Time To Die

by Caroline Mitchell

  ‘Shat uuuuuuppp! Rocky! Spike! Shaaat upppp!’ Ma Sutton’s voice thundered from inside, her considerable bulk shadowing the glass as she opened the door. ‘What do you want?’ she said, struggling to keep hold of the dogs’ thick black studded collars as their paws padded the air.

  Will flashed his warrant card, his eyes on the dogs’ bared teeth as they fought for release. ‘I want a word with Charlie. He’s not in any trouble.’

  A formidable woman, Ma Sutton flicked her beady eyes upstairs and back to Will. ‘It’s the filth,’ she shouted in the direction of the stairs. Footsteps scurried across the landing, like a nest of rats being poked with a stick.

  Ma Sutton reluctantly allowed him inside, shoving the barking animals into a side room. ‘He’s in the kitchen,’ she sniffed. ‘And don’t go snooping around or I’ll have the dogs on ya.’

  Will put his hands in the air in a gesture of defeat, and gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He squeezed past the bikes in the hall, their handlebars ripping into what was left of the wallpaper. A mixture of aromas greeted him and the windows steamed from the meat boiling on a gas cooker. It intermingled with the stench of oil from the remnants of a motorbike engine on the newspaper-clad kitchen table.

  Charlie fingered the metal parts with thick greasy hands. ‘See here, dad?’ he said, poking at a cog. ‘It’s loose, that’s what’s wrong.’

  Charlie’s father rarely spoke. He just sat there with a dour expression, pinching tobacco into the thin cigarette papers with a well-practised hand.

  ‘Will-I-am. What are you doing here?’ Charlie said, staining his sweat-glistened forehead as he wiped it with the back of his hand. He swivelled in his chair, elbowing the small boy at the side of him. ‘Alfie, open the back door, it’s fucking boiling in here.’

  Alfie scuttled from behind Charlie, and giving Will a cautious glance, opened the back door wide. A welcome gust of air blew in, scooping up the overpowering smells of bacon and oil and carrying them outside.

  It was a short-lived respite as Charlie’s father stood up and, his eyes never leaving Will, slammed the door shut and locked it.

  Will’s throat suddenly felt very dry and he swallowed hard. Mr Sutton was very protective of his family, and had assaulted officers previously with little warning.

  ‘It’s OK, Charlie, you’re not in any trouble,’ Will said. ‘I just need to speak to you about a letter you dropped into the nick yesterday.’

  Charlie frowned, his grease-stained forehead gathering too many wrinkles for his age. With his cropped brown hair and jaunty expression, he had a look of Wayne Rooney about him, although that was as far as the resemblance went.

  ‘Ah that. It weren’t from me. I was paid to deliver it. No crime in that is there?’

  Will rubbed his beard. ‘No, none at all. Who gave it to you?’

  ‘I’d like to help, but I can’t remember very well. They gave me a tenner and asked me to drop it in, seems to be the going rate for favours. I’ve been trying to save up for a new engine for my motorbike, see? Every little helps … as they say in Tesco’s.’ Charlie grinned.

  Will frowned as he looked into his wallet. Thank God it was payday Friday, he thought, as he pulled out a ten-pound note and rested it on a small clean patch of newspaper.

  ‘Who?’ he said, feeling Mr Sutton’s eyes boring down on him. Mr Sutton was also sitting near the block of carving knives. He had little tolerance for the police, and had been a bit of a nutter in his day.

  Charlie rested his hand on the tenner and it disappeared from view. ‘I thought it was a bit weird. I thought why wouldn’t they just deliver it themselves? They offered me a tenner and I thought I may as well cash in. It was just a letter. I figured it couldn’t be anything dodgy or owt.’

  ‘Go on,’ Will said to Charlie, as Ma Sutton came in and brushed past him to turn off the bubbling pot of meat.

  ‘I’m no grass, you see, and giving info to coppers doesn’t rest easy with me …’ Charlie said as his little brother crept back behind him, giggling with a gap-toothed smile.

  ‘I’m stony broke, Charlie, I haven’t got any more cash. Look, I just want to know who gave you the letter. I’m not asking you to serve up the Mafia or anything.’

