The Case of the Haunted Cot Read online

  A second later, Miller stopped.

  There was something very familiar about that person he’d just passed. And while it took Miller a few seconds to place the face, the anger and fear started to build up first, deep down in his gut, as if his stomach had already recognised him.

  ***

  ***

  Price stopped.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  He’d only caught the smallest glimpse of that man, but it had looked so much like that guy from the show. The moron — well, one of them. The moron that had stood up to him, tried to argue him into place. No wonder Price remembered him so well; that was hilarious. What was his name?

  Price turned. If he couldn’t remember his name, Price fully intended to shout Oy, moron that believes in zombie-Jesus to see if he got a response.

  The other man turned to face him.

  Joseph Miller. Oh yes, Price thought, smiling to himself as the rest of their previous exchange came back to him. Price had enjoyed debating with Miller, and he’d enjoyed the increasingly frustrated faces Miller had made. Miller, on the other hand, appeared less happy to see him. Involuntarily — not that he fought it — Price’s smile widened.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Miller asked, as if Price had been caught in his daughter’s bed.

  ‘Oh you know, investigating a baby that’s back from the dead. The usual. You?’

  Price saw Miller’s face change from one type of shock to another, and he knew instantly why.

  ‘And so are you, apparently. Now that is interesting.’

  Miller shook his head vehemently, as if refusing a horrible vision.

  ‘There’s no way Sophie Fullwood would let you into her flat.’

  ‘True,’ Price said. ‘She really wants that baby to be speaking to her through Jazz FM, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Don’t you dare treat these people’s suffering as a game.’ And there was the indignant tone Price knew so well from the religious. ‘If you bring any more misery down on them, I swear to God you will regret it.’

  ‘Doesn’t that count as taking the Lord’s name in vain?’

  Price saw Miller’s expression change from shock to fury. He took a couple of steps towards Miller, which reminded him of their on-air confrontation. Before Miller started on his next indignant speech, Price decided to cut him off.

  ‘Funnily enough, I didn’t come here because I read about it in Moronic Beliefs Monthly. I came because I was asked here.’

  It was a slight bending of the truth, but it kept Miller quiet for a moment as he worked it out. Price said nothing more, curious as to whether Miller would manage it.

  ‘Keith Fullwood?’ Miller asked, incredulous.

  Price nodded condescendingly.

  ‘And I’m guessing the wife hired you?’

  Price might have got the same reaction from Miller if he’d substituted the word hired for raped: Miller was horrified.

  ‘Fine,’ said Price, ‘she didn’t “hire” you, she asked you very very nicely.’

  ‘You can’t take their money, they’re both out of work!’

  What was it with religious people and always being so sure they can tell people how to live? Incredible just how much power people could get from one old, historically inaccurate, violent and sexist book.

  ‘They need my help, I need their money. Seems like a mutually beneficial exchange to me.’

  ‘Need you? Believing their daughter is still around is hardly going to hurt them. They just want to know she’s safe.’

  Oh, now that was interesting. Why had he focused on their belief, rather than the possibility of its truth?

  ‘You don’t believe it’s real,’ Price said, not a question.

  It was a strong suspicion, and Price knew it was confirmed when Miller immediately looked down, ashamed. Price waited. He knew somebody like Miller would feel the need to justify not believing in the ridiculous, and he was curious as to the reason, hopeful that logic had something to do with it.

  ‘I have trouble believing that God would simply let a baby suffer, that he wouldn’t lift the child up into his everlasting love.’

  ‘Plus, you know, the whole thing is ridiculous.’

  Price could see a great deal of Miller’s tension had left his body. A part of Price was disappointed; there was always a feeling of triumph when he annoyed a Christian enough to hit him.

  ‘Whatever the case,’ Miller said, ‘my belief isn’t the one that matters.’

  Miller turned around, as if this was his perfect last line, and he started to walk away. Price followed him.

  ‘It is if it’s the truth,’ he said.

