Gypsy Hunted: a psychic paranormal book with a touch of romance (The Gypsy Medium Series 1)

by Andrea Drew

  “Thank you,” he said quietly before pulling away. He paused on the threshold of the room. “Tell me that mark on your face isn’t from a fist.”

  She finally pulled her gaze away from her son to leave the room after Connor, who made way for her to pass.

  “I reckon we could do with a coffee.” Her voice was a monotone, her steps shuffling as she led him to the tiled kitchen, and Connor noticed her hair was greasy, unwashed. She flicked the yellow kettle switch and turned, hands hanging limply by her side. “What’s got into him? Do you know, because I’ve been driving myself mad? I can’t do it anymore.”

  Connor rolled his arms in their sockets, and then crossed them, watching this process as if his limbs belonged to someone else. Then he brought his head up to speak.

  “He’d be more likely to tell you than me. I hoped after he stopped smoking joints last year that things were on the way up.”

  “Well, for a while they were.” He could almost smell the hopelessness. She had given up. “He started carrying on about cops, how corrupt they were, they had it in for him, and that I might be sneaking around and seeing other blokes. I’m worn out. Bailey’s teething. I’m doing all I can just to get through each day.” She pulled the cups out of the cupboard, swinging them across to the bench with a bang. When she fetched a spoon, her belt got caught as she closed the cutlery drawer with a slam, and she jerked it out impatiently.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t see him as much as I used to.” Connor rubbed the side of his nose and his forehead. “I didn’t want to interfere. When he surfaces, will you ask him to call me? I’ve sent him texts and tried ringing him, but he’s turned the phone off and gone to ground.”

  “I know. Maybe he’s ashamed enough that he’s put himself into exile. Sounds like it. I need some space myself. Maybe we can start again after this. After this, we need a fresh beginning. Wish we could get a break, just for a while.”

  He sipped on the hot coffee as he tried to find the right words. He wondered where the hell Aaron was. He wanted to ask her more questions, but realized it would only make everything worse for Tiran. Things hadn’t been easy for Aaron when they took him in. First, the courthouse explosion, which killed his brother Dan, then his wife Rae fell apart, alcohol becoming her best friend. After the house fire, he and Jill had taken both Christie and Aaron in. Rae had fallen asleep smoking, yet again, with fatal consequences. Thankfully, the fire department got the kids out in time. Connor just assumed they’d all moved past that. It was a hell of a long time ago.

  He paced restlessly, pausing to settle the cup on the bench and run his fingers through his hair. The family had suffered two funerals in twelve months, and although the tragedy had become less raw over the years, he wondered if it still got to Aaron. If he could get through to him, tell him things might be tough, but they’d work it out together, he could help him.

  As he backed away, Connor shook his head, wondering if he was kidding himself, until he was ready to face the tornado that would catapult them into the next part of the nightmare.

  *****

  After punching in the code to the station's security door, Connor headed for his desk, glancing at the clock as he marched down the corridor of pale brown carpet tiles. Despite his run that morning, he felt strained to the limit, stress levels peaking. Halfway down the corridor, he paused and stared into the tinted window of the chief's office. No chief yet, thank God. At the end of the corridor, he reached the open squad room, which held six formations of four desks, most of them empty. He was hoping at this early hour that he’d catch Ian Robson, his partner for the last two years.

  “Hey, Connor! You’re here early—what happened, wet the bed again?” Ian smirked as he leaned all the way back in his office chair, a friendly jeer plastered across his face. Ian’s hair was greying at the temples in stark contrast to the rest of his jet-black mop. The bottom of his shirt was already stained with tomato sauce and untucked to reveal the saggy bottom of his beer belly. He wore dark rectangular glasses, giving the false impression he had the potential for intellectual debate.

  Unlike many of his counterparts, Connor ignored Ian’s rude jibes. He knew Ian ‘Robbo’ Robson enjoyed a high case close rate, and accepted his eccentricities, even if his abrasiveness rubbed most of his colleagues the wrong way.

  “Not this time. Might have a lead for the boys upstairs.”

  “Oh yeah, which case? Not the big mover and shaker, the missing headquarters spy admin girl who took off with the reports, Cinderella look alike?”

