Текст книги "Time to Die"

Автор книги: Caroline Mitchell

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Bert

The cards were just tools, an extension of the woodlands in which they were hidden. Bert knew his mother would see sense and demand he return the gifts she lavished upon him, but he had hidden the cards far from her reach in the woodland soil.

That night his path was well lit, as he visited his haunt in the forest. The air felt different somehow, and the raven flew with a sense of purpose overhead. Swooping and cawing, it led him to the tall tree that was so alive he could almost feel it breathe. Bert sat at the mossy base, closing his eyes as he inhaled the dead leaf smell. Digging his fingers into the dirt, he enjoyed the tickle of creatures as they slithered through his fingers. Bert sat back on his knees, pulling handfuls of warm moist soil as he dug deeper.. He cleared the soil away from his special hiding place, squinting to see the small tin box nestled underneath the thick root, which had grown protectively over it. Nine months had passed since he had been given the cards, and he grunted as he pulled the small narrow tin box from its hiding place. The lid refused to give and he jammed his stubby dirt-lined nails under the tightly sealed lip. He had bided his time as they absorbed the energies of the land. His tongue poked out the corner of his mouth and he tugged until the lid popped off with a whoosh. Wiping his dirty hands on the back of his clothes, he tipped the contents of the box onto his hands. Now tantalisingly musty and discoloured, the pictures were printed in intricate patterns and colours, emitting an energy all of their own. Like everything in the forest they had a quality that would be negative to others, but felt like home to him.

As dawn streaked through the sky in purple and pink hues, he entered his window as quickly as his muscles would allow. Bert held the cards under his nose, breathing in the sour odour. It was beautiful in comparison to the smell of bleach that permeated the house. The cards felt alive as he laid them on his bed, and each one told a story. They had lain in the ground for a long time, and returned to hands that would make good use of them. Bert did not need instructions, and in the quietness of his room when everyone was asleep, he laid the cards out again and again until he understood their meanings. They worked with him as he flicked them over, getting to grips with each image. Their hypnotic quality made him lose hours of the night under their spell. Once mastered, Bert began to resume a normal sleeping pattern. He was keen to get out in the world to put them to good use. The fact the raven chose him simply reinforced the knowledge that they were interlinked with the forest. His research on ravens in the old school library told him they were highly intelligent, associated with witchcraft and powers of divination. Bert smiled. He was strong and he was not alone. And with the cards giving him the power of prophecy, he was Raven.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Dr Carter’s telephone voice made him sound like a giant, but in the flesh, he was shorter than Jennifer in his wrinkled off-white suit. His vice-like handshake left Jennifer in no doubt that what he lacked in height he made up for in strength of character.

His office was exactly how she imagined it to be. A spacious but cosy grandfatherly room, with a hint of cigar smoke, featuring wood-panelled walls and a well-stocked bookshelf. The wall facing the street had two windows, and crooked venetian blinds filtered the afternoon light. Jennifer itched to straighten them until they were both the same level.

Dr Carter gestured towards the buttoned leather chair. ‘Please, have a seat.’ He paused, his eyes returning to the windows. ‘Would you like me to lower the other blind and switch on the lamp?’

‘No, that’s fine, thank you.’ Jennifer tried to contain her smile. Only a doctor dealing in the complexities of the human mind would notice her discomfort and understand the reasons behind it. She wondered if it was some kind of test, or if the pleasant pink-faced man was just good at his job.

Dr Carter sat back in his leather chair, his cheerful face a direct contrast to the oil painting of men in battle, which was hung on the wall overhead. He reminded Jennifer of Colonel Sanders with his pointed white beard and thatch of grey hair, and she developed a sudden craving for KFC. She brought her mind back to the task in hand, and hoped to commit his every word to memory.

‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,’ she said, sitting on the edge of the leather sofa.

‘I was happy to do so. Do you understand what I meant on the phone when I said I was grateful for the opportunity to repay a debt?’

Jennifer nodded. ‘You mentioned my mother helped your family in the past.’

He steepled his fingers together, paling his lips as he pressed them against his teeth ‘That, my dear, is an understatement.’ Dr Carter reached for a framed photo on his desk and turned it to face her. A young blonde woman sat in her graduation cap and gown, clutching a ribboned certificate. She had the same small stature as Dr Carter, and her features encompassed the same determined expression.

