Scorched Heart (The Firebrand Series Book 4)

by Helen Harper

  ‘No,’ she said sternly to the bird, ‘you’re not getting a biscuit. You’ve already had three today. Any more, and you’ll be too fat to fly.’ The crow dipped its head and nibbled her earlobe. ‘Now,’ Miranda continued. ‘What would you like to know?’

  I simply stared.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Miranda James certainly had the ability to unsettle people down to a fine art. I looked from her to the crow and back again. In the end I asked the only question I could. ‘Ms James,’ I said, ‘are you a supe?’

  She smiled faintly. ‘Why? Do I look like a supe?’

  I remained silent, encouraging her to fill the gap and provide me with an answer. She seemed more amused than irritated by my lack of response.

  ‘No, Emma,’ she told me, ‘I’m not a supernatural being. I do not have fangs. I do not turn furry. I am neither a creature of the night nor a fey conjuration. The blood which runs through my veins is wholly human.’ She held out her wrist. ‘You are welcome to take a sample, if you wish.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary right now,’ I said. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t change my mind later. I pointed at the crow. ‘Is that a pet?’

  ‘It’s a wild animal,’ she said, not entirely answering my question.

  ‘Ms James…’

  She pulled a face. ‘Please, call me Miranda. Ms James makes me sound like a secretary.’

  ‘Very well. Miranda, it’s not usual, is it, to have a wild bird at your beck and call?’

  She reached up and gently stroked the bird’s head. It shook out its feathers and made an odd crooning sound. ‘She comes and goes as she pleases. I’m not her mistress. But,’ she said, looking amused, ‘no, it’s not usual. I raised Vel from a chick after she was abandoned by her mother. I imagine that’s a situation you can relate to.’

  I chose to ignore that last comment. ‘Vel? As in…?’

  ‘Velcro.’ She flashed a sudden impish grin which utterly transformed her face. ‘Not my idea, unfortunately. Albion christened her. That boy does have an interesting sense of humour.’

  Hmm. We’d get to Albion later. ‘I was attacked in my room at the Bird and Bush last night,’ I said baldly, leaving out any mention of my death and subsequent resurrection. ‘A crow was tapping at the window and squawking right before it happened. It was almost as if it was trying to warn me.’

  ‘She likes to look at her own reflection,’ Miranda said. ‘No doubt it was a coincidence.’ She looked me up and down. ‘I’m sorry to hear you were attacked though. Are you alright?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I folded my arms. ‘Let’s move on,’ I said briskly. ‘You mentioned that Patrick Lacey was troubled. Can you elaborate?’

  Miranda sighed and poured the tea; its colour was disturbingly similar to that of urine. ‘He never recovered from what happened with your parents all those years ago,’ she said. ‘And he was so very angry about Sammy.’

  My spine stiffened. ‘Do you mean Samuel Beswick?’

  ‘Yes. What happened was an absolute travesty.’ She passed me a cup of the yellow tea. ‘It still is.’

  I didn’t touch the tea; instead I stared very hard at Miranda and chose my next question very carefully. I didn’t want to put words into Miranda James’s mouth. ‘A travesty? For whom?’

  ‘For everyone,’ she said simply. ‘You know, Patrick used to visit Sammy quite often but the trips to Galloway only made him more angry. In the end, Sammy told him to stop coming.’

  My mind flicked back to the comment I’d read online: Friends with a sick killer. So it was true: Patrick Lacey had been mates with my parents’ murderer. With my murderer.

  ‘Did Patrick believe that Samuel Beswick was innocent?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Miranda gave a small titter and raised her delicate china cup to her lips. ‘He didn’t believe it. He knew it.’ She took a small sip and closed her eyes momentarily in satisfaction. ‘Drink up, dear,’ she murmured. ‘It’s best while it’s scalding hot.’

  My hands remained where they were. There was a dull roaring in my ears. ‘So you think that he’s innocent, too? If that’s the case, why haven’t you approached the police? Why didn’t Patrick Lacey?’

