by Helen Harper
‘Cockroaches,’ he muttered in disgust. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, and I noted the brief tremble in his fingers and the ashen pallor of his skin. He realised I was watching him and turned to me. ‘It’s always the same on these trains at the weekend,’ he explained. ‘Gangs of kids. Scabby little insects who scurry around and cause trouble.’ He shook his head. ‘The girls are usually worse than the boys. If the train guard was doing his job properly, they’d be turfed out at the next station and banned from travelling on this route. But, of course,’ he waved an irritated hand, ‘there’s never a train guard in sight when you need one.’ He sighed. ‘Don’t mind me, dear. Train guards are a particular bugbear of mine.’
I pulled a face and grunted, hoping to convey sympathetic agreement without commitment, and leaned over so I could get a better look at what was going on. I might be officially on holiday but I was still with the police; I had responsibilities that I couldn’t ignore.
The man was right. Through the glass door that led beyond this carriage into the next, I could see half a dozen teenagers standing in the aisle clustered around a seated passenger. They were displaying the sort of surly snarls that were virtually an adolescent art form. Whoever the passenger was that they’d targeted, it was clear they were harassing them.
I slowly closed the lid of my laptop and pushed my lunch bag to one side. The elderly man gave me an alarmed look. ‘You shouldn’t get involved,’ he advised. ‘Sometimes they carry knives.’
I almost hoped they did. I smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ I murmured. ‘I’ve got this.’
I stood up and smoothed down my clothes before walking up the aisle and pressing the button to open the door. It slid open with a smooth whoosh, and I heard the taunting voices of the group of teens.
‘Your mum’s psycho like you. She’s on meds, right?’ one of the girls said to the seated victim. She was dressed in a tight T-shirt that displayed her midriff and was emblazoned with glittery words that stated she was ‘No Angel’. Indeed. ‘Are they good ones? Do they get her high?’
‘Oh,’ sneered the boy next to her, ‘I bet they’re good. Get us some, will ya?’
I adjusted my cuffs and sauntered towards them. ‘Hey,’ I called out in a friendly voice. ‘What’s going on?’
As if they were a single amorphous being, the teens turned towards me. No Angel screwed up her face. ‘Fuck off, lady.’
My expression didn’t alter. ‘Dear me, such language.’ I paused. ‘You know, swearing at the police is likely to end up in arrest.’ It wasn’t, of course; there was no specific offence that dealt with swearing alone, but this lot wouldn’t know that. I embellished even further. ‘The last person who swore at me is doing six months in jail.’
They all looked me up and down. ‘You’re not police,’ one of the boys muttered. ‘Where’s your uniform?’
No Angel thumped him round the back of his head. ‘Idiot,’ she said. She looked at me. ‘Prove it. Prove you’re a copper.’
The others were starting to shuffle backwards. That wasn’t unexpected. Bored teenagers like these, especially when they were in groups, could give the impression that they were feral and unstoppable and had a total disregard for authority. But, despite their loud mouths, they’d back down quickly once challenged. I’d been that age once and I wasn’t convinced that I’d been any different. However, No Angel was bolder than the others; in my experience, that meant she had less to lose.
I reached into my pocket and drew out my warrant card. The girl slunk forward and stared at it.
‘Detective Constable Emma Bellamy,’ I said, allowing her a long gawk.
‘Fucking hell,’ she muttered. She raised her head, a defiant tilt to her chin. ‘You can’t arrest us for swearing. It’s a free country. Free speech an’ all that.’
I decided that I liked her. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I can’t arrest you for swearing.’ I gestured towards the passenger they’d been haranguing, a young lad who looked about the same age but who had flushed skin and scared eyes. ‘Unless other people are feeling distressed or harassed.’
‘We weren’t doing nothing,’ No Angel said. She jabbed the boy in the seat with her elbow. ‘Were we, Al? You ain’t distressed.’
I wouldn’t allow their victim to be drawn into a pointless, peer-pressured denial. ‘I know what I saw.’ I gave her a meaningful look. ‘Perhaps you lot should find another carriage to sit in.’