‘This is Amelia. My wife and I had almost given up when God blessed us with her.’ Dr Carter’s face clouded over as he stared at the photo, drifting back to another time. ‘She was six years old when she disappeared. We thought she had been kidnapped while she played in the garden. My wife and I … we were hysterical. Your mother arrived at our door, and the warmth and respect she conveyed is something I will always remember. She arranged for a team of officers to search the streets and beyond, but she felt drawn to our back garden. She couldn’t explain it but she seemed to know that Amelia had not gone far. She squeezed through a gap in the fence to next door, and found a disused shed at the bottom of their garden. She found Amelia in an old chest freezer. She must have gone exploring and gotten trapped inside. She was blue and limp when your mother pulled her out. Elizabeth resuscitated her until the ambulance came. She could have died.’ Dr Carter paused, as if to give the memory respect.

‘My wife and I were very upset when we read of Elizabeth’s passing, and I was always left with a sense of regret that I didn’t thank her properly.’

‘I’m sure my mother received enough reward in finding your daughter. But having said that, I’m very grateful for any information you can give me on Bertram Bishop.’

Dr Carter made the transition from father to professional as he straightened in his chair. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that until you process the correct documentation this remains between us.’

‘That goes without saying. I’m nothing if not professional,’ Jennifer said, unable to prevent her eyes flicking back to the blinds. They really were getting on her nerves.

‘Bit too bright in here, don’t you think?’ Dr Carter said as he got up and walked to the half-drawn blind, releasing it to the bottom of the ledge. Switching on the lamp, he returned to his chair. ‘So tell me, what are your concerns about Mr Bishop?’

Jennifer warmed to Dr Carter even more. ‘I don’t know if you’ve seen the newspapers, but we believe there may be a connection between Bertram and some recent deaths in the area. His whereabouts are unknown and frankly I’m at a loss as to what I’m dealing with, given his lack of history with the police.’

‘And forensically? Sorry, I fancy myself as a bit of an armchair detective,’ Dr Carter said.

Jennifer sighed. This wasn’t meant to be a two-way exchange, but she would have to give something if she wanted to gain his trust.

‘I can’t really say. But it’s only a matter of time until he slips up, and when he does I want to be ready for him.’

Dr Carter nodded as if to say he could read between the lines. The evidence was thin, and made his disclosure all the more important. He took a deep breath and his voice slowed, as if the words weighed heavy on his tongue.

‘Where to start? Bert is a fascinating character, but highly delusional. My colleagues believe his problems stem from the death of his twin brother, but I think it goes back much further than that.’

‘How did his twin die?’ Jennifer asked.

‘A tragic accident. Bert and his brother … what was his name now…?’ Dr Carter took a manila folder from his desk drawer and flicked through the paperwork. ‘Here it is … Callum. They were climbing a tree when Callum fell to his death. Unfortunately, Bert’s mother spent the rest of her life blaming him. Given what Bert has told me about her, it would seem she had several undiagnosed mental health issues herself, anxiety, possibly Munchausen’s … she was not a well woman.’

‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’ Jennifer shrugged at the doctor’s raised brow. ‘Armchair psychiatrist.’

Dr Carter’s mouth twinged upwards in a smile. ‘Quite.’

‘Bert seems to have an affinity for ravens, can you tell me anything about that?’

‘Bert compensated for his parents’ apathy by inventing a personal guardian in the form of a raven. It helped him when he was growing up to feel there was someone out there, guiding him. The meaning of his name hasn’t helped. It has only enforced his conviction further.’

‘His name? It’s Bert Bishop, isn’t it?’

‘Yes it is, but the actual meaning of Bertram is raven. In contrast, his brother’s name Callum meant dove. He once told me his mother was surprised to hear the meanings, but I believe it was just another way to enforce her favouritism. That woman had a lot to answer for.’

Jennifer held back a gasp as the memory of the white bird in the forest returned. Was it the spirit of Callum coming back to save her? She rubbed her hand, tracing her finger over the scar that remained. Her eyes returned to the doctor. ‘Has anyone traced the history of the land?’

