Scorched Heart (The Firebrand Series Book 4)

by Helen Harper

  This probably wasn’t the time to tell him that he was talking to a supe right at that moment. ‘We’re investigating all possibilities, Mr Smith. It’s merely one avenue we’re exploring.’ I smiled. ‘Now, if you have that CCTV handy—’

  ‘I’ll make you a copy now.’ He shuddered. ‘A supe. Here. What is the world coming to?’

  Clive Smith was far more upset by the thought of a supernatural creature in his village than a murderer. People, I decided, could be very, very weird indeed.

  I introduced myself to the two forensics officers who were still working their way through my room, painstakingly searching for anything that might offer a viable clue. They told me their names were Barry and Larry.

  ‘We know,’ Barry said, with a self-mocking grin. ‘We’ve heard it all before. We’ve been working together for a while.’

  It probably didn’t help that they were as similar in appearance as in name. Both men sported thick bushy moustaches that immediately put me in mind of Magnum PI. They were both thin and wiry, although Barry’s paunch was more pronounced than Larry’s.

  ‘If you can’t remember which one of us is which,’ Larry said, ‘then Blarry usually works. One of us will answer.’ They smirked at each other at the inside joke.

  ‘I gotta say,’ Barry told me, ‘when we were pulled away to look over your room, I thought it was a waste of time. But it certainly looks as if you were right. The boot prints in the wardrobe are a perfect match for those found next to Patrick Lacey’s corpse. As you can see,’ he waved a hand around the room, ‘we’ve been dusting for fingerprints. On the one hand, this is a far better place to get a decent partial print than the scene at the path. On the other hand, it’s a hotel room. We’ve already pulled at least twenty different prints and we’ve only just started.’

  That didn’t surprise me in the slightest – I’d have been shocked if they’d found any fingerprints that would lead us to a suspect. It was enough for me that they’d established that Lacey’s murderer and mine were one and the same.

  ‘The one thing that doesn’t make any sense,’ Larry told me, ‘is this mark here.’ He pointed to the large scorched area on the floor. So much for the rug covering it up. ‘As far as we can tell, it’s a burn mark and it was caused by some kind of chemical fire. Judging by the ash residue, it happened very recently.’

  ‘Don’t spend any time on that,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s not relevant.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Barry frowned. ‘I asked the manager and he said he’d never seen anything like it before and that it was definitely new. Was this mark here when you checked in yesterday?’

  ‘Honestly,’ I repeated. ‘The burn has nothing to do with anything.’

  Barry and Larry exchanged glances. Damn it. I didn’t want to have to tell them how to do their jobs, but the last thing either of them needed to do was to waste time trying to work out what had caused the scorch mark.

  I changed the subject, hoping I could shift their focus onto something more useful. ‘Have you managed to work out how he got in?’

  Larry brightened. ‘Oh yes. That part was easy.’ He stepped over to the window. ‘Tree. Branch. Shimmy. Squeeze.’

  I edged over and peered out. It would have been an easy enough climb across the branch then up and over to the window, but reaching the branch wouldn’t have been simple. It was three metres from the ground and there were no obvious footholds on the tree.

  Barry knew what I was thinking. ‘Any portable foot ladder could have been carried here and propped up beneath the tree. If it was angled over at this side, not only would it have been hidden from sight by anyone passing by, it wouldn’t have left any impressions on the ground. That’s the pub garden down there and it’s all been patioed over. Once we’re finished up here, we’ll check it out to see if we can find anything to prove our theory.’

  I nodded distractedly. It hadn’t occurred to me to worry that the window had been left open. I should have known better. I sighed and turned away, then I froze and stared at the tree. Fuck.

  ‘Have you spotted something?’ Larry asked eagerly.

  Well, it would draw their attention away from the burn if nothing else. ‘There,’ I said. ‘On the side of the tree.’ I pointed. ‘Can you see that?’

  He followed my finger, drawing back when he spotted it. ‘Well, I’ll be— Barry, come and see this. It’s a claw mark, right?’

