Demon on a Distant Shore (8 page)

The kid stared at me with a fixed expression: desperation, disbelief, shock.

Jesus!
He wasn’t waiting for the car. He didn’t look at it; he thought I was smiling at someone behind him. He was dead.

I dropped my arms as the car pulled alongside. “Can I help you?” a woman with short dark hair asked.

“Um. . . .” Words failed me for a moment.

“I thought you waved me down,” she said uncertainly.

“We thought we recognized you,” Royal put in. “Sorry to have startled you.”

I slanted my eyes and gave him a little smile, a silent thank you.

The woman frowned and shook her head a little. “Not to worry.” Her face cleared as she smiled up at him. “It happens.”

Royal touched his fingers to an imaginary brim and gave her a sexy smile. The rat. “I hope we’re not holding you up.”

“Not at all,” she simpered. Then she checked her wristwatch. “Well actually, I should be going.”

And with one more ogle at Royal, she drove off.

I crossed the road to scooter-boy. Closer, the scuffs on his brown leather jacket, rips in his jeans, and the horrendous wound on the side of his head were apparent.

The lane is quiet this late at night. He sits on his scooter, looking through his pockets, and pulls out a half-empty pack of cigarettes. He’s surprised to hear a motor coming down the lane, because he can’t see one; it does not have its lights on. His lights are on and he faces the crossroads, so it will see him, but he should get off the road, just in case.

He stands, straddling the scooter, and swings his leg over. He sees the shiny outline of a big car as it catches the light from the cottage lamps. But the car speeds up. It’s coming too fast. Pushing the scooter by the handle-bars, grunting with effort, he puts on a desperate burst of speed and almost clears the road. The car clips the scooter’s rear wheel. He feels the impact but no pain as his bike slews, goes over, and his body flips through the air.

I shuddered and wished I had a drink to moisten my dry mouth and throat. “Do you realize what happened to you?”

“What business is it of yours?”

What business is it of yours?
Not,
how can you see me when nobody else can?

I may lose my temper with living people, but I am pretty good at keeping it where the dead are concerned. I have met all sorts - I would not let this boy’s surly tone rile me. “You were in an accident.”

“No kidding.” He spoke to Royal. “The woman’s ‘ilarious.”

I glanced over my shoulder to give Royal an apologetic smile. He had already figured it out, hence his explanation to the woman in the car. Now he just shrugged and leaned on the stone wall.

“He can’t see you,” I told the kid. “Just me.
Do
you recall what happened?”

“Yeah. I fell off me bike.”

I sighed internally. Were all British shades contrary? I jabbed one finger at the head wound. “You got that from a fall?”

“I weren’t wearing an ‘elmet.”

A car turned off the Salisbury road and came down the lane, so I scuttled back to the wall and waited till it went on past the church.

I walked back to the kid, folded my arms and just looked at him.

“Car ‘it me” he admitted. “Bleeding Darnel Fowler. Bombing along in ‘is Bentley with ‘is ‘eadlights off. Don’t understand it. I ‘ad me lights on. ‘E should ‘ave seen me.” He dropped his chin. “I woke up and lay ‘ere for ‘alf an ‘our before Mrs. Campry found me.” He nodded his head at the house behind him.

“Had he been drinking?”

He made a snorting noise. “Nah. Not when ‘e just got off work. I ‘eard Mrs. Campry say it were ‘it and run. Local boy killed, no witnesses, no suspects. Big event for Little Barra. Everyone like a flock of crows, looking at the blood on the road. Knew Darnel kept ‘is mouth shut when ‘e turned up ‘ere looking shocked as the rest of them. ‘Poor kid,’ ‘e says. “‘We’ll find out who did this,’ ‘e tells me mum.”

I paced around him as I spoke. “When did it happen?”

“Dunno. Lost track of the days.” He turned his head to watch me.

I fingered my chin, looking him and his scooter over. “Did he take anything of yours?”

“Why you asking all the questions?”

“We’re detectives. We might be able to help you.”

“Gonna bring me back to life are you? ‘Cause that’s the only way you can ‘elp me.”

“I can’t make promises, but maybe we can bring this Darnel Fowler to justice.”

Maybe sixteen, he looked at the distant downs. His long brown hair framed a thin face with just a shadow of whiskers on the chin. “Makes no difference to me.”

“But your parents . . . finding your killer might bring them closure.”

His head whipped back to me, his voice came out softer. “Me mum was upset, not just with me dying, ‘cause the coppers weren’t any ‘elp.”

“
Coppers?”

Royal cleared his throat to get my attention. “The police.”

Oh. “Then give us a chance. What’s your name, where does Darnel Fowler live, and
did
he take anything of yours?”

He swung one leg over the scooter and sat sidesaddle. “Name’s Johnny Marsh and Darnel didn’t take anything of mine.”

Drat. No evidence to be found with this Darnel Fowler.

