“Listen,” says Jared. “Can you check the usual websites? Make sure there’s nothing on them to make Lynesse mad?”
“Already done,” says Kris.
“Do it again.”
Kris scowls.
“Just do it,” says Jared.
Kris nods, but he has no intention of doing it. There is no point. And Jared is stupid for treating Lynesse like a fool. He deserves what is coming to him. Kris neatly lines up all the bags outside the front entrance and holds up his hand to catch the car keys Jared tosses at him. Kris busies himself parking the Maserati in the garage, letting Jared head into the house first.
Jared bounces in, whistling. He notes that Lynesse has already changed his furniture around and added a whole bunch of her gaudy art that he’s going to have to tell her to take down. But not yet. He wants to keep her sweet tonight. From the ground floor lounge he shouts for her, calling out her name.
“Honey, I’m home!” he says, laughing at the phrase. Lynesse will lap up the picture of domestic bliss it paints.
He tosses his jacket onto the sofa, and lazily makes his way towards the stairs. A first he thinks the lump at the base of the stairs is one of his holdalls. Then he remembers Kris hasn’t brought them in yet. Jared switches on a lamp. What the thing is becomes clear. It is a man. A god-damned man is lying at the foot of his stairs!
Jared can tell in an instant that the guy is dead, even before he fully registers the red ruined hole at the back of the guy’s head.
“Fuck,” Jared says.
He leaps over the guy and races up the stairs. He throws open the master bedroom door. Lynesse is on the bed, lying among the rumpled blood-sodden sheets. His Lynesse.
Jared screams a high pitched sound that he never knew he was capable of making. On the wall behind him is a massive red Devil Claw pawprint, the dripping blood now dry.
Chapter 6
DIANA
I wake up at dawn with the edges of the nightmare still clawing at my mind. The poor guy dying at the foot of the stairs. The woman screaming as she watched. The repulsive taint of how it made me feel to see it through the eyes of the killer is still in my body. It felt more real than ever. I throw open my door of my studio apartment and race down a flight of stairs to the shared toilets to throw up.
I have been having dreams like this for as long as I can remember. You would think I would be used to it by now. But today is different. Today I am going to do something about it. In a few hours I will have gone to visit that house and stop it from happening. Tomorrow I should wake up nightmare free.
I go back up to my room to shower, and find Beastie prowling just inside my door. I pour some food into her bowl before stepping into my cubicle and lathering up. I am immensely grateful to have a shower in my room. There are shared ones near the toilets that other residents use, but the doors locks are flimsy. The thought of anyone accidentally barging in as I was changing and seeing my navelstone would keep me up at night.
Plus showering in my room minimizes my chances of bumping into my neighbors. Like the young guy across the hall who looks like he is working up the courage to ask me out every time I accidentally make eye contact. Or the two girls my age from downstairs who came knocking on my door really late last night, asking me if I wanted to go out for a drink. It is the third time I have said no, despite the little voice’s urgings for me to live a little. I have a feeling they won’t ask again.
I fix myself some bargain tinned chick peas in my room, milk and cereal now being well out of my budget. AngelBeastie sniffs snobbishly at her dry kibbles. She glowers at me as she nibbles. I know how she feels.
I munch my flavorless mouthful and open my wardrobe to contemplate my clothes. Once upon a time all of this had felt like a luxury. Being able to eat breakfast, being able to choose what to wear from my own selection of clothes that I was given at the Royal Engagement Gala. But for so long now I have been unable to take any joy in life’s small pleasures.
I nudge AngelBeastie with my toe. “What should I wear to visit a couple of rich happy strangers to deliver the terrible news that someone will attempt to murder them in the near future?” I ask her.
She sniffs my toe as if she is considering eating it.
My selection of clothes is more suited to extravagant parties than to everyday life, given where they came from. I have not touched most of them in years. I find a smart pair of tailored pants and a lace-edged cream blouse. They are far too pretty for normal work wear, but perfect for today’s purposes. Thank goodness for Xander’s generosity. I could never have afforded these otherwise.
Before I leave, I pack a bag of nuts I had snitched from work that had been destined for the garbage. I might be in for a long wait. If the couple are not home I intend to hang around. It is better to speak to them in person no matter how much I dislike this thought. I should avoid leaving a note. They might not even see it.
Beastie is now tapping her claw tips on my door. It is a warning tap. The clever thing knows not to scratch, but that doesn’t mean she won’t do it if I keep her waiting much longer.
“One moment, Beastie,” I murmur. “I’m nearly ready.”
Beastie hasn’t bothered to eat much of her meal. On my way back home I will have to browse some corner shops for decent cat food. I have figured out that if I find anything that is near its Use-By date, some of the smaller stores will sell it to me for pennies. I don’t want Beastie to starve herself because of her food snobbery.
