Talking To The Dead

The favourites at the Hollywood Park racetrack keep pulling up for no obvious reason and a fake medium trying to defraud of women of her house. Two cases for Dick Thrust to tackle.

I wouldn't like you to think that I spend all of the time I'm not working as a private detective, (Dick Thrust, $25 a day plus expenses) visiting bars, playing poker and associating with loose women. I do have other more active pastimes. For example, I sometimes go to the race meetings at Hollywood Park.

The race card had shown that a horse by the name of Thrust Special was running this week and I took that as an omen. It was horse number five in the fifth race and the odds were 5-1, and so I bet fifty dollars to win.

It came in fifth.

I put more moderate bets on the other races and, with only one win, ended the day eighty dollars down. I couldn't afford to do this too often.

The track was crowded and, with the meeting over, people were streaming towards the exits; I streamed with them. People were talking excitedly about the money they'd won and the horses that had almost made it only to be pipped at the post. The big talking point was the dead-cert favourite in the second race that had pulled up when it was well in front, for no obvious reason.

In the middle of this tightly packed mass of humanity it was noisy but I thought I heard my name above the din. I looked around as best I could whilst still being carried forward by the ebb tide. Then I heard my name again and spotted the person calling it. It was Charles Ray.

Charlie was a bent copper. Bent enough to be sacked from the force but not enough to face a criminal prosecution. I didn't like him, and not just because he was bent but because he had a large ego and always talked down to other people, especially women. There is no point in having a large ego if you have a small brain and Charlie was not the smartest person I'd ever met.

I considered just ignoring him and letting the mass of people carry me out of the exit but decided that I should at least say hello. So I changed direction and, with difficulty, made my way across the flow.

“Dick, good to see you,” he said with enthusiasm.

“Hello Charlie, I haven't seen you in quite a while. I didn't think you were interested in horse racing.”

“I work here.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I'm Head Of Security.” As he said this he puffed out his chest.

“Congratulations,” I said without really meaning it.

“I've got a bit of a problem and wondered if you'd like to take a look at it?”

This was the point I could have walked away but I was curious. They say curiosity killed the cat and mine had certainly got me into a few scrapes over the years.

“Tell me about it?”

“We can't speak here. Let's go to my office.”

He lead me to a nondescript door in the wall, down a nondescript corridor and into a nondescript room. The office was windowless and about ten by ten. You could tell by the sloping ceiling that we were under the stands. There was a desk, two chairs and a small cupboard. Cosy, it wasn't. The only decorations were pictures of young ladies who had forgotten to dress that covered much of the walls.

He produced a bottle and two glasses from his desk and poured us both a whiskey.

“You saw how the favourite pulled up in the second race?”

I nodded whilst trying not to grimace at the taste of the drink.

“That's the third time its happened in the last few meetings and we don't know why.”

“Dope?”

“We are doing a blood test and full medical check now but it will come back clear like the last two.”

“Jockey paid to pull the race?”

“Different jockey, different owner and different stable in each of the three cases.”

“Did they all pull up at the same place?”

Charlie produced a map of the course and indicated where the three incidents occurred. They were all different places. The only thing they had in common was that they were in the latter stages of the race.

“So what do you expect me to do?”

“I'm out of ideas,” said Charlie with a shrug. “My bosses are really leaning on me to come up with something.”

This was the second point at which I could have walked away but I didn't.

“Can I see the race cards for those meetings?”

Charlie produced the cards for the three races. I studied them for a few minutes.

“There's a pattern to these races,” I said.

“I know. The favourite was a dead cert.”

“More than that,” I said, and pushed the cards back across the desk.

When brains were being given out Charlie wasn't just at the back of the queue, he wasn't even in the room. Eventually the wait became too painful and I had to put him out of his misery.

“If the favourite pulls up then the second favourite is almost certain to win. He may not be anywhere near as good as the favourite but he is the only other horse with a chance.”

“I see, “ said Charlie, and I finally think he did.

“Was there any unusual betting on the second favourite?”

“A couple of largish bets but nothing too out of the ordinary.”

“Maybe whoever is responsible is practising for a big score, or he's just not greedy.”

“But how does he do it?”

“Haven't the foggiest. But I'll come to the next meeting and if there is a race that fits the profile of a two-horse race then I'll see if I can find out anything.”

I left the track after Charlie had agree to pay for my services at the next meeting. But that was a week away and I had other cases to attend to.

