The Case of the Haunted Cot Page 12

  If you feel there was something lacking that left you feeling the story wasn’t as well-told as it could have been, I’d love to hear your thoughts. I think listening to and accepting criticism is a huge part of progressing as a writer, and this is but the beginning of what I hope to be a lengthy journey. And along the way, I appreciate every bit of help I can get. You can email me at markwritingwriter@gmail.com and you can also find me on Twitter @MarkWriting.

  If you did enjoy the book, the kindest thing you can do for me is leave a review on Amazon. They make a huge difference, and I deeply appreciate every one.

  Thank you very much for reading.

  About the Author

  Mark Bateman divides his time between full-time work, being a father, and writing whenever he can. He runs a writers’ group at one of his local libraries, where he meets and learns from all kinds of interesting and talented people. He lives in Buckinghamshire, England, with his partner Becky and their son, Dexter.

  You can follow Mark on Twitter @MarkWriting and keep up to date with his blogs and news of upcoming books at www.markwriting.com

  Preview of The Case of the Exploding Granny

  The following is one of the opening chapters from the next book in the series: The Case of the Exploding Granny. Please enjoy and I hope you continue to join me on Price and Miller’s journey.

  ‘There’s a brand new video from Loch Ness showing the monster —’

  ‘Boring,’ Price said, dismissing Miller before he’d even finished his sentence.

  With a flick of his finger, Miller sent the email to the deleted folder. Meanwhile, Price continued to work his way through his large full-English breakfast. Miller believed in a healthy breakfast as much as the next man, but he couldn’t imagine putting away all of that, along with the extra helping of toast, first thing in the morning. Well, it wasn’t really first thing; it had gone nine, and the café was beginning to fill up with everyone else that didn’t have jobs to get to this early.

  ‘OK,’ said Miller, now scanning the next email in his inbox. ‘Here’s a ghost picture.’

  Miller clicked open the picture, then flipped over the tablet so Price could see it. Miller had seen similar pictures in the past, and they were always successful in creeping him out. A dark setting — in this case somebody’s old-fashioned house — and a figure that’s obviously human, yet indistinct enough to not be able to make out any specific details. There were two others in the photo, both smiling at the camera, both entirely unaware of the ghostly figure.

  It took Price all of five seconds of looking at the photo to dismiss it. Almost immediately he went back to packing as many beans, sausages, and egg into a folded-over slice of toast as was physically possible.

  ‘Double-exposure.’ Price punctuated this statement by shoving a hefty portion of the sandwich into his mouth.

  ‘You can’t know that for certain,’ Miller said.

  Price chewed for a few seconds, then swallowed what must have been a sizeable lump, before answering.

  ‘And what would we do for that case? It’s an old picture. So we talk to the person that took it. “I didn’t see a ghost at the time, but when I had the pictures developed there it was.” Gets us nowhere. Then we go to where it was taken and…what? Unless she’s got original negatives, there’s not much to be done. Next.’

  Miller moved that email to a different folder, but didn’t delete it. He might want to speak to the person that took it in his own time.

  ‘Here’s another ghost picture,’ said Miller, somewhat disheartened this time, aware of Price’s inevitable reaction. ‘But it’s just a few weeks old, and taken with a DSLR camera, by a professional.’

  As Miller read the email and simultaneously summarised it for Price, he became more and more excited. But he didn’t automatically assume he’d gotten Price’s attention, so he didn’t show him the photo.

  ‘Just because somebody calls themselves a professional, doesn’t mean they’re not crap at their job or lying.’

  Despite saying that, Price gestured for Miller to bring on the photo. Miller flipped over the tablet again, and this time Price stared at it a little longer. The picture had nobody else in the frame, except this ghostly apparition, watching over the Thames. In the background stood Big Ben in all its night-time glory.

  ‘The photographer says it definitely isn’t a double exposure or long exposure,’ said Miller.

  Price smiled at that — one of his “I’m smarter and so much further ahead than you” smiles.

  ‘It’s a long exposure,’ said Price.

  ‘But he said it’s not.’

  ‘And that’s what we in the ‘biz call: a lie. Or he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Look to the right of the frame.’

  Miller brought the tablet back to himself. On the right of the image was Westminster Bridge.

  ‘Notice the bluish blur?’ Price asked. Miller did see the blur on the bridge, and glanced up to see Price smiling victoriously at him. ‘That would be the traffic. Its movement turning to one blur. The result of a long exposure. The teenager simply walked into the frame, then out again, during the shot. And yes it’s a teenager; if you look carefully he appears to be wearing a hoodie and texting.’

  Miller nodded politely. He didn’t know enough about cameras to know how right or wrong Price was. ‘Maybe,’ he conceded.

  ‘Or a ghost appears near-perfectly in the photo, but blurs all nearby traffic? Unless the photographer can provide the original raw file, there’s not much else here. Don’t you have anything good in there?’

  Miller moved onto the next email, but he was nearing the end now. Price had dismissed as boring or immediately solved — meaning he’d given a dismissive remark — every single one. Miller had never expected any thanks for setting up a website and putting some advertisements out there to find some cases, but he at least expected Price to put in a little bit more effort into choosing one. Was he waiting for one in particular?

  ‘Here, this sounds like your kind of person,’ said Miller. ‘This guy says he’s got a new theory — scientific theory, mind — about the Bermuda Triangle. Wants to know if we’d help him investigate.’

  Price was mopping up the last of his breakfast with a slice of toast. Miller felt a little relieved that he wouldn’t have to watch Price stuffing his face any longer.

