The Dead Detective

By Warrick Mayes

The summerhouse at the Manor had become home for Mark.  It meant he could be near to the body of his lover, but the drawback was he might occasionally bump into her killer.

Life, or death, would change completely with the arrival of a beautiful new victim.  But, Allyx wasn’t about to let him sit and grieve with a killer on the loose. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Warrick Mayes
• Release date: Nov 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781518877247

Book preview

Declaration

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The author would like it known that the characters in this book are purely fictional and are the product of a somewhat distracted mind. 

The author would also like it known that, he has never knowingly met a ghost, or even tried to contact one.  But, should a genuine opportunity present itself, he will keep an open mind.

1 THE KILLING

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She had screamed.  The afternoon sun became chilled by the shrill terror in her voice.  No one could hear, or no one cared, but she screamed until she thought it could get no worse.  With the aid of his razor sharp blade, he had ripped the clothes from her skin.  He had bound her hands and raped her.  The heat of the day had exhausted both victim and sadist.

The blade glinted, but not in their eyes, his were cold, hers dark with terror.  It touched her skin.  So gentle, so little effort, it seemed impossible that it should part her skin so easily. Initially there was no blood, not until she moved and stretched.  A trickle, nothing more than that ran down her neck.  He held the blade against her skin so that it stopped the blood from flowing any further and a small reservoir built up on the knife.

Held up to the sun, he watched the little pool start to set on the cold metal.  With one hand he then pinched her cheeks together so that she opened her mouth and he could wipe the blood slowly over her dry tongue.  She shook but tried not to move, afraid of the deadly nature of the weapon he was wielding, between her teeth, against her tongue.  She knew the taste of her own blood and knew this would be the last thing she ever tasted.  How would death feel?

The blade now returned to her neck, so sharp, so cold, and yet there was no sign that she could feel its edge.  This cut was deeper, longer but still made with a slow precision.  The blood sprayed a warm, dark shower over the cold scene, then slowed, and streamed down her neck, over her naked breast, and on until it melted into the grass.  Like a sacrifice to the gods, her life fertilized the dry soil as it seeped away.

As the stream of blood eased, her warmth was transferred to the earth and she felt cold for the first time.  She fought it, but even her hatred of this beast could not warm her now.  She was determined not to die, not to let this evil being have the last word.  But there was no strength in her body, her physical self could not do as her mind dictated.

I had stood in the bushes and watched it all, powerless to intervene, like some accidental voyeur.  Horror filled my heart and my brain, but I knew I would be of no help to this gorgeous, dying woman.  Finally her naked form slumped, unable to support its will to live.  Her pale, bloodied flesh was obscene amidst the formal gardens of the big house.  Rose bushes and box hedges were criss-crossed by gravel paths and strips of lawn.  It was on one such lawn that her body now lay, between rose beds and rhododendron bushes.

He, that monster, looked around.  For a moment I stared straight into his eyes.  I would not, could not forget that face.  Handsome, undeservedly good looking, dark hair swept over his ears, with green eyes, and swarthy, thanks to the mild stubble on his cheeks.  There must have been blood on his dark trousers and black shirt, but it did not show.  If it had, it would only have added to his swash-buckling appearance.

He did not see me.  He could not see me.  And that was the only thing for which I was grateful.  He leant down and grabbed a handful of her short blonde hair.  So disrespectful, it only added to my hatred of him.  He stared into her blank eyes and then let her head fall to the grass.

You bastard!  I finally plucked up courage, for what it was worth.  It was not much more than a loud whisper, but he would have heard it, under different circumstances.  Even though I had been dead a couple of years I was still getting used to my altered state, but I tingled with the memory of how I used to be.  This man still held that form, the form that I desired, the form that he had taken from me.

Stop him!  She barged me with her shoulder to propel me forwards, reverting my attention back to her final scene.  She had a lot more strength now that she was dead.

I can’t.  I looked into her crystal blue eyes and wished that I could help.  It’s too late.

Don’t let the bastard get away.

I held her bloody arm.  We’re dead.  I took the other one too.  He won’t get away with this, but you and I can’t do a thing.

She wouldn’t believe me.  Pulling free she tried to attack him as he collected her clothes.  Her attempt at a rugby tackle just landed her flat on the grass alongside her lifeless body.  Scrambling up, she kicked and shouted, but made no impact.  As when she was alive, I was the only one that heard her shouts. 

That’s my bra.  Give....  But he had started walking.  Back to the big house, back to his pile of stone, to become the local hero that everyone loved.  She knelt beside herself and started to cry.

I cried too.  Not for this lovely woman who had just been brutally murdered, but for my own sweet love, Jane.  Jane, his first victim, or so I believed.  Second, if you counted me.  I didn’t see myself as a victim.  I was just ‘in the way’.  Jane had enticed me to come with her to the summerhouse, his summerhouse, the garden house, under which her body now lay.  She thought nobody would see us, that we could share an illicit moment away from the village, away from prying eyes.  We had not reckoned on him.

