Chimera: You poor dear soul. You’ve been through such torments in your young life. The loss of a mother is a psychic, emotional and spiritual wound and now you have this awful man tormenting you in his own special way. What is it you’re seeking from the unseen universe?
Adam: I just want Monty to go away so that Dad and me can be happy. My mum would be so upset if she knew that Monty was living with us and behaving like he does.
Chimera: Of course she would, dearest. Your mom would protect you if she was still with you. Mothers weave powerful daily spells of their own without even realizing it.
Adam: I’ve tried stuff from Harry Potter but it hasn’t worked.
Chimera: Well, you see, Adam dearest, your spells and charms from Harry Potter are amazing but they’re just fiction. I don’t deal in wands or potions but I can help you, if you want me to. There’s no quick fix, no ‘abracadabra.’ Our magick doesn’t work like that, it’s serious and it needs time and concentration. It’s taken me years to learn it and increase my powers. Sometimes you have to try different things, depending on what you want to achieve.
He’d liked the sound of serious magick and had asked her to help him. Chimera had said she’d consult her books. He pictured her as tall, with flowing white hair and a wise, ancient face, dressed in grey robes and living in a house full of centuries-old witchcraft manuals. A couple of days after their second chat, she’d suggested curse jars, advising him that it was one of the most effective ways of wishing ill on someone. She gave instructions on how to prepare an effective spell.
Adam had acquired a collection of empty jars. The one he was using tonight had once contained oregano. He took two small plastic bags from a drawer in his wardrobe. Sitting on his bed, he wrote Monty Barnwell on a piece of paper, and said the name three times, directing all his animosity towards it. He folded the paper into the jar, added dried chilli flakes and a couple of rose thorns from the plastic bags and sealed it up tight. Then he lay on the carpet and wriggled under his bed, tucking it at the end of the line of twenty or so similar jars neatly marshalled against the skirting board, each one containing Monty’s name.
He understood from Chimera that curse jars were a long-term, cumulative project and that the curses’ powers darkened and deepened the longer they were sealed. And he’d had some successes, which he’d told her about. After he’d sealed the fourth curse, Monty had come down with flu and a nasty chest infection, and the fifteenth had been followed by Monty rupturing his Achilles tendon when he was playing squash.
Adam lay in the dark beneath his bed for some time, concentrating on the dusty jars and willing them potency.
* * *
@DCBerminsterPolice. Do you remember Lyn Dimas? She disappeared on 28 July 2013. Sadly, Lyn’s body was found this week. She was murdered. If you have any information that might help our enquiries, please get in touch. We will find who did this. Let’s work together.
RIP Lyn.
#keepingberminstersafe
Patrick posted the tweet and sniffed his armpits. They were okayish but he took some deodorant from the glove compartment of his car, unbuttoned his shirt and applied some. The shower had broken yesterday, and he hadn’t had an opportunity to find someone to fix it yet. He really needed to get a second shower installed and leave the wet room to Noah, but that took time and planning. When he got home, he had to focus on Noah and before he could blink, the alarm was going and he was back at work. He buttoned his shirt, straightened his narrow tie and headed to where Trudy Kemp lived.
She owned a pretty cottage in Baronet Street, one of the sloping, cobbled lanes leading down to the harbour. It was a pedestrianised conservation area, and the council often used the view towards the water to advertise the town. The lane was tranquil, unlike the busy coast road where Patrick and Noah lived. There, the windows rattled when heavy lorries swept past. The only sound here was the faint clink of masts in the harbour, carrying like wind chimes on the warm breeze.
Patrick stood for a moment, appreciating the view. Berminster was a good-sized town and had once been a thriving seaport, important for trading from Roman Britain to medieval times. It was now five miles from the English Channel. A combination of storms, silt and human intervention had changed the course of the River Bere, and the town had been an inland harbour since the thirteenth century. It still maintained a steady, if diminished, fishing industry. Ms Kemp’s cottage had once housed a family of six who had made their living at sea.
