‘You’re not real, are you?’ he said, his voice husky. A vice-like band wrapped around his head and tightened with the realisation. It was taking him away. To the other place.
Mother narrowed her eyes, her voice full of steely hatred. Her skin paled, before becoming translucent. ‘I’m waiting for Callum.’
Bert took a step backwards as clarity descended. It was a mistake coming back to this place. If he stayed here he would never get better, he would return to the darkness, which brought the rage that ended his mother’s life. Perhaps it was already with him.
Memories of his childhood soured sympathy into disdain. He pushed his hands into his coat pockets and wrapped his bony fingers around the cold hard metal of his van keys. Creak, creak, creak, the rocking chair groaned, the infernal noise making him grip the keys tighter until they pierced his skin. The room fell into darkness, lit only by the shafts of light through the broken shuttered window.
Bert retreated to the door, as the final threads of clarity evaporated. He backed away, his leaden feet bringing him to his bedroom one last time. Clasping his hand over the wrought iron bedpost, he stared through the white timbered window as his fragile mind transported him back to the most significant day of his life. The day his brother died.
Chapter Nineteen
Jennifer’s eyes swept up to the cool, clear sky to search for ravens. Mumbling under her breath, she told herself to stop being melodramatic. She had done all she could, and most likely Emily would live to steal another day.
Jennifer pulled the handbrake of her car and peered at the houses to the left of Will’s vision. ‘It’s one of these bungalows over here,’ she said, pointing across the way. Doors slammed and blinds twitched as they walked towards Emily’s front door. These were people who could smell police a mile away. The fresh morning air did little to ease the sense of desolation. The residents were nocturnal creatures, rarely surfacing before the afternoon. Emily Clarke would not appreciate her visit, but being arrested for a minor theft may well keep her safe in custody for a few hours. God knew what Jennifer was going to do with her son if there was nobody there to look after him.
‘Here it is,’ Jennifer said, pressing the doorbell. No answer. Jennifer knelt down, lifting the scratched silver letterbox to peer inside. ‘Hello,’ she shouted, checking the listless property for signs of life.
‘I’ll go around the back,’ Will said, opening the stiff wooden gate to the side alley, which led to the rear of the house.
Jennifer nodded before turning her attention back to the letterbox. She poked her fingers through the stiff bristles of the draught excluder blocking her vision. The last time she did that a dog nearly had her fingers off, but she already knew that there were no pets in Emily Clarke’s home. ‘Hello. It’s the police. Can you open the door?’
Her ears pricked to hear the pitter patter of bare feet against lino. ‘Hello?’ Jennifer repeated in a gentle voice. ‘Is there anybody home?’
A flash of red hair bobbed from what looked like the kitchen at the end of the corridor, just long enough for Jennifer to get a glimpse of a little boy. Please don’t tell me she’s gone off and left him all alone, Jennifer thought. She patted her pockets and was relieved to find a packet of Maltesers in her jacket. ‘My name is Jennifer. I’ve got chocolate,’ she said. ‘Would you like some?’
The rustle of the bag drew out the boy, and he ran to the letterbox, extending his dirty hands to the open hatch. ‘Can you open the door?’ Jennifer asked, pushing back the bristles to get a better look.
He shook his tear-streaked face, his eyes wide and hungry. Jennifer pushed the bag through the gap and he snatched it with a gasp. His small, skinny fingers tore open the packet and shoved handfuls of chocolate into his mouth, enlarging his cheeks and sending a dribble of brown saliva down his freckled chin. Having devoured the chocolate, the little boy wobbled to one side as he scampered into a side room and slammed the door.
Jennifer reached for her radio to call for social services, and was joined by Will, his mouth set in a grim line.
She had seen that look before, and she knew exactly what it meant.
‘Please tell me you haven’t found a body.’
Will nodded. ‘Her bedroom window is open. Her body is on the bed. I don’t know how long she’s been there but I’m guessing over twenty-four hours.’
Jennifer felt as if she was sinking in quicksand. Was there anything she could have done to stop this? What sort of a person would kill a young girl with her son present? A look of horror crossed her face as the enormity of the situation fell upon her. ‘Her son’s in there. We’ve got to get him out.’
‘He’s inside? Shit,’ Will said, turning up the radio clipped to his shoulder harness. ‘I’ve notified control of the body. Backup isn’t far away.’
Jennifer shielded her face with her hand, blotting out the intrusive sun. ‘Are you mad? The killer could still be inside. I’m not waiting a second longer. Keep the boy talking while I climb in through the bedroom window.’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea …’ Will’s voice tailed off as Jennifer disappeared down the side alley of the house.
[#]
Jennifer rooted in her jacket pockets, relieved to find a single glove. It was better than nothing. She unclipped her baton from her shoulder harness, gripping the padded handle. With a flick of her wrist, she extended the cold hard metal, using it to cast aside the heavy maroon curtains in the bedroom window. Jennifer eased herself over the chipped wooden frame, cursing the tremor in her legs as adrenalin pumped through her body. The fact she might be using the same point of entry as the killer heightened the sense of menace, and she scoped the small, cluttered bedroom, holding her baton tightly in defence. Her gaze rested on Emily, partially concealed under the flower-patterned duvet. She shook her head in sorrow for the woman who would not see her little boy grow up. Jennifer pushed back the feelings of self-reprobation, leaning hard on her police training as she gazed upon Emily’s waxen face. The burst blood vessels in her eyes combined with the tightly bound ligature suggested a brutal suffocation. Jennifer’s eyes flickered towards the closed bedroom door, hearing Will’s comforting tones speak to the child through the letterbox. She quickly updated control of her position at the scene, her mind racing between horror at Emily’s death, and the urgent need for forensic evidence. Emily’s expression was one of frozen shock, yet the attack had been followed by a period of calm as her hair was gracefully positioned over the pillow, and her arms lay neatly by her sides. That was, unless her son had tucked her in. Jennifer shuddered. It did not bear thinking about.
Her baton still extended, she took in her surroundings. A pair of knee-length leather boots lay on their side next to a denim skirt and a hastily strewn sweatshirt. The glint of a mobile phone spilling out from the skirt pocket caught her attention. Jennifer moved it with her baton. It was a smartphone, which meant it had access to Facebook, and of course, text messages and phone calls. She should leave it in situ. Attending officers would seize it and download any data, which would later be shared with her. But this was her case. She wanted to be the one to bring the Raven in, not for the glory, but for Emily’s son. The hollowed scream of sirens snapped her out of her indecision. There was no time to spare. Hastily grabbing a plastic carrier bag from the floor, she threw it over the phone and slipped it into her jacket pocket. She grasped the door handle with her gloved hand, and exhaled in relief as it refused to open. Emily’s son had not been able to gain access to his mother’s broken body, because the door had been locked from the inside. She quickly turned the key in the latch and entered the narrow hall.