‘It’s just a case I’m working on. I wondered if there was a connection.’ She pulled a business card from the inside of her jacket pocket and slid it across the table. ‘If anything else comes to you, call me on this number. It doesn’t matter what time it is. I know you’re against changing your number, but I strongly advise you do.’
‘He might come to the house if he can’t get through on the phone. My kids stay weekends. I can’t risk it.’
She passed over the statement, pointing to the signature block at the end. ‘The allegation of harassment will give us an excuse to bring him in, and I’ll make enquiries with the institution as to his whereabouts.’
‘Thank you. I hope you find him soon,’ he said, signing the statement and passing it back.
‘Try not to worry. I’m sure it’s not as bad as it seems,’ she said, shuffling her papers.
Christian pushed his chair back as he stood up. ‘We should go out for coffee, talk about the old days.’
Jennifer tucked her paperwork under her arm and walked towards the door. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Oh, and Jennifer, be careful with my cousin.’ Christian’s voice became slow and deliberate. ‘He appears harmless on the outside … but he harbours something dark. I felt it during my premonition.’
Jennifer gave him a wry smile as she showed him out. ‘Congratulations. You’ve just described most of the people I deal with.’
[#]
Christian’s warning played on her mind that night as she flicked through the pages of her paperback. It was one of the rare occasions that she finished work on time, and the evening seemed to stretch on forever. The institution that dealt with his cousin was called The Rivers, and had promised to get back to her the next day. She hadn’t ruled out the possibility of him being the pub tarot card reader, but without CCTV, she didn’t have much to go on.
Despite the soft music playing in the background, Jennifer found it impossible to relax. Two hours of cleaning her immaculate kitchen had left her with wrinkled fingers and stiff limbs. Coming from a childhood entrenched in neglect and disorder, cleaning was the only way she could stay in control. Her anxiety dictated the length she spent on it, and today’s regime had managed to exhaust her. She massaged her shoulder blades, pinching her skin between forefinger and thumb in an effort to ease the tension. She thought about visiting her sister, but Amy had been very cagey lately. Jennifer’s bond with her nephew Joshua was growing even stronger, and his attachment to her got on her sister’s nerves.
Jennifer shut the book and allowed her mind to wander. The usual whispers floated through, disembodied voices seeking an audience. Some were connected to the house she lived in, but others were there simply because they tuned into her frequencies, like a scratchy radio channel, whispering words she could barely understand. Allowing them to pass through was easier than trying to shut them off. Take the path of least resistance, she had been advised, and it was working well.
A thump from her front door jolted her from her trance and she shook the sleep from her legs as she uncurled from the warmth of the sofa. Who’s calling at this hour? she thought, flicking on the hall light. A cold breeze tickled the back of her neck as she approached the door, peering through the shadowless stained glass.
‘Who’s there?’ she asked, holding her breath for a reply. Squeezing her left eye closed, she squinted through the peephole out to the orange glow of the streets beyond. Nothing. Jennifer twisted the latch, peeping out through the slant in the door. Her senses told her to be on her guard, senses that both frustrated and guided her. If those damned whispers made any sense then maybe they would be of use, she thought, shuddering as the cool night air curled around the legs of her satin pyjamas.
‘Hello?’ she said, holding tightly to the doorframe as she opened it wider. Her eyes dropped to the cement step onto a black bundle of feathers at her feet. Crouching down, she tentatively prodded the iridescent plume, her eyes darting upwards to the car-lined street then back to the black feathered bundle before her. The raven was still and warm, but the life had left its eyes. Jennifer stood up and scratched her head. Dead creatures didn’t bother her in the slightest, having spent years in the country with her aunt Laura after her mother died. But anything deceased on her doorstep at night sent warning signals.
Scooping up the limp body into a black bin bag, she tried to make sense of its presence. It must have flown into the door, she thought, carrying it out to the bin. But why would a raven be flying in the dark? She hesitated as she lifted the dustbin lid. It didn’t seem right to put the poor dishevelled creature out with the rubbish. Sighing heavily, she tied the bag and rested it gently outside the back door. She would bury it in the garden tomorrow.
Jennifer froze as a whisper carried on a breeze, and a feeling of unreality raised goose bumps on her flesh. Bert Bishop … look no further. Jennifer peered out into the moonlit garden. Did the voice come from outside or the recesses of her mind? She didn’t know. She searched her memory for recognition of a name that would come to mean a great deal. Bert Bishop was the name of Christian Bowe’s cousin. She recalled the description of the creepy old man in the bar who had spoken to Alan Price. Stepping inside, she locked the back door as a feeling of unease crept up her spine. Staring out into the stillness of her garden, the affirmation grew stronger in her mind. She couldn’t explain it but somehow she knew. Bertram Bishop had delivered the fatal prophecy to Alan Price in the bar – and he wasn’t stopping there.
Chapter Six
Bert
A hot shower, a brandy from the minibar, the feel of carpet under bare feet. In the comfort of his room, the simple things in life were bliss. But Bert’s nightcap could not blot out the irritation from the perfumed soap seeping into the cracks in his skin. Dragging his nails over the inflammation, he groaned in short-lived gratification before blistering pain sliced through every nerve. Bert unzipped his toiletry bag and pulled out a small wrinkled tube. The steroid cream did little to ease the skin condition that fed off his tormented mind. Hypocrite, his conscience whispered, and Bert flapped his hands to the side of his head, dismissing the thoughts like a swarm of bees.
The mattress bounced gently as Bert tested the bed. He ran his hand over the crisp white duvet cover. He was looking forward to sleeping in fresh linen. It reminded him of when he was a boy. Each night mother dutifully slathered him in creams before bandaging his broken skin, humming a tune under her breath to avoid conversation. It was all done with all the love and attentiveness of someone gutting a fish.
She had little else to do, with one child in the family. But it was not always that way. The second of identical twins, Bert arrived to the world as an afterthought. His parents would have been content with Callum. His dimpled cherubic face and soft blond hair made him the perfect child. His beauty was enhanced even further by the arrival of his brother.
At half the weight, Bert came into the world a wizened creature, eyes squeezing hot tears as he rasped a starving cry. There was little known about twin-to-twin transfusion, and the doctor had explained it as simply as he could. Callum had taken the share of nutrition in the womb, leaving little for Bert, who was not expected to survive the night. His parents, who had only been expecting one baby anyway, took the sensible option of not getting attached to him. Besides, they had Callum, what more did they need?
Bert was a shrink-wrapped version of his twin; his face thin and scrawny, with blond hair drained to a brittle white. He bunched his fists as he screamed, his scaly pink scalp visible underneath the wisps of his listless hair. It was his anger, his fury at the world that ensured his survival.