Текст книги "Time to Die"

Автор книги: Caroline Mitchell

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter Ten

‘Hey everyone, what better tune to celebrate Friday night than one from the queen of pop herself? That’s right, iiiiiiit’s Madonna!’ the disc jockey said before playing ‘Celebrate’. It was one of Will’s little jokes; changing her car radio to the eighties channel when she wasn’t looking. Jennifer reached for the off button as Will jumped in with the takeaway bags. It didn’t take two of them to pick up the Chinese, but it was good to get away from the office, if only for a few minutes.

‘Who’s been in here while I was gone, one of Santa’s elves?’ Will said, bumping his knees against the glove box.

Jennifer bit back a smile. The seat shoved forward was payback for making her listen to the eighties channel. ‘Elves? I think you’ll find it was you.’ She turned the ignition. ‘I’m gonna trade it in soon, I’m thinking of getting myself a nice Audi A4 or something like that.’

‘Well, all right for some,’ Will said, pushing his hand against the glove box to shut it. A glimpse of white caught his eye and he dropped the door, allowing it to gape open.

‘You didn’t tell me you got another letter,’ he said, pulling out the white bonded envelope.

‘I haven’t …’ Jennifer’s words were cut short as she stared at the envelope. ‘Where did that come from?’

Will frowned. ‘Here, in your glove box. Do you want me to open it?’ he said, fishing in his jacket pocket for some PVC gloves. He shook the envelope. It was weighted at the bottom.

Jennifer turned off the car engine. She wasn’t going anywhere until she figured out what to do. ‘We should give it straight to forensics,’ she said, biting the corner of her lip. She knew the suspense would eat away at her, and she wasn’t in a hurry to hand the information over to DC Hardwick, given he’d been so flippant with her findings to date. ‘Oh go on then, open it,’ she heard herself say.

Will carefully opened the end, and watched as a round gold keyring fell into his lap. He reached for a pen from the glove box and poked it through the metal loop.

‘Why would anyone send you a designer keyring?’

The letters D and G were intertwined in gold, with tiny studded diamonds twinkling under the interior car light. Will drew his attention to the envelope and gently teased it open. Just like the last one, it contained a small black feather.

‘What the hell? How did that get into my car?’ Jennifer said, her hands itching with the need to be scrubbed clean.

Will’s brow furrowed. ‘Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to send you this.’

‘I can see that,’ she said, annoyed by the idea of someone being in her car.

Will popped the keyring back inside the envelope and carefully folded it over. ‘Are you sure this is the first you’ve seen of this?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Jennifer said, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. She welcomed the clues, but the invasion into her personal space had tapped into her compulsion to clean. The feeling of contamination grew, bringing with it a swell of apprehension, and it buzzed like a swarm of angry wasps in her chest.

Will sidestepped her question. ‘Have you left your car unlocked? Lost any spare keys?’

‘No … but I might have forgotten to lock it. I’ve been so busy lately …’ Her voice trailed away.

Will gnawed his lip, staring into the distance.

‘What’s wrong?’ she said, touching his arm to stir him from his thoughts.

Will took a deep breath but avoided her gaze. ‘Nothing. I just don’t like the thought of anyone being in your car.’ His eyes flickered to hers then quickly back onto the streets. ‘I can come over after work if you like, check your house out.’

Jennifer frowned. ‘My house? Do you think that’s necessary?’

The concern etched on Will’s face conveyed he did. ‘Best not to take any chances. I know you want to go this alone, but this is getting personal. You’re better off handing everything over to DC Hardwick and assisting him with the enquiries.’

Jennifer’s eyes crept to the ravens perched on the guttering of the buildings outside. Their heads bowed under the glow of the streetlamps as they bunched together conspiratorially, their beady eyes focused on her movements below.

‘Will,’ she said, her words delivered in a spoken sigh. ‘This got personal a long time ago.’

‘Oh.’ Will went quiet. ‘What makes you say that?’

She pointed up through the windscreen of her car. ‘See those ravens up there? They’re everywhere I go. I found one dead on my doorstep the other night. Ravens are said to carry powers of divination, and some believe they are omens of death.’

‘Do you think they’re connected to your suspect? It’s a tenuous link,’ Will said, gently reeling her back into the real world. He was met with silence, broken by his growling stomach.

‘It’s early days and I might have it all wrong. But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?’ Jennifer said, forcing him to look at her.

Will dropped his eyes again. He never was any good at lying. ‘I was going to tell you … but I was going to speak to Claire first, see if she could put some safety measures in place.’