  ‘Truth is relative,’ Miller said. ‘People matter.’

  ‘What utter crap. Eventually the entire universe will expand into a big freeze. Matter itself will fall apart, and all that will be left anywhere is a black nothingness. You think how somebody felt trillions of years ago is going to matter? All there is is truth. Fact.’

  There was a brief pause, during which Miller was either taking in what Price said, or trying to think up some kind of retort.

  ‘That’s your opinion,’ said Miller.

  ‘You got a better one?’

  ‘A more human one.’

  Miller stopped and stared at Price, a pleading in his eyes.

  ‘Please,’ said Miller, ‘don’t destroy them for your truth. They’ve been through enough.’

  He walked away, having found a different strong sentence to end on. Price followed again, calling after him.

  ‘You won’t help her, not in the long run. She needs to come to terms with her daughter’s death. I think you know that.’

  ‘The only thing I have to offer her is my expertise.’

  Price took a deep breath. He’d had a new idea, but he wasn’t yet sure if he’d had a good one. But now was likely to be his only opportunity to work on it.

  ‘Help me,’ said Price.

  That made Miller stop. He glared at Price, as much suspicious as he was confused.

  ‘You want me to throw a couple of insults their way?’

  ‘Question the neighbours for me.’

  While Miller stared at him, Price walked up to Miller and proffered him the clipboard and pen. Miller stared down at them, not yet accepting. He needed some encouragement.

  ‘The crying has to be coming from interference. Keith Fullwood thinks nobody else there has a baby. I think he’s wrong. But he won’t allow me to question his neighbours. Word would get back to Sophie and she’d eventually work out that I was hired by her husband to prove her wrong. It could well destroy their marriage. You can question the neighbours without increasing the likelihood of Sophie finding out about my involvement.’

  Price could tell by the pained but thoughtful expression that Miller was seriously considering this. Price suppressed a grin. He’d suspected the destruction of their marriage would be the selling point.

  ‘So those are my choices: let their marriage disintegrate or help you?’

  Despite his obvious ambivalence, Miller accepted the clipboard and pen.

  ‘Better give me your number, too,’ Price said. ‘I promise not to text any anti-religious insults.’

  Chapter Seven

  Father Lenn answered the door to Sophie. She stared at him, trying to find the will to smile or at least show how pleased she was to see him. All she managed was a weak ‘hello’. He smiled at her, but it was forced and shaky; she knew from last time just how uncomfortable she made him.

  ‘Come on in.’ Father Lenn moved aside, fully opening the door for her.

  Sophie expected him to tell her how troubled she looked. Didn’t they say that in the movies? And she couldn’t have looked worse. Her eyes were probably still red from all the crying she’d done on the way over. She knew she looked a mess and had done for some time. Sophie couldn’t even remember the last time she’d worn make-up.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t have time to tidy herself up these days; she had nothing but time. Bu
t somehow spending time improving herself felt like an insult to Tia. Her daughter died — how could she just brush her hair and spend her mornings putting make-up on while the person she’d loved most was…

  This was the second time she’d been inside the church within a week, and just like last time it was completely empty apart from Father Lenn. No, not quite like last time. Where was Miller? Had she missed him already? She wanted to be there the first time he listened to the tapes; she wanted to see his face so she could tell whether he believed her.

  Father Lenn led her down the central aisle, stopping when they reached the front, almost exactly where she’d sat when speaking with Miller. She felt watched in here, even more so than at home. She felt judged, too. All those times she’d sworn at God, sworn at her faith, after Tia died. And then Tia came back. Was He punishing her, or reminding her that there was more to life than her grief, or something else entirely?

  ‘Would you like to sit down?’

  ‘Yes please,’ she mumbled.

  Sophie could see the other questions behind his eyes. ‘Why are you here?’ no doubt the main one. But he was smart enough to give her time, and she appreciated that.

  ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Tea. Please. If you are.’

  ‘Of course I am. I live off the stuff, dear.’

