The Dead Speak Ill Of The Living (The Dead Speak Paranormal Mysteries Book 1) (12 page)

  
“Hello, Mr. Grell?” The door had opened, and the portly Grell was stood there.

  
“Yes?”

  
“I’m PC Devon, and I was hoping I could come in and have a little word.”

  
“In my house?”

  
“Yes.” Jesus, it was going to be one of those days wasn’t it.

  
“Well, err, of course you can come in,” and the door was opened widely.

  
“Nice cat,” Devon said, looked at the ginger moggy at the end of the corridor.

  
“That’s Tompkins.”

  
“The one who inherited the money?”

  
“You have been briefed on me! Come into the lounge and let me get you some
tea.”

  
“No need for that Mr. Grell. Just a few questions, and then I’d like to look in
your cellar, then I’ll be on my way.”

  
“Of course. Of course. What’s this about?”

  
“We’ve had some accusations levelled against you. A number of unexplained
disappearances have been linked to you, so we really need to know where you
were on certain dates, just for form, of course.”

  
Grell was able to give an alibi for each date, as he was always with a group of
friends on those nights.

  
“And if I was to ask you about a cult of cat worshippers?”

  
“Cat what?”

  
“People who, err, worship cats?”

  
“I love Tompkins, but I don’t know what you mean.”

  
“I completely understand. Could I have a look in the cellar please?”

  
“Of course,” and the two went over to the door. Once that was opened, the light
already on, Devon peered down into the depths.

  
“Do go down and take a look,” Grell offered.

  
Devon nodded and descended, but he was already wondering what the odour was. It
didn’t do to make a scene in front of the public, but this stank, oh, it’s full
of cats in cages.

  
Devon froze. Cats in cages? That’s exactly what the report said he’d find. So
in that case there’d be an altar, yes, and skulls on a she…

  
Shit, there were skulls on a shelf. Realising that the report was true, Devon
turned to look up at Grell, who slammed the door shut and pulled the switch.
The doors to each cage flicked open, and the flesh eating cats leapt out and
looked at Devon. Then they had a police officer for lunch.

  
When Dee had returned from the police she’d caught up with the rest of the
group at the nearest coffee shop, and had a nice lunch. They decided to leave
the police some time to act before telling the ghost, and it was also decided just
Dee and Joe go rather than the whole group because it was they who’d spoken to
Nathan initially, and there was no need to confuse things now because
explaining might be a delicate task, although both would have felt better
leaving it to Pohl and her decades of experience flannelling academics and
students.

  
But that time was now, and Dee parked up and the couple walked confidently to
the front door of the property, which was still for sale, and used a key taken
from Grell’s house to open the door. Then they walked up to the main bedroom,
put the machine on the ground, and flicked it on.

  
“Ah, you two, I thought you were never coming back. Did you accept my offer?”

  
“And hello to you as well,” Dee sighed.

  
“Sorry, sorry. Hello. Bought any houses recently?”

  
“We’ve been busy, and yes, we have sort of decided to accept your offer.”

  
“Sort of?” The digital voice was actually quite good at relaying sarcasm and
different tones now Joe had been tinkering with it.

  
“We will help you achieve justice,” Dee said, knowing what was coming next.

  
“Jus… that’s a liberal way of saying ‘we’re not killing him’ isn’t it.”

  
“Well, yes, that’s exactly what it is.”

  
“Fucksticks.”

  
“I like that, can I use it.”

  
Dee glared at Joe, “he’s dead you don’t need permission.”

  
“So what are you bunch of do gooders going to actually do to help me?”

  
“We have gathered proof that your brother is a killer.” Joe said proudly.

  
“Ah, you can prove he killed me.”

  
“Actually,” Dee took over, “it’s more than that. Your brother is part of a cat
worshipping cult who’ve killed eleven other people.”

  
There was a pause. “Can you say that again?”

  
Dee did.

  
“I wasn’t expecting that.”

  
“No, but we took all the evidence to the police and an officer should be there
as we speak.”

  
“What sort of evidence?”

  
“Skulls, ritual shit, written notes.”

  
“Mother’s cunt!”

  
“Quite.” Perhaps it was good Pohl wasn’t here after all.

  
“And you’re certain they’re going to nail him for this?”

  
“How can they not, it’s a lot of skulls.” Dee smiled at a job well done.

  
“Ah,” said the voice.

  
“Ah?”  

  
“As useless as you’ve been as killing him, I feel obliged to warn you.”

  
“Warn us now?”

  
“My brother just got out of a car outside and is coming up the pathway. And
he’s got a cat and a gun.”

  
“Did you say a cat?” Joe asked.

  
“Let’s just focus on the gun here,” Dee said looking around.

  
“I don’t think he’s been arrested,” said the voice.

  
“Thanks for pointing that the fuck out. Right, Joe, any sudden bright ideas?”

  
“Actually, just one, but I think it’ll work.”

  
A police operator back at headquarters was having an uneventful day until a
call came in. Well, ‘call’ is a bit too glorified, because while it definitely
came from a police officer, it was more a series of screams than anything
approaching talking. It took a while for the operator to work out the
information being conveyed, and that information was unquestionably urgent: PC Devon
was in a lot of shit, send help now. Which was just the sort of job a police
operator is ready for, and that was why all available vehicles were sent
barrelling through the town to slam into park out Stuart Grell’s house.

  
Police don’t take kindly to other police officers screaming a lot, and just to
prove that this was an understatement the first two to enter after the door was
kicked in were armed with submachine guns and a licence to use them. They
quickly cleared the ground floor, but they found no Devon, no Grell and heard
no noises, at which point DC Maquire arrived, rushed in and assessed the
situation. Which meant opening the cellar door and looking down it.