I sat with a cool beer in front of me and a policeman called Barney Oles opposite. We were in a bar called the Pink Pussy and this was our third beer. There was a man playing the piano in the corner, at least he was hitting the keys. I'm sure there was a tune in there somewhere and maybe he'd find it if he tried long enough.

Barney and I were old friends and he was willing to give me information in exchange for beer. Now I was asking him for general information about the race track.

“It's a million dollar business so you'd expect the mafia to have an interest. The races are generally straight as they make enough money running it that way. They just take a cut from the profits.”

“What if someone did try to fix a race?” I asked.

“That would be very stupid unless it was sanctioned by the mafia. They might find themselves minus a few limbs.”

Well, it looked like someone was being that stupid and I was being paid to find them.

As it was a slow midweek night we broke up early and I made my way home. Another day over and I hadn't needed to use my schoolboy trigonometry once.

I was back at the race track to see if I could find out why favourites were pulling up for no apparent reason. The second race fitted the profile of being a two-horse race where one of the two horses stood a much better chance than the other. The favourite, Morecambe Beach, had odds of 7-4 on and the second horse, Wise Man, was 5-1. All the other horses had very long odds. I'd told Charlie not to pay out any largish bets on Wise Man until I said so.

The man sitting next to me in the car was named Rex Barker. If that sounds like a name you'd give a dog then that is appropriate as Barker seemed to have about the same intelligence and demeanour as a Rottweiler. He had an air of menace about him engendered by a combination of stupidity, extreme ugliness and an unnerving stare. And he snarled a lot when talking. He was one of Charlie's heavies who had been told to follow my instructions. We were parked on the boundary road of the race track waiting for the second race to begin. Barker was in the driving seat.

I tried to have a conversation with Barker to pass the time. I started with current affairs; Grace Kelly's marriage to Prince Rainier and the state of the economy. When all I got was grunts and snarls in response I decided to dumb it down to broads and baseball but that didn't work either, so I gave up.

Most people would be in the stands or near the finishing line so they could place bets and see the climax of the races. However there were a few cars parked along the boundary road where people could just sit and watch the horses thunder by.

I had a pair of binoculars in my hand and a sap in my pocket, in case there was trouble. I had thought of bringing my Police Special but decided that if there was any shooting I'd prefer to run away rather than become involved. I thought Barker was carrying but I didn't want to ask him to show me. I didn't really trust him not to accidentally shoot me if he got his gun out.

In the distance I saw the horses coming towards us. I told Barker, he snarled and started the car. As the pack approached I could see Morecambe Beach was way out in front. I'd explained what I wanted to Barker and he grunted so I really had no idea if he'd understood.

As Morecambe Beach passed we were already rolling and we kept pace, parallel to and just behind the horse. As we reached the final bend it happened, the horse suddenly pulled up and precipitated his rider over its head for no obvious reason. But I'd seen something.

“Stop next to that Lincoln Convertible,” I ordered Barker. He snarled and stopped. I got out and Barker followed.

The Lincoln had seen better days but it must have been beautiful when it was new. The top was down. Sitting in the drivers seat was a nondescript man with a shaved head.

“Let me have it,” I said to him.

“What?”

“You know what. I can get my friend here to search you if you want.”

Barker growled and stepped towards the car. I resisted the temptation to say “heel, down boy” and pat him on the head.

The man in the Lincoln looked at Barker then reluctantly reached into his pocket and produced a mirror. It was round and about six inches across. I took it from him. I then invited him the join us in our car. It looked like he might object but Barker gave one of his snarls and that made up his mind.

I sat in the back or our car with our new friend while Barker drove us back to the stand. He was medium height and build. The only thing remarkable about him was his dark, almost black eyes.

“So how does this work?” I asked.

“It's simple. It's a concave mirror with a long focal length.”

I understood what he had just told me, so my schoolboy science had finally come in useful. My physics teacher, Mister Oppenheimer, would be pleased.

Now he'd started to talk he wanted to tell me all about it. He had a very deep voice and picked out each word precisely. There was something prepossessing about this man and I couldn't put my finger on it.

“I just keep flashing the sunlight into the eyes of the horse I want to confuse. Because the mirror is concave I can focus on just the horse without the rider seeing it. It works every time.”

“Why did you do it.”

“Just to make a little money to supplement my income.”

“There weren't any big bets on the second favourite.”

“I only make a small bet, I'm not greedy.”

“Let me see your driving licence.”

