by Helen Harper
Boateng gave me a curious look. ‘And what?’
And when I’d asked Beswick why he hadn’t killed me, he’d obviously been horrified at the thought. He’d said it wouldn’t have been fair to kill a child and I’d believed him. If the sulphurous soot I’d found at the cottage really was evidence of my death, had he been lying? To what end? It didn’t make sense.
‘Nothing,’ I said. I shook my head, attempting to dispel my thoughts. ‘Maybe we should get to the point. Why are you so sure that Patrick Lacey was murdered by a supe?’
A tiny frown marred Boateng’s forehead as I shifted gear. He watched me for a moment or two and then shrugged. ‘Very well. There are a few indications.’ He opened a drawer, took out a folder and laid it on the desk between us. ‘Patrick Lacey was forty-six years old.’ He held up a photo of him. ‘As you can see, he kept himself in very good shape. He held a black belt in karate, judo and his Krav Maga skills have been highly spoken of. He was very fit, and remarkably strong.’
I gazed at the photo. I knew exactly what Boateng was implying: a human would find it difficult to overpower Patrick Lacey but a supe wouldn’t. ‘It’s one thing to hold your own in a gym. It’s quite another when you’re taken by surprise and attacked outside at night.’
‘True,’ Boateng conceded. He reached for another A4 photo and gave me a warning look, preparing me for what was to come. Then he handed over the photo. ‘But there is also the manner in which he died. Take a look. Lacey’s body was found in a narrow snicket that leads between the back of two rows of houses.’
It was a clear shot of Patrick Lacey lying face up, his head slumped to one side. ‘This was taken at the scene before his body was moved?’
Boateng nodded. ‘The evidence indicates that he died where he fell.’ He slid another photo across the desk, a close up that focused on Lacey’s face and neck. I stared at it. ‘This wound,’ I said. ‘The one on his neck. It’s the only one?’
‘The only one,’ Boateng told me. ‘Patrick Lacey died because his throat was ripped out. You see the ragged edges around the skin? The preliminary report suggests those are teeth marks. Last time I checked, there weren’t any wild wolves or grizzly bears wandering around the Kentish countryside. We’ve sent samples off to the lab in Maidstone to see if we can get any DNA hits. If something bit into Lacey, we’ll know about it soon.’ His tone was grim. ‘It certainly looks as if that’s what happened.’
I nodded slowly, although it wasn’t actually the wound that had given me pause – it was the lack of blood splatter. Lacey’s face was clean. There wasn’t so much as a smudge of blood on his skin. There also appeared to be very little on his clothes, although he’d been wearing a dark T-shirt so there could be plenty of blood droplets that weren’t visible.
‘Is there any suggestion that the killer cleaned him post-mortem?’ I asked carefully.
Boateng gave me a small smile. ‘None. In fact Lacey still has traces of beer round his mouth to prove that his face wasn’t wiped clean. It seems almost inconceivable, doesn’t it, that a fully-grown man could suffer such a terrible wound yet not be covered in his own blood afterwards?’
‘What about the ground?’ I asked.
‘Specialists are still examining the scene. There’s some of Lacey’s blood around where his body was found.’ He shrugged. ‘A few teaspoons’ worth, perhaps, yet he lost almost half of the blood in his body. It appears as if whoever killed him also drank his blood.’ Boateng fixed me with a long look. ‘I think you’ll agree that’s not typical human behaviour.’
I shook my head slowly. No, it wasn’t, but I was far from ready to declare this a supernatural crime just yet. ‘If you wanted to cover up evidence of a pre-meditated crime, you’d do well to pin the blame on supes.’
‘Indeed,’ Boateng agreed. ‘It’s important not to jump to conclusions. But even if there aren’t illegal supes living in the Barchapel area, it would be easy for someone based in the London enclaves to make a short trip here to take care of Mr Lacey. I don’t imagine it took you very long to get here from the city.’
‘It didn’t.’ I paused. ‘But I had a good reason to come. Why would a London supe want to kill a man living in the Kent countryside? Did Patrick Lacey have any London connections?’