Suddenly filled with nervous energy, I scoop Beastie into my large satchel and bounce out of the apartment. I am determined to complete my task today. Heck, perhaps there will even be a reward in it, I think hopefully.
You wish, says the little voice. Rich people are the meanest people.
“You’re such a cynic,” I murmur under my breath as I run lightly down the stairs.
I let Beastie loose in a little square park not far from my house and she happily darts away. I have no idea what she gets up to, but she sure is in a satisfied mood whenever I come back to pick her up. I always find her waiting for me, as if she has a sixth sense about when I’ll be back.
My first stop is the corner shop near the park. I pop in out of habit, wanting to check today’s news headlines. Humming, I check out all the dates on the canned produce and the pouches of cat food. Seeing one likely tin, I put it right at the back of the other tins, intending to come back for it later. Then I head to the newspaper and magazine shelf.
The images dominating the front pages of the papers stop me in my tracks. It is the smiling face of a gorgeous young woman. The same woman from my dreams.
‘DCK strikes again!’ screams the headline. ‘Jared Everett Fiancée Murdered!’
Gasping, I snatch up the paper. No wonder I kept having the dream. Feeling sickened, I read the column. Her name is Lynesse Jones. She was found dead early this morning. She is the new fiancée of Hollywood star Jared Everett.
The newspaper rustles as my hands shake. I can’t believe it. I am too late. And it was DCK who killed her. DCK.
I want to scream. I should have been there. I should have gone to their house yesterday to warn them. Why did I wait? Why didn’t I do something?
Not everything is your fault, snaps the little voice. How arrogant of you to even think so.
I stare at Lynesse Jones’s beaming face. She looks ecstatic, a young woman on the verge of beginning her new life. She is showing off her big sparkly diamond ring.
No wonder she had looked familiar to me in my dreams. I saw their engagement being announced on this very newspaper some weeks back. They’d had several wild parties to celebrate. There had been a new headline every day.
Another paper shows a pale faced Jared Everett speaking to a police officer. Everett is not the man I had seen with Lynesse in my dream.
“Are you going to buy that?” says the woman at the cash desk. She is glaring at me.
“Sorry,” I mutter, putting the paper back.
I hurry out of t
he store, but once I am outside I feel at a loss. I just stand there watching traffic go by. The purpose of my day was to save her. I had been so excited about proving Storm wrong for firing me. So stupidly excited.
What a mope-fest, says the little voice. Cheer up. Now we’ve got a killer to catch. Exciting times.
“How could I not know it was DCK?” I ask her. “Why didn’t I see that?”
It’s done now. So go to the house and find a clue. It’s what you wanted all along, isn’t it?
“And then what?”
Track the scumbag down and we’ll take our vengeance. I’ll do it. You won’t have to lift a finger… Well, maybe a finger. She sniggers.
I give a huff of disbelieving laughter. Track him down and kill him? Is she mad? And anyway, we can’t go to the house.
“It will be crawling with cops,” I tell her. “They’ll probably arrest me for interfering.”
So we’ll wait it out. We’ll go at night.
“I can’t. I’ve got work tonight. I can’t let Luca down.”
Pfft. Work, she mutters. I thought you were sick of stagnating, but look at you giving up so easily. It’s pathetic.
I ignore her, and try to figure out what to do. I fish out the Agency’s address from my bag. I can go there and beg them to let me help. This guy killed Magda. He killed before her and he killed after her. Nobody has managed to catch him for years. This murder happened in London. My home town. No way am I going to sit this one out.
Filled with a renewed sense of determination, I head to the address for the Agency’s London Headquarters in Westminster. When I get to the address I found on the internet, I worry that I am not at the right place. Street view did not fully convey the grandeur of this place. It looks more like a monolithic old museum than an office for law enforcement. Nearly everyone going into the building is stressed in suits and formalwear. No uniforms to be seen.
I stand outside, staring up at the immense building, and wonder if Storm is inside or if he went back to Paris. It would be good to see a face I know, even one that is more likely to scowl than smile when it sees me. And he’s more likely to believe me than a stranger is.
Trying not to think of our last meeting, I go inside. I am relieved to find a reception desk that looks like it could well belong in a police station.
“I’m here to see Constantine Storm,” I tell the woman at the desk, trying to sound as if I am confident that he works here.
She taps that her computer, and frowns. “Do you have an appointment?”
I shake my head, my heart beating faster, because this confirms that I am in the right place. Storm must work here.
“It’s about a case he is working on,” I say.
She looks at me suspiciously, as if I might be some sort of fan-girl chasing after a movie star. It is not far off. Storm’s father was a movie star, and Storm himself has led an interesting life. It occurs to me that perhaps I am not the first girl who has turned up here looking for him. I flush bright red.
