Recalling the scene yet again inevitably led Alex back to thinking about how he might feel if he ever lost Conor. It made him feel physically ill to even consider the possibility. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. Inside was a small picture—a miniature version of one of the snaps he had taken of Conor while they’d been on holiday in Cornwall. Conor was shirtless, leaning back against a rock, glancing up shyly from beneath his lashes. Alex’s cock twitched.
“You are one lucky son of bitch, Alex Courtney.” He folded his wallet and slipped it back into his pocket. “Don’t ever forget it.”
He slid open his desk drawer and pulled out the small black velvet box that nestled in his pen tray. He pushed open the lid and looked at the contents—two matching rings of smoky platinum, both completely plain, narrow bands. Inside each were engraved the words ‘amare aeternam’ meaning ‘love eternal’. Circling them in the box was a bracelet made from the same metal and a tiny key, which fitted into the band’s intricate locking mechanism. Once closed, it appeared seamless, apart from the keyhole. Alex had noticed Conor playing with the bracelet around his wrist that morning and couldn’t wait to replace it with a more permanent symbol. Perhaps if they got to Cornwall soon for a break, he would find the perfect moment to pluck up some courage and ask the question that had been tormenting him for months. Alex wasn’t scared of much, but Conor rejecting his proposal of marriage was a terrifying prospect.
The phone rang. Saved by the bell. The real world was a great excuse for not thinking about difficult, emotional issues. It was Sergeant Higgs.
“Hey, boss, everybody’s here if you want to come and give us an update.”
“Sure. I’ll be leaving soon, so it’s perfect timing, I’ll be right down.”
He replaced the receiver then slipped the jewelry box back into his desk drawer. He picked up the envelope containing his plane tickets and flight details then grabbed his jacket. The piles of paperwork on his desk would still be there when he got back. It felt good to close the door on them. Alex locked his office door and headed down to see his team.
They were gathered in a loose circle, perching on desks or leaning against the walls. Alex waited for the chatter to die down before he spoke.
“The best lead we have so far is the animosity between our murder victim and his ex-wife. I spent a lot of time on the phone today with the Scottish police and I’ve managed to arrange an interview with Amanda Teller. I’m flying up to Scotland this afternoon and will be conducting the interview with one of the locals. Mrs. Teller is about to leave for a three week cruise, so it has to be today.” He looked around his staff. “The aim is to get a better picture of this woman’s relationship with her ex-husband. I want to know if Toby Walsh’s impression of her was accurate and whether she still holds any animosity toward either Toby or Sam. Apparently she took him to the cleaners during the divorce, but that might not have been enough.”
Higgs folded his arms across his chest. “You can’t beat face-to-face for getting the proper impression of someone and she’s the best lead we have.”
“Exactly. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’m sure you can manage without me for a few hours. Sarge, you’re in charge.”
That generated a lot of heckling, and Higgs put his head in his hands with a groan. “What have I done to deserve this, boss? Can’t I go to Scotland and you stay here with the kindergarten?”
Alex gave a short laugh. “Any of them misbehave, Sarge, and you have my blessing to use necessary force.” He turned toward the door. “Best be going or I won’t make my flight.”
The door shut and the team settled back to their work. Conor stared at the door.
“Go and say goodbye, idiot.” Sarge gave Conor a pained look. “My grandkids look less miserable than you when I make them eat sprouts.”
“Yes, Sarge!”
Conor shot out of the door after Alex, ignoring the suggestive comments from his colleagues. He caught up with him in the car park, slowing to a more dignified walk.
“Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?” Conor stuck his hands in his pockets and scuffed his foot on the tarmac.
“Kind of hard to do that properly in an office full of blokes, love. Sorry—I didn’t have a chance to tell you first. I only just got confirmation myself. I was going to ring you from the airport.”
“I understand. It’s not a problem. Don’t worry. I’ll miss you, though.”
Conor was desperate to give Alex a hug but the security camera on the wall behind them precluded any demonstration of affection.