  Father Lenn left the hall to make their drinks. If she’d thought about it and realised he was going to leave her, she would have said no. Sophie looked around the room, at the few small stained-glass windows depicting various religious stories, only one of which she was certain of. She looked at the hymn books in the front of each pew, remembering those sung at Tia’s funeral.

  No. She couldn’t remember that. Funerals were depressing, horrible and surreal at the best of times. But all the previous ones she’d been able to keep calm with memories of the deceased, she could celebrate the life led, and the afterlife they had moved on to. But how can you do that for a baby? Three weeks. Not even enough time to smile.

  ‘Come on through,’ Father Lenn called from around the corner. ‘You don’t want to sit and drink in there.’

  Sophie went through the doorway. There was a small kitchen, and a table that could fit a maximum of four people around it, but there were only two chairs. Did Father Lenn actually live here? Surely not. Sophie took a seat at the table.

  ‘Here you go.’

  As she accepted the cup, Sophie tried to smile at him, but it took more force than she was capable of and she dreaded how it must have actually appeared. The warmth of the cup entered her fingers but didn’t go anywhere else. Until that moment she hadn’t even realised how cold she was. She’d escaped so quickly she’d not even thought about a coat.

  ‘I need answers, Father.’

  Sophie stared at her tea as she spoke, afraid of what his expression might have been.

  ‘So do many people that come to see me.’

  ‘And how many get them?’

  ‘That’s a matter of perspective,’ he said. ‘We can’t get all the answers, not in this life. But we do need to remember that God has a plan.’

  Sophie took a sip of the tea. It wasn’t that hot; had Father Lenn been concerned she might burn herself? For some reason the thought of her insides burning felt acceptable, fair even.

  ‘So there’s a reason all this is happening to me? Care to fill me in?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said apologetically. ‘But I do know God is not mindlessly torturing you. You’re going to get through this. You and your husband.’

  ‘I’m not so sure, Father.’ She was remembering Keith’s harsh words. To throw her own grief in her face like that. The thought of going back to him now made her feel nauseous. But in that she had no choice. Tia was there, and Tia needed her.

  Sophie turned to Father Lenn. Again the questions were clearly there, building up behind his pitying eyes.

  ‘Every time I look at Keith … I just keep thinking: he’s not upset enough.’

  ‘And do you want him to be in pain?’ Father Lenn said, as if he already knew the answer.

  ‘Of course not.’

  She didn’t want to get into this now. She didn’t want to think about that fight, that wasn’t why she came here. She came here because she hoped to catch Joseph Miller before he left for her flat. But she was less sure why she’d stayed even after discovering that he was no longer here. She wasn’t interested in being consoled, that was impossible. Forgiven? Maybe. But she’d failed in her motherly duties, and no amount of ‘you couldn’t have prevented this’ or ‘nobody blames you’ could change that.

  ‘Have you known Joseph Miller long?’ Sophie asked, before her emotions took over and left her speechless.

  ‘A couple of years.’

  ‘He’s not been coming here that long.’ She didn’t usually pay much attention to who came and went at the church, but she’d noticed him the first time he came. He was a good-looking young man.

  ‘No,’ said Father Lenn. ‘He’s … relatively new to the area.’

  Something drew Sophie’s eyes back to Father Lenn, but she wasn’t sure what. Was he purposely being evasive?

  ‘Does he write about the supernatural full time?’

  ‘No. He hardly gets anything out of it. Actually, he officially works here,’ said Father Lenn. ‘He’s our caretaker.’

  Really? He seemed far too intelligent and kind to be just a caretaker. Not that a caretaker couldn’t be any of those things, it just seemed like a waste of all Miller had to offer.

  ‘So how did you meet?’ Sophie asked.

  Father Lenn was noticeably uncomfortable now.

  ‘Why are you so interested in Joseph Miller?’

  ‘Right now he’s the closest thing I have to answers. I can’t talk to my friends and family — it’s bad enough my husband thinks I’m crazy.’

