The Dead Speak Ill Of The Living (The Dead Speak Paranormal Mysteries Book 1) (21 page)

  
It was all Dee could do to stop her nose wrinkling at the word. “Therapy.”

  
“Help Dee,” and he was insistent, “proper, expert help, while there’s still
time.”

  
“I…would if it was us.”

  
“Good. Good. As I said, we won’t find them, but you... Good.”

  
He turned and walked away, and Dee exhaled deeply. Had she read this situation
right?

  
It was a familiar feeling to Dee, sitting outside a psychiatrist’s office, but
this time she wasn’t there for herself. Or for the government. She was there
because Professor Pohl had accepted the idea of therapy, and Dee had been the
perfect person to find some and accompany her. And more than that, Dee had been
the perfect person to brief Pohl on what to say, what not to say, how to allow
the expert to help without giving away the murder committed only recently. A
tricky subject, but one Dee felt she could navigate them through. And the
surroundings here had been designed for comfort, not for whatever clinically
assessed war she’d been in when she was younger.

  
They were taking a break, getting some water – anything stimulant was frowned
upon – and Dee was checking if Pohl was okay.

  
“You’re holding up well, are you feeling well?”

  
“It feels so… strange. I never imagined I’d end up with one of these people,”
and as she nearly spat people she realised what Dee had been through, “oh, I’m
so sorry, I didn’t mean to offend…”

  
“Not a problem. But do you feel you can go on?”

 
“Yes.. yes I think I do.”

  
“And do you think it’s helping?”

  
“I feel like that woman is unstitching me and putting me back together.”

  
Finally, thought Dee, a psychiatrist having a result on someone. Why didn’t she
get that conclusion herself in all those years…no, she wasn’t here to moan, she
was here to support.

  
“Are you ready to go back in?”

  
“Any word on the craftsman”?

  
“No, and there won’t be. He’s severed all links. We’ll only find him if he
makes a mistake.”

  
“Dee, can I ask you something?”

  
“Anything.”

  
“What do you think of me?”

  
“What? You’re wonderful Pohl. Wonderful.”

  
“But I…”

  
“We’re doing something new, bizarre, something no one is trained for, and then
you were harassed. You found your breaking point. I’m sure Joe and I will.
Nazir found his in Syria. We’re turning into new people, and having to do
things we’d never have done before. So I don’t think any less of you Pohl for
doing what you did. And I know that if something bad ever needed doing, really
needed doing because one of our lives were at risk, then you’d be able to save
us.”

  
Pohl nodded. “I’m ready to go back in.”

     
At first there was just darkness, with no thought in it at all. She wouldn’t
remember this stage, as the world passed by without her, but she would long to
return to it, wishing, praying to seek out it’s peace. Then came the return of
some mental functions, but with no senses and no coherence, so all she
experienced was panic and chaos, fear and confusion. Some people thought this
was what the afterlife was like, but the woman definitely wasn’t dead. Although
she would wish she was many, many times.

  
Then came the pain. Her head was lanced through with a buzzing, twisting pain
right from the front into the middle, as if two knives were working their way
into her skull. She’d had headaches before, bad headaches, but this felt
different, somehow more serious, as if her brain knew something it wasn’t
prepared to admit yet. Just pain, in and out of darkness.

  
Then she felt beneath her, felt something soft and moist, the former through
her hands and cheek which lay on it, the latter through her clothing, and her
brain returned enough to ponder what could be so soft? A rabbit? Her bed? But
why the wetness? Slowly her wits began to spread out so they identified what
the rest of her body was doing, and it became apparent she was laying on
something, legs straight, hands under her body, laying on something soft.

  
She squeezed a hand. Almost mossy… yes, grass or moss, that’s what this was.
She was on the ground, and that was never good.

  
Head still blazing with fire, the girl tried to open her eyes and look around
her, but as her eyelids opened there was no light. So she was in the dark, on
the grass, so was she outside somewhere at night? It wasn’t like she was in a
greenhouse anywhere? But her body felt heavy and tired, and she flexed her arms
and legs to prove they were working, and then felt around her. Grass, a bit of
grit, so dirt, and a rustling in her ears. Yes, it was dark but she could hear
a wind, so that meant she was definitely outside. But why then was it dark?
Didn’t you have the moon? But clouds, even at night could block it all out.

  
That was as far as she got before her body demanded she slump back down and let
the pain in her head throb. It took a while before she felt for her phone,
pulled it out, and tried to turn it on, but no matter what button she pressed
the light refused to show itself. It was beeping, so it wasn’t dead, but it
wasn’t lighting up.

