Ghost of a Smile (4 page)

“So we are assuming a supernatural death?” said Happy. “A supernatural killer? Oh dear. I can feel one of my heads coming on.”

“Could it be a werewolf?” Kim said brightly. “I used to love films about werewolves! I was up for a part in
Dog Soldiers 2
, before I was murdered.”

“More likely the Big Black Dogges,” said Melody. “They're not just a local legend; you get the same kind of phenomenon reported all over the British Isles. Dogges hunting . . . chasing, headless Dogges . . .”

“How do they smell?” said Happy. “Terrible!”

He broke into giggles again. Melody glared at JC.

“You let him dose himself again, didn't you!”

“He works better that way,” said JC.

He slapped Happy casually across the back of the head, and Happy stopped giggling immediately.

“Ow! That hurt!”

“Serves you right,” murmured JC. He knelt beside the murder stain again and considered it for a long moment. He gestured for Happy to kneel beside him. The telepath did so, careful to keep out of arm's reach, and glared at the murder site in a sideways fashion.

“Stop that,” said JC, not unkindly. “Look at the blood stain, Happy. Tell me what you See.”

“Blood,” Happy said immediately. “Lots and lots of it, and a hell of a lot of spattering. If a man had done this, I'd have said there was serious passion involved. I'm picking up anger, rage, hatred, revenge . . . But this still looks and feels more like an animal attack to me.”

JC nodded slowly. “Any ideas as to what kind of animal?”

“Old,” Happy said immediately. “And wild. Not feral, though; there was intent and purpose behind this. And . . . the rush is wearing off, and I'd really like to go home now.”

“Your metabolism eats pills alive,” said JC. He looked thoughtfully about him. “Bad places make ghosts . . . And this is a bad place. Made bad, long before Albert Winter was killed here. So what makes this factory building a bad place? There's no record of any work disaster, or any great loss of life, and yes, Melody, I do occasionally do my homework . . . The real question is why did Albert Winter die now, when this place has been worrying but basically harmless for so many years?”

“Hush!” Kim said suddenly. “Someone else is here with us. Someone living.”

“Retreat into the darkness, my children,” said JC. “Let us watch and learn.”

They quickly abandoned Melody's workstation to hide in the deepest of shadows at the nearest wall. An old man and a young woman came hesitantly through the open doors and advanced slowly into the great open space of the factory floor. The old man held up an old-fashioned storm lantern before him, the flame's soft yellow glow pushing back the gloom. They moved steadily forward, sticking close together, looking about them with keen interest. Neither of them seemed particularly scared or intimidated.

The old man was a stooped, fragile-looking black man, well into his seventies. He wore a battered jacket over a heavy sweater, faded jeans, and sensible shoes. His eyes were bright, and his mouth was firm, but his wrinkled face had sunk right back to the bone. His head was mostly bald, with little white tufts of hair above the ears. His stride was slow but steady, and he looked quietly determined, as though he had come to the deserted factory with some definite purpose in mind. And for all his evident age and fragility, there was something about the man that suggested he'd survived hard times and could survive more, too, if he had to.

The teenage girl at his side towered over him, big, black, and busty, with a strong face that held rather more character than was good for her. Or anybody else. She held herself with defiant pride and dignity, and wore a long, patterned robe over practical sandals. Her hair had been scraped back in tight cornrows. She walked beside the old man like a body-guard, but there was something in it of family, too. She held a mobile phone to her ear, then waved it about, trying for a signal, before swearing dispassionately and putting the phone away.

The old man stopped abruptly. The girl stopped with him and looked quickly about her. The old man held up both hands before speaking in a firm, rich, and carrying voice.

“Is there anybody here? Be not afraid, be not alarmed. We have come to talk with any who might remain here and to offer any help or aid that might be required. Please, come forward and talk with us. We are not afraid. We are friends.”

“Bloody cold in here, Gramps,” said the girl. “Cold and dark and a complete lack of comforts. Like most of the places you drag me to. Just once, couldn't we go ghost-hunting in a first-class hotel, or a nice pub, or a decent restaurant?”

