by Helen Harper
It was far more than I’d hoped for. I inclined my head. ‘Naturally.’
‘Robert is ready to take you to the crime scene. I’ll get that team to your room at the Bird and Bush ASAP.’
‘It’s probably best if you don’t tell many others that I was murdered,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be forced into giving a demonstration of what I can do. And not everyone will be as calm about the news as you’ve been.’
Boateng laughed. ‘Believe me, detective, the last thing I’m feeling while looking at you is calm. Frankly, you terrify me. But don’t worry, I’ll leave your death out of the equation for now. I doubt anyone would believe me. It will remain between us. Can I ask just one thing, though?’
I felt a sudden rush of wariness. ‘Go on.’
‘Can I feel your pulse?’
I shrugged and held out my wrist. Boateng took it and pressed his fingertips to its soft underside. ‘What’s the verdict?’ I asked.
‘You seem to be alive, DC Bellamy.’
I met his eyes. ‘And I’m going to stay that way.’ I paused. ‘At least, I am if I’ve got anything to say about it.’
Chapter Nine
PC Rothsay was hopping from foot to foot outside the police station. His expression was similar to one I’d noted on Fred’s young face – puppy-dog enthusiasm and excitement. Rothsay had probably been hoping that a murder investigation would involve running around like James Bond or Jason Bourne and bringing swift justice to a cruel world, not sifting through paperwork and questioning local residents. This little outing was probably the most thrilling thing that had happened since he’d first attended the crime scene.
He beamed at me as I approached. ‘Hi, DC Bellamy!’
It was impossible not to smile back. ‘Hi.’
‘I brought you coffee.’ He pressed a disposable cup into my hands. ‘It’s from the shop round the corner. It’s really good. I wasn’t sure how you liked your coffee so I got some sachets of sugar to go with it.’
‘No sugar.’ I took a sip. ‘This is perfect. Thank you.’
His grin was so wide it seemed to split his face in two. ‘You’re welcome. I was right, wasn’t I? It’s definitely a supe that killed Lacey.’ He nodded rapidly, agreeing with himself. ‘I knew it as soon as I saw the wound. Werewolf, huh?’
‘Well,’ I demurred, ‘I’ve checked on the paw prints at the scene and they don’t appear to be from a wolf.’
Rothsay visibly deflated. It was quite extraordinary to watch. ‘But … but … what else could it have been?’
‘I don’t know yet.’ Something that wears heavy boots and likes to hide in wardrobes as well as on dark pathways. ‘People always think of vampires and werewolves but there are all sorts of other supernatural creatures. The supe who attacked poor Mr Lacey is clearly one of the rarer beings.’
Rothsay’s eyes were wide. ‘Like what?’
‘I’m not sure yet. It’s best to keep an open mind and evaluate the evidence before we jump to any conclusions. I know a lot about supes but my knowledge isn’t encyclopaedic and there’s always more to learn. Why don’t you lead the way to the crime scene and we’ll see what’s there first?’
He offered up another happy little hop then pointed to his right. ‘We can walk,’ he said. ‘It’s not far.’
I followed his lead. ‘So,’ I said, keen to know more about Barchapel and its residents because any information might lead to more details about me and my parents, ‘have you always lived here?’
‘No,’ Rothsay replied, disappointing me. ‘I grew up in Appledore and then I was posted to Maidstone after I qualified as a police constable. I only moved to Barchapel about a month ago, so I’m still getting to know the village.’
‘It takes time,’ I said, sipping more of my coffee. ‘You’ll get there.’
The young policeman nodded enthusiastically again. ‘I will. You should know that it’s not the first time there’s been a vicious murder in Barchapel. The last one was a double murder – though it wasn’t committed by supes and it was years ago. The bloke who did it is still in prison and he’s as human as you can get. His name is Samuel Betwick.’
‘Beswick,’ I murmured, without thinking.
Rothsay flung me a surprised look. ‘You know about him?’
I took a gamble and opted for the truth. It was probably round half the village by now. ‘It was my parents who were killed.’
