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The Case of the Haunted Cot

Mark Bateman


THE CASE OF THE HAUNTED COT

  The Price & Miller Mysteries: Book 1

  By Mark Bateman

 

  Text copyright © 2013 Mark Bateman

  All Rights Reserved

  Acknowledgements

  All of my friends and family have been supportive, and I love them for it. However, there are two people I would specifically like to thank.

  My partner, Becky, for being supportive and encouraging, even when it meant me being less than useful around the house.

  And my good friend David Morgan, whose honesty and editing skills helped me immeasurably. Any good bits are that good because of him. Any bad bits are entirely my own.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Preview of The Case of the Exploding Granny

  Chapter One

  Sophie Fullwood threw back two more ibuprofen, hoping this batch would be the one to diminish her throbbing headache. Replacing the pack on the kitchen work-surface, Sophie left it where it was obvious, fully expecting to return to it later. She was lightheaded, feeling out of touch with reality, but not enough to escape its pain. Maybe if she took a few more pills it would help. Maybe if she downed the whole pack.

  Forcing her head up, Sophie was unsure how long she’d been standing in the kitchen staring at the painkillers. She tried to look away from them, but there was little else to focus on other than the cracked kitchen wall tiles.

  It was too quiet. For the last several days Sophie had switched between turning on the TV or radio, occasionally both when she was desperate to escape her thoughts. What was on was irrelevant; she never paid attention. What mattered was the noise, the distraction. And conversation was out of the question; the only person she could speak to here was her husband, and there was nothing but awkward silence when they were in a room together. There was simply nothing to say. Although fairly certain he was in the bedroom now, Sophie wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Keith had actually left the flat and she’d failed to notice.

  Drifting into the living room, Sophie intended to switch on the TV, to whatever was the loudest channel she could find, most likely a music one. She was almost within reach of it when she heard the first noise. It was difficult to tell what it was, but it sounded akin to several people whispering at once.

  It was barely audible, and wouldn’t have been heard at all if the flat hadn’t been utterly silent.

  She turned around, the noise having come from that end of the room. There was nothing to see; the room was its usual dark, shadowy self. She’d left the kitchen light on, so there was some light coming through the open doorway, but little of it reached the opposite side of the room where the stereo sat. There were a couple of windows in the living room, but the curtains were drawn for both — and had been almost constantly for the last week — and only a small amount of twilight came through the edges. The only thing that stood out within the room, and she hadn’t noticed it immediately, was the small red light from the radio.

  Did she leave that on? No, she was certain she hadn’t. And Keith wouldn’t have turned it on; he preferred the silence.

  She started towards the radio. It was large, and almost old enough to qualify as a family heirloom. Soon, with the death of tape and the digital switchover, it would be completely useless, as even the CD player was struggling to do its job.

  Less than three feet away, she heard the static, and stopped. It was quiet, but it wasn’t staying that way. As she stood there, she could have sworn it became louder. And why static? If it was still programmed for the last station she listened to, she wouldn’t have been listening to empty static no matter how much she liked noise.

  And there was something else.

  There.

  In the background.

  She took the last few steps to the unit, unconsciously placing her hand to the volume knob, turning it up further.

  Yes, there was something beneath the static — a strange but familiar sound. Sophie listened carefully. The static increased, but so did whatever was behind it. Was that the radio station she’d listened to last? No, it wasn’t the sound of music. Neither did it sound like somebody speaking, at least not coherently.

  As the background sound became clearer, Sophie felt weaker. She started to sweat. Her heart pounded in her chest so hard it might have broken a second time.

  It was the sound of crying.

  A baby’s crying.

  And not just any baby.

  No.

  Sophie collapsed to the floor, tears rolling down her face. She tried to speak, to shout out to her husband, but it was impossible.

  Chapter Two

  Joseph Miller and the show’s host sat in the middle of a large stage, facing each other, with several TV cameras aimed at them. There was an empty chair next to Miller, making him wonder if he would have to sit there quietly and politely while she interviewed her next guest. Would they expect him to join in the conversation? The producers backstage had been unhelpfully vague on what would happen after his segment.

  ‘So do you feel you have seen things beyond science’s understanding?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Miller. ‘Maybe not everything I’ve seen will remain unanswered to science forever, but there are many amazing, incredible things out there that cannot be explained, only experienced.’

  ‘And you’re a born-again Catholic, right? Did something specifically happen that drew you to Catholicism? It’s not something you go into in your book.’

  ‘My religious experiences and my paranormal ones, I certainly feel, are linked, but I didn’t want to push those beliefs onto others. The book was about paranormal experiences and evidence. It was never about God and religion, although they matter to me just as much, if not more.’

  Feeling the heat from the huge lights, Miller’s armpits became sticky. He hoped it wasn’t obvious to the people watching from home. He could even taste the salty sweat as it dripped down his face.

  ‘And do you have any difficulty in bringing those two aspects of your life together? What with the church taking the official standpoint of not believing in many of these paranormal events.’

