The Dead Speak Ill Of The Living (The Dead Speak Paranormal Mysteries Book 1) (19 page)

  
Dee turned to escape Nazir’s smile and saw Joe looking sadder than ever.

  
But Pohl thought there was something useful here. “She might have a point.
Maybe we should immerse ourselves in the police, even if we shouldn’t be asking
Maquire for training.”

  
Nazir nodded, “we can just watch as much crime drama as we can get our hands
on.”

  
“Sorry?” Joe said.

  
“We’ll have to stream our way through Brit police procedurals. Even US ones.
Pick up tips.”

  
“Oh,” said Dee, sensing a chance for revenge. “Is this how you spend your
evenings in, marathon watching television?”

  
“Yes, miss crossword and a crate of booze.”

  
“Nothing wrong with expanding your mind.”

  
“Whilst killing it.”

  
“I can finish a Times crossword when pissed.”

  
“I’ll be sure to ring you if I ever need that done.”

  
“Something for the skills list!”

  
A six foot tall gentleman with black hair but a greying beard had parked a
white van up at a motorway service station. He had gone in, bought a burger and
coke, sat down, consumed these quickly and nervously, and then ordered more,
because the coke might wake him up and the burger might give him energy. He’d
not slept since yesterday morning, and felt so wired he could be used to run
broadband.  After the second round of burgers he looked at his watch, knew the
time was coming soon, and exited, heading for an appointment in the coffee
shop. He’d have happily met the man and had a Mc whatever the deserts were
called, but his patron had strong views on ‘junk’ food.

  
On entering the café the man found his patron already sat there, coffee on the
table, and so he went over. They did the handshake of people with something
difficult to say, and as a coffee was delivered they spoke.

  
“What happened?” the patron asked.

  
“I was removing materials from the mausoleum, as I’d done many times before,
when someone comes in. Some widower or something, actually comes in during the
middle of the night and finds me. I scarper, thinking it’s dark, he might not
know, so I began getting ready to leave. The police realised I’d been right
through those vaults, sacked the caretaker, and went looking.”

  
“And they found you?”

  
“No, it was all as I felt it would be. They didn’t have any inkling.”

  
“Then what happened?”

  
“A group of tourists. They can’t have been tourists, they must have been
looking, because they found me, worked out what was happening, took my order
book. I had to burn all my connections to track them down, get my book back,
pack and leave ahead of schedule.”

  
“Can they follow you?”

  
“I doubt it. The police will find an empty room.”

  
“Prints?”

  
“Maybe, hard to clean a place like that. But even if they do I’m not on any
records. They’d have to find me. And I’ve been working on cleaning it since the
widower.”

  
“You’re confidant the link has been severed?”

  
“Yes. I cleared out just in time.”

  
“Perhaps you should have left the moment you were spotted in the mausoleum.”

  
“I moved in good time. I think the caution worked.”

  
“So you’re looking for a new home?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Perhaps this is an opportunity. A fresh source of material for you.”

  
“I could look at it that way. I have a shortlist of possibilities.”

  
“But you need money to set up.”

  
“Yes, as before.”

  
“That won’t be a problem. We’ll get you productive again very soon.”

  
“Thank you.”

  
“Bring the van to my house, hide it there, get some sleep. But first, I have a
request.”

  
“Yes?”

  
“How much do you know about these ‘tourists’?”

  
“A little.”

  
“Good, can you write it all down for me?”

  
“Why?”

  
“Oh, just something I want to pursue. Just a little something.”

     
Pohl was sat in her room, putting the skills list into a sortable Excel format,
but this was precisely the sort of time wasting job she’d have been expected to
do at university instead of spending the precious hours on research or talking
to students, and she was still so ingrained into that life it seemed the
obvious thing to do. Although it would help if she stopped thinking of the
younger group members as children, or even students, and as co-members of an
investigative team.

  
She heard Dee calling up at her, so Pohl stood, went to her door and peered
down the stairs. “Yes?”

  
“This just arrived for you,” Dee said, leaving a small envelope on the end of
the bannisters. They had been together only a short time, but already Dee had
learned not to just throw Pohl’s post up for her to catch. One damaged book
cover later and that wouldn’t happen again.

  
Odd time for the post, Pohl thought as she trotted down to pick it up, although
they courier everything at all times these days. She missed when you could
guarantee post would be here at ten am, and if it wasn’t there then it wouldn’t
be coming and you could get on with things.

  
She found herself holding an envelope which had been almost entirely covered
with brown tape, necessitating a trip to the kitchen for scissors. She
carefully cut in, and found why the envelope was concave: there was something
thin and tubular inside. Pulling it out she found a white whistle, clearly hand
crafted. Putting it to her lips she blew, heard a pleasant note, and had a
sudden realisation. She hadn’t ordered a whistle. There was no whistle coming.
So why was she holding a wh…ivory?

  
Oh Jesus it was bone wasn’t it.

  
Moving the whistle away from her lips fast enough to kill a pig on impact, Pohl
looked round it. It sure looked like bone, and where would a hand crafted bone
whistle come from? Clearly the man they’d been trying to get arrested. The next
step was to examine the envelope. No letter inside, no writing except the
address. And here was the problem. For not only did whoever sent this know her
address, it had also been hand delivered as there was no postmark, stamps or
courier’s address.

