by Helen Harper
‘A woman died inside her home in suspicious circumstances. I can’t remember the name of the town, but it was somewhere near Wales. Her husband claimed she’d met a vampire, invited him in and the vampire had attacked her. Puncture wounds were found on her neck but they weren’t deep enough to pierce her jugular. Surprise, surprise, her dear hubby was eventually found guilty of killing her. That one happened last Christmas.’
It didn’t sound a likely fit. ‘Any more?’
‘A mother and toddler killed in a hit and run in Scotland about a year ago. Nobody was found guilty for that one, but the other vehicle involved was abandoned a few days later and there were some strange black fibres on the driver’s seat. They didn’t match any known animals so a supe killer was put forward as a possible theory, but the fibres didn’t match any known supe species either. As far as I know, the case is still open but no longer actively being pursued.’
Tragic as it was, a hit and run didn’t fit the pattern. Neither did a toddler, for that matter.
‘And,’ Liza continued, her tone decidedly matter-of-fact, ‘there was a man killed late October last year in London. An eyewitness stated that he’d seen a bat fly down from the sky, transform into a vampire and stab the man in the chest.’
‘Vampires can’t turn into bats.’
‘No,’ she said drily. ‘And the eyewitness in question was discredited when he changed his mind later and said it hadn’t been a vampire at all but an alien who’d come down in his spaceship. The victim survived and later identified a known violent offender.’
‘Is that it?’
‘That’s all you’ll find on the database for the last two years.’ There was a pause. ‘I suppose,’ she said grudgingly, ‘I could send an appeal out to other forces and see if there’s anything that’s been missed.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind—’
‘I would mind,’ Liza said. ‘I would mind a lot.’
I grinned. ‘But you’ll do it.’
‘Yes. But I don’t think you’ll get anything more. Supe Squad wasn’t involved directly in any of these investigations, but we were always notified when there was a chance of supe involvement, especially in serious crimes.’
Damn it. I’d hoped to uncover something that I could present to Boateng that would not only be useful but would allow me to stay involved in the current investigation. So far it didn’t sound like it.
‘You really don’t want to hear about how there’s apparently a man-bear creature in Siberia that seduces local women before eating them out of house and home?’
‘Er—’
‘Apparently he’s incredibly handsome.’
I scratched my head.
‘And you don’t want to know about the woman in Cornwall who thinks her teddy bear collection is enchanted? Or that bugbears aren’t merely irritating peeves but actual supernatural creatures who eat children?’
‘Send me all the details. I’ll look through them.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘I will!’
‘Whatever.’ Liza hesitated. ‘You will take care of yourself down there in Kent?’
I smiled slightly. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
‘Because the last thing Supe Squad needs,’ she added, ‘is to be stuck with DS Grace as its only detective for the next five years.’
‘I’m touched by your concern for my well-being.’
‘As you should be.’ Her voice altered slightly. ‘Stay safe, Em.’
‘You too, Liza.’
Chapter Sixteen
With no other recent cases to link with Patrick Lacey and Julie Mackintosh’s murders, I was suddenly at a dead end. Talking to more of the local residents would be a wasted effort if they were going to focus on what had happened twenty-five years ago instead of what was happening now. I could wander out of my room and see if there were any tourists lurking around who might have seen something, but Boateng would already have ensured they’d been questioned.
Unwilling to sit on my hands and wait for information to come to me, I found the email from Lucinda Barnes and opened it up to read the files on my parents’ deaths. Regardless of what Boateng kept telling me, there was a link between their murders and these recent ones. It was tenuous, but I had to follow it.
It was unlikely that the historic files had previously been digitalised but Barnes had made sure they were scanned in so I could retrieve them. I appreciated the effort, even if I couldn’t suppress my shiver of anxiety at the thought of reading the gory details. Unlike the old press clippings and the conclusions from the court proceedings and coroner’s report, the police investigation wouldn’t skimp on the more traumatic evidence. I had to set aside my personal feelings and view these old case notes dispassionately, but it was easier said than done.
