A Whispering Of Ghosts Read online

  A WHISPERING OF GHOSTS

  A SHORT STORY

  BY

  DAVID LEADBEATER

  Copyright © 2013 by David Leadbeater

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher/author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Other books by this author:

  The Bones of Odin (Matt Drake #1)

  The Blood King Conspiracy (Matt Drake #2)

  The Gates of Hell (Matt Drake #3)

  The Tomb of the Gods (Matt Drake #4)

  Brothers in Arms (Matt Drake #5)

  Chosen (The Chosen Few Trilogy 1)

  The Razor's Edge (The Disavowed #1)

  Walking with Ghosts (A Short Story)

  Connect with David on Twitter - @dleadbeater2011

  Visit David’s website – www.davidleadbeaternovels.com

  Follow David’s blog - http://davidleadbeaternovels.blogspot.co.uk/

  All helpful, genuine comments are welcome. I would love to hear from you.

  [email protected]

  Dedication

  This one’s for the best green-blooded crew that ever graced Mcarthur Glen . . . you know who you are.

  CONTENTS

  PART 1

  PART 2

  PART 3

  PART 4

  PART 1

  Josie Leigh pushed through the station doors out into a balmy summer’s day. Another gruelling but satisfying night shift over, and already her head was full of her daughter, Emily. Today would be a mother-daughter day, a girlie day, or, in Emily’s words ‘all girlies, no boylies. She would take her daughter for a new school uniform, grab dinner at the Pear Tree and then, later, after Emily lay dozing in her sweet dreamland, watch one of the old horror films she loved so much before drifting into an exhausted sleep.

  No work tomorrow, though. Maybe she and Simon could do something.

  Through months of practice, she had found the right spot to park her car at night so that it stayed in the shade throughout the next morning. So important for that initial ‘feel-good’ feeling when heading home. Now she unlocked her door and was about to slip into the driver’s seat, when a shadow passed across her peripheral vision.

  Quickly, she looked up. This would be a human interaction. The dead never contacted her at work.

  Jeff Richardson, one of the oldest members of the force, stood staring at her from six feet away. She saw the glimmer of pain in his eyes and knew the cause. Her heart instantly melted.

  “Hey, Jeff.”

  “Josie.” Jeff Richardson’s eyes dropped, his body language betraying his awkwardness and embarrassment. “I. . . .”

  “It’s okay, Jeff. Take your time.”

  Josie walked around the front of her car and leaned against the bonnet. Jeff Richardson’s granddaughter – Millicent – had died recently whilst on holiday in Spain. She had fallen from the hotel balcony.

  “Eight years old,” Jeff said. “Millie was eight. We chase and lock up scum who couldn’t hold a candle to her every single day, Josie. Where’s the logic in that?”

  “No logic,” Josie said quietly, thinking about six year old Emily waiting at home, and knowing, absolutely knowing, she would never survive such an event. Her child was the heart of everything. From the very first month of his or her birth, a child could turn sadness into joy with a simple chuckle. The strength required to move forward after the loss of a son or daughter was unimaginable.

  “I need to know,” Jeff said, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Sorry?”

  Jeff wiped his hands on his trousers and pointed at her car. “Look, can we get in? I need to ask you something, and it ain’t pretty.”

  Josie hesitated as a niggle of doubt skittered down her spine. “Is it about work, Jeff? Because—”

  The old man’s face creased, and moisture collected along the rims of his eyes. “It’s about Millie.”

  “I’m not sure what—”

  “Please.”

  Josie sighed. She motioned Jeff into the passenger seat, then climbed in herself. All her fellow police officers had been great to her since her partner, Joe Morris, had died of a heart attack on the beat, but there had been whisperings . . .

  “What is it?” Josie started the car and flicked the air-con into high gear.

  “You know what happened to Millie, don’t you?”

  “A tragedy.” Deep emotion closed her throat so that her words came out as a whisper. She could hardly bring herself to imagine what had happened to Millie.

  “I need to know if it was an accident.”

  Jeff’s frame was suddenly wracked by sobs. His head dipped and Josie reached out to help as he broke down in her car. “I need . . . to know . . .” he repeated as he gulped for air. “Please, Josie.”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay. Here.” She rummaged in her bag for a packet of tissues, coming out first with baby wipes, colouring pads, felt tips and story books – the staple ingredients of any mum’s handbag. She handed Jeff the packet and sat in silence for a while as he calmed down. She watched police officers walk back and forth across the car park; the gentle swaying of trees, each one leaning over toward his neighbour, leaves fluttering in conversation. She watched the steady flow of traffic out on Fulford Road, heard the deep rumble of a truck, the powerful growl of a sports car.

  “What do you think you know, Jeff?”

  “Terry, her dad,” Jeff finally blurted out. “I never liked him. I just got a feeling, right from the start. Even before Millie was born. There was something about the man.”

