Fear No Evil

Instead I wandered over to the window, examining the locks and comparing the descriptions from the crime scene report to what I was seeing. It all tallied – a straightforward sash jammer, tiny key dangling on a string from the handle. I tried to turn it – locked. I sat on the bay seat, leaned back against the glass. Seemed solid enough. Freezing cold though, and dripping with damp. The chill seeped through me, like I was lying on an iceberg.

It felt like it was reaching into my chest and gripping my flesh, fingers made of ice squeezing my heart… I felt choked, coughed slightly, feeling a sense of panic press down on me. Every time I sucked air in, it stuck in my throat, solid as stone, like I was swallowing frozen pebbles. I was freezing from the inside out, and clutched at my neck to try and warm my skin.

I must have imagined it, but I thought I heard something then. A child giggling, small hands clapping together…

‘Get away from there!’ yelled Dan, jumping up and grabbing my hands. He tugged at me, hard, and I flew forward against his chest. I let my head rest there for a minute and took a few deep breaths. My pulse was hammering and I could feel blood rushing through my veins like a tidal wave.

‘I don’t know what the fuck just happened,’ I said, mildly embarrassed now I’d stopped hyper-ventilating.

‘Look at the window,’ said Dan quietly, gesturing behind me. I turned round.

It was wide open, pane banging against the frame in the wind. The lock I’d checked less than two minutes ago was now turned, the tiny key still dangling, handle pointing down.

If I’d leaned back too hard, I’d have been out of that window, and following Joy to my grave.

Chapter 11

I felt my senses soothe as soon as I walked into the Pig’s Trotter. It’s a dark, gloomy hole; steeped in the smell of decades of drinking and smoking. You couldn’t light up in here these days, but the tobacco brown ceiling and nostril-wrinkling odour paid tribute to the times when you could. I’d left Dan outside with a roll-up. I was tempted to join him, but it had been too bloody hard to give up the first time.

‘All right love?’ said Stan, wiping his hands on a tea towel that looked like it’d been used to clean the Suez Canal. He had a grey beard, hair that straggled to his shoulders, and was currently wearing a Motorhead T-shirt, Lemmy’s face stretched over his beer belly.

‘Stan. Get me a JD. Double. Pint. Lager.’

I could tell when Dan arrived by the way Stan’s eyes widened. They didn’t get many priests in the Pig’s Trotter.

‘Friend of yours?’ he asked as he pulled the pint. I nodded, not wanting to get dragged into any explanations. I had no desire to tell the landlord of my local that Dan was a former priest, part-time demon hunter, and my ally in the search for a dead girl’s equally dead killer.

‘Good-looking bloke,’ he said, passing the drinks over, ‘reminds me of myself in my youth.’

Yeah, right. I thanked him and carried the glasses over to the copper-topped table Dan was sitting at. The tremors were still there, and I slopped some of the beer over the sides.

Dan pulled off the dog collar, tugged open the top two buttons of his shirt. I was suddenly glad Father Doheny was about a hundred and looked like a Smurf with a liver complaint – the way priests should look.

‘Okay?’ he asked.

I nodded, and downed the whisky in one. It stung as it went, and the fire and warmth spreading through my throat was heaven.

‘I saw this bloke,’ I said. ‘Dodgy Bobby. Supposed to be a psychic. He told me about another girl, Geneva Connelly, died in Hart House a couple of years ago. Same way. Is it connected?’

‘Was he?’

‘Was he what?’

‘Psychic.’

I paused, gave Stan the eyeball across the room so he’d know to get me another drink.

‘I’d like to say no,’ I answered, ‘but I have to settle for maybe. He’s a petty- minded sod who’s never done any good in his whole pathetic life. But he knew… he knew I was coming. There was no buzzer, no lift, no warning. He had no way of expecting me – but by the time I knocked on his door, he’d already turned out the lights and switched the telly and the fire off, and was pretending not to be in. So, definitely maybe.’

‘Isn’t that an Oasis album?’

‘Aren’t you a fucking priest, not a connoisseur of the Britpop era?’

‘I’m not a priest any more,’ he said, calmly, like he was talking to a five-year-old, ‘and anyway, priests can like music, too. They’re not deaf. On rare occasions you might even find one that likes Formula One, or watches Benny Hill.’