“Why.”

“For your name and address.”

His name was Martin Dean and I made a mental note of his address.

By the time we'd completed the short drive back to the stands I came to the conclusion that he didn't think he'd done very much wrong. I thought that Martin Dean was both very clever and extremely naive.

We entered Charlie's office and Dean was told to sit in the visitors chair. Barker stood behind him with me to one side. I explained to Charlie how the trick was done and gave him the mirror. He didn't look too pleased.

Charlie nodded to Barker who hit Dean hard across his face.

“Wait a minute,” I objected.

“We'll take it from here,” said Charlie to me. “I'll send your fees.”

“I think just a telling off will suffice,” I said. “You haven't lost much money and he won't do it again.”

Dean was sobbing and there was blood flowing from the side of his mouth. Now he looked frightened as full realisation of his situation finally sunk in.

“If you think we're rough then just wait 'til I tell my bosses. If chummy here is lucky he'll just spend a few weeks in hospital and if he isn't...” Charlie let the statement hang in the air.

Why hadn't I realised how they'd treat him. Maybe I was the stupid one. There was a good chance that Martin Dean was going to end up as fish food. Maybe I should ask Charlie what odds he'd give me on that happening.

Charlie nodded again to Barker who hit Dean and knocked him off the chair. So I took the sap from my pocket and struck Barker behind his left ear. He hit the floor like an alcoholic hitting a new bottle of vodka; hard.

Charlie was reaching for his desk drawer so I slammed it shut on his fingers and kicked his chair out from under him sending him sprawling across the floor. I extracted his .22 automatic from the drawer, ejected the clip, and put that in my pocket and the gun on the desk.

“What do you think you're doing?” said Charlie looking at me with hate in his eyes.

“You've got the mirror and there'll be no more incidents, so leave it at that.”

“My boss won't be happy when I tell him. He'll send some not very nice people to see you.”

“If you do that then I'll tell them you were in on the scam.”

“They wouldn't believe you.” There was suddenly alarm in Charlie's voice.

“Maybe not but the seeds of doubt would be sown. People who run organised crime are a paranoid bunch and they would never trust you again. Some time in the near future you might just disappear.”

“That wouldn't happen.” There was doubt in Charlie's voice.

“We're leaving now and I don't expect to hear from anyone.”

I helped Dean up from the floor and as we reached the door I turned and said, “I'll send my bill”.

We borrowed Barker's car to pick up Dean's Lincoln and then he drove me back to the parking lot where my car was.

“Why on earth didn't you just make one big bet and then walk away?” I asked.

“I'll remember that in future.”

“No you won't. If I hear of horses being pulled up at this race track or any other in the Los Angeles area then I'll let them have your name and address. Understand?”

He nodded. He was starting to recover from his ordeal.

“What do you do for a living?”

“I'm a conjurer. My stage name is The Amazing Dandi. Maybe you've heard of me?”

“No.”

“I play a lot of the clubs. I use mirrors in some of my illusions and that's where I got the idea.

“Well stick to performing. At least your audience know they're being tricked.”

It was some weeks later and I hadn't heard from Charlie or any of his associated. I'd kept a watch on the racing papers and there had been no more unexplained horses pulling up. So I decided that my involvement with horse racing and Martin Dean was at an end. I had sent my bill to Charlie but I didn't expect to be paid.

Then I saw that The Amazing Dandi was appearing at the Pink Pussy club, for one night only, so I went along.

With a wig and his stage clothes he didn't look the same person. But his deep penetrating voice, his precise manner of speaking and his dark eyes all added to his stage persona.

During the performance he made a woman disappear, predicted the identity of a hidden card and escaped from a straight jacket whilst inside a small box. I thought he was very good but the audience was thin and the applause light.

I have my office in down-town Hollywood. Well, as near to down-town as I can afford, which is actually about two blocks away from the main drag and five storeys up in an anonymous office block. My office door says “Dick Thrust Private Investigations”.

Most of my clients will call to arrange an appointment or just drop in. I have a sign saying “back in fifteen minutes” which I hang on the door whenever I'm away no matter how long I intend to be. If I'm not back inside fifteen minutes they can always read the sign again. However, some potential clients insist I visit them, which I'm willing to do if I think they might have money.

I was now on my way to visit one such client. He'd called earlier and introduced himself as Alabaster Simpson, as if that should mean something to me; it didn't. He had an upper class east coast accent and used it to tell me he was one of the Boston Simpsons. I'd tried to sound impressed but didn't quite make it. He'd asked me to drop in at two o'clock but said it in such a way that he didn't expect me to refuse.