  Barry peered out. ‘Damn. It certainly looks like it. No cat made that mark. It’s too large and too deep.’

  I pinched off a headache. No, it was definitely not a cat.

  Barry and Larry joined together in a gleeful chorus. ‘Supe.’

  Yeah. I sighed. Supe.

  Chapter Twelve

  As I moved my things into my new room, I brushed off as much of the fingerprint dust from each item as I could. Then, with my hands absently caressing my crossbow, I ran through the CCTV footage which Clive Smith had given me.

  Although there weren’t any cameras positioned on the second floor where the guest rooms were, there were plenty downstairs and all of them provided clear images. Alas, no one looked out of place. I spent considerable time scanning the footage for large men who looked to be over one-hundred-and-twenty kilograms in weight but there wasn’t anyone who fitted that profile.

  Barry and Larry were right: my killer had avoided any areas where cameras were present by coming in through the window. I was beginning to suspect that whoever they were, they were meticulous, unruffled – and experienced at committing heinous crimes.

  I spent longer than I should have done watching the flickering video of Julie checking her watch and looking around for my return until she finally murmured something to Bill beside her and left. I’d have to find her later and apologise for disappearing. Goodness only knew what sort of excuse I could make.

  Deciding that I couldn’t avoid telling Lukas what had happened for much longer, I tried his phone again. He still wasn’t picking up. Pursing my lips, and hoping I wasn’t reading too much into his sudden silence, I called Laura instead.

  ‘I’ve had an exceptionally productive morning,’ she told me. She sounded considerably bubblier than I felt. ‘I’m at the cottage. I don’t think there’s any doubt, Emma – you were murdered at the same time as your parents. I’ve taken samples from the mark on the kitchen floor. It’s degraded over time, but there’s more than enough residue for me to make a comparison and the size of the burn is that of a child’s body.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Emma?’ Laura asked. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I managed. ‘I’m here. I just…’ I ran a frustrated hand through my hair. ‘I don’t know, Laura. When I was found, I was alive. There was never any suggestion otherwise that I’m aware of. But it takes twelve hours for me to resurrect. That means it was a horrendously long time before anyone noticed what had happened. I didn’t see any mention of burn marks in the news reports. I’ve not read all the murder files, but so far I haven’t come across anything that suggests a fire. And the one person who could have given me more information was murdered on Friday night.’

  I closed my eyes. ‘I died,’ I whispered. ‘And so did my parents. But they didn’t wake up again.’ I muttered a curse. ‘If I could remember something … anything…’

  ‘Oh, Emma.’ Laura’s tone was full of sympathy. ‘It’s completely natural that you can’t remember. Trauma, especially childhood trauma, often triggers amnesia. It’s the brain’s way of protecting itself.’

  ‘There must be something I can do to force the memories to return. Hypnosis maybe. Or therapy.’ I paused. ‘Are there any drugs that might help?’

  She sighed. ‘There are ways to recover old memories, but it’s not an exact science. To be honest, if your brain has chosen not to remember a particular event it might be wise not to try and bring it back. And even if therapy, or something along those lines, does trigger memory retrieval it doesn’t happen instantly. You can’t click your fin
gers and suddenly remember. It’s a long process. And no, there isn’t a wonder drug for this sort of thing. I don’t think there should be, either.’

  Maybe she was right; maybe it was better not to remember. It wouldn’t change anything. My mum and dad would still be dead, no matter what memories I dredged up, and the man who killed them would still be behind bars. Except, despite Samuel Beswick’s bald admission of guilt, I was no longer wholly convinced that he was a murderer. If he’d killed me too, why hadn’t he told me when I visited him? It was hardly something he’d forget. Why had he recoiled at the suggestion of murdering a child if he’d slit my throat just like he’d slit my mum’s?

