A Cry From Beyond (25 page)

Back in
the house, we discussed what to do next.

“We must
call the police,” Jenny insisted, but Madam Lee overrode
her.

“No
police,” she said adamantly.

David was
about to protest, but she raised a silencing hand.

“No
police,” she said again, and with equal force. “This is not a
police matter.”

We all
stared in disbelief, momentarily lost for words.

It was
left to me to break the silence and voice everyone’s thoughts.
“Madam Lee, you’ve intimated Coogan is dead! It has to be a police
matter, surely.”

But she
was resolute. “They cannot help,” she said with ice cold
conviction. “You must understand: his killer cannot be caught using
conventional means.”

We waited
for her to elaborate, but it didn’t happen. She simply rose from
the table and asked to be escorted home.

“But how
on earth will you explain Coogan’s disappearance?” I
asked.

“Leave
it,” Jenny cautioned. “I’m sure Madam Lee knows what she’s
doing.”

The
clairvoyant left with David and Jenny. Rick and H stayed a while
longer, sharing a couple of cans of beer with me.

H,
looking deeply shaken by events, said, “Any ideas on what happened
here tonight.”

Rick,
looking equally distraught, stared blankly at the wall and said
nothing.

I drank
beer from the can, still trying to come to terms with the turn of
events.

“Come on
guys, one of you must have a theory?” H pressed.

Rick
continued to stare at the wall in stony silence.

H looked
to me for a response. “John?”

“Coogan
was taken,” I offered, unable to think of anything else to
say.

Rick
suddenly came to life. “But by what for Christ’s sake!

“By
whatever it is that haunts the cottage,” I said.

“You
really believe that?”

“Can you
think of a better explanation?”

We looked
at each other in horrified wonder.

It was,
quite simply, the mother of all mysteries.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It was
mid-afternoon when they arrived, pulling onto the cottage drive in
a Toyota van as old as the pyramids, with the word’s Roy’s Pest
Control Service painted along the sides. It was a different company
to the one that had visited shortly after I’d taken up residence at
High Bank. This company came highly recommended by the agent as
being reliable and professional. They were two hours late on this
occasion, which had me questioning the agent’s judgment.

A short
balding man with a particularly large gut emerged from the van,
wobbled a bit as he climbed out and was forced to hold the door in
order to steady himself. His ruddy complexion deepened to a bright
unhealthy red as he proceeded to cough harshly from the effect of
the unfiltered cigarette he was smoking. He was dressed in scruffy
white overalls and scuffed working boots. Unobserved behind the
window I followed his progress up the path to the front door,
wondering if he was competent, let alone effective. I answered the
inevitable knock, reminding myself that first impressions aren’t
always correct. So long as Roy, if that was the man’s name, had the
necessary knowledge and expertise, together with the correct
chemicals, I would be a satisfied customer, forgiving of his
inferior time keeping and presentation.

His name
was indeed Roy. He was an affable bloke with an easygoing manner.
He apologised for being late, “Bloody van broke down,” he explained
miserably. He bemoaned the cold weather, whilst rubbing his hands
together for effect, before finally turning his attention to the
matter in hand. He briefly returned outside to give the exterior of
the cottage the quick once over.

“Do you
think you can get rid of the beetles?” I asked.

“No
problem,” he replied confidently. “Beetles is easy compared to say
wasps. Wasps are nasty little bastards. If you don’t know what
you’re doing, you can be in serious trouble. Years ago I knew a
bloke who accidentally disturbed a big nest up in the attic of a
terraced house. He was a bit inexperienced and hadn’t bothered with
protective gear. By the time the wasps had finished with him his
face was swollen to the size of a bloody beach ball. He’d been
stung so many times he looked like an oversized pincushion. If that
wasn’t bad enough, he suffered an allergic reaction. He was in dock
for a long time, very nearly died at one point. He gave up pest
control after that.”

“You
don’t say.”

Up on the
roof the birds grew noisy and restless, as if irritated by Roy’s
presence.

“Never
heard birds that loud before,” he remarked glancing up at the
creatures. He handed me a grubby business card and formally
introduced himself as Roy Brown, proprietor of Roy’s Pest Control
Service. “Established since 1978 and still going strong,” he
proudly announced.

Inside
the house, Lennon greeted him with mild suspicion, growling in a
perfunctory manner. Now it was my turn to offer reassurance. Roy
inspected the living room, checking beneath the windowsills and
shelves and poking his head around corners and into nooks and
crannies.

“They
come mainly from beneath the potbelly and in the cellar,” I said as
I headed into the kitchen to put on the kettle, leaving him to
investigate further. I made tea and took a mug out to
him.

“What do
these beetles look like exactly?” he asked, raising the mug to his
lips.

“Like
beetles,” I said, stating the obvious, “What else would they look
like?”

“Are they
big or small, black or brown?”

“I can do
better than describe them to you,” I said, remembering I’d thrown a
dead one into the trashcan that morning. I showed it to Roy, who
explained with authority that it was a Sexton beetle.

“Technically known as Necrophorus mortuorum,” he announced
with authority.

“Is the
fact that it’s a Sexton beetle significant?” I asked.

“No idea.
Sexton beetles are normally associated with graveyards. Nature’s
little undertaker, they are.” He cleared his throat. “You see, they
are rather partial to the dead.” He looked at me curiously. “By the
way, did they find those missing people yet?”

By now,
the disappearances were common knowledge across the nation. Mike
had phoned to warn me that the big players belonging to the
national press were showing serious interest in events at the
cottage, and that I should prepare myself for further visits from
reporters representing major tabloids and television and radio
stations. The police continued to come and go and the structural
engineer had returned a couple of days back to carry out further
tests on the property’s foundations. There was even talk of
possible excavation.

“Strange
business, don’t you think,” Roy said gravely.