  Josie respected a cop’s intuition beyond question, and Jeff Richardson was a veteran, but this was different. “You think he murdered his daughter? Jesus, Jeff.”

  “For me, it’s easier to believe than Millie made a mistake. Or, can you believe, the Spanish police floated the idea that she just jumped. Can you believe that?”

  “No. Not really. But Jeff – murder?”

  “Terry had a quick temper. And he loved his freedom. Millie took that from him. He never liked her, you know. Never showed a lot of love for the kids. And Millie – she was such a bright light, full of love, full of happiness. She eclipsed her dad, Josie, eclipsed him in everything she did.”

  “What about the rest of the family?”

  “Her brother’s a bit older, born to another man. Bit of a loner and keeps to himself, but a nice kid. He doesn’t pose a problem for a man like Terry, who can bully him into just about anything. Their mother's beautiful.”

  Of course. Josie shook her head. “So you’re suspicious of the holiday balcony death. Why not contact the Spanish police?”

  “I have. It’s a closed case. They won’t investigate further. Sad to say, but a child falling from a balcony isn’t without precedent over there.”

  Josie thought about Emily, and knew she would never rest if there was even the slightest doubt surrounding her daughter’s death. Indeed, it would be the only thing keeping her alive. But she knew now where this conversation was going, and the wrongness and potential ruin that could come of it.

  “There’s this thing about secrets, Jeff. They’re rarely desirable, and never as good as people imagine.”

  “I understand.”

  “I don’t know what you think you know, but it’s probably way off the mark.”

  “All I’m asking is t
hat you give it a try.”

  “Did she live in York?”

  “Yes. Strensall.”

  Josie bit her lip. Jeff and her boss, Paul Kett, were the two people who had quietly informed her about the whispers being passed behind her back. Some older men thought she might somehow have a connection to the ghosts of York. Others thought she might be keeping an informant to herself to further her career. Still others – the younger crew – thought she was sleeping with the boss. And the list went on.

  The truth – as ever – was stranger than any fiction that came out of people’s mouths.

  Some months ago, Josie had somehow been directed to a place where a serial killer was holding a young girl captive, and, despite the happy outcome, doubt and concern had been focused her way. How had she known? Why couldn’t she explain? Was there a connection between her and the killer?

  Paul Kett had stood strong behind her, along with three-quarters of the station. At length, the questions quietened down; there were easier bones for the mad dogs to dig up, but she was sure – positive – that her name now resided near the top of someone's watch list.

  But how could you explain that ghosts directed you? That they had connected with her after her partner's shocking death? That you had an ability to communicate with them and continued to do so – every single week?

  “I want my granddaughter to rest in peace,” Jeff said into the profound silence. “No questions hanging over her death. She may be singing with the angels now, but she brought so much joy to our lives when she was alive. I'll fight till the day I die to discover the truth. She deserves that.”

  “I’m not promising a damn thing, Jeff.” Josie felt the sting of tears in her eyes. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

  PART 2

  Two days later, Josie found herself exiting the house and heading out to the start of her night shift an hour early. It was her regular custom on Wednesdays, and not something that Simon had picked up on. Not that he had ever tried. Her working hours were always a bit skew-whiff. She slung a rucksack on to the back seat of her car, uniform carefully packed away inside, and drove through the inner streets of York.

  Darkness had gathered in every driveway and between the sparse puddles of lamplight. The occasional car flared its headlights across her vision as it passed in the opposite direction. Pub lights twinkled invitingly. Her eyes sought the dark pools. There were more than just shadows lurking there, she knew.

  In the centre of old York stands a tower set on a high mound. Clifford’s Tower is part of the remains of York Castle, built by William the Conqueror. It has been a prison, a royal mint, and the place where Henry VIII had the bodies of his enemies put on public display. It's also the place that marks the darkest days of York’s Jewish history. In 1190, a spate of anti-Semitic riots ended with the massacre of 150 Jews – then the entire Jewish community of York – who were hiding in the royal castle where Clifford’s Tower now stands. At the time, feelings had been stoked by the new crusades that roused aggression against Jews and Muslims across Europe and the Holy Land. Riots broke out across England.

  The Jews hiding in the keep were betrayed, ostensibly by men who owed them money. As a group of knights arrived to attack the castle and the angry mob bayed for blood, most of the Jews chose to commit suicide. Those who didn’t died in flames or at the point of a sword.

  From the charred remains of that fire, Clifford’s Tower was constructed and still stands today, a landmark at the heart of York.

  Josie parked behind the tower and made her way towards the base of the steep, grassy slope leading to the high walls. Once there, she circumvented the building until she came to the steps, then made her way slowly to the top. To her left, Tower Street, and beyond it the River Ouse, lay shrouded in shadow, whilst behind her the Castle Museum stood wrapped in silence. Nothing stirred around her.

  At least, nothing that breathed.