‘I knew you were holding out. What were you going to tell me?’ she said, starting the ignition and pulling away from the kerb. The smell of chow mein and curry wafting from the back seat reminded Jennifer they should be getting back. She was keen to leave the ravens behind, but Will’s behaviour was niggling her.

‘I know who delivered the first letter. It was Charlie Sutton,’ Will said, clicking his seatbelt into place.

She glanced at her partner in disbelief. ‘Sutton? Why would the little scroat do that?’

‘He said an old fella paid him to drop it in. He was driving a van. I was going to tell you, I’ve only just found out myself.’

Jennifer lowered the car window, which had fogged in a fine mist of condensation.

‘You should have told me the second you found out. We’re meant to be a team.’

‘We are a team. I literally just found out today. Can we have this argument after we’ve eaten? I’m bloody starving.’

Jennifer broke into an involuntary smile. Nothing could come between Will and his food, and she used the rest of the journey to iron out the case so far. They had come to the conclusion that the Raven, or Bert Bishop as she now presumed, was connected to The Reborners cult. He seemed no stranger to mystical practices, given his use of the tarot cards, and what better stomping ground than a mysterious cult, offering the promise of rebirth to tortured souls? But Bert was a stranger to Alan when they met in the pub, and she was yet to work out a motivation to kill car crash victim Felicity Bowes. Her efforts to warn Emily had drawn a blank, and she had fulfilled her promise of refusing to answer the door. All she could do was to flag Emily’s address as a concern, and submit further intelligence. DC Hardwick was blinkered in his investigation. Although MIT were now actively seeking out Bert Bishop, she could tell he still held the belief that Bert was a mentally disturbed individual, responsible for nothing more than giving tarot card readings for money.

She promised to go inside as soon as she made a quick call. But she didn’t have any phone call to make. As soon as Will had left, she took the letter from the glove box and held it up under her nose. She sniffed, as if smelling a milk bottle to see if the contents had soured. Jennifer wrinkled her nose. It was the same musty smell as before. Closing her eyes, she breathed in its essence before laying it back on her lap. Like the sun clearing through the clouds, her thought buds extended beyond herself, into another plane. Her breathing deepened as mental images were formed and the blurry image of a metal bed came into view. She touched her face, seeing what he saw, from the inside. Instead of her own smooth skin she felt a man’s stubble, and winced as her fingers pressed on the soft pad of a swollen cheekbone. Tentatively, fingers reached to the back of his head and examined the dry blood matting through his hair. Everything hurt, throbbed, pinched and stung. In the distance a beep of a machine, soft shoes padding by. A hand curled around a thin blue curtain. Jennifer drew a sharp breath as probing eyes turned back on her. The black beady eyes of the raven stared back, taunting her. Jennifer gave a sharp gasp as a loud knock on her car window brought her abruptly back to reality.

‘Oh!’ Jennifer jumped out of her seat.

‘The food’s all laid out, are you coming in or what?’ Will stood with his head cocked to one side, wearing his usual grin.

‘You frightened the life out of me,’ she said, her heart pounding as she grounded herself.

He tapped the car window. ‘What? I can’t hear you. Are you OK?’

‘It’s … It’s nothing. It’s just a headache,’ she said, undoing her seatbelt and opening the door.

‘I hope so,’ he said, as he pressed his fob against the door to allow them entry into the back of the station. ‘I can’t take on your workload, I’ve enough of my own.’

As she ate her chow mein, Jennifer’s mind kept wandering back to what she had seen. She couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was a premonition of something to come. The face in her vision felt weathered and gaunt, and there was no mistaking the injuries. But what did it mean? Had she picked up the embodiment of the man known as Raven? And if so, what was the connection to the keyring found in her car? The obvious answer was that it belonged to Felicity Baron, who died as prophesied. The witness statements mentioned her losing her car keys and finding them again, but nothing about the absence of a D&G keyring specifically. It had to be connected.

Question after question spun in her mind. Why would someone go out of their way to kill an innocent young woman? The fact that Jennifer knew each of the victims in some way did not escape her attention. Alan Price, whose parents owned the pub where her father spent most of his time. Christian Bowes, her old school friend whose Fiancee was tragically murdered. Just who was next? She glanced up from her plate to catch Will staring at her, his unwavering protectiveness evident by the concern shadowing his face. He winked, and she smiled in return. She took a chip from her plate, returning her thoughts to the case. There was only one person who could answer her question about the keyring. And that was Christian Bowes.