“Hm.” I paced around some more. The far side of the bike was battered and scraped, the gas tank crunched in. An idea sparked. “Do you know what happened to your scooter?”

It was a long shot: Darnel Fowler’s car could have paint on it somewhere. A forensic team would find some, even if Fowler cleaned up. But could I persuade the police to look at the car? This was not Clarion or Salt Lake City. Here, I was unknown. I couldn’t go to the local police and tell them I was psychic and knew who killed Johnny Marsh. Well, I could, and be laughed at, or arrested.

But first things first. My mind went a mile a minute and it felt good.

“Mum kept me gear.”

“How do you know?”

He pointed down the lane at the last cottage. “That’s our ‘ouse. Was our ‘ouse. She took all me stuff with ‘er when she moved away. I remember that, it were just yesterday.”

So the poor kid sat here and watched his mother load her entire house, her entire life and his, in a moving van and drive away. “You know where she moved to?”

“Basin’stoke.”

I glanced back at Royal again. “Basinstoke?”

He nodded. “Basingstoke. Not far from here.”

“Where can we find Fowler?” I asked Johnny.

“Lives in The Close, but if you want to take a look at ‘im, ‘e sings in the church choir and they practices tomorrow afternoon.” Johnny nodded at the church. “Very upstanding member of the community is Darnel. Never misses a Sunday service.”

“What time?”

“They starts at eleven, finishes round one.”

 “There could be paint from your scooter on Fowler’s car.”

“You’re a clever one, aren’t you.”

I heard a small sigh behind me. Poor Royal, the observer of a one-sided conversation, again. Although my ghostly friends and acquaintances have helped us out in several cases, he still runs on faith.

Johnny broke in on my silent musing. “Why you doing this for me?”

“I’m just a big softie.”

I ignored the barely suppressed wheeze of laughter from Royal.

Why do I help them? How can I not? Ignoring them would eat at me. Whether his killer is in prison or living a normal life - in whatever form it takes - makes no difference to the shade of the victim, he lingers nonetheless. But a killer should be punished. He should not be living a
norma
l life while his victim is doomed to an un-life. And the perp will hopefully take his final breath after not too many years if his place of incarceration supports the death penalty. When that happens, the shade will pass on to wherever they go.

I mentally kicked myself. As if finding the Nortons was not enough of a chore, I now had to do what I could to put Johnny’s killer behind bars.

I told Royal everything Johnny had said as we walked back to the inn.

“Hm, I wonder how his mother came to move away so quickly.” he said.

“Probably couldn’t stand living right where her son died.”

“I can see that, but surely it is an ongoing investigation.” He hiked one shoulder. “Well, Basingstoke is close and she is not a suspect. Law enforcement had no reason to ask her to remain in the immediate area.”

We checked out the lunch buffet at the Hart and Garter. Salads, sandwiches cut in quarters, three different quiches, fresh fruit - it appealed to me. But Royal suggested we try the menu.

“We’re lucky, they are serving a traditional British menu today,” he told me, then emphasized: “
Very
traditional.”

The twinkle in his eye and smirking lips should have warned me, but I naively followed him back inside. We went along the passageway and past the stairs to the restaurant. Situated in the middle of the inn, the small square room had no windows, imprisoning air heavy with the smell of roasting meat. Tables to seat between four and eight people were crushed together with little space between them. Seating arrangements like these are one of my pet peeves, as you have to squeeze into your chair lest you pull it out too far and smack one at another table.

A waitress with a laden tray came through the swinging doors of what had to be the kitchen, and stopped to tell us to sit anywhere we liked. Not that we had a choice with only one unoccupied table. We settled in chairs and I unfolded the menu which lay on the white linen tablecloth.

Lucky
? I thought as I read it dubiously.

Steak and Kidney Pudding.
No way. The Brits may like animal’s insides, but not this gal. And Royal knew it.

Steak and Ale Pie.
That sounded better.

Toad in the Hole?
Come on now, this menu’s a joke, isn’t it?

Seeing my expression, Royal asked, “Is something wrong?”

I didn’t want to be rude, but this was too much for me to stomach. The French eat frog’s legs and snails, so maybe the English enjoyed chomping down on big fat toads, but the visuals it evoked made me ill. I pushed the menu away with the tips of my fingers, as if it were dirty.

I kept my voice low. “They eat toads.”

He almost fell off the chair laughing. My face grew hot, so I knew it must be bright red.

Because an unrestrained belly-laugh is contagious, I expected other diners to join in. I glanced around, and several did meet my gaze with a polite smile, but most concentrated on their food as if a maniac had not become hysterical right before their eyes.

“Sausages,” he choked out. “They’re sausages.”

Scowling, I ducked my head. I would
not
ask why sausages were called toads, and definitely not ask about the hole they were in.

I glowered at him as I poked the menu with my forefinger. “This is why you wanted to eat inside, so you can laugh at me. You knew what I’d think of their menu.”