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

I nibbled my bottom lip. ‘There is something else I should probably mention.’

Boateng looked wary. ‘Go on.’

I drew in a deep breath and told him about the strange voice I’d heard in the garden of my parents’ cottage.

‘It could have been kids,’ he said. ‘By now the whole village knows who you are and the teenagers here are bored enough to play tricks on you.’

‘I don’t think it was kids.’

‘What are you saying? Do you think Patrick Lacey and Julie Mackintosh’s murderer is stalking you because you didn’t die like they did?’

It was reasonable conjecture, although I had little proof to back it up. ‘I don’t have any theories,’ I said honestly, ‘but I thought I should bring it up.’

Boateng rubbed a hand tiredly over his head. ‘I’ll get someone to look round the place as soon as there’s time. It’s the best I can do.’

Whoever had whispered at me was long gone, but there was nothing I could say except, ‘Okay. Thanks again.’

Boateng waved at me. ‘Yeah, yeah. Be careful, Emma. Jumping to conclusions is tempting but you have to go where the evidence leads. We need facts, not daydreams.’

I dipped my head in acknowledgment. Noted.

As the local bobby, Rothsay knew exactly where Patrick Lacey’s house was. He had, he informed me, been to it on several occasions to deal with Lacey’s various indiscretions.

‘Patrick Lacey needed help,’ I said. ‘Not jail time.’

Rothsay snorted derisively. He still possessed the self-assurance of the young, where right was right and wrong was wrong. He didn’t know what I did about Lacey’s past. ‘You could say that about anyone who’s committed any crime. He was a victim of a brutal murder, but that doesn’t make him an angel.’

No, but committing a crime didn’t make him any less of a person either. I could well imagine Lacey’s knowledge of Samuel Beswick’s innocence had eaten away at him. No wonder he’d been so angry. I felt fucking furious.

Rothsay cut the police tape on Patrick Lacey’s door and opened it. It was the height of summer, yet the interior of the house felt chilly and desolate as I walked inside. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I was certain that I’d know it when I found it. If I found it.

The walls of every room had been whitewashed; this was interior design by someone who couldn’t care less about interior design. There were odd personal touches here and there, including a few interesting ornaments based on fantasy characters that had probably been bought from somewhere like the Forbidden Planet. Whether Lacey had bought them for himself or they’d been given to him, I didn’t know.

I flicked through the stacks of books in the living room and the first-floor spare bedroom. He’d been a prolific reader with eclectic tastes. From the mass of bottles in the kitchen, it appeared he’d also been a prolific drinker. I gazed at the opened bottles of whisky and vodka and tequila and rum and thought of the shaking young man who’d been interviewed twenty-five years ago. Consequences upon consequences. I sighed.

The bed in Lacey’s bedroom was unmade, the sheets marked with sweat stains. Although he remained silent, Rothsay’s nose wrinkled in disgust. I went to the heavy old wardrobe in the corner, opened it and gazed at the clothes hanging there before squinting down at its clawed legs. I gave the wardrobe a shake; it was surprisingly wobbly for such a large piece of furniture, as if it were not balanced properly. Perhaps something was wedged underneath it.

I prepared to drag it out from its corner so I could check. Rothsay immediately hopped over to my side. ‘What do you need?’

As a result of my supernatural strength, I was more than strong enough to pull the wardrobe away from the wall. Given how supes made Rothsay nervous, however, it would probably be better if he believed I was a normal human with normal muscles. ‘Er, give me a hand with this, will you?’

He nodded eagerly, and together we shoved the heavy wardrobe a foot forward. I looked behind it and spotted a wad of folded paper that had been setting the wardrobe off balance. I opened it up. If I’d been expecting a fabulous clue that would lead me to Lacey’s murderer, I would have been sorely disappointed; it was nothing more than an old electricity bill. It looked like Boateng was right and there was nothing to be found here.

I left the wardrobe where it was and got down on all fours to check underneath the bed. There was nothing but dust bunnies. I got up again and opened the top drawer on the bedside cabinet to reveal a dog-eared paperback, a balled-up tissue and several condoms still in their foil packets. I pursed my lips and closed the drawer. Then I opened it again.

‘What is it?’ Rothsay asked.

My hands encased in latex gloves, I picked up one of the condoms and held it up so Rothsay could see it.

‘So?’ he asked.

‘Patrick Lacey was having sex.’

Rothsay smirked. ‘Yeah. It beggars belief that someone would agree to shag the likes of him.’

I sent him a nasty glare and he looked down. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. Then his head shot up again. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘If Patrick Lacey was having sex, who was it with? Was it a recent one-night-stand thing? Or something more serious?’

‘Ask around,’ I told him. ‘Find out who it was.’

‘If it was serious, someone would have said something by now. We’ve spoken to almost everyone in Barchapel and nobody mentioned Lacey being in any kind of relationship.’

‘Maybe you weren’t asking the right questions,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Patrick Lacey was the village bad boy. Maybe he was involved with someone who wanted their relationship kept a secret because of his reputation.’

Rothsay looked dubious. I didn’t care. ‘Just find out who it might have been.’

Painfully aware that Lukas was ill because of my actions, I left Rothsay and went back to the Bird