Rothsay paled and I realised that I’d wrong-footed him for the second time in two days. ‘You weren’t to know,’ I said. ‘And it was a long time ago.’
He stared at me. ‘If they were your parents, that means you were found…’ His voice trailed away.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I was, but I don’t remember anything about it. I suppose that’s a good thing.’
He swallowed. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s okay.’ As anyone who’s ever suffered a similar loss will know, you spend as much time consoling others about what’s happened as you spend feeling sorry for yourself. That was why, up until now, I’d rarely mentioned what had happened to my parents. It was usually easier to keep quiet on the subject. Usually.
‘Do you know much about what happened back then?’ I asked. ‘Do people round here talk about it?’
‘Not much,’ Rothsay mumbled, clearly still convinced he’d made a terrible gaffe.
I stopped walking and turned to him. ‘It wasn’t Lacey’s murder that drew me to Barchapel,’ I told him. ‘It was what happened to my parents. I still have some unanswered questions about that time.’ Including why the hell I’m able to keep dying and returning to life. ‘You’re the local bobby here. Any local gossip, no matter how salacious or grubby, is useful.’
Rothsay’s eyes flicked to mine and then away again. I held my breath. So he did know something. I waited, hoping what he was about to say wouldn’t shatter too many of the few warm memories I possessed.
‘Maybe some things are better left unsaid,’ he hedged.
I didn’t press him, I simply waited. Fortunately my tactic worked.
Rothsay ran a hand through his hair. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘this is only hearsay. It’s not necessarily true. Like I said, I’ve only been here a month or so. And I wasn’t even born when Samuel Beswick killed your parents. Stories can take on a life of their own and change to fit the circumstances so —’
I held up my hand. ‘I get it,’ I said calmly. ‘I’m not expecting to hear the gospel truth, I just want to know what whispers you’ve heard in your short time here. I won’t attribute them to you and I’ll take anything I hear with a pinch of salt. I promise.’
Rothsay sighed. ‘Fine.’ He turned and pointed towards the east of the village. ‘There’s a large manor house over there, on the far side of Barchapel. Back in the day, it was owned by the Stirling family. They were the landed gentry around these parts. These days it’s owned by a woman called Miranda James. She’s a bit … off the wall.’
‘What does that mean?’
He shrugged awkwardly. ‘In another time, she’d probably have been burned at the stake for being a witch. She likes crystals and Tarot cards and palmistry. She has a reputation in the village for being weird.’
I was already annoyed on Miranda James’s behalf but I kept my own counsel. ‘Go on.’
Rothsay’s reluctance was growing. ‘I’ve heard several people say that she used to be a looker in her youth and that she, uh,’ he cleared his throat, ‘she, uh, had flings with some of the men.’
‘So?’
He looked at his shoes. ‘Apparently she was shagging Samuel Beswick at the time your parents were killed. The reason he killed them is because she was also having an affair with your dad.’
I blinked. That was a new one on me. I wasn’t foolish enough to believe that my parents were angels simply because they’d died young but I’d never heard anything along those lines before. I couldn’t recall seeing anything like this in the newspaper reports from the time. Surely if there was any suggestion it was true,
it would have been used against Beswick in his trial because it gave him a strong motive to kill.
‘Sorry,’ Rothsay muttered.
‘That’s okay.’ I pursed my lips. Clearly I’d have to talk to Miranda James at some point, even though I didn’t think there was any truth in this story of an affair.
‘It probably didn’t happen,’ Rothsay added hastily. ‘And the James woman is nice but she isn’t all there.’
My eyes narrowed. ‘Because she likes crystals?’
Registering my irritation, Rothsay shifted uneasily. ‘I believe she has mental health issues. She’s not dangerous or anything like that, but she does draw attention to herself. Sometimes she shouts at things that aren’t there and sometimes, especially on a clear night when you can see the moon, she dances naked in the fields. She’s harmless, though, and her son helps her a lot.’
I lifted my head. ‘Her son?’
