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Chapter 1: Murder in the Kitchen

When people ask me to talk to their dead relatives, they usually ask, "Are they okay?" "What's it like to die?" or "Did you mind that I cremated you instead of burying you?" And the usual answers from their relatives happen to be "Yes", "You'll figure it out soon enough", and "No, you tosser." How do I know these answers, you ask? Well, my name is Rick Thane, I'm a qualified Spiritual Therapist, and I happen to see and speak to the dead.

I've been living in the UK for the better part of eleven years, three of which I've spent living in Bath with my wife Penny, who happens to be a ghost hunter. And while I do try and explain that there is a division between ghost hunting and a spiritual therapist, Penny still seems to land me in the mix with mediums, which I firmly disagree on.

In the past, I've despised ghost hunters, mediums and the like. The reason for this is due to the fact that the majority of them are fakes, and they annoy the spirits. So, I've disassociated myself with them. Well, I used to until about a week ago. You see, Penny had been contacted by Paranormal UK TV, asking if she would make an eight-episode series of paranormal investigations around the British Isles. Without thinking it through, she had accepted, signed the contract and was given £50,000 to put a new ghost hunting team together. I was nettled that she hadn't consulted this with me, but I was happy for her. She was finally being recognised for her nosiness in the painful deaths of people past. Well, I was happy until this morning...

Penny had made me breakfast in bed, which was quite unusual. Immediately I expected something fishy was going on. She smiled happily as she placed the tray on my lap and kissed me on the cheek. Wrapping her dressing gown around her, she sat on the side of the bed. 'Good morning.' I glanced down at my toast, eggs, hash browns and bacon. This was a special breakfast. She was going to tell me something I wouldn't like. 'Sleep well?'

'Of course. And you?'

'You never ask if I sleep well,' Edgar complained. I frowned in his direction. The old World War two-spirit was sat on one of the wicker chairs near the bedroom door. He had decided to follow me to Bath, saying that London was getting boring and he needed a change. Penny didn't like the fact that he was hanging around, but there was nothing either of us could do. He'd attached himself to me. 'You Yanks are so rude.'

'I slept very well, thank you,' she beamed. 'You going to eat it cold?' I began to dig in, but I knew what she was up to. While I had food in my mouth, I couldn't argue with her. Conniving woman. 'So, I have my ghost hunting team,' she began as I wolfed down one rasher of bacon. I thought that if I ate it quickly, I could hold a decent conversation without having food in my mouth. 'There's Rufus King; he'll be the cameraman and a technical specialist. Then there's Dannie Favre, she's helping with hair and make-up, and she'll be conducting the investigations with me.' I nodded; it was nice that she was having an actual crew rather than some Brady Bunch rejects like her last group that failed miserably. Penny had found a local paranormal group where most of them were in their late teens and would rather break into abandoned buildings than find spirits. 'And then there's Chris Perkins, who is a historian, and he'll also act as another investigator.'

I'd finished my hash browns. 'Only three additional people?'

She nodded. 'Yes, I've become frugal with the money the TV executives gave me.'

'Well, I'm glad you have a historian. You don't have to ask me to-' I stopped as Penny gave me a funny look. 'What?'

'Please don't shout. But I want you to help me run the investigations as one of the lead investigators.'

'No.'

'Oh Rick, come on! Can't you use your talent other than helping whinging people with their dead relatives?'

'That's not nice.' I placed the unfinished breakfast on the bedside table and threw the duvet off me angrily. 'People come to me for help. All your investigations are petty. Searching for spirits who want to be left alone.'

'That's not true!'

'Actually, it is!' Edgar and I said together. 'Look, nine times out of ten, those spirits are happy haunting whatever building they are in. You can't assume that you are helping people by barging into their domain and calling them out. It's stupid. You're not only pissing them off, but you look unprofessional doing it.'

'That's so American of you! You are so damn arrogant that you think you are right about everything.'

Walking into the en-suite, I started the shower. 'Ha, funnily enough, sweetheart, being arrogant usually means I am right. You've just got to understand one thing. You cannot see nor hear them. I can. Now, you can either listen to me and what they have to say or not. But I am telling you this. There is NOTHING that will make me help you in your ridiculous paranormal investigations. I have a practice, I have an income and a reputation, and I will not jeopardise it by going on television and parading around so that I can see and speak to the dead.'