“I’m sure
they’ll turn up sooner or later,” I replied, the words belying my
true feelings.

“Let’s
hope so.” He re-examined the dead beetle he held. “‘Orrible little
bleeders, Sexton beetles, they like to feed on corpses. It’s odd
that they should be hanging around a house.” He changed the
subject, apologising for his unkempt appearance. “We’ve just done a
rush job: rat problem in a block of flats.”

“We?”

“My
apprentice, Jamie; he’s asleep in the back of the van: didn’t see
any reason to wake the poor beggar. Just had a tetanus jab at the
hospital in town, he has. Rat bit his finger, almost nipped the
bloody end off. Little bleeders, they are. Jamie needed three
stitches. He’s only been with me a week. Don’t like blood or
needles. Don’t like rats much now, either.” Roy chuckled to himself
before finishing the tea and placing the mug on the table. Then,
with sudden gusto he clapped his hands together, signalling he was
ready to start work in earnest.

“Right,
let’s get the little bastards,” he announced as he began the
process by checking beneath the potbelly.

“If you
can find an opening, you’re a better man than me,” I said as he
knelt to peer underneath. “Can’t see nothing,” he wheezed after a
few moments. “Doesn’t mean there isn’t a place they can get in,
though.”

He ran
his fingers along the uneven brick wall, pressing against the
mortar searching for cracks and weak points. He repeated the
procedure on the other side, before finally straightening up with a
loud groan.

Clambering to his feet, his knee joints popping like
gunshots, he asked to see the cellar. I followed him out into the
hall and motioned to the cellar door. Upon opening it he
immediately commented on the rank smell. “You haven’t got any dead
bodies down here, have you? Whoops, sorry mate, bad joke. It’s just
that it would explain the Sexton beetle’s, that’s all I
meant.”

I flicked
the light switch and together we descended the cellar steps. He
proceeded to take a long hard look around the subterranean room,
checking corners and any cavities, before finally raising his eyes
to the ceiling and scratching his balding head, seemingly at a
loss. Turning to me, he said, “I’m gonna take a look around the
rest of the cottage if you don’t mind and then I’ll check outside
again. Maybe they’re coming in through the chimney, or through a
subsidence crack in the outside wall.”

I left
him to inspect the rest of the house, including the attic room. He
re-appeared a few minutes later with nothing significant to
report.

“All I
can think is, there might be a void between the cellar and living
room floor. But it would have to be a nest or colony of them from
what you’ve told me.” He pursed his lips, deliberating. “I’ll be
honest with you: I don’t have a clue what the problem is. I’ve been
in the business for over thirty years and never come across this
kind of situation. The best I can do is to spray the place. I can
of course tear up the living room carpet and the floorboards to see
what’s underneath. But that would be expensive. If there is
infestation, the former should cure the problem. If not, you know
where we are.”

I gave
Roy the go ahead to start spraying.

“Don’t go
into the cellar for twenty four hours afterwards,” he warned. “The
stuff we use isn’t exactly good for your health and there’s no
ventilation down there. As for upstairs, that’ll be safe enough,
but I suggest you open the windows as a precaution.”

He went
out to his van, returning a few minutes later with a green cylinder
strapped to his back that resembled a diver’s oxygen tank, attached
to which was a hose with a spray gun. On his face he wore what
looked uncannily like a gas mask. He resembled a character out of
an old Ealing comedy.

“Stay out
the way,” he said, his voice muffled. “This canister contains
Tetramethrin, Bioallethrin and Bioresmetrin, making it inadvisable
to be in an enclosed confined space without the necessary
protection.”

He did
the cellar first, careful to close the door. In the living room I
stared at the heavily patterned floral carpet, wondering if the
problem really did lie in between the floorboards and the cellar
roof. I only hoped he was correct about the pesticide being strong
enough to cure the problem. When he returned upstairs from the
cellar, I took Lennon for a walk so as to keep out of harm’s way
while he sprayed the remainder of the house.

He was
upstairs finishing off upon my return. While he was doing that, I
made a sandwich I intended eating after he had gone and then sat
idly at the dining room table, trying my best to ignore the
unpleasant smell of chemicals. I soon grew bored waiting and made a
fresh pot of tea. Right on cue, Roy walked into the kitchen still
wearing the ridiculous mask.

“All done
up there,” he announced through his visor. He sounded as if he’d
been partially gagged. “Now for the fireplace,” he went on, but
then noticed the tea pot. “Wouldn’t mind one of them once I’m
done,” he said.

“Cure my
little problem and I’ll throw in a biscuit too,” I
promised.

Roy
smiled, “Fair enough, Mr O’Shea.” Instructing me to open the
windows in the living room he made his way over to the hearth,
which he sprayed diligently and with appropriate
restraint.

When he
was finished, he removed the protective mask and sat down, blowing
out his cheeks for effect.

“Phew,
gets warm with this thing on,” he remarked. He was perspiring
heavily. The pressure of the mask against his face had left thin
circular indentations around his eyes. “All done,” he announced. He
dropped the mask onto the kitchen worktop and gratefully took the
proffered mug of tea. Gathering his breath, he said, “Leave the
windows open as long as possible. Go for a walk or something. I
understand I’ve gotta send my bill to the agent.” He finished up
his tea and grabbed the mask. “I’ll see if Billy’s still alive,” he
said and headed for the door. “And don’t forget,” he added, “any
problems, just call.”

As soon
as he was gone, I settled down to eat the sandwich I had earlier
prepared. I spent the remainder of the afternoon working in the
attic room. By the time I was finished, it was getting dark.
Downstairs Lennon was restless. Deciding we both needed to stretch
our legs, I collected his lead from behind the kitchen door, donned
a heavy overcoat and together we ventured out into the chill early
evening air.