10 – YOU HAVE NO NEW MESSAGES

The following Tuesday, I'm making myself a ham, cheese and jam grilled sandwich for lunch. Spock is getting under my feet, ever hopeful, and panting because of this week's heatwave. The smoke alarm suddenly splits my ear drums and I drop everything to drag a kitchen chair into the middle of the room. I wobble as I climb up and switch the alarm off. My ears still ring.

'Good day!' says Max in a cheery voice behind me and I nearly fall off the chair in fright.

'Don't do that!' I exclaim, wobbling back down to safety.

'Sorry. Something smells good. What are you cooking?'

'This.' I open the sandwich toaster, burning my fingers. 'Ow! Ow! Ow!' I flick my hand to relieve the pain and Max is quick to step forward.

'Here…'

He reaches out and folds his fingers around mine, cooling them, relieving the pain. I look at him warily. We don't have much of a touchy-feely relationship – how can you with a spirit? And Max certainly hasn't offered such a tender gesture before.

He holds my gaze for a second, laughing blue eyes suddenly serious, then he looks away.

'Better?' he asks.

I nod and he hastily removes his hand. I turn my back on him to hide my red face and cut the sandwich in half. Max looks on in disgust as the jam and melted cheese ooze out deliciously.

'What is that?' he asks.

'You never heard of a Monte Cristo sandwich?'

Max shudders. 'No.'

I take a bite and fan my mouth as the cheese burns my palate. 'You're missing out,' I say through a mouthful. I take my plate to the table and sit down while Max looks on with distaste.

'I think not. Nevertheless, I came to tell you –'

As Max moves around the table to face me, he is interrupted by the shrill peel of the smoke alarm going off again.

I get up, drag a chair over and turn it off again.

'Damned thing,' mutters Max, rubbing his ear. 'Must they make them so loud?'

'You were the one who set it off,' I say, sitting down again to my meal.

Max purses his lips but moves further away. 'As I was saying, I looked into why you haven't had any visitors since Holly Winslow. No one can explain why she came to you or from where, but what I can tell you is that you won't receive any more messages until hers has been settled.'

My throat closes up at his words and I choke on my sandwich. 'What?'

Max gives a resigned shrug. 'That's what the wisers tell me.'

No more messages? I'm filled with a sudden panic as it occurs to me what this means. No more messages means no more visitors which means no chance of my mother ever visiting me. 'But – but there was no message to deliver!'

'Don't be upset, we can find a way around this.'

I stare at him. He doesn't even look that convinced, himself. 'How, Max? When you can't even explain where Holly came from?'

'All right, all right.' He holds up his hands in surrender. 'Don't shoot the messenger.'

I glower at him. 'The messenger is meant to be me. You're the guide, remember? The one who knows the best way forward.'

'No, I never claimed to know that,' Max argues. 'If I knew the best way forward I would never have made Rob Roy jump that hedge and I wouldn't be here at all.'

I sigh and plonk my elbows on the table. My Monte Cristo sandwich holds no appeal anymore. I didn't ask for any of this. I certainly didn't ask to be visited by Holly and expected to solve her killing. 'This is so unfair.'

'Unfair?' says Max. 'Imagine how Holly feels. Are you sure there was no message to deliver? She mightn't have said it straight out.'

I shake my head. I don't know how many times I've replayed that night in my head, but nothing ever comes to light. 'Nope, there was nothing. She didn't mention anyone so it would be impossible to deliver it anyway.'

Max is silent for a moment as he rubs his chin thoughtfully. 'Maybe the message was for you. Did she ask you to do anything?'

'No, she just kept saying "Help me. Help me."'

Max blinks at me, uncomprehending. 'I'd say that's a pretty clear cut message then.'

'But I'm trying to help her,' I say in exasperation. 'If finding her decomposing body is what she's after.'

'And tracking down her killer,' adds Max.

'And tracking down her killer.' I sigh again. It sounds so stupid saying such things. 'Who are we kidding? We're not really going to find her or her killer.' Really, all I am is some ignorant amateur who's arrogant enough to think she can do what the professionals – like Dad – couldn't do. 'It's not like we've got anywhere with her case,' I say.

'What do you mean?' says Max. 'Look what we've found out about Jonathan and Dylan and Eyra.'

'Yeah, we've uprooted a whole lot of questions. We haven't found any answers yet though.' I cradle my head in my hands and puff out my cheeks in resignation. The thing that has enabled me to survive this long after my mother's death was the hope that one day I'd see her again. Hope. Such a powerful emotion. Love can do many things but hope is unique. It isn't dependent on anything else to exist. You can be all alone in the world and still have hope. You can survive a troubled and depressing existence if you have hope. But what hope do I have now? No more messages, no more chances of seeing Mum.

