Christian looked immaculate, even after ten hours of filming. He had come straight from the London studio, still wearing his usual black jeans and crisp white shirt, his rolled-up sleeves complementing his tanned skin. The open neck of his shirt revealed a small silver cross resting just beneath his collarbone. Jennifer inhaled the elegant scent of Paco Rabanne as it lingered in the air. It was a vast improvement on the usual smells in the poky witness interview room.
Christian tilted his blond head to one side and smiled; the same expression on the TV shows that had made him the housewife’s favourite. ‘Jenny Knight, I just can’t believe it’s you. It’s so good to see you again.’
Jennifer nodded as another wave of embarrassment washed over her. Christian had always been tactile, and had hugged her tightly when he realised who she was. She was pleased she had chosen to wear her new black suit to work. It had been an impulse buy when she was checking out the new designer store on the posh side of Haven. The strappy black heels were also crying out to be taken home, but at least now she could justify the dent in her credit card. Her adolescent crush for Christian had long since evaporated, but there was nothing worse than seeing a blast from the past when you looked like crap.
‘You haven’t changed much since our schooldays,’ she said, preferring to get back to the task in hand.
‘Thanks. And what about you? I would never have guessed you’d turn out to be a detective. I mean, you were always playing truant at school,’ Christian smiled.
Jennifer grinned at the memory. She hated high school because it separated her from Amy. She used to bunk off to watch her in the primary school playground at lunchtime, jumping the fence if anyone dared utter a cross word in her sister’s direction.
‘Yeah. I managed to sort myself out in the end. You seem to have done pretty well.’
Christian nodded. ‘I was lucky, I fell in with the right people who accepted me for who I was.’
Jennifer had heard about his engagement to Felicity Baron, newly fledged reality TV star. The publicity had rocketed his stardom even further, and a week rarely passed without the pair of them featuring in celebrity gossip magazines.
Jennifer cleared her throat, concentrating on the task in hand. The statement complete, she had one more question to go before completing the victim personal statement, a series of questions involving the impact of the crime on his personal life. Such statements were useful in court, and proved to convey the far-reaching consequences of crime.
‘I just have one more question for you, how has this made you feel, being a victim of harassment by your cousin?’
The smile slid from Christian’s face and he threaded his fingers together. ‘I feel terrible for reporting this, but I’m worried what he’s going to do next. He’s hurt people, I know he has, and I can’t help but feel responsible.’ He sighed, his eyes filled with an apology that was not his to make.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, there’s quite an age gap between you and your cousin.’
‘Bert’s mum was a lot older than mine. Auntie Grace had her twins in her teens, while I was a late in life surprise,’ Christian smiled.
Jennifer rested her pen on the desk. ‘Families come in all shapes and sizes. Well, normally harassments would be dealt with by uniformed officers, but you mentioned a premonition of a murder, and I happen to be one of the few people in Haven nick who takes these things seriously. I’m not going to include it in your statement, but I will record it in my pocket notebook. Is that OK with you?’
Christian nodded. ‘Of course. I’m just happy someone’s willing to listen to me.’
Jennifer flicked open her notebook, dating the top of the page and recording the time using the twenty-four-hour clock. The leather-bound cover bore the Op Moonlight logo, and was stamped confidential.
‘What can you tell me?’ Jennifer said.
Christian gesticulated as he spoke, his fingers composing his words. ‘Firstly I want to impart just how bad I feel about all of this. I heard the institution was releasing my cousin into the community, and I didn’t want to know. Since his release, I’ve been getting these frightening visions. He’s plotting to murder people.’
Jennifer raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve already mentioned the strange phone calls, but they’re non-threatening. What makes you think he’s capable of murder?’
‘Like I said, he rambles on about the past when he calls me. But he’s mentally ill. I don’t care what the hospital says – they shouldn’t have released him.’ Christian looked at her pleadingly, his eyes wide with anxiety. ‘I trust my premonitions, Jennifer, it’s a warning, I know it.’
