Silencing the Dead by Will Harker (ereader ebook .txt) 📕

had the brains to be whatever you wanted, but you were drawn to me, just like you were drawn to the filth.”

Timmo and a couple of the other husbands were standing around my Merc, blocking access to the driver’s-side door. I jerked my thumb sideways and they fell back readily enough. There was a smirk on Timmo’s face, however, that I didn’t quite like.

“You enjoy it,” Noonan laughed. “That’s why. The fear, the violence, the adrenalin. You can’t get enough, can you?”

I looked back at him. In their neat, ordered gardens, his pensioner tenants stood watching, their comfortable suburban smiles chillingly robotic.

“Maybe you’re right, Mark,” I said. “And maybe that ought to worry you, just a little. I’ll wait to hear from you about that favour.”

I dropped into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. Thank God the old Merc was an automatic so my left leg wasn’t required all that much. I’d forced myself not to limp to the car, but now the freshly-tenderised nerves in my kneecap started to scream. Leaning over to the cluttered glove compartment, I rooted around before eventually excavating the holy grail of half a box of paracetamol. I swallowed two tablets dry and then pulled out into the road.

2:36 pm according to the dashboard clock. Still plenty of time to make it back. Leaving Hounslow via the Great West Road, I rolled down the window and took a breath of cold, gritty air. I could smell the promise of rain on the breeze, and within half an hour, a few spots had started to streak my windscreen. The traffic on the M25 was heavy but moving, no trundling lorries hogging the fast lane as I sped the Merc around that dreary London orbital. With the dull ache of my head and the sickening pain in my knee, it was difficult to focus on anything except the road. Each time my thoughts strayed to the case, some bright new agony would make itself felt.

In the end, I decided to give up trying and turned on the radio.

“… and so despite the news that has leaked this morning, the Ghost Seekers team is adamant that the broadcast will go ahead as planned?”

“That’s right, Sinead. I’ve been in touch with the producers and they’re saying that, while Darrel Everwood is naturally devastated by his partner’s death, he knows that Sebastian Thorn would want the show to go on. In fact, Darrel claims that Thorn has already been in touch with him from the ‘other side’ and has urged him not to cancel.”

“Might be helpful if he also mentioned who murdered him,” I muttered.

“We have to remember that Darrel has a lot riding on the success of this Halloween special,” the reporter continued. “His celebrity stock has plummeted in recent weeks. The revelations about his personal life, and the challenge of Dr Joseph Gillespie, whose own pre-recorded documentary, Ghost Scammers, will air at the same time on a rival channel.”

“But you say Everwood is confident about the show?” the host asked.

“More than confident, Sinead. Here’s a clip of what he had to say to us earlier…”

The mockney accent was firmly back in place, but Darrel sounded more keyed up than ever. “No one is going to believe the shocks we’ve got in store. This isn’t just going to be a television event—it will stand as an epoch in world history. For centuries to come, our descendants will look back on this day and say, ‘That was the point when everything we thought we understood about life and death was changed forever.’ At eight o’clock this evening, I, Darrel Everwood, will shake the very fortress of mortality and allow the dead to return.”

Switching off the radio, I thought back to the phone call Everwood had received, the one after which his entire attitude towards the broadcast had changed. If the killer—or killers—were playing with him, then perhaps this time the plan was to mock their victim before he met his fate. Public humiliation preceding his ultimate punishment.

I was so caught up in this idea that I’d automatically slowed the car to a standstill before I realised what had happened. The motorway before me dipped gently downwards, and I could now make out half a mile of gridlocked traffic with the distant speck of a jack-knifed lorry tipped onto its side. Hundreds of engines were suddenly silenced as we all settled in for the long wait.

An hour passed. Then another. By five o’clock, I was still eighty miles from Purley and we hadn’t moved an inch. There were rumours among the other motorists that the crash had been a bad one with multiple fatalities. I threw another couple of paracetamols down my throat and called Tallis.

“Scott?” he said. “Where are you?”

I could hear the buzz of the fair in the background.

“Sorry, I had to call in on an old friend. Look, in case I don’t make it back in time, there’s something you should know.” I explained to him the possibility that we might be hunting two killers. When he started questioning me about my sources, I shut him down. “Just bear it in mind. I’ll be with you when I can.”

I ended the call just as the traffic started moving again. Still enough time if… The key turned uselessly in the ignition. Immediately, a barrage of horns blared behind me as my eyes snapped to the dashboard. The needle on the fuel gauge stood at empty. I had topped up the tank on my way over to Noonan’s so how the hell—? That smirk of Timmo’s face came back to me. Siphoning off my fuel—a petty prank he imagined might win him kudos with the boss.

“Little bastard,” I muttered.

In the end, a kindly Samaritan helped me push the car onto the hard shoulder, where I waited for a breakdown service to come to the rescue. They promised to arrive in half an hour. At six o’clock, the rain started in earnest, great sheets lashing the motorway, throwing up