  Charlie chuckled. ‘Fair enough, Will-I-am. It was some old bloke; he must have been in his sixties at least. I ain’t seen him around Haven before. He was driving an old VW van. Sounded like it had holes in the exhaust pipe, it was as rattly as fuck.’

  ‘Can you remember anything else? What he was wearing? The colour of the van?’

  Charlie shrugged. ‘Nah. I was too busy looking at the colour of his money. Now I’ve gotta clear the table before me mam gives me hell.’

  ‘Too right I’ll give you hell, look at the state of it!’ Ma Sutton screamed, piercing Will’s eardrum. ‘The dinner’s almost ready.’

  Will watched as she pounded the lumpy potatoes into submission with the masher, beads of sweat dripping from her forehead and dangling over the saucepan. It was all too much for Will, who thanked Charlie and left.

  Will mulled it over as he walked back to the station. Did some old bloke in a van put Charlie up to delivering the letter? God knows that lying was as natural as breathing to the Suttons. What was the old joke? How do you know a Sutton’s lying? – Their lips are moving. But why would someone pay to have a letter delivered to the nick? And why address it specifically to Jennifer?

  Chapter Nine

  The damp wooden bench outside the police station provided little shelter to George Butler as he tightened the tattered blanket around the terrier on his lap.

  Jennifer scooted up beside him, trying to ignore the musty smell emitting from his direction. ‘Here, I got you a sandwich and a cappuccino. It’s gone a bit cold I’m afraid.’

  ‘Ohh, very continental,’ he said, removing the lid and gulping the coffee. He wiped the froth from his whiskers and turned to Jennifer, the lilt of his Irish accent music to her ears. ‘You know, a little nip of something would keep out the harshness of the cold,’ George said, wrapping his fingerless gloves around the warmth of his cup.

  Jennifer gave him a withering look. ‘I wouldn’t dare ruin a good Costa with alcohol.’

  The twinkle in George’s eyes suggested he was willing to give it a try. ‘Perhaps you’re right. You know, Sergeant Claire was kind enough to take in Tinker for me yesterday while I spoke with the benefits lady.’

  It wasn’t the first time the scruffy terrier had been smuggled into the sergeant’s office. A sucker for sad cases, Claire had done everything she could to help George and his dog. Jennifer had given up trying to get George into the homeless shelter. They didn’t allow dogs, and George simply wouldn’t leave him.

  ‘Can I ask you a random question?’ she said, shifting on the bench as the damp seeped through her trousers.

  ‘Ask away,’ George said, carefully disposing of his empty cup in a plastic bag.

  ‘What are your thoughts on tarot cards?’

  George took his glance to the sky as he recited the words. ‘Let there not be found among you one who practises witchcraft, who interprets omens, a sorcerer, conjurer, medium, spiritist, or one who calls up from the dead. For all who do these things are an abomination to the Lord.’

  He blinked before returning his attention to Jennifer, to answer her questioning gaze. ‘It’s a bible quote. Deuteronomy chapter eighteen, verses ten to twelve … or as much of it as I can remember.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were religious,’ Jennifer said, wondering what he would say if he knew of her history.

  ‘There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, a leanabh. Now aren’t you meant to be getting to work?’

  Jennifer said her goodbyes and walked the short distance to the police station to start her late shift. If someone had told her she would become friends with the skinny, grey-haired homeless man, she would never have believed them. Her, the clean freak, chatting with someone who made his bed on a public bench. But George had
a way of getting under your skin, and was liked by everyone except the front office staff, who regularly badgered him to move on.

  Jennifer glanced up at the row of ravens dotted on the telephone wire; lately they seemed to follow her everywhere she went. The hairs at the back of her neck prickled upwards as she counted ten, fifteen, twenty ravens staring intently with black glittering eyes. Look no further. The whisper penetrated her mind in a sudden gust of icy air. A loud knock from the office window above made her jump, and she quickly stepped inside, telling herself to focus. She was here to work, and could not afford to be distracted by birds, the weather, or any strange whispers nesting in her mind.

  [#]

  ‘Talking to your boyfriend again?’ Will said, backing away from the office window.