Boateng shrugged. ‘Other than an aunt he’s not seen for years, and a few old friends who moved there and who he seemed to have lost touch with, none that we can see. We’ve looked into his recent movements and it doesn’t appear that he’d visited London for months. However, none of what I’ve mentioned so far is the real reason why we suspect supe involvement.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on.’
He slipped another photograph out of the file and laid it in front of me. Then another. And another. I studied each one in turn.
‘These are images of the ground around where Patrick Lacey’s body was found,’ Boateng told me. ‘He was discovered just after six o’clock on Saturday morning by a local resident called Maria Payne, who was out walking her dog. There had been some rain during the previous evening and the ground was soft enough to form some partial marks. We’ve taken impressions of her shoes – you can see Mrs Payne’s footprints here.’ He indicated some indistinct marks.
‘The first police officer on the scene was PC Robert Rothsay, who you met just now. Despite his lack of knowledge about supes, he is a diligent and careful constable who understands how to approach a crime scene. He took the time to put on overshoes and he kept his foot treads to a minimum, retreating as soon as he’d established that Mr Lacey was beyond reviving.’ Boateng pointed again at the first photo. ‘We’ve established that these prints are his.’
I nodded. Shivers of trepidation were starting to burst through my veins.
‘Naturally, we also took impressions of Mr Lacey’s footprints.’ He gestured to the second photo. ‘The evidence indicates that this particular trail marks his approach from the west side, which is also the direction that Mrs Payne came from. And then here,’ he tapped the third photo, ‘is a series of different prints that come from the opposite direction, the eastern side.’
I squinted. The marks were smudged but I could tell they looked like heavy boot prints heading towards the spot where Lacey had been found. Even I could see that they were markedly different to both Lacey and Payne’s footprints. ‘Okay,’ I said slowly, still not quite understanding.
‘Roughly ten metres away from Patrick Lacey’s body, these unidentified prints disappear. There’s a section of harder ground where no footprints are visible.’ Boateng withdrew one final photo. ‘But after a few metres there’s enough soft earth that the trail continues. Except the boot prints have been replaced by these marks that continue to the location of the body.’ He turned the photo round so I could see it.
I sucked in a sharp breath. Forming a perfectly straight line that headed directly to where Lacey was found dead were several gigantic paw marks.
‘What kind of dog does Mrs Payne have?’ I asked, staring at them.
‘A miniature poodle,’ Boateng answered. ‘Named Jimmy. I met him yesterday and I can confirm that he’s a vicious little chap. Even more so than the Chihuahua that nibbled on my wife.’ He held up his hand and I spotted a few small bruises around the base of his thumb.
‘But I can also guarantee that there is no way on God’s green earth that Jimmy made those paw prints. We’ve measured them. Even a Great Dane doesn’t have paws that large. We haven’t established exactly what manner of creature made those marks. We suspect werewolf, but we could be wrong. But the prints are not human, I promise you that.’
He leaned back once more in his chair and regarded me carefully.
‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘They don’t look like werewolf prints.’ I met Boateng’s steady gaze. ‘But I have to agree reluctantly that they’re not human either. You’re right, sir – it does look like a supe murdered Patrick Lacey.’
Chapter Seven
DCI Harris Boateng was less concerned with politics an
d county divisions than he was with solving Patrick Lacey’s murder and catching the perpetrator. Without being prompted, he handed over a hefty wad of photocopied files relating to the evidence they’d gathered so far. Equally helpfully, Boateng suggested that PC Rothsay escort me to the scene of the crime first thing in the morning, once I’d had time to read the reports.
For my part, I sent text messages containing the image of the paw prints to the three werewolf clan alphas. I also sent them to Lukas and Liza, both of whom obviously held no allegiance to the wolves and possessed more knowledge about the Others than I did.
There were any number of Others, ranging from pixies to ghouls to gremlins. Like the werewolves and the vampires, they were legally bound to live within a specific area in London covering Lisson Grove, Soho and several streets in between. I couldn’t think of any Other supes who made prints of the size and nature of those found at the scene of Lacey’s death, but that didn’t mean such supes didn’t exist.
