‘It’s a marshmallow world in the winter
When the snow comes to cover the ground
It’s time for play, it’s a whipped cream day
I wait for it the whole year ’round.’
Joe caught Charley and Annie staring at him. ‘I don’t know where that come from,’ he grinned. His face was red, and glowing from the fire.
The fire created some warmth for their chilled bodies as they waited with anticipation for the arrival of the on-call pathologist, Davis Chevelle. The air around the fire was hot, but the wind was building, and it swept the red-hot embers away, thankfully in the opposite direction.
‘My mother would’ve rejoiced to see the back of this place. She’d often warn us off when we were kids. “Don’t run to me when you’ve scared yourself witless,” she’d say.’ Joe made a pretty good attempt at mimicking a woman’s voice. It made Annie chuckle. ‘She was a believer in the paranormal, my mother.’ Laughter lines crinkled at the side of his tired eyes. ‘Worst thing she could have done though. It was like throwing down a gauntlet to a group of bored kids!’
Charley smiled. ‘Maybe it was an era thing, the folklore passing through their generation. My granny told me tales passed down from our ancestors, which I guess was all they could do, since many wouldn’t be able to read or write. My late grandpa was a farmer who regularly spoke of the dire consequences we would face, should we upset or offend the mischievous, hairy little man he called the Hob that apparently came with the farm.’
‘Believers, I guess, would also say that this is evidence that ghosts are real?’ said Joe.
‘Sceptics see it as the continuation of belief, each ghost the echo of its antecedents,’ replied Charley.
Annie’s eyes, sore from the smoke looked mesmerised by the content of the conversation she was party to. ‘Whatever, she’s has got me putting a jug of milk out for the Hob every night, rather than witness his wrath!’ she told Joe.
Charley looked back at the house and sighed, ‘I must admit that as I’ve grown older I’ve become more interested in the paranormal, but I think it’s the detective in me. Always trying to get to the crux of the matter.’
‘Apparently, the idea of ghosts are hard to shift from our psyche; it’s too deeply rooted,’ said Annie.
‘I guess you could call them the equivalent of Japanese Knotweed then!’ said Joe wrapping his hand around a wayward bunch of greenery, pulling it out of the ground and tossing it onto the fire.
‘I read somewhere only recently that, due to modern-day technological advances there are those who want to consign ghosts to the scrapheap of redundant beliefs, but yet more people are said to believe in ghosts than they do God these days,’ said Annie.
‘I bet that’s true, and I bet there are probably still more people who don’t believe in ghosts but won’t spend a night in a haunted house, because deep down they do believe in ghosts, at least just enough to get scared,’ said Joe.
‘Who’s to know what’s true, and what’s not true?’ said Charley.
‘We all know how Chinese whispers can get twisted, don’t we?’ Annie said. ‘The rumours are enough for me though. I wouldn’t want to spend a night inside there.’
‘Well hopefully, if the pathologist gets a shifty on, you won’t have to!’
Annie pulled a face. ‘On a positive note, there’s one thing we aren’t waiting for, and that’s a paramedic to pronounce that they’re dead.’
Annie’s mobile rang. Ear to the phone, she relayed the message to Charley. ‘Mike Blake and Ricky-Lee are on their way,’ she said.
‘Good, we need a separate exhibits officer for each body.’
‘Why?’ said Annie.
‘We need to treat them as separate crime scenes, so that there is no confusion, or contamination.’
They looked up as Senior CSI Neal Rylatt made his way through the garden to join them near the fire. ‘Well, I guess you’ll be pleased to hear that Professor Davis Chevelle’s ETA is ten minutes,’ he said.
Chapter 7
Davis Chevelle was clever, and had a reputation for having a loud mouth, but that wasn’t the first thing that people noticed about him. Presently he was insisting that he did not have a Napoleon complex, when he came into Charley’s earshot, accompanied by Mike Blake.
‘That bastard was five-foot six, what did he ’ave to complain about?’ bellowed Davis. ‘I was born yelling, and I guarantee it’ll be the thing people will remember about me.’ He laughed, showing an overly large set of pearly white teeth, in an exceedingly wide smile. ‘I have to do something to make sure I’m not swept underfoot,’ he said, stepping forward and offering Charley an extended hand. His demeanour changed immediately as he spoke to the SIO and he became serious-looking. ‘Well, hello, I’m Davis Chevelle,’ he said, in an unexpected deep, rich, velvet voice. ‘I do believe you have been waiting for me?’
At four-foot one, Davis stood out in a crowd. He was stocky, muscular, and generally misunderstood, or so he said. He had a mass of wispy brown hair, goatee beard, small, dark, round spectacles, and with his colourful mismatched clothes, he could have been mistaken for a court jester. Standing between the lean, smart, clean-shaven DS Mike Blake, and the ever-suntanned DC Ricky-Lee, he looked like a French bulldog in drag.
Davis’s unique way of working, and his inordinately loud mouth preceded him, but no matter, as Charley needed him, as she desperately required his expertise on the two separate scenes, with the two skeletons at differing stages of decomposition.
Davis carried a pair of lightweight, brightly coloured, plastic folding ladders with him as Charley led the way back into the