This was a side of Christian that was not shown on the TV screens. She had watched as his career took hold, long after they lost touch, and tried to imagine what it must have felt like to be in his shoes. He always seemed so happy in the public eye, but as Jennifer was quickly learning, people revealed a different side to themselves when the cameras were turned off.
‘Can you be a bit more specific?’ she said. ‘I want to help, but we don’t have a lot to go on. The harassment offence barely warrants me giving him a warning, and murderous thoughts aren’t a crime.’
Christian closed his eyes and drew slow, soothing breaths in through his nostrils and out through his mouth. Resting his hands on his lap, his voice became thick and drawn as he entered a trance-like state. ‘He’s in a dark space. It’s enclosed, and it’s cold. Almost like a tomb.’ Christian raised his hand and raked his nails across the back of his neck. ‘The itching. It’s driving him insane. Driving him to the point of …’
Jennifer soundlessly scribbled in her notebook, recording his comments word for word. Christian stiffened in his chair, and his voice invoked a sense of urgency. ‘He’s planning to kill … he has clear intentions. He believes he’s gaining from their deaths.’ A long pause followed and Christian’s eyes fluttered open. ‘I can’t … I can’t make anything else out. I’m sorry.’
Jennifer sighed, frustrated by the lack of information. A small part of her was glad Op Moonlight’s remit was hidden from the public, otherwise half her working day would be dealing with incidents she was unable to resolve. Haven kept her busy enough as it was. On one side were the wealthy residents who lived in luxury townhouses and commuted to their high-powered jobs. The other side was aptly nicknamed the old town. Forgotten and dilapidated, the land harboured a darkness borne from historic battles and ferocious witch hunts. Superstitious practices were passed down from one generation to another, and strangers were regarded with narrow-eyed mistrust.
‘I need details. Locations, times, method. Have you a photo of your cousin? An address?’
‘I’d describe him as a tall, thin, gaunt-looking man with grey hair. But I haven’t seen him in years. The institution said he was being released to a hostel. They asked me to take him, but I declined. I just don’t have the time to give him what he needs.’
Jennifer tapped her bottom lip thoughtfully. No doubt, his fiancée wasn’t too keen on the idea either. ‘Your cousin, does he read the tarot cards? Possess any psychic gifts?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Christian said.
‘Does he drive?’
‘He’s been sectioned for half of his life, I doubt he’d have a driver’s licence. Why?’
‘It’s just a case I’m working on. I wondered if there was a connection.’ She pulled a business card from the inside of her jacket pocket and slid it across the table. ‘If anything else comes to you, call me on this number. It doesn’t matter what time it is. I know you’re against changing your number, but I strongly advise you do.’
‘He might come to the house if he can’t get through on the phone. My kids stay weekends. I can’t risk it.’
She passed over the statement, pointing to the signature block at the end. ‘The allegation of harassment will give us an excuse to bring him in, and I’ll make enquiries with the institution as to his whereabouts.’
‘Thank you. I hope you find him soon,’ he
said, signing the statement and passing it back.
‘Try not to worry. I’m sure it’s not as bad as it seems,’ she said, shuffling her papers.
Christian pushed his chair back as he stood up. ‘We should go out for coffee, talk about the old days.’
Jennifer tucked her paperwork under her arm and walked towards the door. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Oh, and Jennifer, be careful with my cousin.’ Christian’s voice became slow and deliberate. ‘He appears harmless on the outside … but he harbours something dark. I felt it during my premonition.’
Jennifer gave him a wry smile as she showed him out. ‘Congratulations. You’ve just described most of the people I deal with.’
[#]
Christian’s warning played on her mind that night as she flicked through the pages of her paperback. It was one of the rare occasions that she finished work on time, and the evening seemed to stretch on forever. The institution that dealt with his cousin was called The Rivers, and had promised to get back to her the next day. She hadn’t ruled out the possibility of him being the pub tarot card reader, but without CCTV, she didn’t have much to go on.
