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

‘Someone did break in,’ I said. ‘Some important files were stolen from my bag. I’m with the police too, and those files are very sensitive. This is a serious matter.’

The manager held himself stiffly. ‘There’s no sign of any tampering with the lock. If you’re suggesting that it was a member of staff…’

I seriously doubted my murderer worked here. ‘No,’ I told him. ‘I’m not.’ I raised my chin and spoke frankly. ‘I’m sure you’re aware of what happened to Patrick Lacey on Friday night, Mr…?’

‘Smith,’ he said. ‘Clive Smith. And, yes, I am.’

‘Did you know him well?’

‘I banned Patrick Lacey from here about six months ago. He caused too many problems and there was one fight too many. From what I heard, he ended up drinking at the Royal across the square. It was only a matter of time before they banned him from there too – if he hadn’t been killed, it would have happened before the month was out. The man was a menace. I can’t say that I’m weeping over his death.’ Another thought seemed to occur to him and he hastily added, ‘I didn’t wish him dead, though. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. And I certainly didn’t have anything to do with what happened to him.’

‘I understand. I appreciate your honesty, Mr Smith.’ I smiled at him to indicate that I had no reason to suspect him of murder. ‘The thing is, there’s good reason to believe that whoever broke into my room upstairs also killed Mr Lacey.’

Clive Smith sucked in a sharp breath and turned pale. He hadn’t been anticipating that.

‘That’s why there are people up there looking for any scraps of evidence that the culprit might have left behind,’ I continued. ‘Do you have CCTV here?’

‘The other police asked that,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve given them a copy of the footage from the last twenty-four hours. Would you like one too? I can give you whatever you need, but I’ve had a look through myself and there’s nothing suspicious.’

I hadn’t expected Smith to be quite so keen to pass over the footage to anyone who asked, but he was no doubt desperate to keep the Bird and Bush’s name out of the dirt. If anyone got wind that a vicious murderer was breaking into guest rooms, nobody would ever stay here again. A theft was bad enough; murder was on an entirely different level.

I nodded enthusiastically, indicating that the CCTV would be helpful. Smith appeared relieved. That suggested he really had looked through the footage and was confident that none of his employees were up to anything suspicious.

‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said, wringing his hands. ‘I’ll have you moved to another room. We’re very security conscious. To be honest, I can’t believe it has happened.’

This time I didn’t smile reassuringly. ‘We’re dealing with a nasty criminal, Mr Smith, someone who will stop at nothing. Can you think of anyone who wanted to harm Patrick Lacey?’

‘Only half of Barchapel, but I don’t know anyone capable of murder.’

‘Okay. Can you provide me with a list of all the guests who were staying here last night? And a list of your regular customers?’

‘I can do both,’ he answered instantly. ‘Although all the overnight guests at the moment are police in from Maidstone.’

‘Everyone needs to be checked out. You’d be surprised what sort of people are capable of murder,’ I said.

Smith’s eyes met mine. ‘I know who you are,’ he whispered suddenly. ‘Everyone was talking about it last night. You’re Emma. Your parents were the Bellamys.’

I eyed him. He didn’t look much older than me so I doubted he’d known my mum and dad, but I asked the question anyway. ‘Were you here back then? Do you remember it happening?’

‘I’m sorry, I only moved here about ten years ago.’ He laughed humourlessly. ‘I came from London with my wife because we wanted to be somewhere that felt safer.’ He shook his head. ‘What a joke.’

‘I’m sure it’s a lovely place to live and it’s normally very safe. Bad things can happen anywhere.’

The manager pulled a grim face.

‘I have one more question, Mr Smith,’ I said. ‘I need you to answer it honestly.’

He jerked. ‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Is there anyone living in Barchapel who you either know or suspect of being a supe?’

‘A supe?’ Smith looked flabbergasted. ‘But supes have to live in London. They’re not allowed to live here!’

‘As I’m sure you know, not everyone follows the letter of the law.’ I pressed on. ‘Is there anyone you can think of?’

‘No. God, no.’ He was horrified at the idea. He stared at me. ‘Is there a supe here? Did a fucking supe kill Lacey?’ He blinked as he realised belatedly that he’d sworn. ‘Mind my French.’ He blinked some more. ‘Are we talking vampire? Or werewolf? There’s old Mrs Timpson out by Killock Farm. She’s really short – maybe she’s a pixie. But no, she couldn’t have killed anyone. Not unless she ran over them with her mobility scooter. Is there really a supe here? In Barchapel?’

This probably wasn’t the time to tell him that he was talking to a supe right at that moment. ‘We’re investigating all possibilities, Mr Smith. It’s merely one avenue we’re exploring.’ I smiled. ‘Now, if you have that CCTV handy—’

‘I’ll make you a copy now.’ He shuddered. ‘A supe. Here. What is the world coming to?’

Clive Smith was far more upset by the thought of a supernatural creature in his village than a murderer. People, I decided, could be very, very weird indeed.

I introduced myself to the two forensics officers who were still working their way through my room, painstakingly searching for anything that might offer a viable clue. They told me their names were Barry and Larry.

‘We know,’ Barry said, with a self-mocking grin. ‘We’ve heard it all before. We’ve been working together for a while.’

It probably didn’t help that they were as similar in appearance as in name. Both men sported thick bushy moustaches that