“Quiet, child! Show respect for the spirits!”

“I am not your child, I am your grand-daughter, and I'm sure this is bad for me. I'll bet there's mould here, and all kinds of spores, waiting to be breathed in so they can break-dance in my lungs. You're not going to find any ghosts here, Gramps. For one thing, this place isn't old enough.”

“Hold your peace, child,” said the old man. “You only show your ignorance. Spirits accumulate in the dark places of the world, and this has been a bad place for many years. Have I not told you the old stories . . .”

“Yes, Gramps. Many times. But they're only stories. Something for old men to tell, when they're losing at dominoes and want to distract their opponents.”

“Stories have power, child. In many ways. Trust me when I tell you, the past does not lie easily here . . .”

“Well,” said JC. “Never let it be said that I don't know a cue when I hear one.”

He stepped briskly forward, and waved cheerfully to the startled old man and the girl at his side. “Hello, hello! Welcome to the dark and spooky and almost certainly haunted abandoned factory! Guided tours a speciality! Psychic phenomena guaranteed or your money back. I am JC Chance, of the Carnacki Institute for Finding Ghosts and Doing Something About Them. May I ask whom have I the honour of addressing?”

The teenage girl had actually jumped a little when he appeared, but the old man was made of sterner stuff. He stood his ground and held his lantern a little higher to spread more light. He looked suspiciously at JC, and Happy and Melody behind him. Kim remained in the shadows, being diplomatic.

“What the hell are you doing here?” said the teenage girl, moving quickly forward to put herself between her grandfather and JC.

“I'm JC,” JC said patiently. “And these are my colleagues in spiritual affairs, Happy Palmer and Melody Chambers. Don't let them worry you, they're supposed to look like that. It helps scare the spooks. We are here to investigate the unnatural phenomena surrounding the recent death of Albert Winter. Might I inquire what you're doing here?”

“Don't tell them anything, Gramps!” snapped the girl, matching Happy scowl for scowl. “We're not obliged to tell them anything. We don't have to justify ourselves. We've got as much right to be here as anyone!”

“Mind your manners, child,” said the old man, stepping past her to nod politely to JC and his team. “You were brought up to behave better than that. I am Graham Tiley, Mr. Chance. This is my grand-daughter, Susan. We are here to make contact with the spirits.”

“You've seen something?” said Melody. “What have you seen?”

“We haven't seen anything!” said Susan, still glowering at one and all. “But we're . . . interested. There have always been stories about this place, and Gramps lives for all that supernatural stuff, so when the murder happened, there was no keeping him out of here. We haven't done anything wrong!”

“Never said you had,” murmured JC. “Let us all put our claws away and play nicely. I think we're all on the same side here. Mister Tiley, would I be right in thinking that you have some personal connection to this place? Something that makes it important to you? You do seem to know your way around . . .”

“I used to work here, long ago,” said Tiley. “Haven't been back through those doors in twenty-five years and more. Not since the whole place was closed down, and I was laid off. Along with everyone else. Terrible day. All of us made redundant, just like that, after all the years we gave to the company. Can't say I was ever happy here; it was hard, repetitive work, and nothing much to show for it. But, the more I look back, the more I miss it. Not the work so much as the security. All the familiar faces, and the regular routines, knowing where you were going to be and what you were going to be doing, at every given moment of the day . . . There's security in that, and reassurance. I suppose you never know what you really value until someone takes it away from you.” He stopped, and looked at JC. “I don't usually open up like that to someone I've only met. There's something about you . . .”

“People always find it easy to talk to me,” said JC. “I'm a good listener. That had better not be sniggering I hear behind me . . .”

“You had other jobs, Gramps,” said Susan. “Some of them a lot better paying.”