After we had consummated our love, I had stood.  Pulling on my trousers and shirt, I watched as Jane lay semi-naked on a sun lounger amongst cushions and blankets.  A beautiful, lingering memory, she was beaming up at me, but the smile was ripped away.  My last living memory of Jane was of her staring in terror.  Now I know why, but then I had no idea.  He had stove in the back of my head with a garden spade.

2 LEARNING THE ROPES

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What’s your name?  Not the question I was expecting when she finally left the side of her recently deceased body.  I thought she needed some grieving time, so waited for her to move.  She had been there several minutes, maybe regretting recent decisions, or plotting revenge, or just thinking about family and friends.

Mark.  And yours?

Allyx.  She reminded me a little of Jane.  As in Alexandria, she clarified.  Unable to offer a hand she tried to shove an elbow in my direction, nice to meet you, Mark.  It wasn’t the hair, for Jane’s had been longer.  She was a similar height and stature, but that wasn’t it either.  I think it was the nose.  Like Jane, she had a cute, button nose.

I’m sorry about this...  I spread my hands before the ghastly scene.

It’s not your fault.  Who are you anyway?

Mark.  Oh I see, yes.  He killed me in the summerhouse, over there.  I pointed.

I’m sorry.  There was a long pause before she spoke again.  Did he, you know, do things to you?  I felt humiliated by the question, not that it would have been my fault if he had, but the suggestion took me by surprise. 

Apart from smashing my head open with a spade?  No.  I wasn’t prepared to offer any more detail, not without being prompted.  She duly obliged.

So why did he kill you?

Before answering I grimaced to show my annoyance at being forced to recount this episode.  He didn’t want me, he was after my girlfriend.  After he killed me, he raped her.

She survived?

I let the word out slowly.  Nnnno.

I guess this kind of squared things up in her mind.  We both stood and stared at the ground for a while, mostly.  Her question was still worrying me.  Was she blaming herself for her predicament?  In my eyes, she had been a beautiful, innocent creature, and still was.  Did she see herself differently, now that this had happened?

I did keep looking at her.  She was naked, after all.  There was some bruising.  The gash in her neck was not too appealing, and the blood down one side of her body was a bit ghastly, but if you just looked at her right-hand side, she was still beautiful.  Dead, true, but so was I.

It wasn’t your fault.  It sounded feeble, but I wanted her to know that I knew.  She stared at me with angry eyes.  Maybe my comment hadn’t needed saying.  She turned to look back at her body.

What do we do now?  This was something I had pondered long and hard.  I wasn’t alone in my quest either.  Judging by the relatively low number of dead people that I bumped into, this situation was not as common as the latest circumstance suggested.  If it was, I’d probably be tripping over dead people all over the place.  It seemed that only a select few of us have to suffer this indignity, and the reasons for this varied depending on whom you asked.  The most commonly held belief was that we had unfinished business.

That wasn’t my theory.  I suspected we had done something in life that dictated we should spend eternity wandering the earth, between life and death.  That didn’t directly explain my situation as I couldn’t think of anything that I had done that might prompt such a punishment.

If we had unfinished business, how were we supposed to finish it?  Only the most practiced ghosts could do the clever stuff, like move earthly objects, or make themselves visible to the living.  I couldn’t.  Sure, some ghosts did disappear, but sometimes they’d reappear, and it turns out they’d been to Paris for a holiday.

We?  You mean, what happens next?

Yeah.  Does an angel come down to meet me, or something?

Maybe that was it.  Maybe we just slipped through the net.  The paperwork got misplaced or somebody went off duty and forgot to tell the next shift.  Nope.  If you’re here with me, I think that’s it.  I tried to smile, but she looked in quite a state.

Did you see - everything?  She emphasised the last word.

I...  Now this was a difficult one.  Did she really want to know that I had stood by while she was raped and slaughtered?  Sure, we were both dead, but the embarrassment of being raped too, must make you suicidal.  Yes.  Well, she had asked!

Her head hung, her ruffled blonde hair not quite covering her eyes.

Would you like me to untie you?  She still had her hands bound behind her back.  The blood that covered the left side of her body was drying and turning a red-brown hue.

You can do that?  I thought I might have to wander these grounds forever, with my hands tied and my neck bleeding.

It’s not quite that bad, I consoled, almost, but not quite.  I started to pull at the cords that held her wrists.  She had lovely skin, for a ghost.

I’d like to get some clothes, she stated.  She had a lot to learn.  Basically, you have what you had when you died.  All she had was the binding round her hands.

The shops are closed now.  I kept my sarcasm mild.

How do we...?  She trailed off.  Presumably, the realisation that worldly belongings were not for the spirit world had caught up with her.

Do you want these?  I asked.  Her silence suggested not, the daggers in her eyes confirmed it.  I dropped the cord.  The thing is...  The words were lost amongst more pressing thoughts.  With her hands freed, she turned to me, one arm across her breasts, and the other covering her vagina.  This made her look more vulnerable, more needy.  I had seen her raped, butchered and naked.  She had been terrified, desperate, determined, but now she became the little girl.  And, I could only respond in one way.