I poured myself a cup of strong coffee, then drew in a very long, very deep breath and scanned through the list of document titles to find what I wanted. Eventually I located the folder marked Witness Interviews and opened it up.
There were a lot of names. I ran my eyes down them, located Patrick Lacey’s and clicked on it.
When I saw what the file contained, I sent a brief prayer of gratitude to the detectives who’d been assigned to my parents’ murder. They’d certainly been thorough. Then it occurred to me that their attention to detail was because there was considerable doubt over Samuel Beswick’s status as main suspect. Those detectives weren’t around any longer and I couldn’t ask them about it: one had died, one was in a nursing home, and the other had decamped to warmer climes in Australia.
I stopped trying to second-guess their motives and focused on what was at hand. There wasn’t just a signed statement from Patrick Lacey, there was a video as well. With my heart in my mouth, I pressed play.
The video had been recorded in an interview room, quite possibly in the police station a stone’s throw away from where I was now. It was low definition and the sound quality was terrible; all the same, when I saw Patrick Lacey’s features gazing dolefully down at the table in front of him, I swallowed hard.
This version of Lacey wasn’t the hardened man with a propensity to start fights; this Lacey was ashen and shaking, clearly disturbed by what he’d seen. He looked impossibly young, as if he were barely out of school. There was acne on his chin and cheeks, and his hair was a mess. As if he’d somehow heard my thoughts through the screen across the span of twenty-five years, he reached up and tried to smooth it down. He only made his dark curls look even more unkempt.
The detective with him, who remained out of shot, introduced himself as DI Filsworth. He asked Lacey to explain what had happened in his own words. Lacey bit his lip and dropped his hands, then he began.
‘Mark Bellamy asked me to go round and fix one of his taps. I’d done work like that for him in the past so it wasn’t unusual. I told him that I wouldn’t make it to his place until later in the day, but my earlier appointment was cancelled so I ended up at the cottage much earlier than I’d expected.’
‘What time was that?’ the detective asked.
‘Uh, just after ten, I think.’ Lacey reached into his pocket and drew out a packet of Lambert and Butler. He tapped out a cigarette and placed it between his lips with shaking hands. ‘Do you have a light?’
There was a rustle and Filsworth’s hands came into shot, flicking a lighter. I watched, marvelling. This was 1995 but it was a different world; these days you’d get short shrift if you asked a detective for a light inside an interview room.
Patrick Lacey sucked hard and the end of the cigarette glowed. ‘When I got to the cottage, I knew something was wrong. The gate was open and the Bellamys always made sure it was locked because of their kiddie. They didn’t want her to get out and go wandering down the road. The cottage front door was open too. I just,’ he shrugged helplessly, ‘I just had a bad feeling about it. And I could hear her crying.’
‘You mean the child? Emma?’
‘Yeah, her. She kept on wailing and wailing. I’ve heard kids cry befo
re, ’course I have, but this was different. She sounded different. It was obvious she wasn’t crying about something daft, you know?’
I clenched my jaw. Then, remembering what had happened to my glass of juice yesterday, I put my coffee cup to one side.
‘I called out,’ Lacey said, ‘but I couldn’t hear anyone apart from the kid. So I walked up the path and popped my head into the house. It smelled funny. Wrong. It was like…’ He dropped his head. ‘It was like blood.’ He shuddered and took a moment to compose himself.
‘You didn’t see or hear anybody else?’ Filsworth asked.
There was an odd half-beat before Lacey answered. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No one.’
I frowned and leaned forward, rewound the video and watched both the question and the answer again. It was a strange pause. It didn’t appear to be borne out of residual trauma, but neither did it appear to be a lie. And yet something about that skipped second of time seemed … off. I puzzled over it for a moment or two before continuing.
‘What about Samuel Beswick? Did you see him?’
Patrick Lacey blinked. ‘No. He was in London.’