  ‘Oh, you poor summer child. I forget that you’re still young enough to believe in justice and truth and fairness for all.’ My eyes narrowed but I let her continue uninterrupted. ‘We went to the police many times, but they decided they had their man and the Crown Prosecution Service agreed. So did the jury.’ There was a tinge of melancholy to her voice that reverberated through my bones, chilling my soul.

  ‘There were traces of my parents’ blood found on Beswick’s discarded clothes. Eyewitnesses placed him in the vicinity of the cottage around the time of the murder.’

  ‘All that is true,’ Miranda agreed.

  I lifted up my chin. ‘I visited Beswick in prison just a few days ago,’ I said. ‘He confessed his guilt to me.’

  Her eyes suddenly grew sharp. ‘Did he indeed?’

  ‘Yes,’ I bit out. ‘He did.’

  ‘You’re a police officer, Emma. You must know that people lie for many weird and wonderful reasons.’

  I kept my voice even. ‘There is nothing wonderful about murder.’

  ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘There is not.’

  She gestured again to my cup. Reluctantly, I picked it up and took a gulp. Huh. It actually tasted pretty good. I drank some more, without taking my eyes away from Miranda for a second. ‘If Samuel Beswick didn’t kill them, who did?’

  She shrugged. ‘That I don’t know.’ She reached out one hennaed hand and encircled my wrist. Her fingers were ice cold against my skin. ‘But whoever murdered your parents is pure evil, I can guarantee you that.’ She looked away but didn’t remove her hand. I had the distinct sense there was a great deal more that she wasn’t telling me.

  ‘Were you having an affair with my father?’

  Her eyebrows shot up and she drew back. For the first time, I’d genuinely surprised her. ‘Good grief! No, I was not. Who told you that?’ She put her hands up. ‘Wait. Don’t answer that. I don’t need to know.’

  She shook her head in exasperation. ‘There’s been a lot of village gossip about me over the years so I shouldn’t be surprised that people think I was sleeping with Mark Bellamy. I did enjoy myself in those days.’ She smirked. ‘But Mark only had eyes for your mother. Besides, at the time I was involved with Sammy.’ She paused. ‘How else do you think he ended up with your parents’ blood on his clothes?’

  What? I straightened up, my heart suddenly racing. My skin felt clammy and the hairs along the back of my arms rose up. ‘What do you mean, Miranda?’ I asked, keeping my body very, very still.

  She looked at me sadly. ‘Are you sure you want to hear this? It won’t change the fact that your parents are dead. It won’t bring them back.’ She ran the tip of her finger round the rim of her china cup. ‘They’re not like you, Emma,’ she said quietly. ‘There’s only ever one phoenix at any one time, and it’s you. Not your mum or your dad. I had to make a terrible choice.’ Her eyes met mine. ‘And I chose you.’

  The kitchen walls started to close in on me as my chest constricted and I found it hard to breathe. Something indecipherable clawed at my heart. ‘What—? How—?’ I tried to find the words. ‘But—’

  Miranda smiled gently. ‘What I’m about to tell you is sacrosanct. You cannot ever repeat it, not to anyone. Not ever.’

  I didn’t know what to say. What was going on here? What—?

  There was a loud thud and I jumped half out of my chair. The crow flapped upwards then fled out of the window without a backward glance. I heard heavy shuffling footsteps from the hallway. Without thinking, I reached down for my crossbow, my fingers curling around the cold metal shaft.

  Albion appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘I’m home,’ he grunted. ‘What’s for tea?’ His gaze fell on me and his expression immediately shuttered.

  I hastily removed my hand from the crossbow and tried to smile. ‘H
i there.’ It was more of a croak than a greeting.

  Albion looked at his mum. ‘What’s she doing here?’

  ‘I told you she would come,’ Miranda said. ‘She has questions.’

  His young face spasmed into a snarl. ‘She shouldn’t be here.’ He looked at me. ‘I thought you’d be at Roselands with the other coppers.’

  I frowned. Roselands? What was that?

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it but Miranda jerked her head towards the sound. ‘You should answer that,’ she said. ‘It might be important.’

  I slid it out almost mechanically, my mind still whirring with what she’d said before Albion had interrupted. I glanced at the screen. Boateng. I held it up. ‘I’ll take this in the hallway,’ I said.