As expected, the alphas messaged to say that the paw prints were not werewolf. Lady Sullivan went a step further and told me that I was a fool for suggesting such a thing, and that I should stop staring at feet and focus on dealing with the problem of Devereau Webb. I ignored that and read the messages from Liza and Lukas. Neither of them could offer any immediate answers. Lukas said he’d ask around and signed off with an X, which made my heart foolishly miss a beat. Liza texted with a baffled question mark and followed it up by telling me that DS Grace was an idiot. He hadn’t even lasted a full day before she’d pronounced judgment upon him. Oh dear. I told Boateng what I’d learned – which was precisely nothing – and texted them both back with notes of thanks. And an X of my own for Lukas.
Clutching the files tightly to my chest, I scurried to the Bird and Bush. Much as I might have wanted to use this trip to focus on my parents, it was obvious that Patrick Lacey’s killing would have to take precedence. Apart from newly appointed DS Owen Grace, I was the country’s sole Supe Squad detective, and this certainly looked like a supe murder. For the good of the innocent supe community and any further potential victims, not to mention poor Patrick Lacey, I had to alter my focus. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t spend a bit of time finding out about my mum and dad.
The bar area was far more crowded now, with a late Sunday tea-time crowd clustered round tables and perched on stools. There was little doubt in my mind that most of them were locals. There was no better way to find out more about Patrick Lacey than talking to people who might have known him, so I deposited the files in my room. I cursed the absence of a room safe and squeezed them into my suitcase instead, zipped it up and clipped on a small padlock as insurance. After carefully locking the door, I hurried down to the bar and ordered an orange juice. It was time to get to work.
Sidling up to an old guy wearing a flat cap and sitting on his own at the end of the bar, I made my opening gambit. It wasn’t the most eloquent of beginnings. ‘Hi there! I’m Emma.’
He didn’t even look in my direction; all he did was grunt and take a sip of his beer.
I took a deep breath. ‘It’s possible,’ I said, wishing I didn’t have to use my parents’ deaths in this way, ‘that you knew my mum and dad.’ Two birds with one stone, I told myself, inwardly exulting when he turned towards me and looked me up and down. I would soften him up by telling him who I really was, then go in for the kill and learn what I could about Patrick Lacey while his guard was down.
‘Who are your parents?’ he asked.
‘They’re dead. But they were Mark and Diane Bellamy,’ I replied, pleased that there was no catch in my voice. ‘They lived in the old cottage on the edge of the village. The one that—’
‘I know which one you mean,’ he interrupted. His gaze was assessing. ‘So you’re their kid. I didn’t think we’d ever see you again.’
‘I joined the police.’ I managed a light shrug. ‘With the recent murder here, I thought this was my chance to come and see what I remembered as well as do some good.’
‘Bit gruesome, innit?’ he asked. ‘Coming back to the place where your parents were murdered to investigate a murder?’
‘Yeah,’ I answered honestly, ‘I suppose it is.’ I hesitated. ‘So did you know them? Did you know Mark and Diane?’
His reply was slow in coming. ‘I did. What happened to them rocked this place for years. Now we’re back where we started.’ He took a grim sip. ‘More death.’
A blonde woman in her mid-forties wandered over from a table in the corner to catch the barman’s attention. The man next to me called to her, ‘Guess who this is, Julie? Betchoo can’t guess.’
She glanced towards me. ‘You’ve got me there, Bill.’ Her voice was flat and disinterested. ‘I can’t guess.’ She ordered a gin and tonic and raised her eyebrows. ‘Go on. Who are you?’
‘She’s little Em,’ Bill said, speaking for me.
Julie stared at me. ‘You mean…?’
‘Yep.’
Her demeanour changed in an instant, transforming from tired exasperation to astonished excitement. ‘Oh my God. Oh. My. God.’ She leapt towards me and for one alarming moment I thought she was going to attack me. Then she grabbed hold of my shoulders and pulled me into a tight embrace. ‘Em. Little Em. What happened to you? Are you alright? I worried about you so often over the years.’ She squeezed me tighter, her floral perfume wrapping around me until I almost smothered.