Chapter Eleven

Bert

Bert sneezed as the tickle of incense wafted through the draughty hall at the psychic fair. He could not bear the smell, and he longed for the mossy scent of the forest. He glared at the empty plastic chair opposite his makeshift table. People preferred the showier mediums to his humble stall. The ironic thing was, he knew more than all of them put together. He siphoned the dregs from his plastic coffee cup, and crumpled it up before throwing it in the bin. Felicity’s death had already lost its impact, and the urge to make another prophecy drove him onwards. The bones of his backside seemed to grate on the hard plastic chair. The itching had returned, making every fold and joint of his skin feel as if it was on fire. Oh for blessed release, he thought, wishing she would hurry up. He flicked his tongue to the cracked corners of his lips, tasting his bitter rough skin. The action was devoid of comfort, and he longed to drag his nails over the torturous itch. But he had to remain focused. Relief would come. He rifled in his pocket for a tissue, not noticing the woman and child approach until they were in front of him.

A child was not part of the plan, he thought, expecting her to be alone. The resemblance between them was striking. They shared the same blue eyes, their skin peppered with freckles. Bert did not need the cards to tell him the boy would have been teased for his flaming red hair – if he were old enough to attend school, that was. Bert had the measure of the young woman in seconds. His eyes trailed over the thin material of her blue dress, dotted with white swallows. It was something she kept for ‘good wear’ along with the matching blue shoes, which gaped at the heels, too big for her feet. Her long auburn hair was hastily tied into a bun, because that was how a good mother dressed. Bert allowed a soft groan to pass his lips. She was definitely the one. But he hadn’t known about the kid. Why the hell did she have to bring him with her? He rose from his chair, gasping as the fresh cracks in his skin sent daggers of pain through his nerve endings. That was when he knew; it was too late to back out now.

‘Excuse me.’ Bert cracked his most inoffensive smile. ‘Would you like a free five-minute reading?’

The woman nodded sharply, unable to believe her luck. Her son never took his eyes off her as he followed, holding her tightly by the hand.

Bert gestured to the empty chair. ‘Are you happy to have the boy present during the reading?’ Bert said, his thoughts racing. She was a thief. Yet the image before him showed a young woman trying to pull her life together.

The woman whispered what sounded like a well-rehearsed line. ‘Don’t mind him. He doesn’t know what’s going on half the time.’

Bert sat across from them, his eyes flicking back to the boy. She was right. His face had a vacant look, as if whatever was in there had upped and left one day. As Bert touched the deck of cards, he began to have second thoughts. Perhaps the death prediction would not come. A nice reading, that’s what she wanted. He could see it in her face. She wanted a tall dark stranger to come and save the day. She would go away happy and the kid would get a couple of smiles from his mother before she realised it was all a dream. But as he shuffled the cards, fresh feelings of dread began to take root. He crossed his legs underneath the chair, scratching his calf muscle with his shoe. The discomfort helped him focus on his purpose, as he watched the images unfold.

‘I see you’ve had a tough time since your son was born,’ he said solemnly. ‘His dad didn’t hang around after the diagnosis.’

Wide-eyed in wonder, the blue dress woman nodded, pulling her chair in closer for a better listen.

‘You’ve had to make many sacrifices. It’s hard being so isolated since you gave up working.’

‘Yes,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘I didn’t want to give up my job, but the child minder wanted more money than I could earn.’

Bert wanted to say she would be fine, because that’s what she wanted to hear. He wanted to say that she would meet her tall handsome stranger on either the eleventh day or the eleventh month or the eleventh hour. Then Bert saw something that took the words away. He spoke in measured tones. ‘I can see it’s hard but it’s not the kid’s fault.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ she said, a flush creeping up her face. ‘I manage just fine.’

Bert shook his head. ‘Your life is going down the pan. The drugs, the shoplifting, then leaving him alone when you go out. There’s no excuse for it.’

The blue dress woman shrank from him, shame reflected in her eyes. ‘Who are you, the social services? I asked for a reading, not judgment.’

Bert spoke in soothing tones. ‘I just say what comes to me. Give me a second and I’ll predict your future.’

She sat back expectantly. The boy stared with a wilted expression, slightly swaying on his feet. He reminded Bert of one of those inflatables in front of car showrooms after the air has started seeping out. He couldn’t feel anger towards them. They had nothing, and clearly loved each other.