She sniffed. ‘Stinks in here anyway.’ She allowed a beat to pass. ‘Of pigs.’
I put on my most disapproving expression, the one that had cowed various werewolves and vampires into at least a semblance of submission, but No Angel was unimpressed. She turned away, though, and marched down the aisle into the front carriage with the others following.
The boy they’d been bothering watched them go before he spoke. ‘They’ll only be worse next time. You didn’t do me any favours.’
‘They’re bullies. There are things you can do and people you can talk to who can help.’
His expression was even more contemptuous than No Angel’s had been. ‘I’ve read the leaflets,’ he muttered.
‘Bullying is about power and dominance. And fear,’ I added. ‘Their fear and yours.’
He looked away. ‘They’ve got nothing to be afraid of.’
‘Everyone’s afraid of something,’ I said softly. ‘Some of us just show it more than others.’ I studied him. ‘I can help if you—’
‘I don’t want your help.’
I knew enough not to push him. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘But if you change your mind, I’m sitting in the next carriage until Appledore.’
He crossed his arms. I sighed and pulled out one of my cards. ‘I really am with the police,’ I said. ‘If you change your mind and want some help, or if they bother you again, you can call me on this number.’
He took the card but didn’t say anything. I waited another beat before walking away.
‘Wait!’ he called out.
I stopped and looked over my shoulder. ‘Yes?’
‘This says you’re with Supernatural Squad.’
‘I am.’
‘But that means you…’ He blinked rapidly and his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You know supes.’ His expression was suddenly more awed than fearful. That was more like it. I wished more humans had that sort of reaction.
‘Vampires and werewolves and ghouls and pixies and gremlins.’ I thought for a moment. ‘And a satyr.’ I smiled and waited for the inevitable barrage of questions. Some people despised supes and some people venerated them. Neither attitude was ideal but the latter was often easier to deal with, especially when it played to my advantage.
The boy’s head dropped and he read the card again, this time with a trace of excitement. Alas, that didn’t last long. ‘Detective Constable Emma Bell—’ His face whitened abruptly. ‘You’re going to Appledore?’
I watched him more carefully now. ‘Barchapel, actually.’
He swallowed. ‘I don’t want your card,’ he whispered. He flicked it towards me and it fluttered to the floor by his feet. ‘I don’t want your help.’ He turned away, resolutely refusing to look at me again.
‘You know who I am,’ I breathed. His reaction had nothing to do with my position at Supe Squad and everything to do with my name. ‘You’re what? Fifteen years old? How would you know who I am?’
‘You said you can’t arrest someone for swearing,’ he mumbled into his chest, ignoring my question.
‘That’s right.’
‘Then,’ he gulped in a breath, ‘fuck off. Fuck off away from me.’
I wanted to sit down next to him and ask why he was so afraid of me and what he knew, but he was still a child and I was in dangerous territory. I nodded and reluctantly backed off.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Okay.’ I curled my hands into fists, a gesture born of frustration rather than anger, then shuffled towards the door. I prayed that he’d change his mind and start talking again but he didn’t
.
I returned to my seat, wishing there was another way I could approach him. Whoever he was and whatever he knew about me, he was done talking. There was nothing I could do that wouldn’t be my own version of harassment.
But when the train pulled into Appledore and I got up to retrieve my bag, I noticed that the boy was also preparing to disembark. And my card was no longer on the floor by his feet.
Chapter Four
The boy disappeared from the station platform with far greater haste than I expected. By the time I’d hauled my suitcase out and looked around there was no sign of him, and I could only assume that someone with a car had picked him up.
I grimaced in irritation and located the bus service I needed. Given that all six of the other teenagers were heading in the same direction, it wasn’t hard. Fortunately they gave me a wide berth, although I could feel all their eyes on me, especially when I boarded the bus after them for Barchapel.
I settled into a seat at the front and tilted my head to listen in to their conversation. They didn’t mention either the boy or my presence; instead, they seemed to be discussing the likelihood of a relationship between two of their teachers. No Angel seemed to particularly enjoy the imaginary salacious details.