  
Devon was at the bottom, but they were too late. He was lying on his back, eyes
chewed out, throat bleeding, and very dead. Cats were walking around and over
him, chewing away on the exposed flesh.

  
Two firearms officers stood behind Maquire and looked down.

  
“Is he alive?” one asked out of hope rather than expectation.

  
Maquire tilted his head to one side. “If he’s alive, then you’re allowed to
shoot those cats to facilitate our medical teams going down there. How does
that sound?”

  
“Pragmatic and just,” the woman with the gun replied.

  
“Then please clear our path.”

  
Shortly after Maquire and a medical team descended into the cellar. As they
tended to the body, deciding it was indeed a body, Maquire looked around. The
cages as Dee had said, the altar as Dee had said, the shelf with the skulls. He
had misjudged the woman and the result was a man’s death. A hazard of policing,
but never something you truly got over, even if no one would begrudge him
putting a cat cult on the crazy pile. Worse came in often and was bullshit, so
why would this be any different?

  
Anyway, Grell was still out there, so where could he be? He might have run for
the coast, he might be hiding with his buddies, he might be anywhere. But
Maquire had a sudden flash of intuition, so he jogged up the stairs.

  
“Can someone find out where Nathan Grell, the wanted man’s brother lived
please? Quickly.”

  
That would be too easy, but it was worth sending someone to look. Or rather,
quite a few someone’s armed with guns and very short tempers.

  
Then Maquire paused. Not only was Grell missing, but where was the rich cat?
Tom something? Would someone run off with a millionaire cat? No, not unless
they were insane. So Grell might really be going back to the flat.

  
Stuart Grell held Tompkins in one arm, and a gun in the other hand. He’d
arrived at his house, because it was his now, and discovered the front door
unlocked. Believing that something odd was happening anyway, Grell proceeded to
search the house. He started downstairs, because that was logical, but found no
one, so then processed upstairs and nipped in every bedroom, and then the
bathroom. Nobody here, and Tompkins hadn’t detected anyone, and Stuart assumed
his super cat senses would pick things up. The fact that Tompkins had realised
two people were hiding in the fitted wardrobes and didn’t feel the need to
mention it hadn’t crossed Stuart’s mind.

  
But there was something odd, and that was a metal box in the main bedroom. It
was on the ground, although there wasn’t anywhere else to put it, and Grell had
never seen it before. He paused, stood over it, and then heard a voice.

  
“You bastard.”

  
Grell didn’t connect the voice and the box, he merely thought he was hearing a
voice from the heavens, the digital sound transformed in his head into the
sound of revenge.

  
“Nathan, you’re…”

  
“A ghost, a fucking ghost because of you.”

  
“You’re haunting here? No, you’re haunting me?”

  
“Does it matter?”

  
“Did you send the police after me, did you?”

  
“Yes,” and Nathan decided to claim some credit, “yes I did, I sent them to hunt
you down and lock you away to rot.”

  
“But I’m your brother!” Stuart whined.

  
“I’m your brother too and you fucking killed me!”

  
“I had to do that, Tompkins wanted me to do that, didn’t you Tomps.”

  
“You think my cat is talking to you?”

  
“I know, and the fact you ignored him is reason enough to remove you.”

  
“You just wanted my money!”

  
“Money? I wanted Tomps safe and served, as all cats should be.”

  
“Fucksocks, you’re as mental as they said you were.”

  
“Who said?” Stuart started to look around suspiciously.

  
As Nathan realised he’d made a mistake, it was at this point that another ghost
in the house decided to help. Tompkins wasn’t the first cat to ever have lived
with Nathan, and now the box made another noise, transferring the sound of a
cat’s hisses and meows.

  
“What’s it saying Tompkins,” Stuart asked, “what’s it saying?”

  
Tompkins, the fat cat of leisure listened to this voice, and soon came to realise
what had happened to his previous owner. At which point he reached up and bit
Stuart in the neck.

  
Screaming, with a cat hanging off him, the living Grell let the gun drop to the
floor, at which point the wardrobe doors behind him opened and Dee and Joe came
charging out, seizing Stuart and subduing him, which took far more punches to
the face and balls than they’d expected.

  
Finally he was down on the ground.

  
“Did that just happen?” Joe asked, looking at his machine.

  
“That did not just happen,” Dee tried, “We are not saying that happened.”

  
A series of police cars came to a sudden halt, lights flashing and sirens
blazing. A combination of uniformed officers and detectives jumped out, having
been moved from ‘let’s check this place out’ to ‘the cop killer is inside’ by a
phone call made shortly before by a certain Dee Nettleship. It had been patched
straight through to Maquire, who ordered a total assault on the house before
anyone got away.

  
Although, in practice, this assault was painless, with the detectives jumping
out, finding the door open, and Dee sat on the steps having a crafty fag stolen
from Stuart’s pockets. When Joe had protested she didn’t smoke, she said the
odd social occasion and every time someone’s threatened me with a gun, with
most definitely includes today.

  
“Are you okay?” Maquire asked, feeling ninety per cent guilty and ten per cent
lust, a very odd combination he wasn’t ready for.

  
“Yes, glad you got here quickly, Joe’s got him upstairs.”

  
“Big lad is he, Joe?”

  
“Not exactly,” and Dee led Maquire upstairs. There Joe was leaning against one
wall, a large rucksack leant next to him and a cat in his arms. And in the
middle of the room was Stuart Grell, who was rolling around swearing
feverishly, covered in blood and tied up with shoelaces. Maquire noted they
were Joes shoelaces, and his boots were on very loosely.