‘He came back though, didn’t he? He got off a late bus on the night that the Bellamys were murdered.’
‘It wasn’t Sammy.’ Lacey looked even paler than before. ‘It wasn’t him, I promise you.’
‘You can’t say that for sure, Mr Lacey. You already told us you didn’t see anyone.’
He dropped into a whisper. ‘I didn’t.’
‘What happened when you approached the cottage?’
Patrick Lacey took a moment before answering, obviously still thrown by the suggestion that Beswick was the killer. When he spoke, his words were halting. ‘I knew it was going to be bad from the smell and the sound of the kid crying. I knew I was walking into something terrible but I couldn’t help myself. I just kept going. I walked into their cottage and followed the sound. And I found them in the kitchen.’ Tears started rolling down his cheeks.
My own tears rose unbidden. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek and forced them back. I could cry later.
The detective spoke softly. ‘Can you describe what you saw, Patrick?’
Lacey shrank into himself. ‘There was blood. There was a lot of blood. Diane was lying on the floor by the far wall. She was on her back. Mark was opposite her but he was face down. The wee one, the kiddie, was in between them.’
‘Did you touch either Mark or Diane?’
‘No.’ The cigarette in Patrick’s fingers continued to burn, although it was a long time since he’d taken a drag. The ash on the tip fell onto the table but he didn’t notice it. ‘I knew,’ he said, his voice barely audible. ‘I knew they were already dead. I grabbed the kid and ran out of there. I ran all the way here with her in my arms.’
I stopped the video, my breath shallow and my chest tight. Lacey’s words didn’t jog my memory, but they did conjure up a whole world of agonising hurt.
Then I froze. Wait a minute.
Samuel Beswick had got off the bus from London just after 10.30pm. If he’d sprinted directly to the cottage, he would have reached it by 10.45pm. My parents’ times of death had been estimated closer to midnight. But none of that made sense – not if I’d died too. It took exactly twelve hours from the point of my death for me to resurrect. I had been alive when Patrick Lacey had walked into the cottage, and all the evidence suggested that I had died with my parents. Patrick Lacey’s time frame only allowed for ten hours, eleven at best.
My shoulders slumped in horror. My parents must have been killed earlier than the reports claimed. And that could mean only one thing: Samuel Beswick definitely hadn’t killed me – and therefore he probably hadn’t killed my parents either.
I sped through the other files, desperate to find any evidence that would refute what Patrick Lacey had said, but it all matched up. The bus driver and three passengers placed Samuel Beswick on that 10.30 bus. It arrived in Barchapel on time. Patrick Lacey arrived with my bloodied, wailing body in his arms at the door of the Barchapel police station at 10.18 the following morning. It was there in black and white.
I might have already had my suspicions, but to have Beswick’s innocence confirmed shattered everything. He’d admitted his guilt to my face and now it seemed that he’d been lying.
The walls of the room were closing in on me. Blood was pulsating through my ears and it was difficult to think straight. I had to get some fresh air. I had to get outside.
I headed for the door before spinning back, reaching for my crossbow and hoisting it onto my shoulders. Then I ran out, darted down the stairs and burst through the front door to suck oxygen into my lungs.
Samuel Beswick hadn’t killed my parents. He’d been in prison for twenty-five years but he hadn’t killed them.
I took a moment to compose myself. I smoothed my shaking hands up and down my thighs, rubbing them until I started to feel normal again. My breath, which had been coming in short, painful gasps, became more regular. The tightness in my chest remained, but the cool evening air was helping.
I’d been smacked in the face with the truth. Now I had to work out what to do with it.
There were police everywhere, knocking on doors, stopping passers-by and desperately searching for clues as to who had murdered Julie and Patrick. I watched their progress dully for several moments before deciding that I had to get away and find somewhere quieter.
I ducked my head and crossed the street. A pair of hikers were trudging towards the pub, their expressions grim, and I knew that they’d heard about the latest murder. Their massive backpacks engulfed their bodies, making them walk with slow, heavy footsteps. Judging by the way they were moving, they’d packed everything but the kitchen sink.