“Me too. I’ll call you tonight. I’m going home to pack a few things but I’ll bring the car back here for you and take a cab to the airport. I’ll leave the hotel details in the kitchen.”
“Okay.”
“You’re upset.” Alex frowned.
“Not at all,” Conor reassured him. “But I wish I could have a goodbye kiss.”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“I know,” Conor sulked.
“Not because of the camera… I’d happily kiss you in front of the entire station.”
“Why then?”
“Because one kiss wouldn’t be enough.”
“Oh.” Conor beamed.
“Yes, oh.”
Conor decided it might be time to change the subject. “I’m going to see Agnes’ card reader friend tonight, but I should be home by nine. Call me after that, okay?”
“Sure.” Alex looked like he was about to impart some wisdom about taking care but stopped himself.
Conor waited expectantly. He was a grown man and quite capable of taking care of himself, but he doubted that Alex would be able to resist. He raised an eyebrow at the hesitation and, true to form, Alex’s over-protection gene clicked into action.
“Be careful tonight. Make sure one of the team knows where you are going and what time you expect to be finished. Call in to confirm once you’re at home.”
Conor grinned. “You just couldn’t stop yourself, could you?”
Alex scowled. “Your track record for getting into trouble when I’m not around does not fill me with confidence.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll take precautions. You need to take care of yourself, though. I don’t want you going off with some big-bearded Scotsman in a kilt.”
“Stereotypical much?” The frown lines on Alex’s forehead smoothed as he climbed into the car. “I’ll bring you back a big, juicy haggis.”
Conor put on his best innocent expression. “I really hope that’s a metaphor.”
Before Alex could respond, he went back inside, stealing himself to face the gentle teasing of his colleagues. His relationship with the boss was a continual source of amusement for all of them.
He knew it was ridiculous, but Conor felt himself pining for Alex as soon as the door shut between them. It wasn’t as if they spent every minute of every day together, after all. In fact, with such a heavy case load, the opposite was true. Some days the only time they spent together was in bed. Conor smiled to himself at that thought. This felt different though—there was a hollow feeling inside him that he didn’t think would go away until Alex was home.
He got back to the office and had barely gotten through the door when Pete thrust a huge pile of mail into his hands. As the most junior member of the team, one of his jobs was to open it, sort out the crap and distribute the rest.
“The boss leaving you home alone then, kid? I’m surprised he hasn’t lo-jacked your arse or locked you in a cell for the night.”
Conor dumped the mail on his desk. “Very droll, Pete. You’re hardly one to talk, considering your wife checks up on you at least eight times a day.”
That brought snorts of laughter from around the room, and Pete gave him a wry grin. “She misses me, okay?” He gave Conor a friendly pat on the back. “At least she’s not a copper. I’ll bet you don’t get away with anything.”
Conor made a round of coffee, distributed the drinks then set
about opening the pile of letters. It consisted of the usual mixture of reports, memos and junk, apart from one slim white envelope. It was addressed to him. DC Trethuan was typed on it in what looked like the print from an old-fashioned manual typewriter. He turned it over in his hands but there was nothing else on the envelope to give him a clue as to where it had come from. There was no stamp or postmark. He slit open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of cheap, ruled foolscap. There was one line of text, typewritten, in the center of the sheet.
THE TOWER FOLLOWS THE EMPRESS
For a brief moment, Conor stared at the words while a tumult of emotion coursed through him. He felt as cold as ice and had to fight back the sudden and overwhelming fear that another psychotic killer had him in his sights.
“Conor? What is it, lad?”
Higgs’ gruff voice cut across Conor’s paralyzed thoughts.
“A letter, Sarge. Probably a hoax.” Conor gave himself a shake and tried to think rationally.
Higgs was across the room in seconds, looking over Conor’s shoulder. “Fuck. Someone get me an evidence bag.”
