Scorched Heart (The Firebrand Series Book 4) by Helen Harper (top non fiction books of all time .txt) 📗

I nodded slowly, although it wasn’t actually the wound that had given me pause – it was the lack of blood splatter. Lacey’s face was clean. There wasn’t so much as a smudge of blood on his skin. There also appeared to be very little on his clothes, although he’d been wearing a dark T-shirt so there could be plenty of blood droplets that weren’t visible.

‘Is there any suggestion that the killer cleaned him post-mortem?’ I asked carefully.

Boateng gave me a small smile. ‘None. In fact Lacey still has traces of beer round his mouth to prove that his face wasn’t wiped clean. It seems almost inconceivable, doesn’t it, that a fully-grown man could suffer such a terrible wound yet not be covered in his own blood afterwards?’

‘What about the ground?’ I asked.

‘Specialists are still examining the scene. There’s some of Lacey’s blood around where his body was found.’ He shrugged. ‘A few teaspoons’ worth, perhaps, yet he lost almost half of the blood in his body. It appears as if whoever killed him also drank his blood.’ Boateng fixed me with a long look. ‘I think you’ll agree that’s not typical human behaviour.’

I shook my head slowly. No, it wasn’t, but I was far from ready to declare this a supernatural crime just yet. ‘If you wanted to cover up evidence of a pre-meditated crime, you’d do well to pin the blame on supes.’

‘Indeed,’ Boateng agreed. ‘It’s important not to jump to conclusions. But even if there aren’t illegal supes living in the Barchapel area, it would be easy for someone based in the London enclaves to make a short trip here to take care of Mr Lacey. I don’t imagine it took you very long to get here from the city.’

‘It didn’t.’ I paused. ‘But I had a good reason to come. Why would a London supe want to kill a man living in the Kent countryside? Did Patrick Lacey have any London connections?’

Boateng shrugged. ‘Other than an aunt he’s not seen for years, and a few old friends who moved there and who he seemed to have lost touch with, none that we can see. We’ve looked into his recent movements and it doesn’t appear that he’d visited London for months. However, none of what I’ve mentioned so far is the real reason why we suspect supe involvement.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on.’

He slipped another photograph out of the file and laid it in front of me. Then another. And another. I studied each one in turn.

‘These are images of the ground around where Patrick Lacey’s body was found,’ Boateng told me. ‘He was discovered just after six o’clock on Saturday morning by a local resident called Maria Payne, who was out walking her dog. There had been some rain during the previous evening and the ground was soft enough to form some partial marks. We’ve taken impressions of her shoes – you can see Mrs Payne’s footprints here.’ He indicated some indistinct marks.

‘The first police officer on the scene was PC Robert Rothsay, who you met just now. Despite his lack of knowledge about supes, he is a diligent and careful constable who understands how to approach a crime scene. He took the time to put on overshoes and he kept his foot treads to a minimum, retreating as soon as he’d established that Mr Lacey was beyond reviving.’ Boateng pointed again at the first photo. ‘We’ve established that these prints are his.’

I nodded. Shivers of trepidation were starting to burst through my veins.

‘Naturally, we also took impressions of Mr Lacey’s footprints.’ He gestured to the second photo. ‘The evidence indicates that this particular trail marks his approach from the west side, which is also the direction that Mrs Payne came from. And then here,’ he tapped the third photo, ‘is a series of different prints that come from the opposite direction, the eastern side.’

I squinted. The marks were smudged but I could tell they looked like heavy boot prints heading towards the spot where Lacey had been found. Even I could see that they were markedly different to both Lacey and Payne’s footprints. ‘Okay,’ I said slowly, still not quite understanding.

‘Roughly ten metres away from Patrick Lacey’s body, these unidentified prints disappear. There’s a section of harder ground where no footprints are visible.’ Boateng withdrew one final photo. ‘But after a few metres there’s enough soft earth that the trail continues. Except the boot prints have been replaced by these marks that continue to the location of the body.’ He turned the photo round so I could see it.

I sucked in a sharp breath. Forming a perfectly straight line that headed directly to where Lacey was found dead were several gigantic paw marks.

‘What kind of dog does Mrs Payne have?’ I asked, staring at them.

‘A miniature poodle,’ Boateng answered. ‘Named Jimmy. I met him yesterday and I can confirm that he’s a vicious little chap. Even more so than the Chihuahua that nibbled on my wife.’ He held up his hand and I spotted a few small bruises around the base of his thumb.

‘But I can also guarantee that there is no way on God’s green earth that Jimmy made those paw prints. We’ve measured them. Even a Great Dane doesn’t have paws that large. We haven’t established exactly what manner of creature made those marks. We suspect werewolf, but we could be wrong. But the prints are not human, I promise you that.’

He leaned back once more in his chair and regarded me carefully.

‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘They don’t look like werewolf prints.’ I met Boateng’s steady gaze. ‘But I have to agree reluctantly that they’re not human either. You’re right, sir – it does look like a supe murdered Patrick Lacey.’

Chapter Seven

DCI Harris Boateng was less concerned with politics and county divisions than he was with solving Patrick Lacey’s murder and catching the perpetrator. Without being prompted, he handed over a hefty wad of