Her eyes flicked up to the sky and she was relieved to see an absence of ravens. Pinkish candy-floss clouds streaked the sky, intermingling with white smoky chemtrails as the sun went down. One of her mother’s sayings repeated in her mind. ‘Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight.’ Jennifer wondered what sort of worries her mum had at her age. Not serial killers and rabid ravens. As far as she knew, her mother dealt with only one killer in her lifetime. Jennifer shook her head. Only one. As if dealing with lots of serial killers was normal. For Jennifer, she knew terror would seek her out in every form. At least now she felt strong enough to know she would cope with whatever was thrown at her. Life had changed so much in the last year, yet she was feeling stronger now than ever. She was her own woman, had her own independence, and the strength to stand up to her father. Even the memories of the past could not hurt her any more. It was just as well. She would never truly be free of it.
Chapter Forty-Four
Bert
Bert peered through the car window down the quiet cul de sac. His time on the streets was severely restricted, now Haven was crawling with police. It wasn’t the only thing that was crawling; the intense itching had returned like fire ants, boring tunnels under the surface of his skin. He had seen it in the cards. There would be another death before the homeless man’s prediction came true.
It could not come quick enough as far as Bert was concerned. A mixture of torture and excitement heightened his senses. His cards had led him here, where all the houses looked the same, their low brick walls skirted by small neat flower gardens. All square, boring and functional. Not like the house he shared with mother. But mother was gone. He accepted that now. The cause of her death was murky. Had he really killed her? Or had he frightened her before he left, wrapping his fingers around her throat, only to release them as she cried out for mercy? Years of drug-taking had addled his brain. But it was not the recreational kind. The memories of The Rivers mental health facility had slowly returned, ebbing like the tide, bringing him nearer to lucidity. The closer he got to his end goal, the clearer his mind became.
He returned his attention to the task in hand. Net curtains twitched next door as a silver Mercedes pulled up on a driveway, the glint of the evening sun dazzling against the metallic paint. A pair of long bronzed legs stepped out of the driver’s side, attached to a pair of red high heels. Despite her short leather mini skirt and low-cut blouse, the woman alit with reasonable grace. Her long black hair contrasting against her sheer white blouse, she tottered to the boot of the car, wrapping her polished nails around the handles of the various pink glossy shopping bags. Bert squinted as she dropped her car keys, bending from the waist to pick them up. He tutted as he leaned forward for a better view. He could almost see her knickers as her skirt rode up her thighs. This woman clearly did not care about revealing her body to all and sundry. The next-door neighbour’s curtains twitched a second time as the woman walked up her short drive with her purchases. Bert pulled his keys from the ignition and stepped out of the van. She was too wrapped up in her purchases to notice, and closed her front door behind her.
Bert felt a chill of unease. The bright spring weather left him exposed under the gaze of the surrounding houses, and he hesitated as he stepped onto the pavement. A crawling itch behind his right ear drove him onwards, and he tipped his hat over his forehead as he strode down the narrow alleyway. It acted as a cut-through between the house to his side and the one in front, affording him a clear view into the rear of the house with the twitching curtains. Bert peeped into the scrubby back garden, furnished with a homemade wooden tree house and glass house devoid of plants. The overgrown grass and lack of toys suggested the two-storey home was bereft of children. The tree house consisted of what appeared to be a hastily nailed together floor, supported by three rickety walls and a roof.
Bert ducked from view as a pot-bellied man exited the back door. His vest had seen better days, and even from over the fence, Bert could see it was stained with the remains of his lunch. The grey hairs running through his mop of sandy hair suggested he was at least late fifties. Peppered sideburns crept down his jaws, met by a patch of stubble. Pot-belly man waddled down the path humming happily. He hitched up his baggy jeans before beginning the ascent up the wooden steps of the dingy tree house. Bert cringed as the man’s pants crept back down with every step he took, revealing the crack of his considerable backside. But it was of no concern to pot-belly man as he struggled to climb the ladder. His binoculars swung with each step, attached on a cord around his thick neck. Once inside, he pulled up a chair and stared expectantly through his binoculars. For a moment, Bert thought the man was bird watching, until it became apparent he was staring directly into the top window of the house next door. Bert rolled a cigarette, trying to look innocuous as he heard the hum of a car motor pulling up behind the Mercedes. As the car door slammed, pot-belly man beamed a smile, shifting in his chair as he leaned forward for a better view. What on earth? Bert thought, as the watcher’s thick fingers single-handedly undid his belt buckle. Unable to see the focus of his excitement, Bert crept down the alley for a better view. But it was no use; although the room next door had no curtains or blinds, he was unable to see from his vantage point. Bert sucked the last of his cigarette and flicked it on the ground. He had other ways of finding out.
He returned to his mother’s car, averting his eyes from the unsavoury activity in the tree house. Just how was he going to speak to him? It wasn’t as if he could knock on his door and offer a reading. But like everything in Bert’s life, the cards would guide him into finding a way.
The answer came the following morning as Bert ventured out with his van. He took the country lanes, rather than the main road that led him into town. They served not only as a useful short cut, but as excellent cover from the sharp-eyed locals on the lookout for suspicious activity. He tried to have confidence in his mission, but it was difficult to blend in when you were driving a rusted orange VW splodged with bird droppings.
He did not see the bicycle shoot out of the side road until it was too late. Bert stamped on the brakes, sending the van screeching to a halt, but the man he had watched the day before hit the panel with a thunk, before skidding off his bike onto the verge.
Bert clambered out of the van, wondering if this was a random accident or all part of a greater plan. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, reluctant to offer his hand. He hesitated, and then remembered his gloves before pulling them on and reaching out to help.
‘I … I don’t know what happened, I think my brakes failed.’ Pot-belly man spoke in a scouse accent, groaning as he climbed to his feet. He brushed away the pebbles embedded in his face, each one blooming a pinprick of blood in its wake. He shook the dust from the knees of his baggy jeans, and then straightened up to inspect the damage to the van. Shaking his head, he stared at his mangled bike. ‘That could have been me under there. Have I damaged your van?’
Bert looked at the gnarled metal of his bike partially lodged under the bumper. ‘That’s all right, it doesn’t matter.’ He tried to contain the tingle of excitement sparking inside him. The perfect opportunity had landed in his lap, and it would be worth a dent in the van to get the man alone. ‘Just hold on while I pull it out,’ he said, wrenching at the handlebars and pulling it free. The wheel was completely buckled, and he leaned what was left of the bike against the van, and turned to survey the man’s injuries.