Despite myself, my eyes well up. 'I guess that's it then,' I say. 'No more messages.'

'Hey, sweetheart,' says Dad cheerily walking into the kitchen. 'What was that you were saying?'

I hastily wipe my eyes. 'Nothing. Just talking to – myself.'

Dad gives me a lingering look like he doesn't quite believe me then makes for the kettle. Max has to take evasive action, sidestepping him and ends up setting off the smoke alarm again.

'Is that thing faulty?' Dad yells above the noise. He reaches up and switches it off. 'Maybe the batteries need replacing. Do you want some coffee?'

Max gives me a small wave, a sad smile on his face, and walks out of the room.

Dad turns to me when he doesn't get a reply. 'Noa, are you okay?'

I drag my eyes away from the doorway and nod. 'Fine, thanks.'

He waves a coffee cup at me and I nod. 'Thanks.' I fiddle with the remains of my sandwich, and, after a moment's hesitation, I carry on. 'Dad?'

'Yes?'

'Have you heard anything more from the Winslows?'

Dad shakes his head. 'Just a message last week from a PI wanting me to give him Holly's case file that I'd built.'

I freeze, knowing half the information in still in my bedroom. 'And are you?' I proceed with caution.

Dad shrugs. 'Yes. Usually I'd sell it to the next guy on the case, no point in doing all that hard work for free, but for this case… I don't know, it's different, isn't it? He can have the lot for nothing if it means he finds Holly.' He looks at me curiously, as if noticing my anxiety for the first time. 'Have you had any more visits from her ghost?'

'Spirit,' I correct him.

'Sorry, spirit.'

I shake my head. 'No, but I've just been told I'm not going to get any more messages until she's found.'

Dad's face splits into a celebratory smile. 'That's great!' His face falls when I don't join in. 'Isn't it? Goodness knows you never asked for this job.'

'Yes, but…' I sigh. I don't know that I even want to explain things to Dad. It might upset him; he's always been very sensitive about speaking about Mum.

'You always used to mutter about having to do it,' he says. 'Why are you so down?'

'Because…' Rrr, can't a girl complain about something and still love it? 'Never mind, it's too complicated to explain.'

Dad puts a cup of steaming coffee in front of me and steps back to lean against the kitchen worktop. 'I wonder if this new PI will find her. There is one more possible lead I should add to his list.'

My ears prick up. 'Oh?'

'This insurance claim I'm investigating –the one about the arson attack on the farm outbuilding?'

'I remember.'

'Well…' Dad pauses to take a slurp of his hot drink. 'It turns out old Farmer Ackerman delivers milk to everyone in the area and guess who's on his list?'

'The Winslows?'

'Yup.'

Despite myself, my blood begins to coarse through my veins at the prospect of a new lead, a new opportunity to solve the case, a last chance to keep the messages coming. 'Okay, but…' I try to think rationally. Should we read too much into this development? 'Is it really that big a deal? I mean, Holly must be connected to dozens, hundreds of people. What makes this Farmer Ackerman so significant?'

Dad gives me a heavy-lidded look as he blows on his drink. 'If you saw the file I've accumulated on him, you'd understand. Restraining orders, some dodgy Internet history, a real loner. Hate to say it, but he fits the profile to a T.'

I think about Farmer Ackerman's burnt out barn – the perfect way to cover up a crime. 'Do you think his insurance claim is dodgy as well then?'

Dad shrugs. 'I don't know. I've just been taking a closer look at the photos supplied by Fortress Insurance and there are some things that suggest it was being used by someone other than Farmer Ackerman.'

'Like who?' I ask.

'Probably a homeless person. There's a burnt out sleeping bag and litter scattered around. Difficult to say whether it was recent or not.' He shrugs and pushes himself upright to make his exit.

'What did Farmer Ackerman use it for before it burnt down?'

Dad pauses by the door. 'Nothing. It was falling to pieces. He used to keep pigs in there, but it became so unstable he stopped using it until he could patch it up. Since his finances didn't improve, it never got done.' He taps the doorframe in finality and gives me a quick smile. 'I've got to get on. You got plans for today?'

Crazy 8s and Sharp Shooters cross my mind, but then I remember I have to return all of Holly's casework to the box because Dad hands it over to the new PI.

I need to find a photocopier.

'I might go out later,' I say. 'Spock needs some exercise.'

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016