  Miranda smiled serenely. Albion glared.

  I headed out, passing underneath Boris the spider. I could hear Albion arguing. ‘She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t have come. If you get ill again…’

  My phone was still ringing as I moved out of earshot. ‘This is DC Bellamy,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve been trying to reach you,’ Boateng said. ‘We’re at a park near the square. Roselands. It’s small but you can’t miss it. You ought to get down here as soon as you can.’

  ‘This isn’t a good time,’ I began.

  ‘DC Bellamy,’ he said. ‘Emma.’

  There was something in his voice, something dark. ‘What?’ I asked.

  DCI Harris Boateng sighed. ‘There’s been another murder.’

  I left the manor house at high speed, after extracting a hasty promise from Miranda that we would continue our conversation at the earliest opportunity the next day and receiving another vicious glower from Albion.

  This time I didn’t pause to enjoy the scenery as I ran down the long driveway towards the main road. I didn’t even waste time looking around for that bloody crow. I simply put my head down and sprinted, briefly aware that, after my latest death, I was stronger and faster than before.

  I emptied my mind of Miranda’s revelations and the hundreds of unanswered questions that burned within me. Another unlawful killing put all the residents of Barchapel in danger; my parents’ death, and even my own supernatural existence, had to be put on the back burner.

  Boateng had been right: it was easy to locate the park – in fact, I’d passed it on my journey to the cottage yesterday. Even if Barchapel hadn’t been such a small place, I would have found it easily thanks to the large group of pale-faced residents and the flashing lights of the assembled murder squad detectives.

  I skirted round the crowd, waving at the two officers next to a temporary barricade. ‘DC Bellamy,’ I said, hardly even breathless after my run. ‘DCI Boateng is expecting me.’ I held up my warrant card.

  The nearest officer nodded. ‘Wait here,’ she said. ‘I’ll get someone to escort you in. You’ll need to be suited up.’

  For the second time that day, I pulled on disposable white booties and clambered into a paper suit designed to minimise contamination of the crime scene. I’d just finished pulling the hood over my hair when another white-suited figure appeared.

  Rothsay looked even paler than normal. ‘She’s this way,’ he said, without bothering to say hello.

  ‘She?’ I hesitated. I hadn’t expected that. Most serial killers tended to choose similar victims; switching genders wasn’t unknown but it wasn’t usual.

  My blood chilled further. I’d already decided that the perpetrator was a serial killer. If they were also a supe, the consequences for the supernatural community in London could be catastrophic and things there were already on a knife edge.

  Rothsay didn’t answer. He pointed to the park gate. ‘I’ll show you,’ he said, his voice thin and thready.

  The first crime scene technicians to arrive had been busy. A makeshift tent had been erected to hide the body from prying eyes and there were people everywhere combing through the park grounds. I spotted Barry and Larry, their faces only just visible, kneeling by a patch of ground and wearing identical frowns to go with their identical moustaches.

  Boateng popped his head round the corner of the tent and hailed me. ‘Emma!’ he called. ‘Over here.’

  I trudged towards him, watching where I stepped in case I trod on any vital evidence. I half expected PC Rothsay to join me but he hung back. The excitement of a murder investigation had well and truly worn off for him. I wetted my lips and joined Boateng, whose grim and unsmiling expression did nothing to put me at ease.

  ‘You got here quickly,’ he commented. He pointed at the tent. ‘She was found less than an hour ago.’ His lips thinned. ‘Not by little kids, fortunately. A local was taking a shortcut through the park and spotted her. We’re taking a statement from him back at the station.’

  Okay. I absorbed his words with a nod. ‘Any preliminary indications on timing or cause of death?’

  ‘It looks as if she was killed in the same manner as Lacey. Her throat has been ripped out but there’s very little blood. As to time of death, well, it’s barely even tea time,’ he told me. ‘This is a far more public place than the alleyway where Lacey was found. Obviously we still have a lot of people to talk to but, as far as we can work out, a playgroup left the park just after three and there were no signs of the victim or any would-be killer then. The woman was found not long before five. The man who found her called it in at 4.48pm.’