He shook his head. ‘Much like the police, we deal in fact. To encourage the delusions would only exacerbate his condition. My role was to assist him in coping with life in the real world.’

Just because it’s your world doesn’t make it the real world, Jennifer thought. She would have enjoyed debating the subject, but time was precious.

‘True,’ she said, ‘but we always ensure we have the whole picture when dealing with something as serious as this. His mother is dead, isn’t she? How did she die?’

Dr Carter flicked through the paperwork before pushing it back into the folder and returning it to his drawer. ‘A heart attack,’ he said, discreetly casting a glance over the clock on the wall.

Jennifer itched to take a copy of the folder, but their conversation would have to suffice until the official channels were adhered to.

Dr Carter clasped his fingers together and leaned over his desk. ‘Mr Bishop was fit and well when he left us. People with mental health issues are often subject to discrimination. I’d hate for him to be treated in a way that would result in him spending the remainder of his days in an institution. The most important thing for him is to keep his life normal.’

‘The problem is that he’s been giving readings, and certain recipients have died. I believe he’s responsible for their murders.’

‘Well, DC Knight, I wouldn’t tell you how to do your job no more than I would accept you telling me how to do mine. I’m afraid I’m going to leave the investigation in your hands. If you do arrest Bert I would be very grateful if you could make me aware.’ Dr Carter slid a packet from his breast pocket and pulled out a thick cigar.

Jennifer sensed the doctor’s impatience, but there was so much she needed to know. ‘Do you know anything about his nephew, Christian Bowes? He’s reported Bert for harassing him.’

‘You know as much as I do when it comes to Mr Bowes. But I will ask you one thing. If Bert has relapsed, he may be confused and disorientated. He might have no recollection of his treatment, or indeed may be living in a completely different time. Mr Bowes may be his link to the past. If he turns up and Mr Bowes antagonises him …’ Dr Carter shook his head. ‘Let’s just say it’s important Bert’s returned to our care so we can offer him the help he needs.’

Jennifer nodded, finding it hard to muster sympathy for a man who had left a child motherless and a fiancé without a wife. ‘Thank you, I appreciate your time.’

Dr Carter stood and extended his hand. ‘And I appreciate the opportunity to pay back an overdue debt. If it weren’t for your mother, my daughter wouldn’t be alive today.’

Jennifer shook his hand, hoping to tease out one last nugget of information. ‘So I take it that you’re telling me Bert’s not capable of murder.’

‘Ah.’ The doctor wagged his finger in the air. ‘I didn’t say that. I have no doubt he is capable of violence while in a delusional state. When in this state, with the validation of others, he could prove to be very dangerous indeed.’

Chapter Thirty-Seven

It should have felt strange, sharing her bed with a man after being on her own for so long. Jennifer breathed in the scent of Will’s pillow as she curled her legs around the warmth of his body. She had forgotten just how much she missed him, and Will’s soft snores were a welcome distraction from the sounds of the branches tapping on her window in the night. As dawn broke through and filtered soft morning light into her bedroom, she wished that she could bask in the warmth emanating from his body, instead of having to face the prospect of a killer loose on the streets of Haven. The haunting figure of Emily’s child replayed in her mind, lost and alone in the house with little food or water. Who would be next? She smoothed over her duvet, eyeing her clothes on the ground. She fought the sudden need to hang them in the wardrobe. Her relationship with Will would not be smooth sailing, she knew that. There would be times when she needed to be alone, and she couldn’t foresee a time when they could ever live together. Will’s messiness would get on her nerves, and he would resent having to constantly clean, once the first flush of their relationship had mellowed. They were the classic odd couple, but that was all right with her. Will stirred and Jennifer edged over to her side of the bed, wanting to be showered before he woke. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and slid out from between the sheets.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Will murmured, his muscles rippling as he stretched.

‘Shower, then I’m going to make you breakfast. Is that to your satisfaction, Mr Dunston?’

‘Come back to bed first. I’ve got something for you,’ Will said sleepily.

‘Not until I’ve brushed my teeth,’ Jennifer said, pulling on a t-shirt. But Will was too quick, and in one steady movement he had her pinned on the bed.

‘My mum’s been asking about you,’ he murmured, brushing aside her hair as he kissed her collarbone.