I was now driving through an area of clean and well kept streets bordered by well-watered lawns and healthy looking palm trees. Weeds wouldn't dare to grow between the cracks in these side-walks.

I intended to make a point by being late, but not that late as to lose my client. As it was I'd got lost and was now even later than the lateness I'd planned.

The houses here were large and well maintained. There was a variety of styles including Mock Tudor, Ranch Style and Spanish Hacienda. The Simpson's house was American Colonial.

Although it was just as imposing as the others on the street it wasn't as well maintained. The paint was peeling, I could see some missing shingles on the roof and part of the guttering was hanging lose. The lawn was in need of being watered and mowed, and weeds were poking through cracks in the driveway.

Normally I would leave my ageing Plymouth on the road so as not to leak oil onto a potential client's drive, but in this case I thought the oil might help in killing the weeds, so I drove right up to their front door and parked next to a large sedan that might just be as old as my car and certainly as dirty.

Close to, the house looked even shabbier that it had from the road. The windows were dirty, the step leading to the front door needed sweeping and the large brass knocker was discoloured. I was beginning to lose confidence that my client had any money.

I swung the knocker and waited. I was just about to knock again when the door was opened by a plump Mexican lady.

“Yes?” she inquired in a tone that indicated I was interfering with something she was doing and wanted to get back to.

“Dick Thrust to see Mr. Alabaster Simpson.”

“Come in,” she said in her thick accent.

So I came in and she shut the door behind me.

“This way,” she said, so I followed her across the large entrance hall.

I watched her ample butt as we walked. Why is it that young Mexican women have stunningly attractive figures and then suddenly at about thirty-five years of age they change almost overnight into a dumpling. I expect it's the food. And talking of food, she smelled of the Mexican dish she'd been preparing, and this made my stomach rumble. Food is my third favourite thing after broads and booze and just ahead of baseball.

She showed me into a large drawing room and then left without another word. She hadn't invited me to sit down, so I sat down.

The room was filled with colonial style furniture that had seen better days. A light layer of dust covered every surface. You could smell the dust in the air and see it as it floated through the shaft of light coming though the narrow gap between the heavy drapes. I sat in an over stuffed armchair and studied the paintings on the walls.

After about five minutes I was beginning to get restless so I decided to investigate the drinks cabinet. I opened the top to find a number of bottles and mismatched glasses. The one that caught my eye was a twenty year old malt. I poured myself a double. I sat back in my armchair and took a sip and was instantly disappointed. The bottle might have originally contained twenty year old malt but this wasn't it. So I poured the remaining contents into a pot plant sitting on a occasional table next to my chair.

I was just thinking that I might leave when the door opened and two people entered. There was a man and a woman; they looked like a matching pair. They were tall, thin and cadaverous with dark hair and prominent facial feature; a hooked nose, bony cheeks and large ears. They were dressed in clothes that would have looked at home in the Edwardian Era. He had a dark three-piece suit and she a long dark coloured dress with a high lace collar.

I stood up and approached the man and held out my hand. He took it reluctantly and shook it weakly. He had long bony fingers with prominent blue veins standing out on the back of his hands. His hands felt cold and I had an involuntary shiver at his touch.

“You were twenty minutes late,” he said.

“And you've kept me waiting,” I replied, not to be outdone.

“This is my sister, Seraphina” he said after a pause.

We acknowledged each other with a slight nod.

I'd taken the pair to be in their late seventies which is why the next statement surprised me.

“We are having some trouble with our mother.”

I looked more closely at them and they might indeed be in their fifties. This pair were probably born looking old.

“Can I sit down?” I said and sat down without waiting for an answer. I might have been more polite if I'd thought I wasn't wasting my time.

Mr. Simpson sat down in a armchair opposite mine and his sister came and stood at his side. I know one studio that is looking for extras in a zombie movie and this pair would be sure to get the parts and they wouldn't need that much makeup.

“What sort of trouble?”

“Our father died about three years ago. He left almost all his money and this house to our mother who lives here with us. When he was alive my father dealt with the maintenance and running costs of the house and we had several servants and a gardener. But our mother stopped paying them and they left. We have a small allowance which allows us to keep Maria on to cook and clean but it isn't enough for this house.”

“Why did your mother stop paying the servants?”

