Psychic for Hire Series Box Set

by Hermione Stark

  Storm is so focused on getting to the Heathrow Express that he does not at first notice the kid ricocheting through the crowd ahead of him like a football being kicked back and forth. Then the placard the kid is waving catches his eye. It says ‘C. STORM’ in big black letters. The kid comes to a stop in front of Storm, looking utterly relieved to have found him.

  “Can I help you?” says Storm bluntly.

  “S-sir, ahem, I mean Agent Storm,” says the kid, now beaming. The kid sticks out his hand for Storm to shake. Storm gives it a scathing look.

  The kid straightens his suit jacket and nervously pats his extremely straight tie. Despite his best efforts to look grown up, the suit is clearly brand new and it is the first time the kid is wearing it. He looks fresh out of university.

  “I have your car,” the kid says, pointing vaguely in the direction of short stay parking.

  “I didn’t book a car.”

  “I-I’m Aiden Monroe,” the kid says hopefully, as if this is supposed to mean something.

  Storm glowers at him.

  “Agent Monroe,” says Remi helpfully. “New guy, right? Congratulations. I remember your CV.”

  She is sucking on a strawberry lace that is dangling out of her mouth and eyeing Monroe with great interest. Monroe does a slight double take before recovering admirably. He looks away, apparently keen to not let Remi’s scarlet-haired good looks distract him.

  The news that the kid is a new recruit does nothing to improve Storm’s mood. Storm remembers the CV now, which he himself had short-listed. The chief had been nagging him for months to get a new addition for the team. Since Diana there had been a string of failed hires, each one more irritating than the last, though none had managed to go out in Diana’s spectacular style. Storm had been in no mood to fill the spot again.

  Now it looks like the chief has gone ahead and made a choice without him. The last thing Storm wants right now is a fresh-faced newbie who is going to spew at the sight of a corpse. The kid looks like he might be more used to looking in a mirror than at a crime scene.

  “You drove here to get us?” says Storm acidly, thinking the act an unforgivable waste of time.

  The kid’s cheeks turn ever so slightly pink, but to his credit he manages not to look completely mortified.

  “I thought you might have luggage,” the kid explains. He is eyeing up their minimal hand-luggage with some degree of embarrassment.

  “We travel light,” says Remi with a grin.

  The kid looks grateful, but not for long as Storm shoves his suitcase towards the kid.

  “Take the luggage back to the office and stay there. Send me a file on the victims and any connection to the Wintersdeep case. Make sure the coroner is expecting to see me asap, and chase forensics for their report.”

  The kid’s face falls. He was probably hoping to tag along to the crime scene. “Yes, sir,” he says, struggling to get a hold of all three suitcases. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

  Storm leaves him to it. He sees Remi shoot the kid an apologetic look. Storm sighs. Monroe is what he’s got, and he had better get used to it.

  Chapter 8

  DIANA

  Number 23, the house from my dreams, is surrounded by a ten foot tall security railing tipped in vicious-looking spikes. Even if I had been physically capable of scaling that thing, I would have to be invisible to do it unseen by the numerous press vans and reporters loitering outside, not to mention the Agency officers posted at the front gate.

  The little voice had sniggered when I’d come here with the idea of somehow sneaking in.

  I told you so, she’d said. But you had to go seeking permission first.

  “He never gave permission,” I mutter.

  She is also right that I should have waited until night, but my money situation is crappy enough already without letting Luca down this evening. Especially after all he does to help me out.

  Loitering halfway down the street, I eye the scene with disappointment. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get in. I had been stupid to make that wager with the chief. Goaded on by the little voice I had felt so bombastic and certain at the time, but now I feel kinda silly. The chief must’ve known this all along. Talk about embarrassing.

  I bet it would be easier to get in from the back, says the little voice.

  “If it was that easy those reporters would have done it by now.”

  They’ll get sick of waiting and start figuring it out soon enough, says the little voice. See the way these properties are back-to-back with the properties on the adjoining road? You could get in from their back neighbor’s garden.

  “I am not going to trespass into their neighbor’s garden!”

  I can practically feel the little voice rolling her eyes. Why did you even bother coming? she gripes. Dragging me out here. Getting my hopes up. It looks like you don’t care much about Magda after all.

  That bothers me. Magda is half the reason I came to London. The other half being Storm, but I won’t think about that.

  I bet the neighbors won’t even be in at this time of day, she says slyly. They’re probably at work.

  Feeling in a huff, I trudge down the street and then up the neighboring street that runs parallel to it until I get to the house I think must back onto Jared Everett’s mansion. Compared to the luxuriant mansion, this one is rather ordinary. It doesn’t even have a perimeter fence.

  And the little voice was right. There are no cars in the driveway.

  I can feel her crowing inside my mind. Feeling annoyed, I walk down the driveway trying to look as if I have every right to be here. I follow the path at the side of the house that leads to a wooden gate. I stand there looking at it for a moment, almost expecting a dog to bark. I check for a security camera that might be capturing my every move. I see and hear nothing.