  ‘I’m sure he doesn’t think that.’

  Sophie didn’t reply to that. She refused to talk about him and be dragged into a conversation about what had happened earlier.

  ‘Do you know how Joseph got into the paranormal?’ she asked.

  ‘He always had an interest, as far as I understand. Some experiences when he was younger. But it’s only recently become a passion.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Father Lenn’s discomfort had increased. He took a deep swallow and, with difficulty, looked Sophie in the eyes.

  ‘I really think that’s a question for Joseph.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Thank you,’ Miller said, starting the words when Keith stood before him, and finishing as the door clicked shut in his face.

  For a few moments, Miller could think of nothing except how desperately he wanted to help Keith and Sophie Fullwood. Keith had been distracted and clearly upset as Miller spoke with him, and he’d hinted that Sophie had left due to an argument. Miller had been careful not to pry, and even more careful not to mention Price. He didn’t even take the door shutting personally, and probably would have forgiven Keith even if it had broken his nose.

  Miller picked up the clipboard from where he’d left it against the wall next to the door. Earlier, at the last minute as he’d waited for Keith to answer the door, Miller realised Keith might have recognised the clipboard as Price’s, and so he’d quickly put it out of sight.

  If Price was right, and this was all due to some kind of interference, then Miller really should help him get to the truth. And it was a far better outcome than there being a baby girl in trouble on the other side. And he wouldn’t really get a better chance than this, what with Sophie being away from the flat.

  Miller started by knocking on the door opposite the Fullwoods’ flat; it wouldn’t hurt to ask some questions. As he waited for an answer, it occurred to him that he had no idea what to say. Lying was his first instinct, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that. Miller imagined Price would be able to dream up all kinds of clever lies, but Miller wouldn’t. So with lying out of the question, that left telling the truth. But how much of
the truth to tell, and in what way to tell it? Probably best he didn’t mention Price.

  It was a moot point, anyhow; nobody answered. Miller wasn’t so certain in what he was doing that he would want to come back later, and he was beginning to wonder how many people would be in at this time in the afternoon. He would try a couple more doors, but that was it.

  Miller tried the next floor down, the flat directly below the Fullwoods’. Again, nobody answered. Again, Miller questioned why he was doing this. He should be going straight home to listen to the tape Keith had given him. His intrigue was greater than his fear of what he might hear. He might well have strong evidence of the paranormal in his pocket.

  And yet Miller was propelled to knock again, just in case. He even put his head to the door, to see if he could hear anything on the other side. Nothing.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said a soft, friendly voice.

  She was ascending the stairs, carrying a couple of shopping bags. She smiled at him, and her eyes narrowed questioningly, like she was trying to place him somewhere. Miller didn’t recognise her; perhaps she’d seen him on that show.

  ‘He’s not really been around for a while,’ she said. ‘You here to look at his heating?’

  ‘No, I’m not. I just wanted to ask him a few questions.’

  Once at the top of the stairs, she walked right up to Miller, closer than most people would get to a stranger.

  ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’

  ‘No, I don’t know, maybe. Did you —’ Miller interrupted himself as he felt his pocket vibrate. ‘Sorry, just a second.’

  The text wasn’t from a number Miller’s phone knew, which meant there was only one person it was likely to be.

  Meet me at the nearest Tesco superstore when done questioning. Get every piece of information you can. Don’t let them down. P.S. There’s no God and you’re going to be worm food when you die.

  He didn’t put his name at the bottom, but the P.S. was a big giveaway. Replacing the phone in his pocket, Miller turned back to the woman in the hallway. She had come even closer to him, completely oblivious to personal space.

  ‘Yeah, I was on TV the other night,’ Miller said, and her face lit-up, as if she was meeting an actual celebrity. Miller tried not to look smug about it. Mainly because he had no reason to be; it was a small appearance on a — he assumed — relatively unwatched show. But if she did recognise him from there, he might just be able to use his pseudo-celebrity status.