After a while I zoned out and stared out of the window at the passing countryside. None of it looked familiar. Even when the bus pulled into Barchapel itself, and I felt my heart rate increase with tension, I couldn’t identify any of the streets or buildings. As far as this corner of Kent was concerned, my memory was drawing a total blank.
I thanked the bus driver and got off in the small town square. The teens piled after me, giggling and whispering. One by one they disappeared without a second glance, other than No Angel who threw me a dark look. Maybe she suspected that I was following her. I offered her a perfunctory smile and she tossed her head and stomped off.
Shrugging, I checked my phone for directions then headed towards the Bird and Bush Inn where I’d reserved a room for the next few days. I kept my eyes sharp, looking for a sign of either the boy or something that might jog my memory. Surely the pretty scented roses that lined the narrow streets, or the play park and the row of little shops would bring back some forgotten detail. Nothing did, however. In the end, I gave up trying and walked briskly to the pub.
There was no reception, so I headed for the bar where a yawning man probably a couple of years older than me was polishing a pint glass. The only customers were a couple in the corner who appeared to be tourists, judging by the map spread across their table and their well-worn hiking boots. It was gone two; the lunch rush was probably over.
Dropping my suitcase by my feet, I cleared my throat. If the boy on the train had recognised my name, perhaps other locals would as well. For all I knew, my parents’ murder was still big news in Barchapel a quarter of a century after it had occurred.
‘Hi,’ I said brightly. ‘I’m Emma Bellamy. I have a room booked.’
The barman yawned again. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised. He put down the glass and offered me a smile. ‘Late night.’ He took out an old-fashioned appointments book and flipped it open. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Emma,’ I replied. ‘Emma Bellamy.’ I kept a close eye on his expression but he didn’t react to my words other than to frown as he searched for my booking.
‘Oh yeah, here you are.’ He glanced up. ‘I have a couple of messages for you.’
I raised an eyebrow. A couple? Good grief – I’d only just left London.
The barman slid an unmarked envelope across the counter. I opened the flap and drew out two small scraps of paper which had clearly been torn from a lined notepad. The first message was simple and to the point: I hope you had a good journey. I will be at the local police station on Bowman Street until this evening if you would like to call in. Regards, DCI Harris Boateng.
Boateng was probably the Senior Investigating Officer looking into Patrick Lacey’s murder. The message didn’t give much away as to whether he was pleased or dismayed by my appearance in Barchapel but, either way, I appreciated the time he’d taken to get in touch.
The second message was slightly more cryptic: All for one, D’Artagnan x There was no name attached but I didn’t need to ask the barman to know that it was from Lukas. I gazed at the little x, wondering if he’d told whoever had written the message to include it. Probably. I smiled and pocketed both bits of paper. ‘Thank you.’
‘No problem.’ The barman gave me a key. ‘Your room is on the second floor. There’s no lift, but say the word if you want a hand with your bags.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I told him. I was stronger than I looked. Much stronger.
‘Cool.’ He nodded. ‘Breakfast is from seven till ten in the room across the way. If you need anything else, just give me a shout.’ He offered a lazy grin. ‘Enjoy your stay.’
Mmm. I wasn’t sure enjoy was the right word. I thanked him anyway, and went up to drop off my suitcase and freshen up. I put all thoughts of contrary teenagers out of my head. I had more important things to worry about, and I was determined to hit the ground running.
Precisely nine minutes later, I was back in front of the Bird and Bush Inn. Although I knew I should offer DCI Boateng the same courtesy he’d shown me and make the local cop shop my first port of call, there was somewhere else I had to go first. I couldn’t rest until I did.
I tilted my head back and raised my face to let the afternoon sunlight warm my skin, then I sucked in a deep breath of fresh country air and checked the map on my phone. It was less than a ten-minute walk.