  ‘I’ll call in a few favours and get hold of the forensics reports from back then,’ Laura told me. ‘Obviously, technology wasn’t as developed as it is now, but it wasn’t the dark ages and there’s bound to be some mention of the scorch marks. I’ll see what I can dig up.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll speak to DSI Barnes and see if I can get access to the full murder files. And,’ I heaved in a breath, ‘I’ll see if I can get another appointment to talk to Samuel Beswick.’

  This time it was Laura’s turn to hesitate. ‘Are you sure that stirring up the past in this way is a good idea?’

  ‘No,’ I answered honestly. ‘But the reason I’ve not looked into my parents’ murder before now was because I thought I already had all the answers. Now all I’ve got are questions instead.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’m sure we can find at least some answers. You’re nothing if not tenacious. Have you got anywhere with finding your more recent murderer yet?’

  I grimaced. ‘No.’ I bit my lip. ‘Most people don’t get murdered, Laura, but it happens to me a hell of a lot. Do you really think it’s a coincidence that I’ve been killed twice in Barchapel?’

  Laura answered immediately, indicating that she’d thought about this too. ‘Truthfully, Emma, where you and your abilities are concerned, I have no idea at all.’

  DSI Barnes told me she’d email all the files on my parents’ deaths by the end of the day. She was surprisingly amenable to the request, although I was certain that it was because of her desire to know more about my mysterious abilities than anything else. Either way, I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Right now, however, I had another target in mind.

  The manor house belonging to Miranda James wasn’t in Barchapel itself but on the road leading into the village. As I trudged towards it, I realised that I must have passed it when I was on the bus the previous day but it had been obscured from view by overgrown hedgerows and towering oak trees. There was a small gatehouse which would have been occupied by someone from the estate once upon a time but which had clearly been empty for years. A set of rusting iron gates lay open next to it. Judging by the moss-green ivy that curled up them, they hadn’t been moved for several months.

  I couldn’t resist trailing my fingertips along a stem and plucking an ivy leaf. As I strode up the long drive towards the house, I shredded it into tiny green flecks. I probably ought to have invested in a stress ball or a fidget spinner; there was far too much nervous, angry energy fizzing round my blood.

  The driveway curved its way through the trees. Although there were no signs of human life, there were certainly enough insects. I slapped irritably at a small fly that seemed intent on harassing me, and noted a marching parade of ants heading into the undergrowth.

  It was difficult to be sure, but it seemed that Miranda James owned a considerable amount of land and Chloe had been accurate in her assessment of Albion James’s wealth. I certainly hadn’t expected such a long driveway; if I’d known, I’d have tried to borrow a bike or asked someone for a lift.

  Eventually the drive levelled out and the house came into view. I let out a low whistle of admiration. The manor wasn’t as large as I’d expected, given the long driveway and the surrounding land, but it was still a grand house. It stood three storeys high and had an immaculate whitewashed façade. Wisteria wound up from the ground at the far left before stretching its tendrils across the stonework and curling round the base of the windows. I’d been prepared to be impressed by Miranda James’s home – but I hadn’t expected to be charmed.

  Parked to the right of the house was a vintage Volkswagen campervan. Despite its age, it appeared well-maintained. I spied brightly coloured fabrics through its pristine windows and I knew without getting close that the interior would smell strongly of incense. Perhaps, I mused, I should have brought Tallulah after all. I could have prevailed upon Ms James to work some of her magic on my old Mini. She appeared to have something of a Midas touch.

  I felt some of the knotted tension leave my body as I approached the front door. Then, however, I heard a loud caw behind me and my heart almost leapt out of my chest. I turned and narrowed my eyes. It was another damned crow – or the same damned crow.

  I took a step towards it and it cawed again. ‘What are you?’ I asked. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It’s a crow,’ murmured a melodic voice. ‘And I expect it wants some worms.’

  I was startled and swung towards the house. The front door had opened and a woman was watching me with an odd smile on her face. My senses were supernatural and developing all the time, but I’d not heard so much as a whisper of her approach.