  
Pohl went into the lounge, where Dee was sitting reading. The situation was
soon explained, and Dee came to the same conclusion. “The fucker knows where we
live.”

  
“Definitely. And this is to taunt us.”

  
“I think we screwed this up badly,” Dee said.

  
“I wonder why he picked me?” Pohl wondered. Surely a man would go for the
young, fitter model?

  
“But we may have an opportunity here.”

  
“How so?”

  
“There’s still a link. He’s not gone entirely. If he’s out there watching, we
can find him and watch back.”

  
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

  
“No, no, we can use this,” and Dee seemed excited, “we can lure him in if we
have to.”

  
“I’m still not sure I like the sound of that.”

  
Pohl didn’t like the sound of that the next day, when she rose, showered,
dressed, went outside and suddenly found herself overwhelmed by paranoia. She
was only, at this point, supposed to be getting milk from the corner shop, but
she scanned every car, every passer-by, everybody in an attempt to spot them.
She knew what he looked like, but what if he had an accomplice? So it became
them, Them, out there, watching her as she walked, watching her as she went
into the shop, peering at her from behind the shelves, eyes boring into her
back. The shopkeeper asked if she was alright, wondering why she’d gone pale
and hunched, but Pohl wondered if he knew. Had someone come in and asked, had
he given her away, had he betrayed her?

  
She left, allowing the morning air to bring a bit more sense, and then crept
home. On arriving she was almost too scared to look at the post, but she did so
and found nothing. A relief, but of course another package could arrive at any
time. Then she’d have to be ready, by the door, to rip it open, find Them. She
shook as she made a cup of tea, and settled onto the small cabinet in the
hallway.

  
Dee found her there a short while later, and asked what was wrong. Pohl decided
she didn’t want to admit anything, so said she was waiting for a parcel. Dee
raised an eyebrow, and went into the kitchen. Then she came out with a mug of
tea for them both.

  
“You’re worried,” Dee said.

  
“Yes,” came the admission.

  
“Don’t be. This guy doesn’t kill, he steals stuff.”

  
“Bodies.”

  
“Okay, bodies, but it’s not killing. All he’s doing is trying to freak us out.
Stop us going back after him. We do know what he looks like.”

  
“What if it’s someone linked to him, or someone local who knows him, or someone
he’s sent, or more than one?”

  
“You’re garbling Pohl, and that’s not like you. Come have a sit down and we can
chat this out.”

  
“I think Dee, that it’s now I’d prefer us to have a ghost in this house we
could talk to.”

  
“Ask it who delivered the parcel, and when they’re near?”

  
“Yes, exactly. Exactly that.”

  
“I’d rather have a little more stress and comfortable showers.”

  
“I don’t know if I would at the moment.”

  
“Understood. Then come through and we’ll chat.”

  
Pohl closed her eyes, nodded, and took a sip of her tea as she stood.

   “What’s
wrong with the tea?”

  
“I put brandy in it.”

  
“Br…ah, relaxing.”

  
“Yes. I mean, I have a cupboard filled with pills, but I thought we’d stick
with the old fashioned way instead of making you a middle class drug addict.”

  
“I think that’s kind?”

  
The craftsman was sat in a far more upmarket café this time, picked by his
patron, and it had been a struggle to order a black coffee. It would be a
cliché to say there were too many weird options, but this place was going out
of its way to be pretentious. Then his patron arrived, smartly dressed, and
ordered something ten words long.

  
“Hello,” the patron said as he sat down.

  
“I’ve got the details of the potential new locations, I assume you’ll want to
consider them in private?”

  
“Yes, of course, but I trust your judgement after all these years. Give me the
details of the one you like, I’ll read up and have it arranged by the end of
the week.”

  
“That’s… mighty kind.”

  
“No, it’s how we do business. You have your skills, I have mine, and mine are
to make sure yours are being used properly. But I do have an extra request.”

  
“Oh?”

  
“Yes. I need a few more items that are small and made of bone. The whistle was
perfect, but now I need some extra.”

  
“It did have a sweet pitch, have you given it to someone?”

  
“In a manner of speaking.”

  
“What manner is that?”

  
The patron smiled, and explained how he’d wrapped it up and popped it through
Professor Pohl’s door to wind her up. And it was working perfectly.

  
“No, no, that’s too risky,” the younger man protested.

  
“Nonsense. I have this under control.”

  
“But you’re prodding them, what about when they react?”

  
“They’re four halfwits, I’ll have them shitting themselves when the door rings
within the month.”

  
“I don’t want to be any part of this. No part at all.”

  
“You’re not. I’m doing this myself. I’m only telling you because I need more
small items. And if you don’t find it fun, just forget about it.”

  
“Fun? I want to blend back in and get on!”

  
“You will. No one can link us, I’m very careful. So get me some more small
items, let me have my fun, and you can carry on working away. Okay?”

  
Begrudgingly, the other man said “okay.”

  
Pohl came downstairs, opened the door with such speed the postman took a step
back, and she eyed him up as if he had a cat’s head on each shoulder.

  
“Postman?” she said, looking at the uniform.

  
“Yes, I see you often?”

  
Pohl caught herself, smiled a rictus grin, and took the pile of post, closing
the door and leaving an entirely befuddled postman to walk away. The pile was
taken into the kitchen, dumped on the worktop, and rifled through. All was all
flat envelopes apart from two packages, both an inch thick and a full letter
wide. Both addressed to her.