I stepped off the pavement to get out of their way, aware that they’d noticed my crossbow even in the dim light. Then I paused and stared at them again. The man who’d killed Patrick Lacey – and presumably both me and Julie Mackintosh – was estimated to be a hundred-and-twenty kilograms. That made him a heavy guy. But what if it wasn’t his own body that weighed that much? What if his weight was because of what he was carrying? Like some kind of supernatural bear? It would explain the instant transformation that the footprints in the park had suggested. I frowned. It didn’t explain anything else, however, and it was a daft idea. I shook my head and continued on my way.
Boateng’s people would be working at Roselands for as long as the light allowed, but I had no desire to head back there. Instead I went to the only place I could think of, marching quickly with my head down until I reached the overgrown hedgerows and the small gate that led to the old cottage. I paused for a moment outside, then I pushed open the gate and walked into the garden.
The door to the cottage was closed and there was a shiny new padlock and bolt in place of the one I’d broken. No doubt that had been Laura’s doing. I gazed at it briefly before turning over a large, squat log and sitting on top of it. I drew out my phone. I had to do this. I couldn’t put it off for any longer.
Anyone serving at Her Majesty’s Pleasure usually couldn’t receive phone calls from the outside world – they weren’t at a holiday camp, after all. But I was a serving police officer, and where there was a will there was a way.
After pondering the fastest way to get what I wanted, I located DSI Barnes’ phone number and called her up. ‘DC Bellamy,’ she answered, her tone more formal than usual. ‘What is going on down there? I’ve seen the report about the second murder and I can’t say I’m feeling good about the situation.’
‘Me neither.’ I picked up a stick and drew a random shape in the dirt by my feet. ‘Although I have to tell you that it’s looking increasingly unlikely that there is any supernatural involvement.’
‘I’m not sure whether to be relieved by that or dismayed. How is the SIO managing?’
‘DCI Boateng is very capable. He’s doing a good job.’
‘Not good enough if more people are being killed,’ Barnes retorted.
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There wasn’t much I could say to that. ‘He’s a good detective,’ I said lamely. ‘But that’s not why I’m calling. I need to speak to Samuel Beswick again.’
‘So? Speak to him. You don’t need my permission to do that, Emma. Make another appointment to see him.’
I tossed the stick aside. ‘I need to speak to him as a matter of urgency. I was hoping that you could contact the governor at Galloway and arrange for me to phone him.’
There was a beat of silence. ‘This is highly irregular. I fail to see what could possibly be so urgent that you need to talk to Beswick immediately, unless you think he has some information that might help with the recent murders.’
Now there was an idea. ‘I’m following a particular lead,’ I said vaguely.
‘Go on.’
‘I can’t say any more about it at the moment. But Samuel Beswick might be in a position to help.’
Barnes muttered something under her breath. She probably knew I was blowing smoke up her arse. I crossed my fingers. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Give me five minutes and I’ll see what I can do.’ She hung up.
I stayed where I was, staring at the cottage and thinking. Minutes ticked by. The sun had all but disappeared and I checked the time: it was after nine. I probably wouldn’t get to speak to Beswick until tomorrow morning. I wasn’t sure I could wait that long.
There was a rustle in the bushes to my right. I glanced over and stiffened when I spotted the crow. It hopped out and tilted its head, eyeing me. I swung my head around, wondering if this was another dire corvid warning, but there was no one else there. It was just me and the crow and the silent ghosts from the past.
My phone rang, making me jerk upright. I answered it, aware that my pulse was increasing. ‘Hello?’
‘Is this Detective Constable Bellamy?’
I swallowed. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m Archibald Jenkins, Assistant Governor at HMP Galloway. I’ve received your request for a call with Samuel Beswick. We tend to appreciate such matters being confined to office hours, detective. We’re not here at the beck and call of the police.’