'You have a gift, Rick. It needs to be shared.'

'No. It needs to be contained. I will not have us be made a mockery of!' As steam billowed around me, I closed the door and stepped into the shower. I had had enough of Penny discussing my being part of her crew. As I let the warm water pour over me, the door opened, and a blast of cold air threaded around my body. 'What the-'

'You think I'm a mockery?' Penny screeched.

'You shouldn't have said that,' I heard Edgar chortle in the background.

'You think I'm a joke?'

'Penny, I'm trying to have a shower. I have clients at ten.'

'Oh sure, you can go to work and earn money, and I have to look like a fool in front of thousands of people?'

'You think it'll be thousands, do you? Does Paranormal UK TV reach that many?'

Fuming, she reached for the flush. 'You wanker!' she shouted and slammed the door, just as a stream of freezing water poured all over me.

I must admit, I wasn't in the best of moods when I drove south of Bath to a little town called Frome an hour later. All I heard were Penny's words going around in my head. I knew I had upset her. And I didn't mean to hurt her feelings, but after all the years we have been together, did she still think I was some circus act to be paraded in front of the cameras? Didn't she know me at all?

I parked on the road in front of a large red-bricked Victorian house just outside of town. As I locked up my beat-up old 1996 red Ford Thunderbird, I saw something grey dash inside the garage on my right. I shook my head as I gripped tightly to my briefcase. This wasn't going to be easy.

I pressed the doorbell.

'Hello, who is it?' asked a gruff man's voice.

'Mr Boyce? It's Rick Thane. You asked for me?'

The door was opened, and a hunched, wizened-faced man grinned toothily at me. 'Ah yes, your that ghost fellow. Do come on in.' Entering the hallway, I instantly sensed sorrow, drawing me to the back of the house. 'Cup of tea?'

'Please. White, one sugar.'

'Ah, you're an American,' he indicated for me to follow him. 'Been there a few times. Not my scene. Too many fat people.'

'That's a bit harsh, don't you think?'

He chuckled. 'No, you misunderstand. I used to be in one of those fat camps you have over there. My family put me up to it when I was in my twenties. But I found it best to lose the weight on my own. It's how I met my wife, Vera.' He nodded to a plain framed photo. In it, I saw a pretty-faced woman wearing a floating blue dress laughing at the moment the picture was taken.

I didn't respond to that. I suddenly realised why I was called here, but I got the impression that Mrs Boyce had moved on.

Some ten minutes later, I was sitting in Mr Boyce's flower-patterned kitchen with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. My attention was entirely focused on a spot by the oven. Whoever had died in here didn't die from sudden death. It was prolonged.

'So, um, how does this work?' Mr Boyce finally asked me. 'Do you hold my hands? Or do we light some candles?'

I smiled. 'No, it doesn't work like that. There are a few questions I'd like to ask before we proceed. You want me to contact your wife, Vera?' He nodded. 'But she didn't die here, did she? She either died in a home or in the hospital?' His eyes widened.

'Yes. Did she tell you?'

'No, I am assuming this as I have the feeling that your wife didn't die here, and I must confess, she isn't haunting you, Mr Boyce. Vera has moved on.' I heard a creak coming from the hallway, as though someone had stepped on an old floorboard, but Mr Boyce didn't turn to look. Either he didn't hear it from old age, or he didn't hear it because it was a spirit. 'When I entered your home, I was drawn to this room, particularly to the oven. Someone passed away in this kitchen, and it took them a while to die.' I heard another creak; it sounded closer. 'I also think that whoever died is here listening to me, but they have, so far, not come out to reveal themselves. Either they have given up trying to get someone's attention or-' I suddenly stopped talking as I saw a shimmer of grey by the doorway. 'Or they think I am a fake and are unsure how I will react to them.'

'H-how do you know all this?'

'When I first arrived at your house, I saw something grey dart into your garage. I haven't got any feelings from the garage as I passed. But the same grey light I've just seen by the doorway.'

'Is it dangerous?'

I shrugged. 'I couldn't tell you; they don't want to reveal themselves to me.' Mr Boyce looked a little perturbed, so I tried a different tact. 'Why not tell me the reason you called me? I mean, you obviously believed that this spirit was your wife, but what things had happened?'