“Special Agent Storm isn’t available,” she says.
I discreetly take a deep breath, trying to settle my nerves. “I was a witness for his case at Wintersdeep Castle,” I tell her. “At the Royal Engagement Gala. He interviewed me there and… Er… That case it still open.”
“That was two years ago,” she says, looking unimpressed.
“He said to call him if I needed to talk to him.”
“Then you should do that.”
“I lost his business card,” I tell her lamely.
“You can leave a message for Agent Storm with me. I’ll pass it on.”
“But I really needed to talk to Agent Storm in person.”
“I can’t help you,” she tells me coldly.
“This one giving you trouble, Maxine?” says a brusque voice behind me.
I turn around to see a gorgeous woman in her late twenties towering over me. With her curly black hair and her confident stance and steely gaze, she looks like a warrior.
The receptionist, Maxine, sits up a little straighter in her chair. “Not at all, Agent Gage,” she says.
“Did I hear you say you were after Storm?” says Agent Gage to me.
I nod.
“On official business, supposedly,” says Maxine.
“Come with me,” Agent Gage commands.
She strides away, not bothering to check if I am following. I almost trip over my own feet hurrying to keep up with her, she leads me into a foyer and then up in an elevator. Her silence in the elevator does not invite me to speak. She does not look like the sort of person who enjoys chit chat. I spend the time worrying about what I am going to say to her.
We leave the elevator and she expertly leads me around the maze-like top floor, part of which is open plan desks, until we reach an office. The door is ajar. She knocks once, and then sticks her head inside.
“Chief, I’ve got one here to see Storm,” she says to whoever is in the office. “Says it’s about a case. Want me to interview her?”
The door opens to reveal a middle-aged man standing there looking at me with suspicious eyes. He is balding and the expression on his face tells me that he is not having a good day.
“Leave her with me,” he says.
Agent Gage looks disappointed for a fraction of a second, but then her face becomes neutral again. As she stalks away I get the feeling that she is scowling at me.
The middle-aged man closes his office door and invites me to sit in the chair opposite his desk.
“I’m Section Chief Mike Santagar,” he says. “How can I help you?”
I get the feeling that he is not the sort of man to have patience for a waffling story. I had prepared a whole speech in my head for Storm about giving my psychic skills another chance. About it being his responsibility to use any tool at his disposal to catch DCK, including me. I feel like it will make the chief walk me to the door.
“I’m Diana Bellona,” I tell him.
The expression on his face does not change at all and I cannot tell if my name means anything to him. I would have preferred to not remind him of who I am. Perhaps if I do not mention James Fenway he will not remember me in that context.
“Go on,” he says.
“I was a witness on one of Agent Storm’s cases. He came to question me about it at Wintersdeep Castle where I was working during the Royal Engagement Gala.”
I expect him to say something in response, but he only nods. It hits me that he knew all along who I was. The look on his face tells me to carry on speaking.
“DCK murdered a woman at Wintersdeep Castle. I found her. I imagine Storm told you she was my biological mother.” It hurts to say it out loud. I wonder if it is a mistake to tell him, but I need him to know why this case is so important to me.
Finally he says something. “Outside of Storm’s team, I am the only one who knows that fact.” It is as if he wants to reassure me about my safety. It makes me like him a little better.
I decide to get directly to the point, saying stiffly, “You let Storm give me a job because you thought that I could help catch DCK. He’s murdered again. I need to catch him. I want my job back.”
“Your actions caused a girl to murder her uncle.”
The little voice stirs inside my head, and I can feel her pushing against my tongue. “He was molesting his underage niece,” I snap. “Just because she was a succubus didn’t mean she was old enough to consent.”
The chief raises his eyebrows.
I flush. “I didn’t know Eliza Fenway would do that.”
“Do you think James Fenway deserved it?”
Yes, hisses the little voice in my head.
“No,” I say. “He deserved to rot in jail. He deserved to be publicly tried and found guilty and feel the shame for what he did. And it’s not fair for you to blame me for Eliza Fenway’s actions. I didn’t want her to do it.”
You didn’t predict that she would do it either, the little voice says slyly. That’s what he’s thinking. What
kind of psychic are you?
“I don’t blame you for what happened,” says the chief calmly. “Perhaps we hired you prematurely. You weren’t ready for the job.”
This annoys me, reminding me too much of what Storm said. “I’m not ready for the visions that I keep having either,” I snap. “I didn’t ask to be a psychic, but I keep seeing people die anyway. I saw the murder happen in a dream. That’s what I came to tell you. What do you care where the information comes from if it helps you to solve the case?” My voice breaks at the last few words.
Copycat Killer Page 6