  ‘I’ve got a soft spot for the Irish, try not to be too jealous.’ Jennifer grinned, hanging up her coat.

  ‘Oh fff … fiddlesticks!’ Zoe winced as the computer rejected her password for the third time. She looked at the pair of them apologetically. ‘Sorry. I’m trying to stop swearing.’

  ‘Here, let me,’ Will said, leaning over her desk to guide her back onto the login page.

  Jennifer peered out the window at the bare telephone line. Evening light was fading, and there was no sign of the black-cloaked birds that had flanked her entrance. Was her imagination creating havoc, or was she being issued with a warning? Christian’s premonition, the presence of the ravens, it was like something out of a cheap horror movie. Her emotions played seesaw with her sensibilities; she was either falling into the hands of paranoia, or disregarding a very real threat. But there was one thing she had learned about the supernatural: if there was a message it would open itself up to her in time. She strode to her desk. It was time to focus on the living, at least until the dead were ready to give up their secrets.

  [#]

  Jennifer pulled a tissue from her pocket and sneezed. She had cleaned her desk already, but it was no good, she would have to do it again. She opened her drawer, settled her pens and pencils back into order, and pulled out three sterile wipes from a packet.

  Rolling his chair back, Will allowed Jennifer to continue cleaning until the wipes ran dry. ‘Did you mention the letter to Claire?’ he said, slipping a soft mint from the shared bag on his desk.

  Jennifer eyed the open bag and took one for herself, carefully disposing of the wrappers. ‘Ethan’s told me to close the Price case as non-suspicious.’ Her words were betrayed by the lack of conviction in her voice. She glanced around the room. ‘But he’s all over the Christian Bowes case like a rash. I don’t think it’s fair that celebrities should get priority treatment over anyone else, do you?’

  ‘Pfft,’ Will said, blowing out his disgust. ‘You already know my feelings on that.’

  Jennifer lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘The command team have been poking their nose in too. They don’t want the publicity if it all goes wrong.’

  ‘If it’s a straightforward harassment then it won’t.’ Will rolled his sweet to the other side of his mouth. ‘Our DI can say what he likes about the paranormal element of investigations, the CPS will only ever accept cold, hard facts.’

  ‘I don’t recall Ethan saying otherwise.’ Plucking out another wipe, Jennifer ran it over the telephone handset. ‘Do you think we could have our refs together tonight? Maybe go into Costa coffee before they close?’ Lately refreshment breaks had been a luxury. They ate over their computer keyboards while working through their files, scattering crumbs which would clog their keys later.

  Will grinned. ‘You want quality time with me? That’s a relief. I was worried I might have to join old George on the bench out there.’

  ‘Well you’re half way there. You’ve got the scruffy clothes and the beard,’ Jennifer said, her dimples softening her smile.

  ‘I got this in Topman, I’ll have you know,’ Will said, pulling the lapels of his charcoal suit. Jennifer cast her eyes appreciatively over the broadness of his shoulders. Despite his love of food, he had always been well proportioned. But their office banter didn’t include compliments, and it was a lot easier taking the mickey out of his badly ironed shirt than admitting he had grown on her.

  ‘Anyway we can’t go out tonight, Claire’s ordered Chinese takeaway, seeing as we’ve all been working so hard. Will you come with me to pick it up?’ Will said.

  ‘I’m hardly going to sit here eating sandwiches while the whole place is stinking of curry, am I? Count me in.’

  The ping of an email brought her attention to her computer screen, and she swore under her breath.

  ‘Everything alright?’ Will said, tapping a wad of freshly printed papers against his desk.

  Jennifer drummed her fingers on the table. It’s DC Hardwick. He’s arrested Christian Bowe’s ex-missus for the Felicity Bowes case. We’re meant to be working together and he didn’t even consult me.’

  ‘Are you heading over there?’ Will said.

  Jennifer shook her head. ‘Why should I? Besides, it’s obvious he doesn’t want me. I like Christian, but he’s a media whore. If his ex-wife gets charged there’ll be hell to pay’

  ‘Well in that case, you won’t mind giving me a hand with some enquiries.’

