Arthur Penningham was a man who enjoyed cricket. He had, at one point, played professionally with a plethora of competitors until a heart condition forced him to retire his bat and ball, becoming merely a spectator to the game he loved. Many days for Arthur Penningham were spent sitting alone on the cricket pitch, fondling the memories of his active days of good sport.
Lying on the pitch in a starry night, Arthur whistled a song to himself, unaware of being watched. The cricket pitch he was resting against was the last pitch in which he’d won a match, his favourite memory before being diagnosed with tachycardia. His heart prevented him from excessive running, heavy lifting or drinking shots of whisky. Arthur mainly missed gulping shots of whisky, a tradition indiscriminate of winning or losing the game.
Arthur felt a massive pain explode in the back of his head and then awoke with his body paralysed, right up to his tongue. His eyes darted around until they latched upon a man donned in a black cricket uniform, including head gear to obscure his face. However, Arthur could see the skin of this man glow slightly under the netting, a fiendish yellow. Attempting to yell brought no sound, to which Arthur’s assailant laughed menacingly, with a deep, ringing chuckle.
“Argh” Arthur managed to get out with only his throat, “argh, argh urgh”
“I’m going to guess you said something along the lines of ‘who are you?’ and to tell you the truth, I’m your killer” the man in black gear said, waving a well-knocked, dark blue cricket bat, a trademark which Arthur recognised instantly, “because I am the ghost of Jacob Rankin and this, is my attacking shot”
Lee Granger was no stranger to the world of private detectives, requiring their services to prove his wife’s affair, and the recovery of his possessions during a break-in. However, with his current case he had been turned down by every other private detective, with only a referral to Degrassi & Sharpe in the shape of a business card, embedded with a logo and phone number. With options falling apart, Granger found a phone box and slid in two silver coins and punched in the digits.
“ Degrassi & Sharpe?” Granger said into the receiver.
“Yes” an electronically filtered voice replied, “who is this?”
“My name is Lee Granger, I have a case for you” Lee said, “can I meet you? I’d rather discuss this face-to-face”
There was a pause, “yes, the headquarters is at 112 Argyle Street, could you appear at eight o’clock tonight?”
“Yes” Granger said, and as soon as he had, the other line had hung up. With forced determination, he passed the office at 112 Argyle Street and with great reluctance, entered the office of the Degrassi & Sharpe at exactly eight o’clock.
The door to their office was ajar so Granger let himself in. He had only met private detectives at public meeting places, cafes, libraries, he had never set foot into the office of a PI and his conceptions came substantially from fiction he had read or movies he had watched. He had expected venetian blinds, several file cabinets, a ceiling fan sluggishly rotating and a single desk. The room he had walked into was rather sparse of any furniture, with two computers set up on boxes. A stack of plastic chairs hid in a corner, as if cowering from anyone who might use them. Alone in this Zen-like room, Granger slipped off his tweed overcoat and slung it over his figure with the sleeves hanging loose like a Chicago gangster at rest. He stood for ten minutes patiently in the office until finally a voice broke the silence.
“Name?” the familiar electronic voice said, seemingly omniscient.
“Lee Granger”
“Unarmed?”
“Yes”
Granger turned his head as he heard footsteps. However, the moment his head returned to it’s normal position he was facing two men, one with a muscular appearance and the other with a stick-like figure, in aviators, vintage tuxedos and overcoats, even more unlike the private detectives Granger had seen on television.
“Sorry about the wait” said the stick-like one in a New Jersey accent, “we had to see if you’d stay. Since you were willing to wait for ten minutes, this is obviously important to you at least”
The muscular figure unstacked three chairs and handed one to Granger and another to his associate, “take a seat Lee Granger. My name is Noel Degrassi, this is Damocles Sharpe. Explain your case”
As Granger positioned himself, he noticed that Sharpe sat at the very edge of the seat, almost leaning against the chair, “I used to play cricket, semi-professionally for a time. My team, the Blue Bloods, consisted of a group of young scallywags. We submerged ourselves in the game, thinking about it for most of our waking hours”
“One day we were practicing and Jacob Rankin, our star batter was up. Terry Gogh was bowling when he struck Jacob in the head. This caused an aneurysm in Jacob’s brain to rupture and Jacob died. However, before he died he swore revenge upon all of us”
“We’re going to need something a little more substantial than that”
“Last night, Arthur Penningham, who was one of the Blue Bloods, was bludgeoned to death with a cricket bat, the third victim to die in this fashion. I think that someone is killing us Blue Bloods”
“Interesting” mused Sharpe, lighting a cigarette, “and what makes you think this is the ghost of Jacob Rankin?”
“A can of French lager, âme de les vin” Granger explained, “was found a few feet from the body. That was the only kind of drink that Jacob consumed and he must have consumed several cans a day”
Sharpe blew nicotine smoke from his nose, “Did anyone else see this can?”
“Yes, I don’t suppose it would have mattered to anyone who didn’t know Jacob”
“So you think that the ghost of Jacob Rankin drank from a can of ghost beer?”
“Well, that’s what I’m paying you to find out” Granger took out his wallet, “I think that he’s killing in the order of which we were up to bat, in reverse. Arthur was up to bat fifth, I was up to bat eighth and I don’t know how much more my nerves can take”
“You skipped a victim” Sharpe noticed, “Arthur should have been up to bat fourth with your reasoning”
“Tom Spade, who was second batsman, died in a car crash a year ago”
Degrassi shrugged, “OK”
“You’ll take my case?”
“Yes, please leave contact details” Degrassi was blunt and Granger scribbled it on some scrap paper, a number and an address, “can you tell me who was sixth and seventh to bat?”
“Warrick Edmund and Lance DeMilo but Lance died in the car crash that killed Tom, they were the only two who stayed close friends after the rest of us... dissolved”
“OK” Degrassi had committed everything to memory, “we’ll charge after the investigation, you’re aware you are liable for any expenses?”
“I am”
“Now please leave” Sharpe held opened the door and Granger quickly let himself out.
“A ghost” Sharpe said to his partner, “we’re tracking down a ghost. What happened to the days when people died from gunshot wounds or cyanide poisoning?”
“You take the crime scene, I’ll take the body” Degrassi designated, rubbing his hands to create warmth, “who’re you going to call?”
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