The Dead Speak Ill Of The Living (The Dead Speak Paranormal Mysteries Book 1) by Robert Wilde Page A
Authors: Robert Wilde
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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
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
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