  ‘That’s a good question,’ Miller said. ‘I personally have not found it difficult in the slightest. There is no shortage of open-minded individuals. I’ve certainly never experienced anything other than support.’

  The host’s eyes darted to her left, where her ear-piece was, then quickly focused on Miller again.

  ‘And your new book — your first book — is out … Friday?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

  ‘Thank you very much for coming on the show,’ said the host, reaching across to shake his hand.

  Instinctively, Miller wanted to get up and leave, but he’d been told to stay there until the commercial break. It seemed curious to Miller that nobody would tell him what the next part of the show was, and why it was so important that Miller witness it, but apparently it was.

  ‘We have a special treat for you next,’ the host said, effortlessly turning from Miller to the currently live camera. ‘Just one of many tonight. He is one of the nation’s best psychics. Please welcome to the stage, Mr Trenton Price.’

  There was a thund
erous round of applause, which Miller joined in on, despite having no idea who Price was. Apparently he wasn’t alone, as quite a number of audience members were turning to those next to them with a questioning look. Although this wasn’t entirely surprising — the audience was purposely made up of people that hadn’t decided if they believed or not — it did raise the question of just how famous Price could be.

  Price came out dressed fully in black, sauntering towards the front of the stage, close to the audience. He looked exactly as Miller expected a TV psychic to look, and Miller wondered how much of that was his doing or the wardrobe department’s.

  Scanning the audience members for maybe twenty seconds, Price looked as though he were searching for a familiar face. Eventually, he found his subject. First he pointed to her, not with just a finger, but his whole hand. Then he pressed the same hand against the side of his head, as if he had a slight headache.

  ‘You’ve lost somebody close to you,’ he said to her slowly, but with confidence.

  She nodded, although the motion was unnecessary. The shock on her face was strong enough that everybody knew instantly that Price was right. Miller leaned forward, intrigued; most psychics start off vaguer, uncertain of their messages.

  ‘I see an older woman,’ Price said. ‘Grandmother, great-aunt maybe. You were close.’

  ‘My granny!’ the woman blurted out. ‘She died almost a year ago.’

  From where Miller sat, he could see Price’s face in profile. All but one of the TV cameras were aimed at him. One in particular had moved in close to Price, focusing on the confident, calm smile.

  ‘You still miss her,’ Price said. ‘She died before her time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Illness?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cancer?’

  The woman in the audience simply nodded, tears welling-up. If Price noticed, he did nothing to reassure her. Miller assumed because he was concentrating on his psychic connection.

  ‘I’m hearing a ka sound, does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘Catherine! Her name was Catherine!’

  ‘I thought as much.’

  He is good, Miller thought as he turned back to the show’s host. She was watching Price, smiling, but Miller thought he detected something forced in the smile, as if repressing anger. But there was nothing that might have annoyed her, so Miller assumed he was imagining it and returned his attention to Price.

  ‘You have a … daughter?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘She’s lovely. Caring, but feisty.’

  She smiled again, while wiping away her tears. A number of people in the audience were becoming emotional themselves; perhaps empathising with her sorrows, perhaps remembering their own.

  ‘And you’re worried your daughter won’t remember your grandmother?’ Price said. ‘At least not the way you do.’

  ‘She was an important part of my life. My daughter always found her intimidating.’

  ‘Your daughter didn’t get on well with her; she never got to see the woman you knew.’

  The audience member’s tears were flowing faster now. A small round of applause went around the room. Some people clapped enthusiastically, others did it tentatively, as if their sounds might disrupt his abilities.

  ‘She’s here now,’ Price said. It was clear from the joyous look on the woman’s face that this was exactly what she’d hoped to hear. ‘She has a message for you.’

  ‘Yes?’ the woman said, standing up.

  Price took a couple more steps forward. Any more and he’d have been in the front row.

  Miller took the moment to look at the host again, and this time there was no mistaking it. She was chewing on her bottom lip, and eyeing Price up with a deadly stare. Had he done something to upset her?

  Price opened his mouth to begin the message, but it seemed to hang there for a few seconds before he could speak again. His concentration was enough to look painful. Nobody rushed him, though; it couldn’t have been easy contacting the dead.

  ‘You’re …’ Price started. ‘You’re … an utter brain-dead moron.’

  Silence. Everybody in the room stared at Price in confusion as they replayed the words in their minds, waiting for them to make sense. Except, Miller noticed when turning to her again, the host. She was angry — outraged even — but by no means did she seem confused or even surprised.

  ***

  ***

  ‘Seriously, none of it real,’ Price said. ‘Seriously, you’re a moron.’

  Everybody in the audience stared at him like cows staring at an oncoming train. Except the woman herself; she stared like the train had already hit her.

  ‘But …’ she started, quickly losing what Price could only assume was deemed an intelligent thought before the harsh light of reality shined down on it. ‘But you knew my grandmother was dead.’