She was in her early forties, plump and dressed in various stripy layers covered by a long, flowing cardigan, all in shades of lavender. She took him through to a conservatory furnished with a couple of wicker chairs and a white metal daybed covered in cushions. A tall pile of books and magazines and a large box of chocolates were on a ledge that ran along beside it. Patrick had a mental image of Trudy lying against the cushions reading, her stubby fingers dipping into the chocolates.
She gestured to the chairs. ‘We’ll sit in here, make the most of the last of the sun for this year. Lyn loved this room.’
She had a pleasant, podgy face and a small, rosy mouth. Her voice was deep and loud. He’d read that she was a teacher so perhaps she was always projecting.
‘I’m very sorry about your sister.’
‘Thank you.’ She clasped her hands together and gave him a straight, stern look. ‘Why didn’t your colleagues find her six years ago?’
Patrick saw that her button eyes were lively and alert. It was a good question and an obvious one. ‘I can’t really answer that. Your sister’s body had been hidden behind a fridge in an abandoned building, Steiner’s Removals. There was no evidence Lyn had any connection with the location, so the investigating officers had no reason to search there.’
She was puzzled. ‘Did Lyn die straight away, that night?’
‘We’re unsure. If not that night, soon after. Because of the body’s decomposition, it’s hard to be precise about other details.’
‘You mean like if she was raped?’
‘Yes.’
She pulled her cardigan around her. She wore a pair of red and purple glasses on a green string around her neck, wedged on top of her jutting bosom. ‘So, what happens now? I suppose you have to trawl back through all the previous records.’
‘That’s right. Of course, we now have DNA from Steiner’s, which might prove useful.’
She crossed her legs and the wicker chair creaked. ‘Steiner’s. Since I heard that name, it’s been ringing a bell.’
‘Really? We’re anxious to establish if Lyn had any connection with the place. It’s near the railway and has been empty for years.’
She clicked her fingers. ‘That’s it — it’s in Orford End, a cul-de-sac. I was there once, quite some time ago.’
‘You used it for removals?’
‘No, no.’ She sounded testy. ‘It was after it had shut down and been left to rot. I took a group of students there, just to see the outside and get the context. I teach geography at Minster Academy, and I used the visit as part of an A-level project on urban issues and development potential. We took photos of the building, and used its history as an example of the challenges faced by planners — missed regeneration opportunities, et cetera.’
The sun was directly overhead, turning the conservatory into a greenhouse. The chocolates must be melting. Trudy seemed oblivious to the heat. Patrick shifted his chair further back, where there was a shallow pool of lemony shade. ‘When was this?’
‘I can’t remember exactly. It was a while before Lyn disappeared. I’d have to go back through my records to be sure — that’s if I still have them. I expect I will because I never chuck resources away.’
Patrick made quick notes. ‘Did you mention Orford End to Lyn?’
‘I might have done. I can’t remember. We’d chat about our work, so it’s possible.’ She took the arms of her glasses in both hands and rotated them. ‘Why on earth would Lyn have been in that place?’
‘That’s the question. Can you
tell me what Lyn said to you about Jeff Downey, her next-door neighbour?’
Trudy rubbed her stomach and made a face. ‘Indigestion — the teacher’s enemy. Eating on the hoof.’
Patrick smiled. ‘Same for cops, and snacking on crap.’
She pressed her hand against her abdomen. She had a world-weary manner, as if she’d seen it all and nothing would surprise her. ‘Downey was irritating. He started popping round a bit too often after Theo left, bringing little gifts. Reckoned he was in with a chance. Lyn wouldn’t give him the time of day. He didn’t seriously worry her, just got on her nerves. And he didn’t try anything on. From what she told me, he was probably working on the principle that if he kept up his profile as a suitor, he might eventually wear her down. The dogged path to romance.’
‘So she saw him as a nuisance?’
‘Exactly. A minor one.’
Patrick squinted at her through the harsh light, wishing he’d brought his sunglasses in with him. ‘How did Lyn manage, after her husband left?’