Seconds later, the whole team had gathered around Conor’s desk. Once the note and the envelope had been safely sealed inside clear plastic bags, they were handed round so that everybody could take a look.
“The Tower is another tarot card,” Conor murmured.
“Nobody knew about the tarot card apart from us, the coroner and maybe a couple of the forensics chaps,” said Higgs. “There’s a very good chance that this is from the killer.”
Pete fingered the bag carefully. “Another fucking nutter. This means there’s going to be another one, doesn’t it? Another murder?”
Comments circled Conor’s head like angry wasps. He clenched his fist, pressing short nails into his palm to stop the shaking.
“Phil. Hot, sweet tea. Now.” Higgs handed over Conor’s untouched coffee. “And get the medicine from my bottom drawer.”
Higgs shooed the others away. “You’re bone white, lad.”
Phil returned quickly and handed Higgs a small bottle of brandy.
“I know you don’t normally drink, but a nip of this will do you the world of good,” Higgs said.
Conor unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow. Fire seared his throat and traveled all the way through his body until it hit his stomach.
“Uugh! That’s disgusting, Sarge.”
“Stopped you shaking, though.” Higgs took a photograph of the letter with his phone then slid the evidence bag into an envelope.
“Pete, get this to forensics, will you? If we’re lucky, our killer’s an idiot and left us some DNA.” He took a seat opposite Conor and said what everyone else was probably thinking, “So, why you, Conor?”
Conor took the mug of tea that Phil offered him and held it in both hands. The warmth was comforting.
“I’ve got absolutely no idea, Sarge. We’ve only been working on the bloody case for two days.”
“Whoever sent it knows your name, what you are and where you work. We have to let the boss know. He’s not going to like it.”
“No! I mean…yes, tell him about the message, but don’t tell him it was addressed to me. I don’t want him canceling his trip. That interview might be important.”
Sergeant Higgs looked doubtful. “When he finds out tomorrow, he’ll kill both of us before any psycho has a chance to do the job.”
Conor smiled. “Probably. But you know I’m right. Let me research the message, then you can send him a bit more information.”
“I don’t envy you when he finds out, but I agree. Reluctantly.”
Conor put his mug down and ran his hands through his hair.
“Sarge, you and I both know Alex is in line for promotion. Can you imagine what it would do to his chances if it got out that he interrupted an active investigation to babysit his boyfriend?”
“That argument won’t cut any ice with him. Value your last night of freedom, Conor, because you are going to be chained to your desk for the rest of your life.”
Conor shrugged and pulled out his file of research and tarot book. “He can try.”
Sarge chuckled. “I’ll let you get on with it. Give me a shout if you find anything interesting.”
Conor opened the pack of tarot cards and shuffled through them until he found the one he wanted. He examined the picture—a tower stood on a rocky outcrop with stormy waves pounding below. There was a powerful bolt of lightning shooting from the sky and two figures falling. It didn’t look as though it portended anything good. He stared at it until the image blurred in front of his eyes.
Chapter Five
Detective work was ninety-five percent hard graft and five percent excitement. Conor knew that he had had more than his fair share of the five percent in the past, but the ninety-five percent was beginning to grate on his nerves by the end of a long, frustrating day. He had considered the meaning of the anonymous letter over and over again. All the indications were that it meant bad news but until something happened, it was of no help to the investigation. The initial report had come back from forensics and, though there were still some checks to do, there were no fingerprints other than his own and the envelope had not been sealed with saliva, so there was no chance of getting DNA from it.
He was the only one left in the office. The rest of the team had headed out to start checking up on his list of shops and contacts related to tarot cards. They would go home from their various locations. It was work that had to be done but Conor suspected that it was a major red herring, distracting everyone’s attention from something more important. Unfortunately he didn’t know what the more important thing was yet.
Before he’d gone out, Higgs had emailed the latest developments to Alex, who had replied with a brief text saying that he would expect an update that evening. Conor reread the information on the tower card for the umpteenth time.