  I looked around, frowning. It was a sunny day, close to the end of the school year. ‘There’s a primary school near here, isn’t there?’ I asked. ‘Why wasn’t the park busy? Surely plenty of kids would have headed here after they were let out.’

  ‘It’s sports day,’ Boateng said. ‘School has run over.’ He held up a gloved hand. ‘And don’t ask me if we should be grateful. Although no children were here to end up dead or dismayed, it gave the killer an opportunity he wouldn’t have otherwise had.’

  I clenched my jaw. Patrick Lacey on Friday. Me on Sunday. And now another victim on Monday. This was starting to feel like murder by numbers. ‘Can I see her?’ I asked.

  ‘Follow me.’

  I ducked my head and stepped into the tent. There was no cloying, sickening scent of blood in the air but I could smell death. I gazed at the prone body of a woman, face down with her head turned away from me. One of the technicians moved back so I could get a look at the wound on her neck. I sucked in a sharp breath. It certainly seemed the same as Lacey’s, although in the flesh it was far grimmer than in a photograph. I knelt down to take a closer look and jerked back. Shit. Shit.

  ‘What is it?’ Boateng asked.

  ‘I know her,’ I whispered. Sort of. Bile rose up from my stomach and I suddenly felt light-headed. ‘I was talking to her last night in the bar at the Bird and Bush. Her name is Julie.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  I stayed at Roselands for some time watching Boateng and his team carry out their painstaking job of searching for evidence and helping them interview everyone who lived nearby, as well as all those who had come to gawk.

  The atmosphere in Barchapel might not have changed in the aftermath of Patrick Lacey’s death but it was different now. One victim shouldn’t be treated differently to another, but whereas the Barchapel residents had barely blinked at Lacey’s murder they were devastated by Julie’s. I wondered if children would ever be allowed to play in that park again.

  ‘It’s not right,’ an old man who lived nearby told me, shaking his head. ‘She was a good person. She didn’t hurt anyone and she always looked out for people. She volunteered at the homeless shelter in Appledore on her days off, you know.’ He tutted. ‘This is just like what happened to the Bellamys. You think lightning won’t strike twice in the same place but here we go.’

  A woman of a similar age, who I guessed was his wife from the way she looked at him, elbowed him sharply in the ribs. ‘What was that for?’ he muttered.

  She flicked her eyes to me and away again.

  ‘I was only saying…’ He glanced at me. ‘Oh.’ His
expression tightened. ‘You’re her. You’re Little Em.’ He took a step back.

  I was starting to think that my identity was more of a hindrance than a help. I kept my face bland and professional. ‘When was the last time you saw Julie?’ I asked, keen to keep them focused.

  ‘Just this morning,’ he told me. ‘She was on her way to work at the care home over the way. She smiled at me and waved and said hello. I bet she didn’t think that she’d end up like this.’ He choked back a sob.

  His wife made a murmur of shocked agreement and reached for my hands. ‘You’re so like your mother,’ she said. ‘It’s hardly surprising that you went into the police, given what happened. How are you? You’ve often been in our thoughts and prayers.’

  ‘I’m good.’ I managed a smile. ‘Can you tell me if you’ve noticed anyone strange or suspicious hanging around the village lately?’

  Her hands fluttered. ‘There are so many people coming and going at this time of year. We get a lot of tourists, you see. Some pass through for an hour or two and some stay for longer. It was the same when you lived here. I’ve never been one for talking to the tourists but your dad was. He was such an inquisitive fellow, always chatting away! He died so young. It’s so very tragic.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Oh, Emma. I’m sorry. What Samuel Beswick did to your family…’

  There was a pointed cough to the side of us. I looked over and saw Boateng. I made my excuses to the couple and walked over to him. ‘Did they have anything useful to offer?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really, sir. A few murmurs about the numbers of tourists passing through. Do you think a tourist might be responsible?’

  ‘We’ve tracked down as many holidaymakers as we can, and there have been plenty of requests for information put out via the media, but nothing useful has turned up.’ Boateng’s mouth thinned. ‘With this second death to contend with, I’m all out of theories. From what we know about the timing and location of both deaths, I suspect we’re looking for a local.’