‘Not you, though, I bet.’

‘No. Not me. I have no life, and sleep in a coffin when I’m not out ghost-hunting.’

No life, maybe, but definitely a sense of humour. The banter was calming me down. I suspected that’s why he did it.

‘So what else have you learned, about Hart House, and about Geneva Connelly?’

‘Hart House is owned by a company called Stag Industries, which is registered to a London address. Either that’s something to do with the Institute, or they lease the building. Geneva Connelly fell down the stairs, after claiming to her cousin that she’d been stalked by a ghost. And I don’t expect Geneva Connelly was the type to spook easily, as she was raised in one of the most hellish families in Liverpool. In fact, if she’s anything like her grandpa, the ghost would have apologised for existing and pissed off back to the underworld.’

I was trying to stay cynical. It made me feel better. Stan delivered the whiskey, and I saw him register the missing dog collar. I knew the way his brain worked – he’d now assume I was shagging Dan, and would spread the word with the regulars later that night. Oh well. They’d all be glad I was getting some. Franny Diamond, the Neil Diamond impersonator who sang there every Friday, told me the week before I was a ‘grouchy cow who needed a good seeing to’. All because I’d booed his ‘Sweet Caroline’.

‘We need help with this. We need to know more about Hart House. I can make some calls. What about you?’ Dan said.

‘I can make calls too,’ I replied, ‘and maybe your people can talk to my people.’

And maybe if they did that, I could carve out some time to do some talking of my own – I wanted to track down Sophie, Joy’s BFF. She’d been mentioned in the diary, and Mr and Mrs Middlemas had suggested her as a good source as well.

After my meltdown in Hart House, I had more of a sense of urgency about this case. It had gone from weird and intriguing to scary and threatening. I wanted to solve this one quickly – and get back to the normality of my usual, non-terrifying life. Time to phone a friend. I was thinking of two people in particular: Adam Stone, the world’s fittest librarian (although there’s admittedly not much competition in the world of the professional book lender), and Tish Landry, girl reporter. She’s like Lois Lane with acrylic nails. We’d known each other since the fourth year at school, when Tish got kicked out of Madame Snot’s Academy for Scouse Princesses and ended up at my local school.

I also needed to speak to D.I Jones, get hold of any case notes on Geneva Connelly, and make contact with Wigwam. Not to mention file two reports on cases I’d closed the week before, and send out a batch of invoices. Ideally all within the next hour. I felt a headache coming on, and badly wanted another whiskey. I resisted the urge. I was already too tiddly to drive – but I could at least still walk. A few more and Father Dan would be carrying me home.

‘Where are you staying?’ I asked, as the thought suddenly occurred to me. I didn’t really want him in my place if I could avoid it. I like my own space, and hate the idea of somebody hearing me pee in the morning. Tasty morsel he might be, but I’d lived alone since I was 19 – and I am a creature of habit.

‘With a friend,’ he said, ‘don’t worry.’

‘I wasn’t worried,’ I lied, ‘and who’s the friend?’

‘Are you always this nosy?’

‘Yes – are you always this evasive?’

He gave me a slow, lazy, dimple-popping grin, and I felt a little sizzle between us. First time I’d had so much as a measly spark for months. I might go up in flames like one of those Australian bush fires if I wasn’t careful.

‘I’m staying with Father Kerrigan in Everton,’ he said, ‘we go back a long way. He has the entire Clash back catalogue, if you’re interested.’

A punk priest. Who knew?

‘And does Father Kerrigan know you’re… a…’

‘Barking mad, demon-obsessed lunatic?’ he finished for me.

‘Well, yes, that’s a good way of putting it. Does he?’

‘He does. And he sympathises. He’s also seen some strange things in his time.’

I bet he had, I thought, living in Everton.

‘Do you fancy another drink? Somewhere else?’ I said, standing up and trying not to wobble. First the shakes, then the wobbles. I was turning into a human jelly.

He frowned slightly and glanced at his watch.

‘All in the name of detective work,’ I added, in what I hoped was a reassuringly professional tone.

Ten minutes later we were standing in a back alley, looking at the closed-up doors of the You Craic Me Up. It’s an Irish comedy club, in case you hadn’t guessed. All their jokes start with ‘Have you heard the one about the English man, the Scots man and the Welsh man?’

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