With Mars as its ruling planet, the Tower is a card about war, a war between the structures of lies and the lightning flash of truth. This is a card about anything we believe to be true, but later learn is false. This realization usually comes as a shock, hence, the violent image. It is, quite simply, that moment in any story where someone finds out a shocking truth—one that shatters their perceptions and makes them reassess their beliefs.
When the Querent gets this card, they can expect to be shaken up, blinded by a revelation. It sometimes takes a very bright flash of light to reveal a truth that was so well hidden. And it sometimes takes an earthquake to bring down beliefs that were so cleverly constructed. What’s most important to remember is that the tearing down of this structure—however painful—allows us to find out what is true and reliable. What will stand rather than fall apart.
“Someone’s messing with us. Anyone could find this information.” Conor shook his head and rolled his shoulders. He’d been hunched over a desk too long. There wasn’t anything further he could accomplish from desk research, so he grabbed his coat and headed out for his appointment with Agnes’ friend.
The sat nav directed him to the far side of the town from the police station. He brought the car to a halt outside a small terraced cottage in a narrow road of similar houses. They all looked well kept, with postage stamp gardens filled with hanging baskets and troughs of flowers. The brass knocker on the red front door of number fourteen had been polished within an inch of its life and barely made a sound before the door swung open.
Ruby Gates could not have been more than four foot ten. Conor felt like a giant as he towered over her on the doorstep. He took a step back so as not to appear as intimidating and pulled out his warrant card but it was shooed away.
“Agnes gave me a very good description of you, young man. Now stop hovering and come in.”
Sharp gray eyes twinkled with amusement as Ruby led him into an old-fashioned parlor, full of clashing florals but gleaming with polish and not a single speck of dust. There was an enormous chocolate cake set out on a small side table, along with dainty te
a plates and a pair of cups and saucers.
“Sit down, Detective, while I make some tea.”
“Call me Conor, Mrs. Gates.”
“Only if you call me Ruby.”
She bustled off and Conor sank into an armchair that felt like a hug. He suddenly realized how tired he was—and how hungry. His stomach rumbled in protest that it hadn’t been fed since breakfast time.
Ruby was soon back and thrusting a plate of ham sandwiches into his hand.
“Good Lord, boy, you look half-starved. Eat.”
Dutifully, Conor munched on a sandwich. He had a feeling that if he didn’t, he might get a clip round the ear. His diminutive host looked on as he ate. The sandwiches soon disappeared. The cake proved to be delicious and after a second generous slice, Conor groaned his appreciation.
“I’m going to burst, Ruby. Thank you—that was wonderful.”
“You young men never eat properly. Agnes tells me that if it weren’t for her, you and Alex would starve. Now, what would you like to know about the cards? I don’t think it’s a reading you’re after, is it?”
Conor sat forward in his chair. “No. I’m more interested in the kind of people that come for readings and why they come. What sort of people read cards and how do they get into it? Anything you can think of that might help. I can’t tell you about the case I’m working on—and the tarot angle may just be a dead end—but I have to look into everything.”
“Intriguing. Well, to start with, there are a lot of charlatans involved in this business. I’m sure as a police detective, you’d know that already. I’ve never charged for readings—people choose to give me something or not. It’s a nice supplement to my pension, but I never ask for payment. I learned to read the cards from my mother—as she had from hers and so on—for as far back as anyone can remember. You find that a lot. Genuine readers tend to have a family history with the cards. I was given my own pack on my eighteenth birthday. I don’t pretend to have any mystical power. I simply interpret the cards as they fall. I’m sure you are skeptical, Conor, but over the years, I’ve seen too many predictions come true to doubt. Of course, interpretation is the key. I’m sure you’ve read up on the subject. Every card has multiple meanings.” She poured a second cup of tea. “There are people who make a lot of money from readings—mostly mumbo-jumbo, I would imagine. The people who come to me are looking for insight, answers to problems, a hint of what’s around the corner. They are all ages and from all walks of life. More women than men.”
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