  “How did you guess?” said Connor as he slid down in his chair, his voice strained.

  “Maybe because it’s all anyone can talk about. No damn leads other than wackos who saw someone look at them funny and they’re damn sure the stranger is the perp. Why did she have to stir the shit by stealing bloody reports?”

  “Well, I got something on that, might have a lead…” Connor chose his words carefully as he rubbed at his temple.

  “Go on, then.” With a squeak, Ian roused himself from his chair to perch on the corner of Connor’s desk, fidgeting with the penholder. “What have you got? Surprise me.”

  “Well, maybe something. Possible witness in the hospital assaulted and left for dead.”

  “Oh yeah, but are they still breathing? Talking? Wish I’d known about it earlier. I haven’t seen you for ages. Wouldn’t be a chick now, would it?” Robbo’s eyes were bloodshot and he scratched at a mark on his arm.

  Connor paused, his fingers hanging over the keyboard, and glared at Ian. “Now listen, Robbo, you and me go back a long way. You know how I operate, and she isn’t a chick, she’s a woman.” He swatted at a fly, which had already disappeared.

  “Hooo well, excuse me! A wo-man! As opposed to the red headed chick and the blonde floozies you took home; the one-night stands I wasn’t supposed to know about? Doesn’t take you long, mate, must be rough being a chick magnet.”

  Shit, how did he know? Connor thought he’d been discreet.

  “Give it a rest, Robbo. This is important.” He glanced at his phone as if it might somehow ring, rocking back and forth on his swivel chair.

  “'Course it is, dickhead, or you and me wouldn’t be here. All I’m asking for is details. If you don’t give them to me now, maybe I’ll try elsewhere.”

  “Don’t start, Ian, not now. I mean it!” Connor turned away and was up and out of his chair in an instant, beating a path to the tearoom.

  “Hey, hey, hey, don’t get all hot under the collar.” Ian was trailing behind, the scent of a lead luring him down the corridor. The office was starting to wake up. Phones had started ringing, and curious heads had popped up from cubicles. The light was on in the chief’s office, but still no chief. “We both know how the politics goes with the powers that be. I guess what I’m saying is, spill your guts. It’s not like you to be coy, big boy. What’s going on?” Ian’s smile didn’t reflect in his narrowed eyes.

  Connor grabbed a mug from the rack and started spooning in coffee and sugar. He sighed as the hot water cascaded into the chipped mug. “Her name’s Gypsy. I met her at a dinner Saturday night. Nice lady. Then Monday, a little girl comes into the station asking for me, telling me her aunt’s been hurt, witness to a kidnapping. I visit the hospital, and there she is—head shaved, post-surgery, can’t talk. One side of her body is paralyzed, pretty damn serious.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  “You always had a way with words.” As he stirred the cup, Connor walked slowly back to his desk, Ian trailing beside him slightly. “So last night, I went to see her at St. Vincent’s. She can’t talk, but she can write. She told me what happened. She didn’t get a look at the guy’s face, but she saw him take the girl and load her into a wide, dark van, maybe a Bedford.”

  “Don’t suppose she saw the plates in the dark?”

  “Well, you supposed wrong…”

  “She did! Well, now we’re talking. Thank God for that! We might get those monkeys off our fucking back for at least
five minutes while they get ready for the next press gig.” Ian’s posture was slumped.

  “First things first, Ian. I need to amend the Grievous Bodily Harm charge report. Then we can chase down this partial plate.”

  “Well, what’s the partial? I can run a search to narrow it down and start paying some visits.”

  “Okay, Robbo, but stay with me on this. This one’s personal.” Connor opened a desk drawer before foraging for his antacids.

  “They all are, mate.”

  “No, this one might be more personal than I want.” Connor drew in his shoulders.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “A hunch, an instinct, but I hope I’m wrong. Maybe after we pay a visit to the van driver, we could take a trip down memory lane. Humor me, okay?”

  “What do you mean, you’d like to be wrong? You started playing with your imaginary friends again? I’ve been humoring you for years, Connor.” Robbo turned quickly, startled by one of the administration staff hurling a bunch of papers into the security bin.