Despite the soft music playing in the background, Jennifer found it impossible to relax. Two hours of cleaning her immaculate kitchen had left her with wrinkled fingers and stiff limbs. Coming from a childhood entrenched in neglect and disorder, cleaning was the only way she could stay in control. Her anxiety dictated the length she spent on it, and today’s regime had managed to exhaust her. She massaged her shoulder blades, pinching her skin between forefinger and thumb in an effort to ease the tension. She thought about visiting her sister, but Amy had been very cagey lately. Jennifer’s bond with her nephew Joshua was growing even stronger, and his attachment to her got on her sister’s nerves.
Jennifer shut the book and allowed her mind to wander. The usual whispers floated through, disembodied voices seeking an audience. Some were connected to the house she lived in, but others were there simply because they tuned into her frequencies, like a scratchy radio channel, whispering words she could barely understand. Allowing them to pass through was easier than trying to shut them off. Take the path of least resistance, she had been advised, and it was working well.
A thump from her front door jolted her from her trance and she shook the sleep from her legs as she uncurled from the warmth of the sofa. Who’s calling at this hour? she thought, flicking on the hall light. A cold breeze tickled the back of her neck as she approached the door, peering through the shadowless stained glass.
‘Who’s there?’ she asked, holding her breath for a reply. Squeezing her left eye closed, she squinted through the peephole out to the orange glow of the streets beyond. Nothing. Jennifer twisted the latch, peeping out through the slant in the door. Her senses told her to be on her guard, senses that both frustrated and guided her. If those damned whispers made any sense then maybe they would be of use, she thought, shuddering as the cool night air curled around the legs of her satin pyjamas.
‘Hello?’ she said, holding tightly to the doorframe as she opened it wider. Her eyes dropped to the cement step onto a black bundle of feathers at her feet. Crouching down, she tentatively prodded the iridescent plume, her eyes darting upwards to the car-lined street then back to the black feathered bundle before her. The raven was still and warm, but the life had left its eyes. Jennifer stood up and scratched her head. Dead creatures didn’t bother her in the slightest, having spent years in the country with her aunt Laura after her mother died. But anything deceased on her doorstep at night sent warning signals.
Scooping up the limp body into a black bin bag, she tried to make sense of its presence. It must have flown into the door, she thought, carrying it out to the bin. But why would a raven be flying in the dark? She hesitated as she lifted the dustbin lid. It didn’t seem right to put the poor dishevelled creature out with the rubbish. Sighing heavily, she tied the bag and rested it gently outside the back door. She would bury it in the garden tomorrow.
Jennifer froze as a whisper carried on a breeze, and a feeling of unreality raised goose bumps on her flesh. Bert Bishop … look no further. Jennifer peered out into the moonlit garden. Did the voice come from outside or the recesses of her mind? She didn’t know. She searched her memory for recognition of a name that would come to mean a great deal. Bert Bishop was the name of Christian Bowe’s cousin. She recalled the description of the creepy old man in the bar who had spoken to Alan Price. Stepping inside, she locked the back door as a feeling of unease crept up her spine. Staring out into the stillness of her garden, the affirmation grew stronger in her mind. She couldn’t explain it but somehow she knew. Bertram Bishop had delivered the fatal prophecy to Alan Price in the bar – and he wasn’t stopping there.
Chapter Six
Bert
* * *
A hot shower, a brandy from the minibar, the feel of carpet under bare feet. In the comfort of his room, the simple things in life were bliss. But Bert’s nightcap could not blot out the irritation from the perfumed soap seeping into the cracks in his skin. Dragging his nails over the inflammation, he groaned in short-lived gratification before blistering pain sliced through every nerve. Bert unzipped his toiletry bag and pulled out a small wrinkled tube. The steroid cream did little to ease the skin condition that fed off his tormented mind. Hypocrite, his conscience whispered, and Bert flapped his hands to the side of his head, dismissing the thoughts like a swarm of bees.