‘You keep holding her like that, she ain’t gonna be breathing for much longer,’ Bill observed.
‘Oh my goodness!’ Julie released me and stepped back. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you!’ She shook her head in amazement. ‘I’m just so happy to see you. The last time I saw you, you were this high.’ She indicated a point on her thigh. ‘I used to babysit you.’ She grinned at me before sobering up. ‘I was so upset with what happened. We all were. That man, Samuel Beswick.’ She hissed. ‘Hanging’s too good for him.’
‘You knew Beswick?’ I asked.
‘Oh yeah.’ She bobbed her head. ‘Used to think he was a decent guy until he did what he did.’ She shuddered. ‘Even got it on with him one time after a night out here.’ She glanced at me and her expression altered. ‘But you don’t want to hear about that. Tell me about you. Where have you been all these years? I want to know everything.’
‘She’s with the police,’ Bill said from behind my shoulder.
‘Police?’ Julie jerked. ‘You’re here for Patrick.’
‘Yes.’
‘Wow,’ she whispered. ‘Talk about your chickens coming home to roost.’
I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Julie’s eyes met Bill’s. ‘You know. Because of Patrick and your parents.’
I stilled. ‘What about Patrick and my parents?’
‘You know.’
‘No,’ I told her. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, he was the one that found them, wasn’t he? And you. He went round because Mark – your dad - had asked him to fix a leaky tap. He knocked on the door, walked in and,’ she gave an awkward shrug, ‘saw what had happened. He was never the same afterwards. I think finding you and seeing all that blood is what made him so angry all the time. What do they call it? PDST?’
‘PTSD,’ I whispered. I stared at her. I hadn’t read that part in any of the news clippings or the court summary. I hadn’t known that Patrick Lacey found my parents. That he’d found me.
‘That’s a hell of a coincidence,’ Julie burbled.
‘Uh huh.’ I couldn’t quite wrap my head around it.
‘Blimey.’
I took a sip of my juice. I was desperate to know about my mum and dad, but this was a real chance to ask more about Patrick. There would be time for my parents later; I had to focus on the crime in front of me. Inadvertently, I tightened my grip on my glass. There was a sudden cracking sound and orange liquid spilled everywhere as the glass shattered in my hand. Shit. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
‘Fucking hell.’ Julie whi
pped a bar towel off the counter and started dabbing at my skin. ‘Don’t move or you’ll cut yourself.’ She glared at the barman. ‘I told you those glasses were cheap and nasty,’ she castigated him. ‘Em here could have been seriously injured!’
‘I’m fine,’ I managed. ‘It was my fault.’
‘Pssss! Don’t be ridiculous!’
The barman rushed round with a dustpan and brush in his hand. ‘I’ll get this cleaned up. Don’t worry. I’m sorry about that.’
‘It was my fault,’ I said. It really was my fault; sometimes I didn’t know my own strength.
‘You’ve got it all over your lovely shirt,’ Julie tsked. She dabbed some more with the towel but only succeeded in spreading the orange stain.
I smiled at her and held up my hands. ‘It’s okay,’ I insisted. I knelt down and helped the barman with the last few shards. ‘There’s no use crying over spilt orange juice.’
‘Aw hen.’ Julie gazed at me. ‘That’s just the sort of thing your mum would have said.’ She sighed. ‘You’re really like her.’
I bit the inside of my cheek. ‘I have a room upstairs,’ I said. ‘I’ll just go and change.’
‘Good idea.’ Julie nodded vigorously. ‘You go do that.’
‘Will you stay?’ I asked. ‘I won’t be long.’
She smiled. ‘I can hang around for a bit. I’ll have to get home soon and get dinner on, but I’ve got some time.’
‘Thank you.’ I looked at Bill. ‘And thank you, too.’
He offered a gruff sniff. ‘No problem.’
Breathing hard, I raced up the stairs and into my room. Breaking that glass had been stupid. I knew it had happened because I’d let my emotions get the better of me but that didn’t make it any better.