Jennifer wriggled under his grasp. ‘I know you’re an expert in pulling women, but talking about your mother in bed is not what I’d call a turn-on.’

Will paused long enough for her to slide free from his grasp. ‘No, I don’t suppose it is. Wouldn’t you like to meet her?’

Jennifer’s voice trailed behind her as she walked to the en suite. ‘Early days, love. Early days.’

Jennifer relished the hot spikes of water cascading from her chrome showerhead, and used the time to organise her thoughts. Will had recently come out of a difficult marriage, and the last thing she wanted was to be his rebound lover. But recent events had shown her just how much he cared, and it was pointless spending any more time fretting about if it would work out between them or not. She had far bigger concerns. The extractor fan rattled as it tried to keep up with the level of steam in the bathroom. Will had described her shower as boiling hot needles of hell, preferring his own gentle showerhead attached to the wall over his bath. She squeezed out the shampoo and lathered it into her hair. Some people sang in the shower. She used the time to mull over her latest cases. It was surprising what came to you when you were hidden away, devoid of distractions of the outside world.

Her thoughts returned to Alan Price, Felicity Baron, and Emily Clarke. Alan’s death seemed to involve minimal effort, and Felicity’s death involved tinkering with her car. However, no effort was made to pass Emily Clarke’s death off as an unfortunate accident. It was violent and brutal, and that’s what worried her most. The Raven was gaining in confidence, each kill more daring than the one before. He was building up to something, his escape from the law strengthening his resolve. Her thoughts drifted to a serial rapist she had investigated in her old station. He started off small, speaking to random women to ask them the time, then moving on to handbag snatches down lonely paths. Once he had gotten away with that, he escalated to snatching the bag and giving the victim a push as he did so. The pushes became more violent and turned into punches. Yet he remained elusive to the police, varying his routes, changing his appearance, but all the while growing in confidence until he carried out first one rape, then two. It would have ended in murder had she not brought him to justice. To Jennifer, the Raven was just the same. He was testing the waters. He was testing her.

She turned off the tap and squeezed the excess water from her hair. Blotting her face against a towel, she tried to envisage what was coming next. Was it possible to escalate from murder? If he was willing to kill in a house with a child, just what was he capable of? But there was still a chink of humanity present, as he had locked the bedroom door to stop the boy witnessing the horror. Phone records had shown Emily’s telephone was cut off the day before for non-payment. What if the killer hadn’t known that? What if he’d dialled for help before he left? Perhaps he seen the state of the place and thought the boy was better off without her. There was no doubt in her mind that Emily had been involved in The Reborners group. Was the Raven picking them off because they didn’t deserve a second chance? Did he think the same about her?

Jennifer patted her skin dry before winding the towel around her body and picking up her toothbrush. She wanted to grasp for hope anywhere she could find it. If there was some semblance of empathy in the killer then perhaps the answer lay in his past. There was just one person who could help her with that. She would need to visit Christian Bowes.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Bert

At thirteen, Bert looked forward to the day he could leave school. The kudos of being Callum's brother had long since worn off, and Bert could not wait until he was old enough to make his way in the world. His Saturday job in the mail sorting office was given to him as a tribute to his father, whose sudden passing fell like an axe onto their home. Callum’s school friends had forgotten him, and to them, Bert was just plain creepy. It was a comment by Lucy Grimshaw that sparked him off.

Cycling beside him, she asked who he was going to dress up as for Halloween. Her two companions flanking her on either side emitted a chorus of shrill giggles.

Bert felt a blush rise to his pale cheekbones as she slowed her bike to a crawl, balancing the quivering handlebars to meet his steady gait. He thought it was cute, how she could cycle so slowly without having to put her feet to the ground. Bert was trying to think of an impressive reply when she broke into his thoughts, giggling between chews of gum.

‘Only I was thinking we could go to the Halloween disco together.’

Bertram's heart gave a little flutter in his chest. It was such an alien feeling he gave a little gasp to accommodate it.

Lucy smiled. ‘I’m gonna be the bride of Frankenstein …’

She squeezed her brakes as his bike shot ahead, and steadied it before turning her sky blue eyes back on his face. ‘Wanna know what the best part about it would be?’

Bert cleared his throat with a small cough, digging his hands into his pockets as a shy smile crossed his face. ‘What?’

