Jerry pressed the rewind button, and the man on the screen speedily walked backwards across a sun-lit bedroom to the doorway. When the door appeared to slam closed, Jerry pressed Stop. He tapped his lips with a finger. What have I missed? He leaned back in the chair to gather his thoughts when the door behind him opened. Glancing over his shoulder, his associate, Anne, arrived carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. She smiled as if she'd completed an epic adventure just to get them, and with a swing of her hips, she closed the door with her bum.
"There were no biscuits," she said. "And before you moan at me, I did ask."
Jerry reached for his mug but paused at the news. "You're kidding me? We're in a police station, and there are no biscuits? The bastards must be hiding them. Maybe we should investigate that. The case of the missing biscuits."
Anne chuckled and eased herself into the chair next to Jerry's. She focused on the screen and rubbed her hands together with enthusiasm. "So, what have you found?"
Jerry shook his head and wiped the tiredness from his eyes. "Diddly-squat!"
"No ghosts then?" asked Anne.
"No ghosts," Jerry admitted, "just Charles."
"But that's a good thing, right?" Anne declared. "It means we can concentrate on finding the real killer."
"You would have thought so, but there's no evidence of anyone else being in the room. The killer should be here." Jerry tapped the screen with a knuckle. "But he's not. Charles Manford, one of our country's leading Paranormal Investigators, had cameras everywhere throughout the house, and I'm sure with all his years of experience, he'd have positioned them in the best possible places to catch even the slightest movement, and yet our killer evades all of them. You should see the tape, especially the ending. I watched it at least five times while you were making the coffee, and there's something that doesn't make sense. Watch."
A bedroom was on the screen. Its pale walls and white curtains glowed from the sun's rays shining through the window's netting. The patterned white duvet on the bed appeared inviting and freshly made. Jerry pressed play, and the net curtains danced in the breeze from the open window. The bedroom door opened, and a middle-aged man wearing dark sunglasses stood in the doorway, scanning the room.
"And there it is," said Jerry, pausing the film.
Anne shrugged. "I didn't see anything."
"But that's exactly my point because neither did Charles. The only place the murderer could have been was beyond the sight of the camera. But if you watch Charles, you can see he's having a good look round. So surely, if there's someone in the room, Charles would have done something to acknowledge them, and yet he doesn't. All his actions suggest the room is empty."
Jerry pressed play, and Charles walked slowly into the room. "Look at him. At the point of entering the room, there's no fear in him. It's only when he's beside the bed that we see a difference in his behaviour. But it doesn't explain what happens next."
Charles stopped at the foot of the bed and stared down at the white duvet. Anne studied the image, searching for a sign of malevolence. At first, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. It was only Charles' prolonged attention to the bed that deserved questioning. His sunglasses hid any emotion until his hand reached to his mouth in disgust. Anne leaned closer to the screen, hoping to see more as the Paranormal Investigator's behaviour altered further.
"What does he see?"
Charles glanced over his right shoulder, and his body suddenly recoiled, causing him to turn a little.
"And there it is," said Jerry as the knife protruding from Charles' chest came into view. "Peculiar isn't it."
"Spooky," said Anne. "It almost makes you wonder if it was a ghost that murdered him."
