Demon on a Distant Shore by Linda Welch Page A

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