  ‘I knew somebody was dead by the forlorn but hopeful look on your face every time one of the “psychics” entered the room,’ Price said, stressing the word psychic with air quotations, a cliché he avoided for all but the most sarcastic of circumstances. ‘I guessed she was old because, well, they die more.’

  ‘Her name!’ the woman said, her voice defiant but panicky. ‘You knew her name was Catherine.’

  ‘You knew her name was Catherine. I merely asked whether a ka sound held any meaning to you. Tell you what, let’s do an experiment.’

  Price turned to the rest of the audience, holding out his arms as if intending to give them all hugs. Thankfully for everybody — including Price — that wasn’t the case.

  ‘Right then,’ Price said. ‘Everybody with a ka sound in any important words in your life, please raise your hand.’

  Price raised his hand, just to make sure the slower members of the audience understood the concept. Not a single person copied him. Price was perturbed, but only for a moment.

  ‘Oh I get it,’ he said, ‘you’re not playing anymore. Well my point still stands.’

  ***

  ***

  Back at the centre of the stage, Joseph Miller was still in shock. He placed his hand over his lapel mike and leaned in as close as he could to the host. When she noticed him — which wasn’t at first, as she was too distracted by Price — she put her hand over her own mike.

  ‘Aren’t you going to do something?’ he asked her.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘How about stopping him? It’s like watching some hideous crossbreed of Richard Dawkins and Jeremy Clarkson.’

  As they spoke, Miller could still hear Price throwing abuse at the distraught audience member, ridiculing her belief in the supernatural, and her previous belief in him.

  ‘I can’t.’ To her credit, she did appear genuinely sorry.

  ‘It’s your show!’

  ‘It’s the producers’ show, and they got him on it for a reason.’ Her eyes shifted to lock onto Miller’s directly, telling him that she wasn’t happy with this decision either. ‘Treating people like crap gets ratings. Welcome to reality TV.’

  ***

  ***

  ‘You even knew my daughter’s age!’ The audience member was nearly yelling the words in protest.

  ‘I guessed your daughter’s rough age, and it wasn’t hard. Seriously, what is this? Do you think if you argue enough I’ll admit I can do magic?’

  ‘And do you think if you attack her with enough rationalisations she’ll suddenly turn atheist?’

  Intrigued, Price turned to the new voice, a sadistic smile on his face. There was a man standing at the centre stage, taller than Price, and his chest was puffing out with the deep breaths he was taking. Ohhh another challenger. Price tried to recall the man’s name, but he’d been paying no attention during the preceding interview. Michaels, was it? Muppet? Miller!

  ‘If she has a brain — yes. I’m guessing she doesn’t. The reason I got so much right is because she’s so painfully average.’ Price turned back to the audience member, feeling completely cocky, and certain that he’d
earned the right to be. ‘I bet you even lost your virginity at seventeen.’

  Her mouth dropped open; she didn’t need to answer.

  ‘See,’ Price exaggerated the cockiness to make sure there was no way Miller could miss it, as that was always a fantastic way of pissing people like him off. ‘Simple statistics. Most women in her age bracket lost their virginity at seventeen. I like to call it the year of spelunking.’

  With this, Price swaggered towards Miller, covering the distance slowly, savouring it.

  ‘So you leave no room for something else? Something powerful in the human mind?’

  ‘The only thing powerful in the human mind is human stupidity. Everything I got was from probability and logic.’ Price took a deep breath, as if about to burst into song. ‘I guessed she’d have a child because her grandmother and mother obviously gave birth young, and young mums’ daughters often become young mums themselves. She’d have to be in her early teens about now. I had a fifty-fifty chance of guessing whether she was a girl or boy, unless she has a lot more to worry about than a moronic mother.’

  Although not done yet, Price interrupted his rant and his strutting for a brief glance back at the audience member. Her chair was empty. Price felt irritated and, buried deeply, the tiniest bit of shame. Chances were, she would now go away and find another “psychic” to tell her the exact same things, taking nothing away from this experience.

  ‘And she just lost a grandparent,’ Price continued. ‘Of course at some point she’d have worried about her daughter not knowing her. And while we’re talking about the grandparent, I guessed cancer. It was an elderly lady with an illness; I had a pretty good chance of getting a hit there. Did I miss anything?’

  ***

  ***

  Miller decided to take up the journey Price started and calmly walked the final few steps between them.

  ‘Do you think that little rant proves all spiritual experiences are fake?’

  ‘I think that when anybody looks into these experiences with an ounce of logic they’re revealed to be utter crap. What does that tell you?’

  Miller locked eyes with Price. He wasn’t about to let this arrogant atheist win.

  ‘That your mind is closed,’

  ‘And yours is leaking.’

  Miller suspected Price had that one ready. He was annoyed at himself for not having anything to instantly throw back at him. Some part of him, being held down in the back of his mind against its will, told Miller that this was childish and he should try to end it quickly and maturely.