She gave a dry laugh. ‘With difficulty. When he came out it was completely out of the blue. I had no clue and my gaydar’s usually pretty reliable. When you’re a teacher, you develop an instinct for these things because you see pupils struggling. Lyn was raging with misery and anger. She was harsh about Monty, reckoned he’d “lured” Theo away. She’d come round here and cry for hours. Lots of “he’s had the best years of my life” shtick. It was grim. Made me glad I’ve never been tempted to enter the minefield of marriage. I got her to see the doctor, who gave her some pills that took the edge off and helped her sleep. After a couple of months, she started shopping as if there was no tomorrow, buying clothes and make-up. Retail therapy.’ She shook her head at the memory.
‘She made some bitter allegations about her husband.’
‘Hmm. Said he and Monty had AIDS. I told her that was too much. You can’t go around saying stuff like that. I warned her that she should let the kids see Theo too, instead of building walls. She went for me then — said I wasn’t on her side and the least I could do was back her up, so I buttoned my lip. Theo rang me at one point, asking if I could get her to stop spreading rumours and negotiate about him seeing the kids, but I told him I’d tried and it was no go.’
‘You’re in touch with Theo still?’
She gave a wry smile. ‘You’re fishing as to where I stand in the quagmire of family politics.’
‘I just wondered.’
She waved a hand. An amber ring caught the sun, a flash of bronze. ‘I’m sure you get to hear and see it all. I’ve no problem with Theo and Monty. They make a good couple. I’m fond of Adam. He’s a bright kid, a bit immature and a Billy No-Mates, but he’s had a rough deal, losing his mum. I go there for meals occasionally and they come here. So, given the rift, that means I don’t see my niece. It’s no great loss to me. Lily’s a shallow person, always was. She has a coterie of friends she cultivated at school called the Damsels. She calls them that or “my girls”. I’ve never trusted girls who hang around in self-serving cliques.’
‘You’re not a feminist?’
She laughed. ‘Believe me, that kind of group has nothing to do with feminism. It’s all about status and pecking order.’
‘Why are they called “the Damsels?”’
‘They were supposed to be gorgeous and bright like damselflies. More like witches if you ask me, with Lily as lead broomstick. She’s obsessed with her image and she was often nasty to her mum. Not much milk of human kindness. Her grandfather’s partly responsible for how she is. He’s always spoiled her and given her anything she wants, putty in her hands, so she learned early how to manipulate and control. He undermined her parents — if they refused her anything, she just went to Papu.’
‘How did they feel about that?’
Trudy shrugged. ‘They weren’t always happy about it, but Theo could never stand up to his dad, and Lyn gave up saying anything when she saw that he wasn’t going to be firm. Lyn liked to keep the family sweet and Joe Dimas was always gallant towards her so, in the end, she went with it.’
‘Were you at Lily’s wedding?’
‘You’re joking! I wasn’t invited because I made it clear I wasn’t going to freeze out Theo and Monty. Her husband, Pearce — or “IMO,” as I call him — ’
‘“IMO?”’
‘For “in my opinion,” a phrase he comes out with frequently. Pearce has a view about everything and isn’t shy of telling you, despite being exceptionally dense. He is easy on the eye, though. Lily hangs on his every word. The gospel according to Pearce. Someone wise once said, “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt.” And to add to his attractions, he’s a total homophobe. My theory is that’s probably because he’s been mistaken for gay, with his handsome face and nice clothes, so he’s terrified. Or maybe he’s just a shit.’
‘I gather you don’t like him.’
She pulled a face. ‘I’d cross the street to avoid him.’
Patrick recalled the previous interview with Trudy. ‘Were Lyn and Lily rowing a lot after Theo left?’
‘From what Lyn told me, pretty constantly. Lyn didn’t like Pearce, said Lily was rushing into a relationship. I could see her point — Lily was talking about marriage within months of meeting him and she withdrew her application for university. Just as well in the end, because she got crap exam grades, courtesy, no doubt, of the handsome Pearce’s distractions, so she’d have struggled in higher education. But Lyn could be her own worst enemy. She got on Lily’s nerves by trying to muscle in on her life — doing that embarrassing thing of getting down with the young people. Lyn threw Pearce out of the house one time. So, it was all a bit inflammable.’
‘When did you last see Lyn?’
