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

Chapter Nine

PC Rothsay was hopping from foot to foot outside the police station. His expression was similar to one I’d noted on Fred’s young face – puppy-dog enthusiasm and excitement. Rothsay had probably been hoping that a murder investigation would involve running around like James Bond or Jason Bourne and bringing swift justice to a cruel world, not sifting through paperwork and questioning local residents. This little outing was probably the most thrilling thing that had happened since he’d first attended the crime scene.

He beamed at me as I approached. ‘Hi, DC Bellamy!’

It was impossible not to smile back. ‘Hi.’

‘I brought you coffee.’ He pressed a disposable cup into my hands. ‘It’s from the shop round the corner. It’s really good. I wasn’t sure how you liked your coffee so I got some sachets of sugar to go with it.’

‘No sugar.’ I took a sip. ‘This is perfect. Thank you.’

His grin was so wide it seemed to split his face in two. ‘You’re welcome. I was right, wasn’t I? It’s definitely a supe that killed Lacey.’ He nodded rapidly, agreeing with himself. ‘I knew it as soon as I saw the wound. Werewolf, huh?’

‘Well,’ I demurred, ‘I’ve checked on the paw prints at the scene and they don’t appear to be from a wolf.’

Rothsay visibly deflated. It was quite extraordinary to watch. ‘But … but … what else could it have been?’

‘I don’t know yet.’ Something that wears heavy boots and likes to hide in wardrobes as well as on dark pathways. ‘People always think of vampires and werewolves but there are all sorts of other supernatural creatures. The supe who attacked poor Mr Lacey is clearly one of the rarer beings.’

Rothsay’s eyes were wide. ‘Like what?’

‘I’m not sure yet. It’s best to keep an open mind and evaluate the evidence before we jump to any conclusions. I know a lot about supes but my knowledge isn’t encyclopaedic and there’s always more to learn. Why don’t you lead the way to the crime scene and we’ll see what’s there first?’

He offered up another happy little hop then pointed to his right. ‘We can walk,’ he said. ‘It’s not far.’

I followed his lead. ‘So,’ I said, keen to know more about Barchapel and its residents because any information might lead to more details about me and my parents, ‘have you always lived here?’

‘No,’ Rothsay replied, disappointing me. ‘I grew up in Appledore and then I was posted to Maidstone after I qualified as a police constable. I only moved to Barchapel about a month ago, so I’m still getting to know the village.’

‘It takes time,’ I said, sipping more of my coffee. ‘You’ll get there.’

The young policeman nodded enthusiastically again. ‘I will. You should know that it’s not the first time there’s been a vicious murder in Barchapel. The last one was a double murder – though it wasn’t committed by supes and it was years ago. The bloke who did it is still in prison and he’s as human as you can get. His name is Samuel Betwick.’

‘Beswick,’ I murmured, without thinking.

Rothsay flung me a surprised look. ‘You know about him?’

I took a gamble and opted for the truth. It was probably round half the village by now. ‘It was my parents who were killed.’

Rothsay paled and I realised that I’d wrong-footed him for the second time in two days. ‘You weren’t to know,’ I said. ‘And it was a long time ago.’

He stared at me. ‘If they were your parents, that means you were found…’ His voice trailed away.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I was, but I don’t remember anything about it. I suppose that’s a good thing.’

He swallowed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s okay.’ As anyone who’s ever suffered a similar loss will know, you spend as much time consoling others about what’s happened as you spend feeling sorry for yourself. That was why, up until now, I’d rarely mentioned what had happened to my parents. It was usually easier to keep quiet on the subject. Usually.

‘Do you know much about what happened back then?’ I asked. ‘Do people round here talk about it?’

‘Not much,’ Rothsay mumbled, clearly still convinced he’d made a terrible gaffe.

I stopped walking and turned to him. ‘It wasn’t Lacey’s murder that drew me to Barchapel,’ I told him. ‘It was what happened to my parents. I still have some unanswered questions about that time.’ Including why the hell I’m able to keep dying and returning to life. ‘You’re the local bobby here. Any local gossip, no matter how salacious or grubby, is useful.’

Rothsay’s eyes flicked to mine and then away again. I held my breath. So he did know something. I waited, hoping what he was about to say wouldn’t shatter too many of the few warm memories I possessed.

‘Maybe some things are better left unsaid,’ he hedged.

I didn’t press him, I simply waited. Fortunately my tactic worked.

Rothsay ran a hand through his hair. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘this is only hearsay. It’s not necessarily true. Like I said, I’ve only been here a month or so. And I wasn’t even born when Samuel Beswick killed your parents. Stories can take on a life of their own and change to fit the circumstances so —’

I held up my hand. ‘I get it,’ I said calmly. ‘I’m not expecting to hear the gospel truth, I just want to know what whispers you’ve heard in your short time here. I won’t attribute them to you and I’ll take anything I hear with a pinch of salt. I promise.’

Rothsay sighed. ‘Fine.’ He turned and pointed towards the east of the village. ‘There’s a large manor house over there, on the far side of Barchapel. Back in the day, it was owned by the Stirling family. They were the landed gentry around these parts. These days it’s owned by a woman called Miranda James. She’s a bit … off the wall.’

‘What does that mean?’

He shrugged awkwardly. ‘In another time, she’d probably have been burned at the