  ‘You mean, actually go there?’ Price said. ‘I’m guessing he says nothing about paying for the travel and accommodation for us?’

  Miller hadn’t even thought of that; he gave the email another scan, confirming that the person emailing mentioned nothing about paying. Meanwhile, out the corner of his eye, Miller saw Price lean over to the empty table next to theirs, and pick up a newspaper somebody had left behind.

  ‘Just as well, really,’ said Price. ‘Would have been a waste of time, it’s a non-mystery. The Bermuda Triangle has no higher amount of disappearances or crashes than anywhere else, statistically speaking. It’s just that it has a lot of traffic. Crashes and disappearances are a sad fact of life on the sea or in the air. Rule number one of mystery-investigating: make sure there’s actually a mystery to investigate.’

  Miller sighed under his breath, but Price didn’t hear or ignored it. Finding a mystery to investigate was harder than it seemed. Price wasn’t anywhere near as bothered, though; he leafed through the paper he’d picked up, calmly confident.

  ‘Possessed Ouija board?’ Miller asked, checking the next email in the list.

  Price’s eyes narrowed in confusion.

  ‘Isn’t the whole point of a Ouija board that it’s possessed to some degree? How else does the ghost speak through you?’

  Miller shrugged; the email was suspiciously lacking detail. He suspected it was either from somebody feeling very self-conscious and quickly sending something before they lost the nerve, or a joke done by somebody with a particularly dull sense of humour.

  Price was leaning back in his chair, holding the paper ostentatiously. Miller remained quiet. When he re
alised he wasn’t going to get any more attention, Price dropped the paper to the table and span it around, pointing to one of the small articles.

  ‘“With no obvious cause for a fire, and no explanation as to why it burned so specifically, this certainly looks like one of the best pieces of evidence for spontaneous human combustion,”’ Miller quoted. ‘Seriously, this is what you’re going for?’

  And Price really did look excited.

  ‘It’s an exploding granny!’ he announced, like a child talking about the most recently released video game.

  ‘Technically, isn’t she combustible? There’s nothing about her exploding.’ Miller said, savouring the chance to point out Price’s inaccuracies.

  ‘Technically, spontaneously combusting humans is equally as ridiculous as exploding. And are you seriously going to take away the only chance I will ever get to say exploding granny in a semi-serious statement?’

  ‘It’s somebody’s mother. And she just mysteriously burned to death.’

  ‘And they claim she spontaneously erupted into flames!’ Price said, his voice rising in its excitement. Several nearby people trying to enjoy their breakfast turned to Price in confusion and disapproval. ‘That’s close enough to an explosion to me. So, let’s go solve the case of the exploding granny. God that sounds so good. Exploding granny!’

  ‘Spontaneously combustible human being.’

  ‘Mine’s more fun.’

  ‘Article doesn’t give much detail,’ said Miller, rereading it. ‘And even if it did, we can’t really just turn up at their door. An unexplained death means there’ll be a police investigation.’

  ‘We contact the investigating officer directly. Offer our expert knowledge in all things strange and unexplained. By this point, most of the investigation would be over with. Hell, we may even find it already solved.’

  Miller was about to argue that the case would have barely begun, until he saw the newspaper’s date. It was from two weeks back. With complete clarity, Miller saw what had happened. This was no random paper left by another customer, which Price had just happened to pick up and find the article in. He’d brought this paper with him. He needed a bit of time for the official investigation to die down, so he’d allowed Miller to carry on seeking their first case. He must have placed the newspaper there when Miller went to the toilet.

  ‘And by “we”,’ said Price, ‘I mean you. Being nice and convincing to a detective is exactly the kind of thing I brought you on for.’

  Miller didn’t appreciate the way Price made it sound like he was allowed to follow him, like a lost dog allowed to follow around a human, but he said nothing. In fact, he kind of agreed with Price. If Price were to contact the investigating officer and try and convince them that he could help, he’d only antagonise the officer and leave them without a case.

  ‘In the meantime,’ Price said, standing up, ‘I’m going to try something a little different with this case. I’m going to give you the solution first. Meet me at this address tomorrow at midday. By which time I expect you to have contacted the investigating officer.’

  Miller waited for Price to hand over a slip of paper or something with the address on. Instead, his phone beeped its announcement that it had received a text message, and Miller noticed Price slipping his own phone back in his pocket. With that done, Price started to walk away.

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ Miller pointed to Price’s empty breakfast plate, which he hadn’t yet paid for.

  ‘Ah.’ Price’s face was full of faux-concern. Of all of his fake emotions, Price’s worst was concern; he didn’t have enough comprehension to fake it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you see,’ Price started, and again Miller knew this was some kind of test, or him proving a point of some kind. ‘I’ve, errm, lost my wallet.’

  ‘Right,’ said Miller, not at all curious as to how somebody might forget that while ordering all the biggest and most expensive items on the menu.

  ‘I promise I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘Right.’

  Miller wanted to say no, to fight him. But he knew what Price was going to do, even before he did it. Price walked away, leaving the café before Miller could even stand up and shout after him. He was daring Miller to leave, to commit theft. Strictly speaking, as long as Miller paid for his own meal, it wouldn’t be theft. But while Miller might be able to calm his conscience down with that, he doubted it would work as well for the café’s manager. So Miller, not letting it get to him and seeing it as another sacrifice in his quest to eventually save Trenton Price, waited patiently for the bill to arrive, then paid it in full, plus a generous tip.

  Having gone through Hell to make himself as moral as he could, Miller refused to sacrifice who he was. He wouldn’t lose that for anybody, let alone Price.