  After clearing it with her sergeant, Jennifer pulled out her copy of the file, and the enquiries to date. It was as if the Raven was a ghost. Nothing was returned on intelligence, and the ANPR had failed to pick up the licence plate of his van entering or leaving Haven. He wasn’t registered for benefits, and didn’t appear to have a bank account. But he did seem to know the area. Jennifer was left with the conclusion that he either lived in Haven, or was entering through the narrow country lanes, which were poorly marked and unknown to strangers. It wouldn’t have come as much of a surprise to discover the Raven was homemade. If local legends were correct, the mystical lands of Haven occasionally sprouted homegrown terror, such darkness often finding a home in the breath of a newborn baby.

  It made Jennifer’s enquiries all the more urgent, but after finally obtaining the name of Bert’s psychiatrist, she was told he was away on holidays. She slammed the phone down in frustration at being met with a dead end at every turn.

  Will placed a mug of steaming coffee on her desk, sliding her paperwork aside as he did so. ‘Your desk will be like mine if you don’t watch out,’ he said, amused at the uncharacteristic mess.

  Jennifer pushed the statements around, like pieces of a puzzle. ‘Where’s the connection? Why would a tarot card reader encourage the deaths of two completely unrelated people? The answer is in here somewhere. I can feel it. If we find the connection, we find the Raven.’

  ‘Unfortunately, the dead can’t speak,’ Will said as he took a seat.

  ‘Their families can,’ Jennifer said, picking up the phone and searching for the country code for America.

  [#]

  ‘Well that was interesting,’ Jennifer replaced the handset after a lengthy phone call.

  Will raised an eyebrow questioningly. After getting through some of his own work, he had begun reading the statements, lending a pair of fresh eyes to the investigation.

  ‘Marcy – that’s Alan Price’s ex-wife – was spoken to by DC Hardwick after he died, but he only made notes that Alan was suffering from depression.’

  ‘To be fair, he didn’t have to document it at all, given his death was suicide,’ Will said.

  ‘If you’re going to do a job then at least do it right.’ Jennifer jabbed at the copies of the statements. ‘Marcy said Alan’s depression began after their daughter was born, and by the time their little girl had started school, they were divorced. Despite their differences, they messaged each other regularly on Facebook. She still has records of their conversations.’

  ‘So what’s unusual about that?’ Will said.

  ‘Alan told Marcy that he moved back to England for the gift of a second chance. When she asked what it meant, he said he was getting therapy for past issues. At first, it seemed to be going well, but then
something changed. He said he’d been putting his trust in the wrong people, and she’d hear about it soon enough. That was a few days before his death.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘I know. I was tempted to ask her about the hit and run, but she’s grieving. It wouldn’t have been fair to pile that on her as well. She’s going to screenshot the conversations and email them over. What do you think Alan meant when he said she would hear about it soon enough?’

  ‘Perhaps he meant he was planning his suicide.’

  ‘Maybe. Or perhaps there’s more to it than that. When I visited Emily she said a similar thing … oh what was it?’ She snapped her fingers. ‘That’s it! “The best gift in life is a second chance.”’

  ‘What does it mean?’ Will said, rubbing his whiskers.

  A slow smile spread across Jennifer’s lips as realisation dawned. ‘It means we have a connection.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Hey everyone, what better tune to celebrate Friday night than one from the queen of pop herself? That’s right, iiiiiiit’s Madonna!’ the disc jockey said before playing ‘Celebrate’. It was one of Will’s little jokes; changing her car radio to the eighties channel when she wasn’t looking. Jennifer reached for the off button as Will jumped in with the takeaway bags. It didn’t take two of them to pick up the Chinese, but it was good to get away from the office, if only for a few minutes.

  ‘Who’s been in here while I was gone, one of Santa’s elves?’ Will said, bumping his knees against the glove box.

  Jennifer bit back a smile. The seat shoved forward was payback for making her listen to the eighties channel. ‘Elves? I think you’ll find it was you.’ She turned the ignition. ‘I’m gonna trade it in soon, I’m thinking of getting myself a nice Audi A4 or something like that.’

  ‘Well, all right for some,’ Will said, pushing his hand against the glove box to shut it. A glimpse of white caught his eye and he dropped the door, allowing it to gape open.