  Every night, like a macabre ritual, Josie knew, all the ghosts of York drift to this place. They stand arrayed around its mound, blanketing the area with an eerie peculiarity, a dreadful tingling sense of nameless fright that belongs to another world. Thousands of spectres, invisible, untouchable, drawn by a mysterious power, cloaking themselves in each other’s secrets until their tether broke and allowed them to drift away.

  Josie knew this because she herself was drawn here too. Every week like clockwork, she found herself excited about the gathering. She called it a whispering, because all the ghosts came together in her head and whispered their secrets. For the most part inconsequential, they had still yielded to her more than half a dozen major secrets over the last few months.

  Case-breaking secrets.

  Now, she sat alone on the top step, head down, barely distinguishable in the dark. For some reason, the security lights didn't work at a whispering, so if Josie ever passed by on patrol and saw no lights atop Clifford’s Tower at night, she knew the ghosts of the city held sway. A time most people would do well to avoid.

  But not her. This was her time, her bonus. These were her apparitions so long as she followed their lead. This way, those who might otherwise escape punishment often got their just rewards.

  Josie sat, her mind open and welcoming, as the quiet susurration started. The disembodied presences began to mingle all around her, pressing for favour, but Josie invited and listened to them all.

  Help me . . . help her . . . caught at the bend of the river . . . pushed . . . the flash of the blade blinded my eyes . . . we stopped talking when the lights came on, we did, we did . . . dark closet . . . man at the door . . . too late . . .

  Never a night passed when Josie’s heart didn’t break. Many of the stories were tragic, and some spanned centuries. She breathed deeply to steady herself. The solid stone beneath her pulsed gently; the air rustled, crackled and stirred. When she focused her eyes, she could see a vague luminescent glow spread out across the mound, a sight a disbeliever would easily dismiss as a trick of the light.

  But Josie knew differently. Everything that glittered was not necessarily of this earth.

  “I'm here,” she said aloud, in as reassuring a voice as she could manage. Rustling sounds surrounded her, making the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. “Speak to me.”

  The voices whispered to her, each sentence a secret undertone, until, at last, the murmurs died away. Josie opened her eyes, sifting through the new knowledge, but tonight found nothing particularly useful, and prepared to take this experience to a whole new level.

  Her heart pounded wildly.

  She had never asked them a question before. She had no idea how the sorrowful dead would react.

  “It's not over,” she said quickly, as she sensed the psychic thread begin to dissipate.

  An upsurge of interest intensified the bond and urged her on.

  “I'm looking for Millicent Stokes. An eight year old girl who recently passed away on holiday. She'll be new amongst you.”

  An instant flood of emotions bombarded her. They were angry. She should never have asked something like this. They gave of their own accord, not in response to demand. She was good therapy for them, helping them heal and rehabilitate after death, allowing them to shed some of their pent up anger, but she did not control them.

  Josie blanched and cringed under the withering hail of sentiment that tore at her. Shock, fear, disbelief and confusion came through clearly. Sadness, inevitability and the acceptance of change plucked her heart strings. Some thought this was fated to happen. The living always wanted answers about the dead.

  A step too far, she heard. You have turned a corner that can never be un-turned, and you will regret this even beyond the day you die . . .

  Never before had she felt a sense of menace, but something shifted out there on the high mound amidst the deep-buried ruins of the old tower. Something dark and threatening seemed to rise, notice her and take an interest.

  Then the bombardment of emotions parted and, through the abrupt stillness in her head, came a tiny,
hesitant presence. It seemed to look up at her.

  “I'm Millicent Stokes.”

  Sadness gripped Josie by the throat. It's the burden of children to endure the deaths of their parents, not the other way round. She opened her mouth, but found she couldn’t speak. The distress was overwhelming.

  For Jeff, her brain screamed. You’re his last chance.

  She had come this far. “Your grandfather wants to know—” she choked. “Wants to know how you died.”

  The presence shrank back. Absolute silence blanketed the area, a gloom of depression as thick as the mantle of death. Josie cringed and was a second away from rising to her feet when the ghost of Millicent Stokes spoke.

  “I don’t want to cause trouble. Not for the living.”

  An odd reply. Josie’s police nose sniffed its evasiveness out immediately. “What trouble could you cause?”

  “I . . . I’ve caused enough tears.”

  Josie shook her head. She knew by now that these apparitions were generally shy, uncertain, and sometimes simply didn’t want to rock the boat. Especially the younger ones.

  “Whatever it is – it should be told. For the sake of those you care about.”

  “I can’t!”

  The spirit shrieked at her, knocking Josie back so that her spine cracked against the rough wall of the tower. She scrambled, digging her fingers into the surrounding soil.

  “There’s nothing more important now,” she persisted. “You won’t be at peace until you do. And neither will your grandfather, your family.”

  The spirit sobbed. Josie heard consoling noises from the crowd pressing around her. She fought hard to keep their remonstrations at bay. She wondered if they would ever let her in again. She probed the dark spectre that appeared to have been newly awakened, and found its attention focused on her.