  “Funny guy.” The click of the keys was getting louder and Connor clenched his teeth. “Up to you. You can come, or you can stay here with your feet up. Either way, I’m pretty sure this is a break the family’s been searching for.” Although, not the break that Christie has been hoping for, or Jill.

  “Right, here we go. Bedford vans with ZYB in Victoria—if it is a Bedford van.”

  “Well, there’s only two showing up. One is nearby in Brunswick, the other out in Laverton, looks like it belongs to a factory or warehouse,” said Robbo looking across at Connor.

  “Who’s the one in Brunswick?”

  “Stewart Johnson. I’ll look him up and see what he’s been up to.”

  “What about the one in Laverton?”

  “Jeremy O’Connell.”

  “I thought so. That hunch…” Connor blinked rapidly, feeling his face go slack.

  “Connor, I swear to God...don’t go all strong and silent on me, you’re not the type. Who’s this Jeremy O’Connell, your long lost fucking cousin? Remember when I told you not to hold out on me.” Ian was pacing now, stomping back and forth in front of their desks and waving his hands.

  “In or out? You’ve got thirty seconds.” Connor grabbed his jacket and keys and the sprint down the corridor was on.

  “Seriously, Connor, what the hell is going on?” Robbo's voice wavered as he walked faster, his bulky frame struggling to keep up.

  “By the end of the day, we’ll know.”

  *****

  6

  It had been a tortuous day, but a productive one. When I woke up, I found a pack of Post-it sticky notes on the table, wondering if they were left by Connor. I rolled my eyes and with a snort, wondered when I’d get over my bias for yellow ones. I could think of more romantic gifts, but it did mean he was thinking of me, considerate man that he was. I unwrapped them with one hand, snatched the pink, blue and green ones and tossed them in the bin, holding on to the important yellow ones which I left on the table. Later in the morning, I’d met Lyndall the torture specialist, otherwise known as the rehabilitation girlie. She’d introduced herself in her over-the-top cheery way and talked me into a wheelchair. I hated the idea of a wheelchair. They were always something I associated with invalids or the elderly, and I didn’t want to be labelled as either. Lyndall had tiptoed in while I was drinking tea and eating biscuits, catching me off guard, a stream of crumbs decorated my pajamas. Earlier, I had started reading a book and my channel surfing had brought me to. I sat bolt upright as the Channel 7 news came on. I felt the vibration in my throat, a high-pitched squeal.

  Holy shit!

  This was her. I knew it, felt it. Joanne Seyers, employee of Victoria Police—of all the bloody irony, a police administrator—had disappeared Saturday night after an evening out in Carlton. There were no leads and police had scoured closed circuit television footage with what looked like no joy. As her picture flashed again, the same one I’d seen in the paper, I realized how beautiful she was, so blonde, with gorgeous porcelain skin accentuating her youth.

  I felt the tears gather, my body sagging against the pillow. I covered my mouth with my right hand, my attention riveted on the screen.

  Her gorgeous brother—who shared a flat with her, he’d sent her an SMS with no reply. Then he sent another an hour later, and an hour later. What the hell was that like? What did he go through? When she didn’t come home by morning, he’d gone to the police. My heart hurt for him. After three days now, he’d expect the worst.

  We’ll get him, I promise you, we’ll all get him, Connor, Renee, and me. When we do, he’ll pay.

  So when Lyndall arrived later to usher me off to rehabilitation, I tried bargaining with her, making excuses. I wanted to go home but she wasn’t having it. Muttering curses under my breath, I felt my stomach harden.

  “Not now, I can’t. I need to use the phone, find out what’s happening, I’m the only witness.”

  “I understand that, but while you’re in the hospital, it’s vital you focus on getting well, not distract yourself. Off we go, I’ll bring the chair around so you can ease yourself into it slowly.” She was bright and cheery, but as she pushed up her sleeves and breezed her way to my bedside, I realized arguing with her would be a waste of time.

  I leveraged myself into the chair and she quickly wheeled me down the corridor. I tapped my fingers on the arm of the wheelchair. I needed to play an active part in the investigation, not sit here doing nothing. I’d never been good at waiting.

