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

make it before we were so starved we began,” Dee joked,
grinning throughout.
      
“I’ve had a thought about that,” Pohl said, kissing Dee on the cheek and
handing over a bottle of wine.
      
“Oh?”
      
“If it’s not too much trouble, when you move, obviously when, can I move into
your spare room? It will be much easier for me to stay there than have to
travel up and down from Cambridge, especially if we need to do something
quickly.”
      
“You see Dee,” came Nazir’s voice from the kitchen, “she’s ready to react at a
moment’s notice. A coiled spring. We just need to find a ghost with problems.”
      
“Any progress on that?” Pohl asked, as she waved at Joe through the internal
doors; he was looking at one of the many books.
      
“We’ve found a few ghosts while we’ve been house hunting, but all the nice
places have weirdos or men in.”
      
“I’m glad you’re making the distinction,” Joe said to Dee without looking up.
      
“Not for you,” Dee replied.
      
Soon the meal was served and everyone tucked in.
      
“Sorry, I forgot to say, I’d love you to move in, it’d be nice to have someone
else around.”
      
You could have had me, Joe thought morosely.
      
“Excellent, and thank you. I’ll try not to act like your mother.” Although she
meant to act exactly like her mother. But she saw Dee wince and asked
cautiously, “Sorry, what did I say?”
      
“My parents, they… died young. I didn’t know my mother.”
      
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” and Pohl reached a hand out to touch Dee’s arm. She
wasn’t sure if people hugged at this point or not.
      
“It’s okay,” Dee explained, “I’ve had years of therapy to get over it.” But she
noticed that Joe had raised a questioning eyebrow, so she kicked him under the
table. The eyebrow went down, Dee tried to look innocent.
      
“I hope it wasn’t anything bad,” Pohl said.
      
“Is there anything which kills people young which isn’t bad?” Nazir asked.
      
“Oh…”
      
“Actually, if we’re going to be working together on this, perhaps I should tell
you. Clear the air. Joe knows, might be helpful for everyone else.” And so she
told them, about the uncertain death of her father, about the hidden memories,
about her desperate search to uncrack her mind and the shrinks who’d
accompanied her on it. Then she told them about Joe’s attempts to help, how the
machine found the soul, but how it seemed to be in pieces. And when she’d
finished, her glass has been drained twice.
     
      
Another morning without employment for Dee and Joe, another trip round
properties for sale. The meal the night before had included a discussion of
whether it was the right time to be changing property, given her job situation,
but Dee was adamant she wasn’t being wank fodder for a ghost any longer than
she had to, and it was lucky for Joe she wasn’t actually in his spare room.
He’d rather hoped she’d have moved a door further down his landing, but spare
room would have been a good start.
      
Dee hadn’t been put off in this quest, which was why a young lady was showing
them round a maisonette. The rooms seemed a fair size, although the property
was empty apart from built in fitted wardrobes and the occasional light fitting
which someone seemed to have forgotten.
      
“They might as well have taken the door handles off,” Dee commented, and she
could see why only daylight appointments were being accepted.
      
“Thorough,” Joe confirmed as they saw someone had taken the cork tiles from the
bathroom. “Someone’s careful with their money.”
      
Which reminded Dee, so she asked the young Agent, “what happened to the last
owner?”
      
Looking distinctly nervous, she tried to flannel, “well, err, they, err…”
      
“Stop flannelling, are you trying to tell us they died?”
      
“Yes, but really you can’t tell.”
      
We’ll be the judge of that, Dee