'Yes, I did. It's the odd things, you know? Keys thrown on the floor. Door opening. Toilet flushing during the night. I even hear whispers from time to time.'

I groaned. 'Right, well, from what you've just told me, I have now come to the conclusion that the spirit haunting this house is more likely a previous owner who maybe doesn't know they have died.'

'Oh, dear.'

'How long have you lived in this house?' I asked him as I began to move around the kitchen.

'Been here... about fifteen years.'

'And when did these occurrences start to happen?' I walked over to the oven and braced myself as I touched the lino floor. My fingers only touched for a second before I felt like I got zapped. Yelling, I pulled my hand away. 'Electrocuted... a man. He was electrocuted.'

'By my oven?' Mr Boyce asked.

'It wasn't your oven then. This accident happened some years ago.'

There was a sudden dull bang from upstairs, sounding as though something had hit the hardwood.

'Did you hear that?' Mr Boyce asked. 'I hear it now and again, only when I'm downstairs, though. I never hear it upstairs.' My eyes glanced at the doorway. There I saw a balding middle-aged man wearing a plain white vest and sopping wet sweatpants, glowering at me.

'I can see you,' I said, slowly turning to face him. The man gave me a quizzical stare and then pointed at Mr Boyce behind me. 'That's Mr Boyce. He lives here, he-'

'He buried his cat near where I was buried. Cremate me. I've had enough!'

'Whoa, what?'

'What is it?' Mr Boyce asked, frightened.

'Who are you? What's your name?'

'Jonathon Fletcher. My son-in-law killed me. He put a live wire on the floor and then threw water on me. I got shocked, but that didn't kill me. I had a stroke on the floor where he left me. That's how I died. He buried me in the back garden, claimed my benefits, told my daughter I'd moved to Spain with some floozy.'

'Is there any evidence to catch your son-in-law?'

The man smiled evilly. 'Got a piece of paper?'

Jonathon told me the address of his son-in-law, who, funny enough, lived in Bath and gave me the details of where the fraudulent papers were to catch him. And he also gave me an eye witness to the murder fifteen years ago, Mr Boyce's neighbour. I promised to take care of his body, and asking me to apologise to Mr Boyce, Jonathon Fletcher finally left.

'What the heck was that all about?'

'May I borrow your phone? I have to call the police.'

'Whatever for?'

I gulped down the rest of my tea. It was cold. And not something I enjoyed. 'You buried your cat some months ago, correct?'

'Yes, old Misty. H-how did you know I had a cat?'

'The previous owner of this house was a man called Jonathon Fletcher. He was killed by his son-in-law and was buried in the back garden. His son-in-law stole his benefits and told the rest of the family Mr Fletcher had moved to Spain. Jonathon apologises for upsetting you. I think he was just angry that you were so close to finding his body, so he acted out.'

'Oh bugger me.' Mr Boyce's face was drained of colour. He stared in space for a while, trying to come to terms with what I had found out. 'So, now what do we do?'

'I'm going to have to make up a little white lie. I need a spade to accidentally dig up Jonathon's body and then call the police, and then we'll go from there.'

'But my wife... s-she's not here?'

'No, I'm sorry. But it's a good thing that she's not hanging around. She's moved on.'

'And she's waiting for me?'

'I think she'd want you to live your life to the fullest, no matter what that entails. The dead wants their loved ones to live. We always meet up with them on the other side.'

Not two hours later, the street was buzzing with police, forensics, news reporters and a paramedic for Mr Boyce, who was shocked by the number of people flitting around his house and using up all his tea and milk to provide for. I was questioned several times by the police and was told not to reveal any information to reporters. One of the police officers I asked to speak to was an old client of mine who took a long time believing that his dead mother was demanding he gives his sister a pendant that he had forgotten to hand over during the reading of the will. PC Derek Satchill since that time was a closeted believer and groaned when I asked for a quiet word.

'Don't tell me there's a ghost involved in all of this?'

'Here.' I passed him the details Jonathon had told me. 'The son-in-law killed him. You'll have to go to his house and check through the old personal files of Mr Fletcher anyway. They are in the attic, by the way.'

Unwillingly taking the little piece of paper, he sighed heavily as though he was accepting a great burden. 'And what will I find?'

