
“They don’t even have that as a weight professor; like in ‘these people are
fucking mentals who are carrying out the cat's’ plan’.”

  
“And what is the plan?”

  
“I don’t actually know, there’s just lots of dates, vague statements of intent
and action, and success figures. But they do keep referring to the cellar.”

  
“Oh that’s just fucking superb,” Nazir said, realizing where they’d all be off
to soon.

  
“I take it you don’t want to lead the way?” Dee grinned at him.

  
“Ladies first.”

  
The cellar door was under the stairs, and as they opened the door there wasn’t
the strongest smell of animal and litter tray they’d ever smelt.

  
“Jesus,” Joe said, looking like he wanted to gag.

  
“I think we found the cats,” Pohl said.

  
“I think we found a rotting corpse, never mind anything living,” Dee said, and
they descended, the lights already on.

  
Well they found the cats alright, a large number of capacious cages housing
some distinctly unfriendly looking animals.

  
“Even for cats they look mean,” Joe commented.

  
And normally the cats would have drawn their full attention, but this cellar
had something which worked on the mind far more. Because as well as scratching
posts, and food placed on what for looked all the world like an altar, there
was a wooden shelf placed so high a cat could never get to it, and on the shelf
were eleven skulls. And they weren’t cat skulls.

  
“Are those human?” Joe asked, beginning to understand that Stuart wasn’t just a
grade one eccentric.

  
Nazir took one down and turned it over. “Looks very much like one. And this
one’s labelled. It’s got a date and a name, presumably of who it was.” The
group took down several and all were marked.

  
“What have we discovered?” Pohl thought aloud.

  
“I think we can agree, can’t we professor, that we’ve certainly found some
evidence worth breaking in for.”

  
Pohl raised an eyebrow. “I will be sneaking through all my student’s flats in
future to check they’re not plagiarising.”

  
Dee produced a camera. “We better get recording this before he comes back and
slices us the fuck up.”

  
“I will concede,” Pohl said, “that there is a safety in numbers. I feel a lot
better now, in a group, than I ever would have alone when confronted by a
collection of human skulls and caged tigers.”

  
“I wonder where they put the bodies?”

  
“Joe, I don’t like the way my reference to the cats made you think of that.”
But they were now all looking at the cats.

  
“Can’t be… let’s just leave.”

  
Detective Constable Maquire wasn’t a fan of journalists, as they seemed to
dedicate their entire career to either taking his facts and turning them into a
nightmare, or ignoring his facts and making stuff up. All of which got in the
way of catching people, which he still felt was the core of the job. Some of
his colleagues felt he was still hopelessly naïve. But he’d been told to speak
to the journalist who was coming in today, even if it did feel like he was
being palmed off with it, and meant to palm her off too.

  
He got a surprise, however, when he went to reception and met a tall, pale
redhead who shook his hand firmly and introduced herself as Dee Nettleship. He
was trained in viewing people objectively, and he was certainly objectifying
her now.

  
“Hello Miss…”

  
“Nettleship. But call me Dee.”

  
“Hello Dee, I’m D.C. Maquire, please come through to my office.”

  
They went in, sat down, and Maquire remembered he should have offered her
coffee. But hold your horses fellow, she’s still a journalist, let’s see what
she wants first.

  
Looking Maquire up and down, and finding herself talking to a handsome man who
was no stranger to a gym or a razor, Dee began. “I’m here to report a murder.”

  
Maquire kept a poker face. “I see, whose?”

  
“Nathan Grell.”

  
“And what happened?”

  
“A few months ago Nathan won the lottery, but soon after he was found dead.
Everyone thought he hanged himself, and his inheritance went to his cat.”
Maquire raised an internal eyebrow. Cats? “But the brother who had hoped to
inherit became the cat’s Guardian, and he has the money really.”

  
“So you’re saying this suicide was really a murder?”

  
“Yes, the brother killed him.”

  
“And you’ve been digging into this, for the paper?”

  
“Yes,” she lied smoothly.

  
“A strong claim. I assume you’ve uncovered some evidence?”

  
“I have reason to believe that Stuart Grell is the ringleader of a group who
worship cats, and they have killed no less than eleven people, twelve if you
count Nathan.” Now Maquire did raise an eyebrow. Dee took this as a reason to
continue. “I have strong reasons to believe parts of the bodies are stored in
the cellar, along with many cat masters.”

  
Dee spoke for a while longer, but Maquire had drifted off. She was a pretty
woman, but clearly totally insane. Cat worshipping serial killers? That would
sell papers, probably many papers, but would do nothing for the poor bastard
who had to write the official report for this. Oh yes, that would be him.

  
He decided to palm her off. He would send a member of uniform round, he or she
could have a look, and when there wasn’t a house filled with cats eating limbs
he would file Dee Nettleship down under police bothering nutter. Although that
wasn’t quite how he phrased it as he smiled and shook her hand. A shame, such a
shame.

  
Stuart shuffled down into the cellar, the light still on, and looked at the
cats arrayed within. It was hard for him, to keep them in here, but it really
had to be done, for their benefit as much as anyone else’s. But he stopped
feeling bad as he thought he saw gratitude on their little faces, as if they
knew what was coming next, and he was sure they really did. Cats had memories, long
memories.

  
“Well my lovelies, aren’t you in a for a treat this evening,” and Grell turned
back to the stairs and shuffled up. The next time he came down he wasn’t alone,
but wasn’t going very fast either. That was because he and two other men, one at
each end and one in the middle, were carrying a long, plastic wrapped weight
down into the cellar between them. This was dumped on the floor – it couldn’t
be damaged after all – and the men now took their regular positions around the
alter.

  
Hearing a meow, Stuart turned to see Tompkins peering down from the open door.
“Best close that,” he said to one acolyte, “Dear Tomps won’t be able to resist
joining in.”

  
Once they were sealed in, the men knelt and began a chant, as Stuart began to
speak. It was a story of history, felines, hunger and worship, and it was clear
who was the chosen animal on this earth and who was the stupid monkey following
in their great wake. Albeit the monkey with the opposable thumbs.

  
Then it was time for the next phase, so Grell took out a can of catfood from
his suit pocket, opened it, and dumped it on the altar while saying a
supplication. Then the men moved, unwrapped the plastic sheet, and revealed
first a set of jogging bottoms and jumper, with white trainers and no attention
to the watch or rings, then bruised flesh, until the whole corpse was revealed.
It was newly dead, within ninety minutes, and had been put into that state
earlier in the day. Now it was useful for one thing only.

  
The corpse was laid on the ground, and cat food from the altar was laid on the
body’s face. Then the clothes were stripped off, to be taken and burnt, and the
men retreated, leaving the cellar empty apart from the cats and a corpse. Now
up on the ground floor, the door was closed, locked, and Grell activated a
switch on the wall. Below, the cages all swung open, and the hungry cats surged
out, first sniffing the dead body, then pawing at it, then biting into it and
chewing up their human feast, as they had done eleven times before, but as had
been denied them when Nathan’s situation demanded he be left as a decoy.

  
The cats dined well that night, leaving bones and gristle for Grell to tidy
away and turn into the next skull.

  
There was a knocking at the door, and PC Devon hoped no one would answer. While
he wanted to get this shitshow out of the way and investigate some real crimes,
he needed access to this house and he didn’t want to have to get a warrant and
come back with any higher escalation. He was already going to be a laughing stock
when everyone else found out about this, and he didn’t need that. In fact why
the fuck had they picked him to do this? It couldn’t be just happenstance, it
had to be some bastard having a go. I bet they’re all back there having a lau…