  
Slowly that part of her brain which wanted to remain closed off decided it had
to talk, and it sent a thought to the rest of her head. She bought a hand up,
which she couldn’t see, and touched it against her cheek, moved it up, and
began to press where the sharp pain was driving in. She should have touched an
eyeball, a soft, delicate eyeball, but her fingers found a void in her face.

  
She had no eyes, just a pair of damp, bloody holes.

  
Pohl came down the stairs of her home, nose twitching. She knew there was no
reason to panic, but one of her senses was screaming she should be out the
front door and onto the emergency services right away.

  
Nevertheless Pohl stayed calmed, as plenty of psychiatry had taught her, and
entered the kitchen where she saw Dee sat there in a dressing gown eating a
slice of toast.

   “Have
you been burning something?” Pohl asked, not for an answer but just to make it
clear you could smell it from upstairs.

  
Dee looked guiltily over at the toaster. “I had a falling out with some bread.
There was a little burning.”

  
“A little? It smells like you tried a witch in here.”

  
“You should do more history jokes.”

  
“I was going to say I thought I was in the Great Fire of London.”

  
“That would also have made me giggle.”

  
“Is that a new dressing gown?”

  
Dee looked down at herself. “Yes, it was a wedding present, I didn’t give it
back after, well, it didn’t work out.”

  
“Sounds like something you should tell me all about.”

  
“Pour yourself a coffee and we’ll…”

  
The door rang, so Pohl went as she was dressed. She found Joe stood there
looking furtive.

  
“You okay?” she asked.

  
“Yes,” he replied, and then remembered they weren’t supposed to ask Pohl how
she was as she didn’t like it being mentioned at all. So he went with “is Dee
around?”

  
“In the kitchen.”

  
Joe was soon in.

   “Can
I get you a coffee?”

  
“Can I move in?” Joe asked.

  
Dee smirked and replied “I bet you’ve wanted to ask that for ages.”

  
“My water is broken and I’ve got nothing running until it’s repaired.”

  
“I see, and we’re sure you didn’t break this pipe yourself just to be nearer
our boudoir?”

  
“They’re having to dig a big hole.”

  
“Well, I do have a spare room you can kip in, but don’t get comfy, I don’t have
a fourth bedroom for Nazir and he’s bound to pretend to be feeling left out.”

  
“Thanks. I’ll go get my stuff…”

  
“Have some breakfast first, coffee is on and toast is available.”

  
“What are you spreading on it, sackcloth and ashes?”

  
“Why is the science bloke doing religious jokes?”

  
“My mum used to talk about it. Sorry, no offence…”

  
“You can mention mums, talk is not verboten. And if you’re going to start
picking on my cookery you can do more meals.”

  
“We have an equitable split as it is,” Pohl should know, she worked out the
roster.

  
“Exactly, if I’m mocked for burning some toast once it won’t be equitable
anymore.”

  
“Burning? There is literally a fog in this room…”

  
“Did you want to move in or not?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Right, then house rule number one: I get to burn toast. Rule number two: no
bringing women with loose morals back to the house and making noise.”

  
“Chance would be a fine thing.”

  
“And rule number three: no finding any ghosts in or around the property.”

  
Detective Constable Maquire parked his car in a special spot he’d spent several
days selecting. The idea was it couldn’t easily be seen, and certainly no one
working in the building could peer out and see the motor, you really had to
seek it out. Which was perfect, because when he needed a small break from all
things crime fighting Maquire sneaked out and had ten minutes of sleep in that
car. But he wasn’t sleeping now, instead he sat upright, fingers knotted, not
listening to the music playing through his stereo.

  
He had a problem. Well, he thought he might have a problem. And the problem was
this: his life was going very well indeed at the moment, because he was solving
a lot of cases other people had trouble with. He was showing a preternatural
ability and the result was grateful bosses, talk of promotion, being parachuted
into anything really difficult, and he was closing them all. And that shouldn’t
have been a problem, but it was built on one great, shining lie.

  
Maquire was solving the cases, he just wasn’t solving them alone. His
partnership with Dee and her team was working smoothly and efficiently,
allowing murderers to be apprehended, with the latter giving him names, and he
working backwards to secure the evidence. Most of the time Dee’s group didn’t
have to do anything else, and when they did pursue something he left them to
it. They had a measured, useful relationship and he was controlling the
weirdness. No more were they running round with him, causing problems. It was
great.