I shrugged. 'Accounts that Mr Fletcher's benefits are still going into an account that should have been stopped fifteen years ago when he died, and I think you'll find an eye witness to Mr Fletcher's murder. But what do I know? I'm only a Spiritual Therapist. Later Derek.' Clapping him round the back, I headed back home feeling rather pleased with myself. I'd done some good today, more than I have done in a long time.

Arriving home, Penny had changed her tune. Instead of being angry and shouting at me, she took a more childish route. To being angry and ignoring me. I passed the answering machine and saw two messages flashing. I pressed the button.

'This is a message for Mr Thane. My name is Cissy Cartwright. I'd like to discuss the incident that happened this morning at Mr Boyce's house. If you could give me a call on-' "Message deleted. Next new message." 'Hello, my name is Thomas Langdon. I'm with The Evening Gazette. I'd like to ask you-' "Message deleted. End of messages." Shaking my coat off, I threw it on the back of the chair and went into the kitchen. Penny didn't utter a single word as I got myself a sandwich and sat at the table, pouring over the files from this morning. Out of the corner of my eye, Penny's right foot twitched in irritation. She was desperate to know what had happened today, but she wanted me to apologise first. Hiding a smile, I continued with my snack.

'Okay!' she exploded, throwing her hands up in the air and jumping up. 'What happened today?'

Putting down my pen, I leaned back in the chair and smiled pleasantly at her. 'You want to know?'

'Oh, shut up. Just tell me. Reporters from all over the county have rung up, wanting to speak to you. I think they know your-'

'They know nothing. My client and I came up with a plan so that they wouldn't question any spooky happenings.'

Edgar popped his head around the door at the mention of spooky. 'Telling lies isn't a good thing.'

'Thank you, Dr Phil. You want me to tell the truth?' I asked him, and Penny tutted.

'Edgar's here again.' Penny frowned. 'You continue your boy talk until you're ready to talk to your wife.'

'My dear boy, do use your head. You'd end up in the loony bin for sure. I've watched your lovely wife trawl through that idiot box on programmes about ghosts and psychics. A load of twaddle if you ask me. You are the real deal, but you'd be hard done by the thousands of sceptics who don't fall for those fakes.'

'Then what do I do?'

'Earn admiration and respect gradually. Most of those men and women demand money from TV companies and their audiences. Penny has earned her funding from admiration and her results. They wouldn't have contacted her if she wouldn't make good TV. Whether you choose to make your gift public is, of course, your choice, but don't be harsh on Penny. She wants you to help her.'

'She's been talking to you, hasn't she?'

He shrugged. 'If you call whinging talking, then that's what she's been doing.' Edgar vanished, finally leaving Penny and me alone.

'Are you ready to speak to me?' She huffed.

I felt sorry for Penny. She was unusually tolerant of Edgar and me having conversations, and I realised earlier in our marriage that she was frustrated that she couldn't see nor hear him. Penny was obsessed with spirits. All she wanted to do was to capture them on camera and prove to the world that they existed. But all she caught were orbs of spirit energy or sounds off camera. The footage that she had caught many years before of Client number 23 and the family's house was above and beyond anything the paranormal world had seen. It was so huge, in fact, that the Church of England took everything off Penny and told her not to mention any of the events ever again. However, she had already caused a stir with some TV companies by this point. And it was only a matter of time before they gave her a contract.

Edgar was right. I had to help her. 'For better or worse,' I muttered to myself. 'I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'll help you with your programme thing.'

Her eyes lit up. 'You will?'

'Providing I'm not mentioned and I'm not filmed. I'll help you with the spirits, find out the ones you need to talk to, to get some activity.'

She squealed and ran to hug me. 'Thank you, thank you! And yes, I can accept those terms. Hang on, I want to show you the first castle.'

'C-castle?'

Penny raced off into the bedroom and, seconds later, brought me a brochure for a hotel. 'This is Lumley Castle in County Durham.'

'Up North, again? It's so cold up there!'

She ignored my complaint. 'It's a beautiful castle, and I wanted to start off with some tricky spirits. There's one that causes a bit of hassle, and I thought we could go and find out how many spirits are there.'

'When did you want to go? I have at least eight clients this week.'

'Good, because we're driving up next week.'

'You knew I'd say yes to this, didn't you?'

She smiled, remaining quiet. Sometimes, I think my wife knows me better than I do.