  Lyndall took me into a huge room filled with gymnastic mats, large fitness balls and the most noticeable instrument of torture, the walking bars. I blanched, bringing a shaky hand to my forehead, feeling my chest caving in as I let out a whimper.

  As I pushed myself up out of the chair, Lyndall helped. She kneeled at one end of the bars, which looked like something fit for an Olympic gymnast, and chanted supposedly soothing words such as, “That’s it, keep going. It will get easier each day, I promise.” She watched on, squatting at the end of the bars, as I willed my limbs seemingly attached to marionette like strings, to move across pitifully. In some twisted madness, I wished the left side of my body was still numb. At least that way, it wouldn’t hurt like hell. As I sagged back into the wheelchair at the end of my crawl, gasping for breath, my eardrums felt ready to burst from the ringing in my ears.

  “Well done,” praised Lyndall, but I couldn’t speak. We headed back to the room. A dark haired nurse leaned over the counter as we reached her.

  “A visitor left this for you earlier.” She handed a card to me.

  A visitor left me a note?

  I looked down at a smooth cream envelope with the word “Gypsy” typed across the front.

  Inside was a green Post-it note. I shuddered, a shiver going down my back. The note read simply:

  Your niece is cute. Keep your mouth shut.

  I lifted my shoulders slightly, rocking my upper body and closing my eyes as the chair reached the side of my bed.

  He’d found me.

  I dragged a palm down my right leg and let out a quiet moan.

  “You okay?” said Lyndall.

  I couldn’t answer. Renee, my beautiful blonde girl, was in danger. He’d tracked us down, although how in the hell he did it, I had no idea.

  As Lyndall helped me back into bed, my attention remained fixed on the note. I managed to lift my head to deliver a forced grin.

  Lyndall left with a tight smile of her own and I leaned back against the bed. Leah whirled into the room, her face red. She planted her feet squarely at the bottom of my bed and pointed at me.

  “I don’t care how sick you are, I want some answers, now. Start talking.”

  Icy cold silence. I wondered where Renee was.

  “He found me,” I said my voice flat and expressionless.

  “He found Renee and almost took her!” She pointed at me, her arm straight, eyes bulging, her breathing raspy. Renee was cowering be
hind her, unable to look at either of us.

  I looked down at my trembling hands. I couldn’t meet Leah’s eyes. I suppressed the desire to run from the room, helped by the fact that my bloody legs wouldn’t cooperate anyway.

  I heard the newsreader's voice coming from the TV. Talk about rotten timing, the media was squeezing every drop out of the excruciating story. Joanne Seyers beautiful face was plastered across the screen, the newsreader’s high-pitched voice terrifying us with the tragic tale of a beautiful blonde and her inconsolable brother. I snatched the remote to switch it off.

  “Leave it,” snarled Leah through gritted teeth. “So what do I do now, huh? Now that he knows where her school is, how do I stop him from getting to her? Do I have to keep her home? She should have known better. I’ll have to report this, the last thing we need right now …”

  “Leave her. Not her fault.”

  “I know it’s not, for God’s sake. Don’t tell me how to speak to my own daughter! I’m so over your holier than thou attitude. It’s not her fault, but you damn well have made it her problem now. What the hell were you thinking?”

  Oh God, here we go. I made sure the laptop Connor had left was powered up. I would need it as part of the inferno that had been lit. I poised my shaking fingers over the keyboard.

  “What did Gypsy drag you into?” Leah peered at her daughter, her face crimson.

  “She didn’t drag me into anything,” said Renee quietly, looking at the floor. Yet, her red face gave her away. Poor girl—how the hell she put up with Leah as a mother for all these years was beyond me.

  I wished I could bloody well speak, but at that moment, bashing the keyboard would have to do. I was in the hospital with a brain bleed, for God’s sake; didn’t that mean I got a break here? Offer me some sort of protection from my crazy enraged sister?

  The night I left the restaurant, I interrupted an attack. It was that woman on TV. I remembered the license plate and van. I didn’t see the bastard's face but heard his voice. I was on the phone to police when he knocked me over. I needed help to report it, could not speak. I typed as best I could and roughly turned the laptop around to show Leah the screen. Her face seemed almost purple, her fists clenched and teeth gritted.