‘You …’ The words rolled to his throat like boulders, but he could not bring himself to utter them. But the fatal prediction flashed in vivid colour, even behind his closed eyes. A dog’s barks echo in an alleyway, and cars skid into puddles from the main road. Quickening footsteps as a leering pock-faced man looms into view. His dirty-gloved hands tug the woman’s dress as he catches up with her on her way back from the shops. She didn’t want to take the shortcut, but she needs to get back because her son is all alone. She clutches her bag to her chest as pock-faced man jostles her for money. Throwing the empty purse to the ground, he tugs the woman by the hips, and his face is met by a stinging slap. Her screams are silenced as the man punches her face and her head hits the broken cement of the footpath. Her last thought is for her son.

Bert's eyes flickered to the child, who returned his haunted gaze. Looking into the kid’s eyes was like looking into his own. Unable to understand why the world couldn’t accept him, he clung to his mother like a raft on choppy seas. But soon he would be cast adrift. A pang of guilt struck deep into his psyche, and he barely recognised the emotion. He was just a kid. Despite what his mother did, Bert couldn’t afford him that pain. He tripped on the words, and began to stutter as he tried desperately to hold them back.

‘You … willaaargh.’ Bubbles of saliva formed in the corners of his lips as he rejected the prediction. His tongue rolled to form the words and he bit down hard, causing a stream of blood to trickle through his fingers.

‘Are you, OK, mister?’ the woman said.

Bert stumbled away from the table, his blood-stained mouth still fighting to speak as the words backed up in his throat.

Heart pounding, he gulped in mouthfuls of fresh air as he burst through the swing doors. His tongue throbbed as he leaned against the wall, hastily spitting blood into a tissue. A bird’s caws echoed in the distance.

The woman rushed out, dragging the boy behind her. ‘Are you OK?’

Bert swallowed hard, and a burning sensation slid down his throat and settled in his belly. ‘Yes,’ he gasped, ‘thank you for asking.’

‘Good. I thought you were having a stroke,’ she said, her voice lowering to a whisper before glancing either side. ‘What you said about my boy … I’m trying to get help. It won’t happen again.’

‘Lots of people struggle,’ Bert said, relieved to have control of his voice. ‘You have to be strong.’ He turned to spit into his hanky. Silence passed between them. He fixed his black fedora as the woman turned to go back inside.

‘Oh and miss? Don’t go out on your own at night. It’s not safe where you live.’

‘How do you know …?’

‘I don’t. I’m just passing on the message. I advise you listen.’ A cawing from above alerted him to the high-heeled footsteps crunching up the gravel drive. Bert flattened against the wall, peeking around the corner to see the slim, well-dressed detective push through the double doors.

[#]

Bert’s uncharacteristic act of compassion baffled him as he sat at the bar of the Hare and Hound pub, downing his fifth pint. His triumph at dodging DC Knight was short-lived, as he counted the last of his money. If he had delivered the prophecy he would have been rewarded in so many ways. He would have awoken in the morning feeling rejuvenated and pain free, at least for a while. Money would have found its way into his hands, leaving him free to continue his mission. Why did I do that? I disobeyed the prophecy. His scaly fingers touched the swollen bite mark on his tongue, regretting his moment of weakness. What will happen now? The prediction would have to be fulfilled. He knew that from sorry experience. But now he had messed everything up by warning her. She wouldn’t go out alone tonight. His skin crawled with agitation, and he scratched the back of his neck. His fingernails returned hooked with blood. Alcohol had anaesthetised his nerve endings, but it was a temporary solution to an endless affliction.

A pair of eyes bored into his back as he shoved the folded-up cash into the crevice of his hat. He stumbled down the path into the night, cursing under his breath as car tyres splashed puddles and drenched his clothes. Lost in his anger, he did not hear the lone figure approach. A dog barked in the distance, as the clouds blotted the moon, but Bert was alerted to the familiar scene too late. His eyes bulged as a gloved hand clamped over his mouth, his captor spitting angry threats. Bert gagged, the smell of vomit and cigarettes overpowering as the gloved hand dragged him backwards into an alleyway. Staring but not seeing, Bert tripped over the broken concrete, desperately trying to gather his thoughts. An icy wind cut through the alley as the moon cleared the clouds, bringing a familiarity to the scene. It hit him with frightening clarity – this was the scene of Emily’s prediction. His heart hammered in his ribcage as he fought for breath. Was he taking the punishment in Emily’s place? A strike of terror drove through his heart as the pock-faced man bore down on him.