I strolled along the street, paying close attention to both my surroundings and the faces of the few people around me. I received some curious glances but there were no shocked gasps of recognition. Neither did anyone appear nervous or frightened as they wandered around the village. Either the inhabitants of Barchapel didn’t care about another brutal murder on their doorstep, or they were of the same opinion as the keyboard warriors who believed that Patrick Lacey had got what was coming to him.
By the time I turned right into a narrow lane, there was no other living being to be seen apart from a few contented-looking cows in a nearby field and a large crow that was hopping along the hedgerow next to me searching for tasty bugs.
I re-checked the map to make sure I was heading in the right direction then squared my shoulders. There was no longer a pavement so I was forced to walk along the road. It curved to the left, leading towards the next village six or seven miles away.
Instead of following it, I pivoted right. And that was when I saw it.
I might not have had any memories of the Barchapel streets but gazing at the tumbledown cottage, barely visible through the thick hedges, was akin to being drenched in ice-cold water. This. This I remembered.
With my heart in my mouth, I picked my way through the thick undergrowth until I was standing on the wide, weed-covered path that led to the front door. There was what had once been a garden to either side of me, although it had seen better days. I noted an old fire pit and the messy detritus of crisp packets, bin bags, beer bottles and even a rusty shopping trolley.
Despite the rubbish, the overwhelming scent was of the honeysuckle that curled along the whitewashed cottage wall before snaking round the corner toward the boundary fence. I closed my eyes, inhaling the heady aroma of summer and remembering. We had picnics out here. My mum would make the sandwiches, cutting them into the tiny triangles that I insisted on. My dad would lay out the old tartan rug and pour the drinks – not just for us, but for Toby the teddy bear and Polly Dolly. I would run and play and skip and scream…
A sob escaped my lips. No. I opened my eyes. No. They were dead and nothing would change that. I’d allow myself to feel sorrow and grief, but I wouldn’t let my emotions get the better of me. Not now.
I shoved my hands into my pockets as if to ward off stronger feelings of pain, then I walked up to the cottage door. It was covered in a thick layer of grime and had been fastened with a
heavy, rusted padlock. The windows were boarded up.
Nobody had lived here for twenty-five years. The cottage was on the very outskirts of Barchapel and partially hidden by the overgrown vegetation. It had been boarded up after my parents’ murder and slated for demolition, but I guessed it was a case of out of sight, out of mind. The only people who came here now would be curious hikers and errant teenagers looking for somewhere to party. Perhaps that included No Angel and her buddies.
I licked my lips and reached for the padlock to see if it could be opened. As soon as my fingers grazed the cold metal, there was a loud screech from behind me. I jumped and spun, my heart pounding against my chest and my hands automatically reaching for my crossbow. Stupidly, I’d left it locked in my suitcase at the Bird and Bush.
Nobody was there – only the crow. It must have followed me. It blinked at me from its perch on top of the old shopping trolley, its dark beady eyes fixed on mine. Then it screeched again.
‘Shoo!’ I waved my hands towards it. The crow didn’t move. ‘Shoo!’
The bird raised one wing and stretched it out, looking away from me to examine its feathers. Its beak dipped as it prepared to preen.
‘Get lost, bird!’
It ignored me.
I rolled my eyes. Freaky feathered bugger. Weren’t crows supposed to be super-intelligent? Couldn’t this one work out that it wasn’t wanted? I cursed and turned my back on it. It was only a damned bird.
I reached for the padlock again, shaking it to see if I could pry it loose. When that didn’t work, I drew in a breath. ‘Sorry, Mum,’ I muttered. I tensed my muscles and slammed my shoulder against the old wooden door. It sprang open on my first attempt as the metal bolt holding the padlock in place broke loose. I was getting good at breaking down doors; in fact, these days I barely even thought about it.
The interior of the cottage was gloomy, dark and smelled of damp. I pushed the door open all the way and stepped across the threshold. There was no furniture inside. All I could see was more rubbish in the corners and old wallpaper peeling from the walls. But I didn’t need furniture to tell me what each room had been. There was a sudden blueprint in my mind’s eye: straight ahead was the bathroom; beyond that was my parents’ bedroom, and after that was the room I’d slept in.