‘You wouldn’t even need an outfit!’ An explosion of laughter followed the punchline as the girls leaned forward on their bikes and cycled down the road. ‘So long, loser!’ Lucy shouted, blonde ponytail bobbing, oblivious to the devastation in her wake.

It wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t liked her. He’d mistaken her glances for interest, when it was just morbid curiosity.

Bert clenched his fists as he gulped back the hot tears that threatened to flow. Walking home with his head bowed, his insides began to boil with indignation. A bird cawed in the distance. He felt a fluttering sensation, a stretching of wings, and steel grey eyes snapping open. The tarot cards. That night as he laid the cards on his bed, they produced a welcome image. It was like watching a television programme as Bert envisaged Lucy being knocked off her bike in front of an oncoming car. His breath quickened as the scene unravelled before him; Lucy, no longer mocking but a broken mess of matted hair. Rivulets of her blood decorating the black asphalt in his wake. Such thoughts both frightened and excited him. It was then that the raven within came into its own.

Bert jerked his rucksack forward as he walked home. Today was the day he had planned to carry out Lucy’s prediction, but second thoughts had plunged the heat of his anger into ice, and turning his back on his school he cast his head down as he pushed his thumbs under the straps biting into his shoulders. The rucksack felt ten times heavier, as if large claws were yanking it backwards with each step he took. The more he hurried, the more he could feel the breath of his nightmares tickle the back of his neck. Yes, he wanted revenge on Lucy, but killing her?

Another jerk of his rucksack gained his attention and Bert pulled it back, spitting the words. ‘I’m not killing anyone, now leave me alone!’

The reply was so low it was not audible, but he felt it just the same.

‘You didn’t mind killing Callum.’

The mention of his brother’s name sent a chill down his spine. ‘What? No … I didn’t.’

The voice from within sneered. ‘Want to hear what he has to say about it? I come from death, I can bring him to you.’

Bert sucked in great mouthfuls of air as he turned down their laneway and caught sight of home. He tried to tell himself the voice was inside his head. It couldn’t hurt him if it was part of him, could it? His panic was coming in waves now, surging, and then ebbing just enough to allow him to suck in air before he was engulfed in the terror again. The thoughts of hearing Callum’s voice were more than he could bear. He threw his rucksack on the porch and ran to his room.

He tried to broach the subject as mother treated his eczema, which had flared into angry red welts on his skin. The house was eerily quiet as he sat at the table, the only sound the ticking of the clock and the wind howling outside. He wished he had a television like other families. Books were fine, but they could not silence the voices intruding in his thoughts. Bert took a deep breath and blurted out what was troubling him.

‘Mum, sometimes I hear voices telling me to do things.’

‘It’s just your imagination,’ she said, as she slathered the cream up his arms.

‘But sometimes it tells me to do things I don’t wanna do,’ Bert said, shivering in his vest.

His mother laughed, but her face was cold and hard. ‘Poor Bert, you’re so afraid of life. Not like Callum. He wasn’t afraid of anything.’

Bert was taken back by his mother’s intense stare. She rarely mentioned Callum any more.

Her desperate eyes stared into his, trying to see any trace of the boy she missed so much. Her grip sent sharp painful darts into his broken skin.

‘You’re hurting me,’ Bert said, pulling back his arm with a gasp.

Mother lowered her eyes and handed him the roll of bandages. ‘You’re old enough to do this yourself now. You don’t need me any more.’

Something shifted that night as Bert felt his passenger grow form. It wrestled with his inner conscience, the one that told him killing was bad. The raven reminded him he was summoned as his protector, and he could not lie dormant forever. Bert knew deep down it was what he wanted, and that night as he stared at the bare branches of the oak tree, a frost crept through his soul.