‘He’s just a teenager but he keeps her on the straight and narrow. He’s a good kid.’ Rothsay frowned. ‘Weird new age name though. Albion, I think.’
Albion. No Angel had called the boy on the train Al, and one of the boys she’d been with had taunted him about the medication his mum was taking. Then I thought about the way he’d reacted to my name. There was a very good chance that we were talking about the same boy. I’d definitely be paying Miranda James a visit, sooner rather than later.
‘Thank you, PC Rothsay,’ I said thoughtfully. Thank you indeed.
Patrick Lacey’s murder was so recent that the investigation was only in its infancy. A small forensic crew was still at the crime scene and the path remained roped off with police tape. We approached the first officer on duty to register our names and pick up whatever protective equipment we needed.
‘We’re almost finished here,’ the white-suited technician said cheerfully. ‘I don’t think there’s a scrap of ground that we’ve not covered. Protective booties will be enough.’ She passed over the disposable plastic coverings and PC Rothsay and I dutifully pulled them over our shoes. ‘Come on,’ she said, once we were ready, ‘I’ll walk you through the scene.’
The technician led the way to a small gap between two fences and pointed to where the path began. ‘The last sighting of Mr Lacey was back at the square. He was caught on CCTV and spotted by an eye-witness. That was just after 11pm on Friday. We’ve walked the route several times. Even inebriated, it would have taken him less than fifteen minutes to walk to this point.’ She glanced at Rothsay. ‘I’m told this path is unofficially called Lovers’ Lane by the locals.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It leads round the back of several streets and it’s well used. For walking,’ he added quickly, ‘not anything else.’
She appeared amused by his faint embarrassment. ‘Well,’ she demurred, ‘we did find a used condom amongst the other rubbish. It was in the undergrowth by the side of the path and unfortunately was some weeks old, so it’s of no use in this investigation. It’s been bagged and tagged, but I doubt you’ll get much joy from it.’
I couldn’t imagine getting any joy at all from an old used condom, but I understood what she meant. ‘Did you pick up anything else that you think is useful?’
‘I’m afraid not. There was quite a collection of litter, but most of it seems to have been blown in or been here for some time. It’ll all be carefully examined but it’s a relatively clean scene.’ She pulled a face. ‘Apart from all the blood and the bird shit, of course.’
I paused, thinking about that damned crow. ‘Bird shit? Can you tell what sort of bird it came from?’
The technician squinted. ‘No. Not a scooby.’
Rothsay gave me a confused look. Aware that I’d sound unhinged if I started babbling about feathered creatures that were following me around and attempting to warn me about murderers hiding in my wardrobe, I quickly changed the subject. ‘The entrance to the path is quite well concealed,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ Rothsay agreed. ‘It’s even harder to spot from the other side where it ends.’
I rubbed my chin. That made it more likely that the perp was a local, especially if Boateng was right and they’d approached from the opposite direction rather than following Patrick Lacey from behind.
The technician walked ahead of us onto the path. ‘The ground here is quite hard,’ she said. ‘We don’t pick up Lacey’s footprints until several metres in.’ We moved along until the first yellow tag was visible. ‘Here we go.’
I knelt down and gazed at the print. There were raised ridges around the toe, although the heel was rather smudged.
‘We’ve taken several casts,’ the technician said. ‘It’s definitely from Patrick Lacey’s shoes. So are the others. See here?’
I followed her finger.
‘He stumbled slightly and collided with these bushes. Too much beer to maintain a straight line.’ She shrugged. ‘We’ve all been there.’
Indeed. I asked the question all the same. ‘You’re sure that it was a stumble and not part of the attack?’
‘That’s what the footprints tell us. It’s quite obvious that the attack began further up. Here, I’ll show you.’
As we followed her, more and more yellow tags appeared along the way to indicate where evidence had been found. By the time the path widened, there were dozens of them. I didn’t need to look at Rothsay’s face to know that this was where Lacey’s body had been discovered.
