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
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
Similar Books