  
But still a lie, and a big one. He couldn’t explain to anyone how he was being
successful, and no one would believe it if they even learned about the machine,
and it could all come to a grinding halt if he… but think of that later. There
was a bigger issue, and that was: one of Dee’s group might be a murderer. It
might even be Dee herself, and she certainly had psychiatry in her background,
although he should have known better to invoke that lazy fallacy. But while
Maquire was reasonably certain no murders had happened since, he couldn’t rule
it out for the future.

 
And yes, he might have let whoever did it get away with it to leave the group
intact. He could have directed things towards Dee’s friends, he didn’t. And
while he didn’t exactly burn anything incriminating, he wasn’t sure what he’d
have done had there been anything damning.

  
Putting his hands up to his chin, he closed his eyes and cursed. Too far in to
quit, that’s what he was.

  
His phone beeped, and Maquire found it was his DCI asking 'where in the
building are you?’ This was the DC’s cue to get out and head swiftly indoors,
and he was soon knocking on the DCI’s door.

  
“Come in.”

  
He entered, said a polite “Good morning,” and pointed to the chair his side of
her desk. She nodded and he sat down.

  
“You’ve been working on the Borders case?” she asked, even though she knew the
answer.

  
“Yes, progressing well.” No need for supernatural help on this one.

  
“Well as of now you’re off it. We have a situation and you’re being placed in
charge. Pick an assistant if you want, then get into that team, take over, and
get going.”

  
This sounded like a good thing, so why didn’t Maquire feel that way.

  
“What’s the case?”

  
“Did you hear about the eyes?”

  
Ah, so that was it. “I presume there’s been another one?”

  
“Yes. And we’re approaching it with fresh eyes, your eyes. If you pardon the,
well, you know.”

  
“Thanks very much Ma'am,” he said, rising. This was a chance to shine all
right, and he knew how he’d begin.

  
Maquire walked out of the DCI’s room and decided to go and borrow DC Jones to
assist him. As he passed the room he’d soon be controlling two faces looked out
of it where they stood chatting.

  
“So we’re getting him,” a tall ginger haired man said.

  
Detecting the anger in his fellow’s voice, the other responded “that bastard.”
This man was a bear of a human being, and by a strange quirk of genetic
repetition and medieval naming, held the surname Bear. He continued “I’m
telling you Stride, something’s going on here, something rotten is going on.”

  
“I agree,” and Stride rubbed his chin, “there’s no way he solves all these
cases on his own. No way.”

  
“Yeah, he’s got a secret all right. He must have a grass tucked away somewhere,
or be working for someone in the underworld. Someone’s feeding him.”

  
“I wish we knew what it was, we’re going down and down and he’ll be a DI soon,
the cheating bastard.”

  
“Maybe he’s killing them himself,” and Bear laughed to himself at the idea. It
was silly, because all these people Maquire was putting away had evidence
pointing to them, but how was he doing it?

  
“Maybe he plants the evidence, gets enemies out of the way.” Stride was certain
something was happening, and didn’t realise he was veering into outright
conspiracy theory as he mused on it.

  
“I’ll tell you what, we’ve got a chance now.”

  
“A chance?”

  
“Yeah. He’s going to be in charge. So we can watch him, study him, go through
what he’s doing. And when we find out what he’s really doing behind the scenes
we’ll nail him.”

  
“Get him locked up?”

  
“Maybe. If he’s doing something illegal. Or get our hands on it too and get
ourselves promoted instead.”

  
“Oh I like that, I like that a lot.”

  
Joe decided to move himself in using his car and not mention getting a van,
because yunno, and Dee had anticipated that this would take one journey.
However, as Joe had never really holidayed, and had only ever moved himself
wholesale, he didn’t know what to pack or bring, and he kept nipping back home
to pick something extra up. This had gone through funny to annoying for Dee,
who even now was keeping the meal Joe was supposed to be cooking ticking over
while he dashed back home.

  
When Dee heard the door go she shouted “about fucking time,” and was surprised
to hear Maquire call back “pleased to see you’re expecting me.”

  
“Oh, Detective, how pleasant to see you,” and she grinned at him as he entered
the kitchen.

  
“Is that burning?” he asked.

  
“Don’t you fucking start, this is Joe’s fault,” and she saw him appear behind
Maquire. “Social call or business?

  
“Business I’m afraid, I have a new job for you.”

  
“And do you have any interested in a meal Joe cooked and I rescued from
destruction?”

  
Maquire smiled, “why not, it’s been a long day.”

  
Dee, Pohl, Joe and Maquire sat and ate the meal while they were waiting for
Nazir to arrive, which he’d done as they were tidying the plates away.