“She suggested that we could do some of the work.” Mr Simpson said this in a horrified tone and his sister shuddered.

“I see.”

“And now she's in the clutches of a charlatan.”

“What sort of charlatan?” I asked.

“A fake medium”

That was a tautology as mediums are fake by definition but I decided not to be pedantic.

“We know she's given her large sums of money because father came through from the other side and told her to do so. Now we are worried she might sign over the deeds of this house.”

“What do you expect me to do about it?” I asked.

“We need you to expose her so mother can see she is a fake.”

This sounded like an impossible task and then something occurred to me.

“Am I the first detective you've employed to look at this?”

The siblings looked guiltily at each other.

“How many others?” I asked.

“Two agencies refused and one did try.”

“And what happened?”

“He investigated the past of Nikita, that's the name of the medium, and found that she was a failed singer and songwriter whose real name is Regina Dwight. We let mother know but she just dismissed this as lies.”

California is full of wackos like medium, gurus, healers and all sorts waiting to prey on the gullible and vulnerable. We have new religions and cults by the truck-load. And Hollywood is the epicentre of all this bunkum. People will offer to cure you of any complaint you might have by methods including sticking needles into you or dangling a crystal over your head. The latest craze is called colonic irrigation but I won't describe what that entails.

There are even people who will tell you who you were in a previous life. Strangely the women are always Egyptian princesses and the men great generals; no one was ever a starving medieval peasant.

I had to give this macabre looking couple a lesson in human nature.

“Your mother wants to believe that she is getting messages from her husband. She'll just dismiss whatever proof I might come up with no matter how convincing it is to everyone else. If the medium gets ninety-nine things out of a hundred wrong, your mother will still use the one correct guess to prove she is genuine.”

The two zombie lookalikes looked dejectedly at each other so I said, “I'll go along to one session and take a look at her in action.”

I decided to get paid in advance for this job. They supplied the required $25 but some of it was in coins.

“Where is your mother at the moment?”

“She's out shopping.” This was good because I didn't want to meet her, just yet.

Alabaster Simpson told me what more he knew about the way this medium worked and gave me her phone number. So I asked for a photograph of his mother and the model of her car.

I had been told that Mrs Simpson went to open sessions with Nikita where she gets in touch with the departed relatives of a number of people. And then at other times she attended a personal one-to-one session.

I called Nikita's number and it was answered by a woman. I enquired about the session and she said I could come and told me the address and the time of the meeting. I asked how much it cost and she told me it was free but I might like to make a voluntary contribution after the meeting. She made it sound like a charity which I was certain it wasn't.

Nikita lived in a large old house situated a little way along a badly made road which came off the ocean highway just north of the city. When this house was built it would have been way out in the countryside but over the years the city had been creeping closer. In another twenty years a developer would want to knock it down to make way for another characterless housing estate. Suburbia is where they tear up all the flora and destroy all the fauna then build streets named after the wildlife they have destroyed.

There were a number of cars parked outside the house, all of them better than mine. Nikita's clientele were not short of a few dollars. Mrs Simpson's Bentley was among them and I parked next to it.

The door was answered by a large person of indeterminate gender. Only when she spoke did I know it was a women, at least I think it was. I told her my name and she showed me into a large room where a group of about a dozen people were standing in groups of twos and threes in conversation; mostly women, and just a couple of men. There was a table with refreshments in the corner with coffee, cookies and a selection of small cakes. I helped myself to the coffee.

I had spotted Mrs Simpson talking to a man on the other side of the room, so I started to casually make my way over but was intercepted by a young woman who introduced herself as Mandy. I told her my name and she asked me who I was hoping to contact. I soon realised that the questions she was asking were not just polite conversation but that she was the “plant” who was gathering information that Nikita would miraculously know during the upcoming session. I told her lots of information; all of it wrong.

I did finally get to talk to Mrs Simpson for a few minutes before we were called into an adjoining room. She was a small, slightly nervous women. She told me what I already knew, that she was here to get advice from her late husband.

We were all led through to another room where Nikita was sitting in a large armchair; we were seated in a semicircle around her. She was middle aged with a mass of permed hair which was an unnatural orange colour that looked solid enough to double as a crash helmet. She was wearing a voluminous green dress which reached to the floor. She had a large pendant at her neck and rings on most of her fingers. Her makeup was a little severe, especially the blue eye shadow. She was exactly what you'd expect a medium to look like.