The mattress bounced gently as Bert tested the bed. He ran his hand over the crisp white duvet cover. He was looking forward to sleeping in fresh linen. It reminded him of when he was a boy. Each night mother dutifully slathered him in creams before bandaging his broken skin, humming a tune under her breath to avoid conversation. It was all done with all the love and attentiveness of someone gutting a fish.
She had little else to do, with one child in the family. But it was not always that way. The second of identical twins, Bert arrived to the world as an afterthought. His parents would have been content with Callum. His dimpled cherubic face and soft blond hair made him the perfect child. His beauty was enhanced even further by the arrival of his brother.
At half the weight, Bert came into the world a wizened creature, eyes squeezing hot tears as he rasped a starving cry. There was little known about twin-to-twin transfusion, and the doctor had explained it as simply as he could. Callum had taken the share of nutrition in the womb, leaving little for Bert, who was not expected to survive the night. His parents, who had only been expecting one baby anyway, took the sensible option of not getting attached to him. Besides, they had Callum, what more did they need?
Bert was a shrink-wrapped version of his twin; his face thin and scrawny, with blond hair drained to a brittle white. He bunched his fists as he screamed, his scaly pink scalp visible underneath the wisps of his listless hair. It was his anger, his fury at the world that ensured his survival.
His mother hid Bert away from visitors, producing Callum for their adoration. But the benefit of having a ‘sickly child’ gave Grace the excuse she needed to stay cocooned in her three-bedroom home. She ventured only to church on a Sunday, her lips moving in silent prayer as she drove the three miles into town for the nine o’clock sermon. Praying distracted her anxious mind from open spaces, and the rosary beads swinging from the mirror of their Ford car amused Callum as he accompanied her on these visits. Bert knew all this because of the cards. These dips into the past gave him answers to questions that swarmed in his mind. And it made him feel better about what happened with mother.
Bert pushed aside the thoughts. Throwing the cushions off the bed, he slid between the sheets, reaching for the well-thumbed newspaper on the bedside table. He smiled as he re-read the headlines on the second page. ‘Celebrity Psychic’s Tragic Fiancée Crash’. Bert picked up his glasses and scanned through the article again. The young blonde woman smiled at him from the page.
* * *
A TV reality star bride to be was invol
ved in a one-car crash on the M25 on Thursday evening when the victim’s car, 23-year-old Felicity Baron, veered off the M25 and plummeted down an embankment. After leaving the road, the vehicle dropped approximately 30ft down a steep slope and crashed into some trees on the border of a woodland reservation.
Baron, star of The Beauty Salon, was on her way to Brighton with friends to celebrate her hen party when the accident occurred. While it is believed the members of her group had been drinking, friends report that Baron had been sober when her car veered out of control. She received a head injury and was airlifted to hospital where she later died. The other four passengers escaped with minor injuries.
The accident happened one week before Baron’s planned wedding to celebrity psychic Christian Bowes. In a further twist, her stunned friends stated that Baron had been upset that morning after receiving a tarot card reading from an unknown man predicting her death.
Police say excessive speed may have been a factor in the crash. Investigators are yet to determine if faulty mechanics played a role.
* * *
‘If you go down to the woods tonight you’re in for a big surprise,’ Bert sang, dropping the paper. A guttural laugh rose from the pit of his stomach, as a sense of accomplishment surged through him. He did it again. He chuckled as he fell asleep. He couldn’t wait to give another prediction, and with the help of the cards, he had just the person in mind.
Chapter Seven
A two-bar heater warmed Jennifer’s trouser legs as she sat in her sergeant’s office. The smell of freshly brewed coffee was a welcome one, and bleary eyed from a lack of sleep, Jennifer was on her second cup.
Time To Die Page 4