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

everywhere combing through the park grounds. I spotted Barry and Larry, their faces only just visible, kneeling by a patch of ground and wearing identical frowns to go with their identical moustaches.

Boateng popped his head round the corner of the tent and hailed me. ‘Emma!’ he called. ‘Over here.’

I trudged towards him, watching where I stepped in case I trod on any vital evidence. I half expected PC Rothsay to join me but he hung back. The excitement of a murder investigation had well and truly worn off for him. I wetted my lips and joined Boateng, whose grim and unsmiling expression did nothing to put me at ease.

‘You got here quickly,’ he commented. He pointed at the tent. ‘She was found less than an hour ago.’ His lips thinned. ‘Not by little kids, fortunately. A local was taking a shortcut through the park and spotted her. We’re taking a statement from him back at the station.’

Okay. I absorbed his words with a nod. ‘Any preliminary indications on timing or cause of death?’

‘It looks as if she was killed in the same manner as Lacey. Her throat has been ripped out but there’s very little blood. As to time of death, well, it’s barely even tea time,’ he told me. ‘This is a far more public place than the alleyway where Lacey was found. Obviously we still have a lot of people to talk to but, as far as we can work out, a playgroup left the park just after three and there were no signs of the victim or any would-be killer then. The woman was found not long before five. The man who found her called it in at 4.48pm.’

I looked around, frowning. It was a sunny day, close to the end of the school year. ‘There’s a primary school near here, isn’t there?’ I asked. ‘Why wasn’t the park busy? Surely plenty of kids would have headed here after they were let out.’

‘It’s sports day,’ Boateng said. ‘School has run over.’ He held up a gloved hand. ‘And don’t ask me if we should be grateful. Although no children were here to end up dead or dismayed, it gave the killer an opportunity he wouldn’t have otherwise had.’

I clenched my jaw. Patrick Lacey on Friday. Me on Sunday. And now another victim on Monday. This was starting to feel like murder by numbers. ‘Can I see her?’ I asked.

‘Follow me.’

I ducked my head and stepped into the tent. There was no cloying, sickening scent of blood in the air but I could smell death. I gazed at the prone body of a woman, face down with her head turned away from me. One of the technicians moved back so I could get a look at the wound on her neck. I sucked in a sharp breath. It certainly seemed the same as Lacey’s, although in the flesh it was far grimmer than in a photograph. I knelt down to take a closer look and jerked back. Shit. Shit.

‘What is it?’ Boateng asked.

‘I know her,’ I whispered. Sort of. Bile rose up from my stomach and I suddenly felt light-headed. ‘I was talking to her last night in the bar at the Bird and Bush. Her name is Julie.’

Chapter Fourteen

I stayed at Roselands for some time watching Boateng and his team carry out their painstaking job of searching for evidence and helping them interview everyone who lived nearby, as well as all those who had come to gawk.

The atmosphere in Barchapel might not have changed in the aftermath of Patrick Lacey’s death but it was different now. One victim shouldn’t be treated differently to another, but whereas the Barchapel residents had barely blinked at Lacey’s murder they were devastated by Julie’s. I wondered if children would ever be allowed to play in that park again.

‘It’s not right,’ an old man who lived nearby told me, shaking his head. ‘She was a good person. She didn’t hurt anyone and she always looked out for people. She volunteered at the homeless shelter in Appledore on her days off, you know.’ He tutted. ‘This is just like what happened to the Bellamys. You think lightning won’t strike twice in the same place but here we go.’

A woman of a similar age, who I guessed was his wife from the way she looked at him, elbowed him sharply in the ribs. ‘What was that for?’ he muttered.

She flicked her eyes to me and away again.

‘I was only saying…’ He glanced at me. ‘Oh.’ His expression tightened. ‘You’re her. You’re Little Em.’ He took a step back.

I was starting to think that my identity was more of a hindrance than a help. I kept my face bland and professional. ‘When was the last time you saw Julie?’ I asked, keen to keep them focused.

‘Just this morning,’ he told me. ‘She was on her way to work at the care home over the way. She smiled at me and waved and said hello. I bet she didn’t think that she’d end up like this.’ He choked back a sob.

His wife made a murmur of shocked agreement and reached for my hands. ‘You’re so like your mother,’ she said. ‘It’s hardly surprising that you went into the police, given what happened. How are you? You’ve often been in our thoughts and prayers.’

‘I’m good.’ I managed a smile. ‘Can you tell me if you’ve noticed anyone strange or suspicious hanging around the village lately?’

Her hands fluttered. ‘There are so many people coming and going at this time of year. We get a lot of tourists, you see. Some pass through for an hour or two and some stay for longer. It was the same when you lived here. I’ve never been one for talking to the tourists but your dad was. He was such an inquisitive fellow, always chatting away! He died so young. It’s so very tragic.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Oh, Emma. I’m sorry. What Samuel Beswick did to your family…’

There was a pointed