  I scramble over the gate and land in the neighbor’s back garden. I immediately see that the little voice may have been right again. At the back of the garden is an unsightly and poorly maintained wooden fence. Beyond that is a tightly packed row of tall evergreen trees which the Everett’s estate agent must have planted to cover the unsightly fence. I am able to easily climb the broken fence and tumble down into Jared Everett’s garden.

  I land behind the trees. I crouch down amongst the dense foliage and peer out. I have no doubt that Jared Everett does have security cameras. Then again, I have no doubt that the inside of his house is currently crawling with crime scene technicians, who I am going to have to avoid somehow. There is no point chickening out now. And Storm is still in Paris, after all. This is my chance for a head start.

  I check that my hood is pulled low over my head, covering half of my face. If the cameras do pick me up, hopefully whoever sees the footage will think I am a nosy reporter.

  I lope over to the house. I’m rather surprised to see that the sliding back door is a few inches open. Beyond the glass is a lounge. It is empty. Feeling uncertain about whether this luck is really luck, I slip inside and return the door to its original position.

  The lounge is furnished in a minimal style. It’s a large open space with marble flooring. At its focal point is a couple of sleek sofas and a glass coffee table on which is an angular vase containing a single sculptural flower. There are precious few places to hide.

  Feeling horribly exposed I quickly make my way to the base of the stairs where I saw the man in my dream being killed. His body is gone, but where he had been is a patch of dried up blood on the wooden flooring. The area is marked with a little paper cone and taped off to prevent anyone stepping on it.

  I edge around it and hastily make my way up the stairs, eager to see the focal point of the crime. Clearly Lynesse Jones was DCK’s intended victim. A beautiful succubus is just his type. The man was unlucky to be here when he came for her. Lynesse’s room is more likely to give me an insight into what happened here.

  There are a few splatters of blood on the white carpet outside Lynesse’s bedroom. I cannot tell if they belong to Lynesse
or the man. I touch one hesitantly, knowing that I shouldn’t, but no miraculous vision comes into my mind. The bedroom door is only slightly ajar. Suddenly realizing that I shouldn’t touch it with my fingertips, I push it open with my knuckle. I should have brought gloves. I should have thought about fingerprints while I was downstairs.

  I step into the bedroom. The first thing I see is the king-sized bed with its cream silk sheets and the horrible browned mottling of bloodstains all over them. I swallow hard, looking for DCK’s mark. I find it on the wall beside the door. The outline of a massive clawed pawprint made of blood is clearly visible. I stare at it, shaken.

  I have seen DCK’s mark before. It was on Magda’s door, right before I saw her body. Like this it was a massive pawprint dripping in blood. It had been so horrifically real and menacing, even though my logical mind keeps insisting that a print this big cannot belong to a real creature. On Magda’s door those monstrous claws had gouged deep furrows into the wood. There are no gouges on the plaster of Lynesse’s wall.

  Someone clears their voice behind me. Startled, I whirl around. A man is in the doorway. I rapidly step away from him, wanting distance between us. I bump into the bed, almost toppling back onto it. I save myself by catching hold of the soiled mattress. It is dry now, and yet at the touch of my fingers on it a powerful stench of iron and fear fills my nose and mouth.

  I am choking. Blood is in my mouth. The smell of it fills my nose. I am trying to crawl off the bed to get away but the axe is in the killer’s fist and it arcs down, slicing into the flesh of my back. I feel its blade striking bone at the back of my ribs. I scream as the killer jerks it out.

  Someone seizes my arm and drags me away from the bed. Reeling from the images in my mind, I stare up at her. It is Remi.

  “What are you doing here?” she demands. She looks more curious than displeased to see me. The skinny, pasty-faced guy standing next to her looks equally curious.

  But my mind is on the vision. The overwhelming terror of it has left me feeling disorientated. She was a woman dying and she knew it. She was being hunted like a terrified animal in her own home. Is this how Magda felt? Knowing the end was here and there was nowhere left to run?

  “This is a crime scene,” complains the pasty-faced guy. “You’re contaminating it. How did you get in here?”

  “I was just passing through,” I mutter dazedly.

  Remi giggles. Then she does her best to look stern. “Finlay,” she says firmly, “I can handle this. Give us a moment.”

  Finlay grudgingly leaves the room.

  “That was Phineas Finlay,” she says in a low voice. “My least favorite crime scene tech.”

  “He gives me the creeps,” I say.

  “He was right though,” she says. “What are you doing here?”

  “Erm…Just between us, I had a little wager with your boss, Chief Santagar?” It comes out sounding like a question.

  Remi’s russet eyebrows shoot up towards her fabulous hairline. “Do tell,” she says eagerly.