The room had heavy drapes at the windows which excluded most of the late afternoon sun, and a number of candles were burning around the side. I looked around and noticed that Mandy wasn't there but the half-women, half-gorilla that had answered the door to me earlier was seated to one side.

Nikita said a few words of welcome and then went into her act. She closed her eyes and lifted her head up to the ceiling. She swayed a little and after a few seconds she said, “I'm getting a K. Is there anyone here that knows a Karl?”

The elderly woman sitting next to me said, “that must be me. Karl's my husband.”

Karl then proceeded to describe how he died, in a car smash, and then he asked after the pet dog by name, said he was happy where he was and signed off by saying he loved his wife.

The woman was in tears and turned to me and said, “that was my Karl.”

After another few people came through with similar results it was the turn of Mrs Simpson. The late Mr Simpson said similar things to Karl but added that his wife should think about disposing of the house as she didn't need such a large place.

“Does anyone here know a Rupert?” said Nikita. Now it was my turn.

“That's my father,” I said. It was the made up name I'd given to Mandy earlier.

My father then told me how he died in great pain because of cancer.

“That's not right, he shot himself.”

She ignored that and tried again.

“He hopes you and your brother, George, are well.”

“I don't have a brother,” I said.

She opened one eye for a second and looked at me and I winked. A look of annoyance briefly passed over her face.

She then moved on to the rest of the room.

The women who had let me in was standing by the door as people were leaving. She was collecting voluntary donations. I saw some large denomination bills changing hands. I gave her a dollar.

“Nikita thinks it's best you don't come again as she doesn't think she can help you.”

I nodded and left. I waited by my car for Mrs Simpson to appear.

“I'm glad your husband came through for you,” I said.

“Yes it is very comforting. But I'm sorry you didn't make contact with your father. It must have been someone else on the other side.”

I always think a plan should be well thought through before it is put into operation; which is exactly what I didn't do now.

“I know another medium that is very good. He only sees people by personal recommendation. A number of well known film stars use him confidentially. I've been told he is the best medium in the whole of Los Angeles. His name is Sebastian.”

“Really?”

“I managed to see him a couple of times and he was very good. Maybe I could get him to see you?”

“Yes please,” she said enthusiastically.

She was hooked and now all I had to do was find Sebastian to complete my hastily conceived and ill-thought-out plan.

I pulled up outside the Simpson's house. It had been several weeks since I'd last been here and things had changed. The house was currently in the process of being painted. The missing shingles had been replaced and the guttering fixed. Sprinklers were watering the lawn but it would take more weeks of loving care before it matched the quality of others in the street.

I walked up the drive this time and received a wet leg from one of the sprinklers. The step had been swept and the windows cleaned. I swung the now shining brass knocker on the front door which was promptly answered by a young women in a maid's dress.

She showed me into the same room as before and the zombie couple didn't keep me waiting this time. They were both smiling broadly but I didn't think it improved their appearance.

“How can we ever thank you?” said Alabaster Simpson shaking my hand.

“By paying my bill promptly,” I said.

“That new medium you found has convinced mother to re-employ enough staff for the house and not to go back to that fake medium or give any more money away.”

“He's not a medium. No one can talk to the dead. He's just an actor.”

I expect you're wondering how my hastily conceived plan worked? All I needed was someone to convincingly play a medium. That person was given a few hours alone in Mrs Simpson's bedroom when she was out of the house and went though her letters and papers and learned as much as he could about her husband. Then at the reading he was so accurate in his predictions that she couldn't fail to be convinced.

I walked back down the drive to my car and slid in to the drivers seat.

“How was it?” asked Sebastian, a.k.a. Martin Dean, a.k.a. The Amazing Dandi.

“You did what I asked. But I will keep an eye on things to make sure you aren't abusing Mrs Simpson's trust and I'll let the racecourse know your name and address if you do. I'm happy for you to receive the $50 a session she is paying you, which is very generous, but no more than that. For that all you have to do is keep Mrs Simpson away from fake mediums and also make sure the zombies only get their current allowance and she doesn't give them any more.”

“This is money for old rope. I wonder if Sebastian can get any more clients?”

“If I find out he has then I won't be happy.”

I sat in my office that evening catching up on some paperwork. I wondered whether my life had been a success, but I guess that depends on how you define it. I don't bother with New Year's Resolutions as there's nothing I want to change.

I decided that what I really needed at the moment was somewhere with bright lights where I could get a cold beer.