“But they were just jobs,” said the old man. “Something to do, in the time that was left to me. Something to keep me busy till the pension kicked in. And they did mean I didn't have to spend so much time with your grandmother. A wonderful woman, my Lily, but best appreciated in small doses . . . She did so love to talk. She was very good at being reasonable, in a very wearing way . . . Where was I? Oh yes. This was the first job I had as a teenager, and I gave this factory the best years of my life. I saw more of this place than I did of my own children.”

“They understood,” said Susan.

“Did they?” said Graham. “I'm not sure I ever did. Now my Lily's gone, and both your parents work all the hours God sends . . .”

“You've got me, Gramps.”

“Yes,” Graham said fondly. “I've got you, child.”

Susan looked at JC challengingly. “Is that your high tech piled up there? I know state-of-the-art shit when I see it. You really think you can measure ghosts, weigh ghosts, pin them down, and open them up?”

“Sometimes,” said Melody.

Susan glared at her. “Who did you say you work for?”

“We're official,” said JC. “I'd leave it at that if I were you.”

“This is our haunting!” Susan said stubbornly. “We were here first!”

“You can't stake a claim on a spirit, child,” said Graham. “We heard things, Mr. Chance. People tell stories . . . and I heard more than enough to convince me there was something out here worth investigating. We might only be amateur ghost hunters, but I do have experience in this field. I am here to offer help and guidance to any lost spirits who might be . . . held here, for any reason. Help them realise that they're dead, but there is a better place waiting for them. Show them the peace and the protection of the Clear White Light.”

“Amateur night,” growled Melody. “All we need.”

“Quiet at the back,” said JC. “But the rude lady does have a point, I'm afraid, Mr. Tiley. It really isn't safe here. You should leave.”

“Young man,” Graham said sternly, “I have cleared seventeen unhappy places and left them calm and peaceful, untroubled by any unquiet spirit. I know what I'm doing. I intend to make contact with whatever troubled soul resides here. You are welcome to stay and help if you wish.”

“Help, not interfere,” said Susan. “No-one messes with my gramps, not while I'm around.”

“And what is it you intend to do?” said JC. “I'd really like to know.”

Tiley glared at him suspiciously, not entirely sure he was being taken seriously. “I have my own tried and trusted methods. I shall be about them. You and your colleagues can do as you please!”

And he stomped off into the dark interior of the factory, holding his storm lantern out before him, a pool of golden light advancing into the darkness. Susan looked after him, not sure whether he wanted her company. She scowled at JC.

“Official . . . What kind of official? You're not the police.”

“Heaven forfend,” said JC. “Let's just say we're professionals. We have a lot of experience in this field, enough to know that what's happening here isn't an ordinary haunting. Albert Winter didn't just happen to die in this place. Something lured him in here, then took its own sweet time killing him. And whatever did that is still here.”

Susan shuddered suddenly, despite herself. She could hear the truth in JC's calm voice. She looked over at her grandfather. “Gramps took up ghost-hunting as a hobby when he retired. Something to keep him occupied . . . But after Grandma Lily died last year, he's been taking it all a lot more seriously.”

“Am I to take it that you're not a believer?” said JC.

Susan snorted loudly, looking him over scornfully. “Of course not! I'm here to keep him company and see he doesn't get into any trouble. I've watched his back on a dozen cleansings and never seen or heard a thing. It's all empty rooms, shadows in the corners, and plumbing rattling in the walls. You know a lot about the killing; you sure you're not some kind of police?”

“How can I be sure, let me count the ways,” murmured JC. “Trust me, Susan, there isn't a branch of the police that would accept any of us on a bet. Except perhaps as Bad Examples. But there was a murder here, and we are looking into it. We are concerned as to how it may have happened.”

They all looked round as Graham Tiley came striding back, his footsteps echoing in the quiet. He stopped right before JC and looked at him sternly.

“I've had a look at your machines. Machines won't help you with the spirit world. Nor will official attitudes. It's all about prayer and belief and compassion. Spirits who are having trouble passing on respond best to the personal touch. Human contact, kindness, sympathy, positive attitudes. I'm here to talk and to listen, and to help if I can.”