  I tell her about it. She whistles. “Wow. Storm is not going to be happy. Neither is the chief. It sounds like you are most definitely not supposed to be here.”

  “But you’ll let me stay?” I ask hopefully.

  “I wouldn’t object to having you back on the team,” she says with a grin. “But you’d better stay out of Leo’s way. He is a stickler.”

  “I thought you guys were in France?”

  “We got back this morning.”

  “What about Storm?” I whisper, my heart beating faster at the thought he might be downstairs. So near. And so dangerous to my mission right now.

  She looks amused, as if she knows exactly how I am feeling. She shakes her head. “He’s at headquarters. He got called away.”

  “Oh. Good.” However I can’t help but feel a little disappointed.

  Remi raises an eyebrow. “So? Have you seen anything useful?”

  I open my mouth to tell her everything but then I snap it shut. Technically Remi is part of the competition, since my mission is to beat Storm’s team to finding the killer.

  “You can’t be serious,” she says. “I’m letting you stay. You have to give me something.”

  “Okay.” I gesture at the bed. “I saw Lynesse there. He was hacking her with an axe. She was terrified.”

  It feels like a stupid thing to say. What person isn’t terrified when they are dying.

  She goes to beside the bed and bends down to look at something. “Huh,” she says. “Good catch.”

  First I see just a patch of dark blood near the dust ruffle, and then I see the handle of a weapon is sticking out. Remi carefully lifts the dust ruffle a few inches. The weapon is an axe.

  My sense of satisfaction lasts only half a second. I turn to the wall beside the door and point at DCK’s mark. “It wasn’t DCK,” I tell her. “See how there are no gouge marks? It’s a copycat.”

  Her eyebrows draw together. She goes closer to scrutinize it. She looks as disappointed as I had felt when I had first realized. “Dammit,” she says.

  She snaps a photograph of it with her phone and taps out a text message.

  “Was that to Storm?” I ask.

  She nods. “We were told it was DCK. I suppose it’s good news if it isn’t. From a press perspective I mean.”

  “I suppose you’ve got more chance of catching the killer now,” I say miserably.

  DCK is the one I wanted to catch. I consider whether he might be trying to trick us, but I know immediately that it is just wishful thinking. DCK loves to boast about his kills. He has a signature style. He would never ever leave a fake mark on one of his own kills.

  Silly misery guts. This is fantastic news, says the little voice inside my head. You had a wager. And if it’s not DCK, you’ve got a much better chance of catching him, haven’t you?

  I realize she is right. It only makes me feel a tiny bit better. I really had wanted to catch DCK.

  You can get him next time, she says grimly. And if you really want to feel all heroic, this killer is just as evil. He had no right to take Lynesse’s life. You remember that.

  Her words make me feel better. Lynesse deserves justice just as much as Magda does.

  Vengeance, insists the little voice. Lynesse deserves vengeance. Trust me, it’s far tastier than justice.

  “You would tell me if you saw the killer in your vision, wouldn’t you?” says Remi.

  I nod.

  She looks satisfied. “You get any more impressions from the bedroom?”

  I shrug. The revelation that this was not DCK has left me feeling rather dejected.

  “Then we’d better head downstairs,” says Remi crisply. “If you want to cover that before Leo gets back from speaking to the fiancé.”

  I look at her gratefully. Nice to know someone is on my side. “Do you think I could speak to the fiancé?” I ask hopefully.

  Remi gives a brief snort of laughter. “No. I recommend you give the witnesses a wide berth. Storm is sure to find out. And it would make him really mad.”

  We go downstairs together. I see the skeevy crime scene tech through a doorway, snapping pictures of the kitchen. I’m glad he is not in the lounge. I don’t particularly want to talk to him.

  Remi seems to sense I need a moment to mull things over. She leaves me standing near the base of the stairs, from where I watch her walk around the lounge. She takes a close look at two wine glasses on the coffee table but does not touch them. She eyes up the couches and the luxuriant textured cushions on them. I feel a pang. Lynesse Jones had been sitting on those couch and laughing with the dead man just minutes before they were killed.

  Remi glances at me enquiringly. I shake my head. Nothing yet. I should do what she is doing and walk around. I follow in her footsteps.

  “It is best if you don’t touch anything,” she says. “Want some gloves?”

  I shake my head. I don’t think touching things through plastic gloves will help. I suspect my gift works best with s
kin-to-object contact. I feel pretty useless without it.

  Remi, with her thin rubber gloves on, is poking around the large hardback books on a side-table. They look like they’re more for effect than for reading. I glance at a huge canvass image on a wall. It is a pixelated painting of a nude woman’s body, her head out of shot.

  One entire wall of the room is a huge window overlooking an outdoor area where there is a beautiful rectangle of a perfect-blue pool and some pristine wooden deckchairs beside it that look like they belong in some sunny holiday spot. This house is like a little piece of heaven. An entire universe away from my own one-room studio apartment.