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

at the thought of reading the gory details. Unlike the old press clippings and the conclusions from the court proceedings and coroner’s report, the police investigation wouldn’t skimp on the more traumatic evidence. I had to set aside my personal feelings and view these old case notes dispassionately, but it was easier said than done.

I poured myself a cup of strong coffee, then drew in a very long, very deep breath and scanned through the list of document titles to find what I wanted. Eventually I located the folder marked Witness Interviews and opened it up.

There were a lot of names. I ran my eyes down them, located Patrick Lacey’s and clicked on it.

When I saw what the file contained, I sent a brief prayer of gratitude to the detectives who’d been assigned to my parents’ murder. They’d certainly been thorough. Then it occurred to me that their attention to detail was because there was considerable doubt over Samuel Beswick’s status as main suspect. Those detectives weren’t around any longer and I couldn’t ask them about it: one had died, one was in a nursing home, and the other had decamped to warmer climes in Australia.

I stopped trying to second-guess their motives and focused on what was at hand. There wasn’t just a signed statement from Patrick Lacey, there was a video as well. With my heart in my mouth, I pressed play.

The video had been recorded in an interview room, quite possibly in the police station a stone’s throw away from where I was now. It was low definition and the sound quality was terrible; all the same, when I saw Patrick Lacey’s features gazing dolefully down at the table in front of him, I swallowed hard.

This version of Lacey wasn’t the hardened man with a propensity to start fights; this Lacey was ashen and shaking, clearly disturbed by what he’d seen. He looked impossibly young, as if he were barely out of school. There was acne on his chin and cheeks, and his hair was a mess. As if he’d somehow heard my thoughts through the screen across the span of twenty-five years, he reached up and tried to smooth it down. He only made his dark curls look even more unkempt.

The detective with him, who remained out of shot, introduced himself as DI Filsworth. He asked Lacey to explain what had happened in his own words. Lacey bit his lip and dropped his hands, then he began.

‘Mark Bellamy asked me to go round and fix one of his taps. I’d done work like that for him in the past so it wasn’t unusual. I told him that I wouldn’t make it to his place until later in the day, but my earlier appointment was cancelled so I ended up at the cottage much earlier than I’d expected.’

‘What time was that?’ the detective asked.

‘Uh, just after ten, I think.’ Lacey reached into his pocket and drew out a packet of Lambert and Butler. He tapped out a cigarette and placed it between his lips with shaking hands. ‘Do you have a light?’

There was a rustle and Filsworth’s hands came into shot, flicking a lighter. I watched, marvelling. This was 1995 but it was a different world; these days you’d get short shrift if you asked a detective for a light inside an interview room.

Patrick Lacey sucked hard and the end of the cigarette glowed. ‘When I got to the cottage, I knew something was wrong. The gate was open and the Bellamys always made sure it was locked because of their kiddie. They didn’t want her to get out and go wandering down the road. The cottage front door was open too. I just,’ he shrugged helplessly, ‘I just had a bad feeling about it. And I could hear her crying.’

‘You mean the child? Emma?’

‘Yeah, her. She kept on wailing and wailing. I’ve heard kids cry before, ’course I have, but this was different. She sounded different. It was obvious she wasn’t crying about something daft, you know?’

I clenched my jaw. Then, remembering what had happened to my glass of juice yesterday, I put my coffee cup to one side.

‘I called out,’ Lacey said, ‘but I couldn’t hear anyone apart from the kid. So I walked up the path and popped my head into the house. It smelled funny. Wrong. It was like…’ He dropped his head. ‘It was like blood.’ He shuddered and took a moment to compose himself.

‘You didn’t see or hear anybody else?’ Filsworth asked.

There was an odd half-beat before Lacey answered. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No one.’

I frowned and leaned forward, rewound the video and watched both the question and the answer again. It was a strange pause. It didn’t appear to be borne out of residual trauma, but neither did it appear to be a lie. And yet something about that skipped second of time seemed … off. I puzzled over it for a moment or two before continuing.

‘What about Samuel Beswick? Did you see him?’

Patrick Lacey blinked. ‘No. He was in London.’

‘He came back though, didn’t he? He got off a late bus on the night that the Bellamys were murdered.’

‘It wasn’t Sammy.’ Lacey looked even paler than before. ‘It wasn’t him, I promise you.’

‘You can’t say that for sure, Mr Lacey. You already told us you didn’t see anyone.’

He dropped into a whisper. ‘I didn’t.’

‘What happened when you approached the cottage?’

Patrick Lacey took a moment before answering, obviously still thrown by the suggestion that Beswick was the killer. When he spoke, his words were halting. ‘I knew it was going to be bad from the smell and the sound of the kid crying. I knew I was walking into something terrible but I couldn’t help myself. I just kept going. I walked into their cottage and followed the sound. And I found them in the kitchen.’ Tears started rolling down his cheeks.

My own tears rose unbidden. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek and forced them back. I could