Free In the Company of Ghosts by Stephen A Hunt Page A

bit into the gravel of a wide drive and they crunched their way down a private lane bounded on both sides by thick woodland, vegetation sitting damp and green under the dull sunless sky. Agatha passed no comment as small red targeting dots winked on and off the car as they wound their way towards the mansion. Even the marksmen of the Special Air Service grew bored when they were out camping.
    Agatha tapped the car’s dashboard. ‘The real problem with classic cars like your Chevy, apart from the additional pollution, is it lacks the basic modern security features needed to deter car thieves and other ne’er do wells.’
    Doyle pulled at the edge of his jacket with his left hand, revealing a pistol in its shoulder holster. ‘It’s got the best security feature of all, love. If anyone steals the Nova, I’m going to fucking kill them.’
    ‘Well, there always is that. You do realise the officers on the gate might as well pack up and go home,’ said Agatha. ‘There’s not going to be an assassination attempt on Curtis Werks’ life.’
    ‘Who told you that one, love, Julius Caesar?’
    ‘Common sense, Mister Doyle. I have been checking the twins’ itinerary. They spent enough time together that there were ample opportunities to kill both of them and make it look like an accident. Two for the price of one. A car crash. A plane crash. Food poisoning. A kidnapping attempt gone awry.’
    ‘Maybe the plan was to kill the twins separately, leave some time between each murder?’
    ‘Difficult to arrange. Harder yet to make two murders arranged separately appear as serendipity. The surviving twin is forewarned, now. Even without the service officers here, Curtis Werks has ample private security on hand to protect him.’
    ‘If the motivation was business, Saucy Simon’s murder might have been a shot across the bows for his brother. A warning. Withdraw from a key market, sell out to us or else. We can get you anywhere you go. We can even make it look like an accident.’
    ‘That’s quite an imagination you have.’
    ‘Said the woman who thinks that she’s the bleeding ghost whisperer. We’ll see. We need to find out if our Curtis received a tip-off Saucy Simon was for the chop, either before or after the hit.’
    ‘You’re not a believer in the afterlife, then, Mister Doyle?’
    ‘No I’m bloody not. Here’s the thing, Gypsy Jen. You and all the other nut-jobs who claim to be channelling Elvis and Martin Luther King, why’s it only ever the celebs? There are billions of people who’ve croaked. Why’s it always James Dean on your private party line to the next world, eh? Why’s it never Jane Smith the bog cleaner who shuffled off this mortal coil in total obscurity back in 1826, Jane Smith who nobody’s ever heard of?’
    ‘I’ll tell you my theory on that,’ said Agatha. ‘Ghosts are mostly memory. The pattern of a soul imprinted on the consciousness of the world. In the old days, people would know of the Napoleons and Queen Victorias, and such personages were the spectres most frequently conjured up during séances. The weight of memory, to use your own example, does not favour Jane Smith, honoured only by her own family and friends. Today, with broadcast media, the burden of the local universe favours James Dean and Marilyn Monroe. Those are the figures lodged in humanity’s group consciousness.’
    Doyle shook his head. ‘Shit.’
    ‘But that’s only my conjecture. Maybe heaven does exist and God’s an Elvis fan.’
    ‘Okay, we’ll here’s another one for you, then. Why you? Why Agatha Witchley? What makes you so special? How come when my poor old bladder wakes me up for my midnight promenade to the bathroom, I don’t find Heath Ledger having a ghostly shave and dropping me a few tips on who murdered Simon Werks? Why you and not me ?’
    ‘There is a reason for that,’ said Agatha. ‘But I am afraid I can’t tell you. It’s simply not allowed.’
    ‘Shit, of course, that would be too