The ground here was a mess. It took a trained eye to point out what had happened. ‘So,’ the technician explained, crouching down, ‘you can see from this partial footprint that Lacey stopped here.’
I couldn’t see that at all, but I was prepared to bow to her greater knowledge.
She indicated another mark. ‘He took a step back here,’ she said, ‘and here. Then he started to twist, as if to leave in the opposite direction. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t get very far.’
She gestured to a far larger imprint. ‘He fell onto his left side here and died, probably within seconds. These sections,’ she pointed out more of the numbered tags, ‘indicate where his blood was spattered. There’s not a lot of it, which is surprising given the way he fell and the amount of blood loss he suffered.’
I gazed grimly at the spot before looking up. ‘And his attacker? Where are those prints?’
The technician grinned. ‘Over here. And this is where things get interesting.’ She picked her way over with PC Rothsay and I close behind. ‘The attacker came in from the opposite direction. We’re assuming that these boot prints were made by the killer. From the size of the prints and the heavy marks in the ground, I’m sure you’re looking for a large male.’ She paused. ‘A very large male. He has to be at least a hundred and twenty kilograms.’
Wow. Our nasty little perp was not so small, then. ‘Okay.’ I nodded. ‘What else?’
‘From the moment he steps onto the path until here,’ she said, indicating another section, ‘he doesn’t alter his speed in any way. He doesn’t run, he doesn’t change pace. Nothing.’
It was little more than six metres to where Lacey had died. I looked at Rothsay. ‘How dark does it get here? Is it possible that the attacker didn’t notice Lacey until they were almost on top of each other?’
The young policeman shook his head. ‘You can’t see them from here, but just over that hedge there are street lights for the road opposite. It’s dark, but it’s certainly not pitch black.’
The technician agreed. ‘We checked it ourselves last night. Both Lacey and his attacker would have had a clear view of each other for quite some distance.’
Hmm. That gave credence to the idea that it was something Lacey had said or shouted out that had enraged his killer. The footprints suggested that the perp had not considered attacking Lacey until he got close to him.
I angled my head and spotted the section from the photograph that Boateng had shown me. While many of Patrick Lacey’s footprints were smudged or difficult for a layman like me to read, the killer’s were far clearer. Heavy boot print,
heavy boot print, heavy boot print, two-metre gap devoid of marks, then several animal paw prints. Assuming it was a creature similar to a werewolf, it appeared to have shifted from human form to animal in mid-air.
I stared at the first animal print. It was massive. I’d been sure before but now I was positive: this definitely hadn’t been a wolf. The largest werewolf I’d ever seen was Devereau Webb and even his paw prints wouldn’t be this size.
‘We’ve undertaken several comparisons,’ the technician said, with a meaningful look that suggested she was about to say something important. ‘The closest match we’ve found to this paw print is that of a Kodiak bear.’
Chapter Ten
A Kodiak bear. A werebear? Was such a thing even possible? But if werewolves could exist, it stood to reason that there were other such creatures. I’d certainly never heard of any werebears and I wasn’t sure anyone else had, either.
PC Rothsay, who seemed even more thrown by the suggestion than I was, shoved his hands into his pockets when we re-emerged from the path and started mumbling to himself, his words a stream of incoherent panic. He twisted away, pacing up and down the pavement in agitation. I ignored him and took out my phone.
Liza took her sweet time answering. ‘Good morning,’ she said, sounding as if it were anything but. ‘You have reached Supernatural Squad. You are speaking to Liza May, the civilian enquiry clerk. What is the nature of your enquiry?’
Uh… ‘Liza?’ I asked. ‘What’s with the formal introduction?’ Usually she answered the phone with little more than a grunt.
‘Oh,’ she sniffed. ‘It’s you. Detective Sergeant Grace has given me a script to read from. He doesn’t think that I’m professional enough and has decided to put words into my mouth. Literally. When the fuck are you coming back?’
‘In about two weeks,’ I told her. ‘As you well know. DS Grace has a lot of experience, Liza. If he thinks that answering the phone in a more—’