I removed my shirt and held it out to her.  She had to move her hands in order to take the garment, but turned as she did.  Thank you.  She slipped into it and buttoned up the front.

Are you OK?  I asked.

I’ve just been raped by a stranger, stripped, butchered and left to die.  And, all the while, some weird voyeur with a head like a squashed melon watches on and can only offer me a feeble, bloody shirt.

Does it look bad?  I had never seen the back of my head.

I don’t care about your head.  Having virtually burst my eardrums with this last sentence, she looked round sheepishly, then continued in a more measured tone.  Can we go up to the house?

You can go anywhere you like.  I didn’t go to the house.  He was there too much of the time.  I tended to hang around the summerhouse instead.  I had been home, but that was unpleasant.  Initially my family were all mourning, and I hated seeing them like that.  I had lived alone.  My family, who came to mourn, soon departed.  They went back to their lives and sold my house.  I didn’t want to be living in someone else’s house.  Jane had lived on the other side of the village, with her parents.  They had disapproved, so they didn’t feel like family.

Did you want me to come with you?  I had to offer.

Will you?  This is all very new.  She was sounding vulnerable, but looking quite sexy in my shirt – it hid most of the bloody mess.  The way her blonde hair cascaded over my shirt just made her more attractive, and her bright blue eyes were child-like in their clear brilliance.

Sure.  We didn’t have to stay long.  What do you want there?

I don’t want him to get away with this.  She started walking.

There’s not much you or I can do about it now.  I tried to wise her up.

Well I’m going to try.

‘Good luck,’ I thought.  We had crossed the formal gardens and could now see the full extent of the back of the three story mansion, across the manicured lawns.  It wasn’t as imposing as it may sound.  The top floor was built into the roof space, so that the windows stuck out between the slates.  A small wall surrounded the base of the roof, and gargoyles guarded gaps where rain water could escape into funnel-topped drain pipes.

She was heading for the French doors.  Lights were on in several rooms, the evening sky was dimming as night drew near.  Her hand passed through the handle, leaving the door unmoved.

How do we get in?

I know she was new to this ghost stuff, but really?  I stepped through the glass and wood and beckoned for her to follow.  She tentatively put a hand through the glass, then a foot.  She jumped, eyes closed.  I caught her, I’m not sure why, habit I guess, she was a woman and that’s the sort of thing a bloke does.

That was weird, she whispered.  She was right.  You could feel the material you passed through.  It didn’t stop you, but you knew it was more than just air.

Nobody can hear you.  I reminded her. 

She passed her hand through a table, then through some curtains and went round the room ‘feeling’ the different furnishings.  The room was designed to enjoy the warmth and light from the garden, so pot plants, wicker chairs and brightly coloured cushions filled all corners.  Weird, she kept saying.  I let her wander.  At some stage she would realise that trying to do anything about ‘him’ would be useless.

She stomped on the floor.  Why?  She pointed to the carpet beneath our feet.  If we can pass through all these other things, how come we don’t sink into the ground?

She would come up with this one.  The truth is, we can.  It’s a bit like swimming, I tried to explain, you can float quite happily on the surface, but when you want, you can dive down, and swim back up again.  She was looking quite excited.  But don’t try it, I added quickly, It’s dark, and you don’t know which way is up.

She knelt on the carpet and punched the floor.  Look!  I had averted my eyes as the shirt had parted in a most enticing way.  And, even though I had seen it all earlier, somehow it didn’t seem proper now that she was trying to cover up.  I looked, but with one eye, and my hand waving towards her exposed crotch.  She stood up, pulling the shirt back into place.

Sorry, she apologised.  Look, if we can stand on the floor, we can stand on the table.  And if we can stand on the table, we can also pick it up.  We can move things, do things.  We can stop this bastard from killing again.

Maybe...

She was pressing her hand on the table top.  Sort of, as it kept passing through the polished wood.

It’s not that easy.  I crossed the carpet and went through the wall into the next room.

But it’s possible?  She arrived next to me.

Yes, but it takes a lot of practice.

There was a desk under a window, looking out to the front of the house.  Allyx was reading a piece of paper on ‘his’ keyboard.  I’m going to learn, and then I’m going to fuck him the way he fucked me.  She walked through the door and out into the hall.

Check the kitchen.  Now she was giving me orders.  Find out what he did with the knife.

Where are you going? I asked.

To find my clothes.  He’s either going to burn them, or keep them as some sort of trophy.

Burn them.

What?

After he killed Jane....  This was still pretty raw for me, he burnt our clothes in the garden with the leaves and other rubbish.

Well, he hasn’t burnt them yet.

I headed for the kitchen as she went to the stairs.  The room was expansive.  A large table occupied the centre, but any country-house feel had been replaced by shiny metal on the door and drawer fronts.  The sink was in its expected place under the window, but was not a deep ceramic affair you might have expected, but