‘Four days before she vanished. I went round for a coffee. She was talking about Lily’s prom, showing me her dress. She’d forked out a fortune for it — madness for something that was probably only going to be worn once, but Lily had had her heart set on it. Of course, if Lyn hadn’t coughed up for it, Papu would have put his hand in his pocket. Lyn was so excited about the prom, she might have been going herself! The only downside was that Pearce was going to be there, but Lyn was saying daft things like Lily might meet another boy who’d take her mind off Pearce. As if! I was sorry for her that day. I could see she was floundering, not sure what to do with her life.’ She blinked and pressed her eyes.
‘Where were you the night your sister vanished?’
‘Here, on my own, with my feet up. Term had ended and I always have at least a week of sleeping and doing nothing much at the start of the summer holiday. Theo rang me around eleven to ask if I’d seen Lyn. You’ll find that that’s exactly what I told your colleagues in 2013.’
Patrick wiped sweat from his neck with his fingers. ‘Thanks for all of that. I might come back to you about that school visit to Orford End. Could you check when it happened?’
‘I’ll try.’
She took him to the front door, her glasses swaying on her chest. She was flatfooted, with a solid tread. She stood aside to let him out. ‘Let’s hope you do better this time with finding out what happened to my sister. You can hardly do worse.’
He bought a can of lemonade on the way back to the car and drank it all. He was lightheaded and was glad that the car was in shade. He checked Twitter. There had been lots of positive replies to his tweet about Lyn, even if there was no information. He longed for a shower. Perhaps he’d stop off at the gym on the way home. Now he’d head back to the station, write up his notes and see if he could find a plumber. As he started the engine, his phone rang. It was Noah.
‘Bro, can you help? I’ve fallen in the kitchen. Nothing broken. Such a pain for you. Sorry.’
Chapter 9
Grant Haddon had phoned the station to say that he hadn’t met Lyn Dimas, but he ‘sort of knew’ Adam, because they’d attended the same school. Ali had made an appointment at Haddon’s for late afternoon so that they c
ould speak to Grant again, as well as his father.
Lewis Haddon’s office was on an industrial estate on the outer reaches of the town. The sky was promising rain as Ali drove down an unlovely, soulless spool of roads dotted with carpet and furniture warehouses, a tile factory, several car and motorbike sales rooms, a pet food wholesaler, the local rubbish disposal centre and numerous other small businesses.
‘Whenever I think being a cop is thankless, I consider working somewhere like here and I reckon I’m flying it,’ Ali said.
‘At least we have some trees outside, whatever the headaches,’ Siv agreed. ‘What’s the worst job you’ve ever done?’
‘Summer job as a bin man back home. It was baking hot for weeks and the pong was something awful, plus I was paired with a bloke who was as rough as a badger’s backside.’
She was getting used to him, his easy manner, his cadences of speech and his sayings. ‘Is a badger’s backside particularly rough? I’ve never touched one.’
Ali grinned. ‘How about you?’
‘Worst job? When I was fifteen, I had a Saturday gig at a shop in town. It was called Hilda’s Hobbies. It closed down — it’s a Tesco Metro now. I wasn’t allowed to operate the till, just stack shelves and sweep up. It was never that busy. The day seemed endless and I hated the boredom. I’d have preferred hard work. Mrs Addington was the owner. She’d grown to dislike the shop and was trying her best to run it into the ground. I remember I suggested that I could organise some origami workshops to drum up interest — and save myself from dying of boredom — and she reacted as if I’d offered to arrange strippers.’
Rikka used to drift in sometimes on Saturdays to tease Mrs Addington, who was a fussy, elderly woman who blushed easily. Siv’s heart used to be in her mouth then. Mrs Addington didn’t realise that they were sisters, and Siv preferred to keep it that way. She’d watch Rik closely in case she stole anything but the wool, bolts of cloth, buttons, coloured card, crochet hooks and embroidery sets didn’t interest her. She’d amuse herself by asking earnestly, Would you have any feldgrau mosaic tiles? Painted acorns? Jar lids shaped like pumpkins? Silver fabric with a gazelle design? She would express deep disappointment and sigh heavily when a flustered Mrs Addington would have to confess that she didn’t stock the item. Sometimes, Siv wondered if Mrs Addington had sold up because of Rik.
NEVER CAME HOME an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won't see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 2) Page 11