  She had long dark hair bound into a single plait that reached almost to the base of her spine, and she was wearing a long, flowing, multi-coloured skirt with a loose top. I eyed her many bangles and necklaces and wondered why they hadn’t jangled when she opened the door. Her feet were bare and she had intricate henna patterns on her arms. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d suddenly produced a crystal ball and said that she’d tell me my fortune if I crossed her palm with silver.

  ‘Miranda James?’ I asked. She tilted her head slightly in affirmation. ‘My name is Emma Bellamy. Detective Constable Emma Bellamy.’

  She didn’t so much as blink. ‘Well then,’ she drawled, ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’ She spun round and disappeared into the house as silently as she’d arrived. I swallowed and, with one backward look at the crow that was still watching me, followed her inside.

  The interior of the manor was as beautiful as the exterior. There wasn’t a mote of dust and every surface was shiny and streak free, even the gigantic mirror at the end of the rose-coloured hallway.

  I glanced down, worried suddenly that I was trekking in dirt. Should I have taken off my shoes? But surely she would have said something if she’d wanted me to go barefoot. All the same, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was making the place look untidy simply by being there.

  When I spotted a large cobweb in one corner and its eight-legged occupant, I felt a brief flicker of relief until Miranda’s voice called from the kitchen, ‘That’s Boris. He’s lived there for years.’

  How did she know what I’d been looking at? I swallowed uncomfortably and went after her.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she enquired. ‘I don’t allow caffeine in the house but I have plenty herbal versions. I picked up the most delicious nettle and elderflower tea at the farmer’s market in Appledore last week. I can highly recommend it.’

  ‘Er…’ I scratched my head. Having a drink inside a witness or a suspect’s house could put them at ease, and it allowed police officers a chance to view them in their natural surroundings. Even so, I wasn’t convinced I wanted to drink tea made from stinging nettles. All the same, I managed a nod and a smile. ‘That sounds lovely. Thank you.’

  She nodded as if she’d expected nothing else, opened a cupboard and drew out two mismatched china cups and saucers. There were no mugs with silly sayings in this kitchen; neither did there appear to be any electrical appliances. There wasn’t even a kettle. Miranda filled a heavy iron teapot with water from the sink and placed it on top of the Aga before tossing some dubious-looking tea leaves into a china tea-pot and placing it on the counter.

  ‘Please,’ she said, waving at the kitchen table. ‘Sit.’<
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  I unstrapped my crossbow and placed it on the floor by my feet before plonking myself down on one of the wooden chairs. I was surprised how comfortable it was. Then I told myself to stop prevaricating and get on with my job.

  ‘You didn’t ask to see my identification,’ I said, in what I hoped was a gentle rather than a combative tone. ‘Do you normally welcome strangers into your home with such warmth?’

  Miranda raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re hardly a stranger, Emma. You used to play here all the time. You even stayed the night sometimes so your parents could go out.’

  ‘You know who I am.’ It wasn’t a question.

  She smiled at me and sat down opposite me. ‘I do. Although I wouldn’t have recognised you. You’ve changed quite a lot since those days. But Albion told me he met you on the train, and I’ve heard the whispers in the village. There’s no gossip quite like small-town gossip, you know.’

  ‘I’m beginning to realise that,’ I said.

  ‘You live in London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you work with supernatural beings?’

  ‘I do.’ I was starting to think that I was the one being interviewed. I drew in a breath and wrestled back control of the conversation. ‘I have several questions to ask you about what happened twenty-five years ago to my parents as well as what happened on Friday to Patrick Lacey.’ I took out my phone and flicked it to record, watching her carefully to see if she objected.

  A flicker of sadness crossed Miranda’s face. ‘Poor Patrick,’ she sighed. ‘Such a troubled man.’

  The teapot on the stove juddered. Miranda rose elegantly to her feet and scooped it up, pouring the hot water into the smaller china pot which she carried to the table and deposited between us. ‘Biscuit?’ she asked. ‘I baked them this morning.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, thank you.’

  There was an odd rustle from the open window. I glanced over, stiffening as a crow flapped through, circled twice round Miranda James’s head and settled on her shoulder.