[#]

On Thursday evenings, Lucy Grimshaw went to book club after school and cycled home alone. Bert was waiting. The timing would have to be right, but the cards had guided him and wouldn’t let him down. Bert hid in the bushes as her bicycle approached. Pulling the black balaclava over his head, he was grateful for the winter nights, which were drawing in. The noise of the lorries drowned out his heavy breathing as adrenalin coursed through his body. Perhaps she would just fall off and scuff her knees, he thought, picking up the pole, his heart hammering a warm beat in his chest. He crouched down into position. The plan was to ram the pole into the tyre of her bike and run like hell. Bert tried to ignore the steady stream of cars, and to stem that nagging feeling that being upended off your bike in heavy traffic seemed an excessive punishment for being a tease. But it wasn’t just that. Bertram's eczema had become unbearable, and school was only going to get worse. Carrying out the raven’s wishes may stem the voice hungry for blood. The doctor had told them his skin condition was stress related, and to Bert, his annoyance over Lucy was never going to dissipate unless he did something about it. Besides, a prediction had been made, and blood would be shed one way or another. A single bicycle headlight glared in the distance, flickering on, off, on, off in time with the dynamo that powered it. Oh shit and fuck, Bert thought, as a lorry came rumbling up behind her, trying to overtake but was hemmed in by the cars passing the other side. Bert prayed his black clothes would protect him from onlookers.

‘Just be quick, a quick jab is all it needs, then take the pole and run,’ the voice said, bubbling within him. Bert’s heart pounded at twice its normal speed.

There was no time to dwell as the bicycle drew near. This stretch of the road was downhill and Lucy was travelling at speed. She was near enough now for him to hear her humming a tune. Bert tried to make it out. If someone was going to die, then the last song they sung should at least be noted. But it was too late for all that now. Rain began to pelt from the skies, and Bert thanked the skies for the blessing of what would cloak him into further obscurity. The voice whispered, reminding him of how he felt the day Lucy humiliated him in front of everyone. ‘Are you going to let people walk over you all your life, Bert? It’s time to be a man, take control. She won’t disrespect you a second time.’ His heart thundering in his ears, Bert jumped from the bushes. Lucy was so busy concentrating on the lorry beside her that she didn’t see the pole catch the spokes of the front wheel of her bike. The motion jerked Bert forward, his arms rattling in their sockets. Clamping his hands on the rain-greased pole, he jerked it back, falling on his bottom onto the edge of the path. Lucy didn’t have time to scream as the front wheel jammed, making the rear wheel of her bike come up. Dismounting its passenger, it threw her into the path of the impatient lorry driver. A horn shrilled and a ker-thunk noise followed as the brakes shrieked, too late for Lucy. Car brakes screeched amidst grinding metal. By the time the drivers got out of their vehicles, Bert was long gone, gasping for breath, snivelling and laughing at the same time and not understanding why.

When he got home and discarded his clothes he felt like he had been through an initiation of sorts. The voice, now satisfied, whispered in its slumber. ‘You’re a man now, Bert. You did good.’

His hometown was shocked, as apart from the bad luck his own family generated, there was not much in the way of deaths in their area. Newspapers reported that it had been raining heavily, visibility was bad as darkness fell, and the young girl just came off her bike into the path of the lorry, who was driving way too close in his impatience to deliver his goods on time. His arrest was little comfort to her parents. The thrill Bert felt at reaching manhood outweighed any doubts in his mind. It was there in black and white, the lorry driver was to blame. By the end of the day, he had relinquished all feelings of guilt. Bert was becoming a master at reconstructing past events to suit himself. A sense of empowerment overcame him as he stretched to full height before the mirror. His eczema had virtually cleared overnight, and he felt like the old days, unencumbered by pain, grief, or feelings of worthlessness.

[#]

Each initiation was Bert’s strongest memory. The first was his earliest recollection, the night he was summoned to the woods. The second was when he lay in the blood of his brother and created a raven onto the soil. The third and final was in his adolescence when he killed Lucy Grimshaw. That was all it took to make him what he was. Many people had crossed his path since then, and with the help of the cards many had come to regret it. He often wondered how he could remember parts of his life so clearly when others were so hazy. He sometimes dreamt of a clinical room, speaking in groups, watching a large-screened television from a paint-chipped wall. The dreams were so vivid he could recall many programmes in his mind when he heard the theme tunes but not how or where he had watched them. Small flashes seeped into his consciousness; nametags waving on clothing, swallowing multi-coloured capsules with thin plastic cups of water that quivered in his hand. But the memories were foggy and the darkness inside him worked hard to keep them repressed. Those memories served only to weaken him. He would have to remain strong for what lay ahead.