Time To Die Read online

  A pair of eyes bored into his back as he shoved the folded-up cash into the crevice of his hat. He stumbled down the path into the night, cursing under his breath as car tyres splashed puddles and drenched his clothes. Lost in his anger, he did not hear the lone figure approach. A dog barked in the distance, as the clouds blotted the moon, but Bert was alerted to the familiar scene too late. His eyes bulged as a gloved hand clamped over his mouth, his captor spitting angry threats. Bert gagged, the smell of vomit and cigarettes overpowering as the gloved hand dragged him backwards into an alleyway. Staring but not seeing, Bert tripped over the broken concrete, desperately trying to gather his thoughts. An icy wind cut through the alley as the moon cleared the clouds, bringing a familiarity to the scene. It hit him with frightening clarity – this was the scene of Emily’s prediction. His heart hammered in his ribcage as he fought for breath. Was he taking the punishment in Emily’s place? A strike of terror drove through his heart as the pock-faced man bore down on him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bert

  * * *

  Searing white pain greeted Bert as he awoke with a groan in the narrow metal bed. ‘Mother?’ came out as a muffled ‘Muffah?’ through blood-crusted lips, and the world began to sway as he struggled to focus with swollen eyes. Panic rose in his throat as he clawed the bed, trying to find his bearings.

  ‘Steady now.’ A soft voice approached and a hand touched his bare arm.

  Bert shrivelled from the contact. This was not mother.

  ‘You’re in hospital. Just try to relax,’ the nurse said, smoothing his blankets with soft, gentle hands. She was so close he could smell her perfume, which was flowery and sweet, somewhat like her.

  Bert drew soothing breaths and his vision began to clear. ‘What happened?’ He touched his temples and winced. His head felt like it had been stuffed with bricks.

  ‘You’ve had a beating and concussion, but nothing that won’t heal. Here, have a drink.’

  With trembling hands, Bert gripped the plastic tumbler and gulped down tepid water.

  ‘There’s an officer here very keen to speak to you. I’ll go and get her.’

  Police involvement was the last thing Bert wanted, at least not yet. But by the time he sat up to argue, the nurse was gone. He gave a weary sigh as a broad woman in a very tight police uniform plodded through the curtain surrounding his bed. Her black bobbed hair hung limply as if it were attached to the inside of her police hat.

  Bert looked past his unwelcome visitor and through the gap in the hospital curtain. A yellowed semblance of a man slept in the bed across from him, his toothless mouth drawing in the hospital air that could soon be his last. Bert shuddered. The thoughts of sleeping in a shared ward gave him a sudden impulse to grab his things and leave.

  A deep voice broke into his thoughts. ‘I’m Officer Wallace, the neighbourhood constable for this area. Can I have a minute of your time?’

  Bert stared, mesmerised by the woman’s facial hair.

  She did not wait for a reply. ‘You were found in an alleyway by a man looking for his dog. We’ve had several reports of robberies in this area. Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ Bert croaked, wishing the flowery nurse would return.

  The woman bit the top of her pen as she shuffled closer to the side of his bed. For one horrifying moment, Bert thought she was going to sit on it.

  ‘Can you start by giving me your details? You didn’t have any ID when they brought you in.’

  ‘My cards. They’ve taken my cards?’ Bert whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

  She nodded sympathetically, completely missing the point. ‘You’ll have to report any missing cards to the bank. Now if you’d like to provide me with your details we can find out who’s done this to you.’

  ‘No. I don’t know anything. Just leave me alone.’ Bert flapped his hands. Why wouldn’t she go away instead of mooing in his ear?

  The officer slapped her pocket notebook shut and backed away. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll come back tomorrow when you’re feeling better.’

  ‘Have a shave first,’ Bert felt like saying. He was not feeling charitable. If there was one thing he hated it was hospitals. He always left feeling like he had been taken apart and put back together the wrong way. Bert tried to remember the last time he was in hospital but the memories were behind doors that would not open.

  He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, too tired to stop the voices flooding his mind. The dog barking, the broken concrete, the pock-faced man. They’re all from the premonition. Bert replayed the reading at the psychic fair, and biting his tongue to stop the words, which felt so unnatural in his mouth. Once a premonition was invoked, it was almost impossible to halt. What goes around comes around. It was the law of the universe.

  Bert relived the attack, trying to make sense of it all. Lying in a piss-stained alleyway as the pock-faced man pummelled him with feet and fists. Curling up in a ball as the final kick came, shielding his head from the gut-wrenching blows.

  He should have been relieved he saved the young woman and her son the consequences of such a terrible fate. After all, she was a young mother with a special needs child. But in the cold light of day he was wishing, more than anything, that it had been her, even if it had left her on a mortuary slab. A trolley rattled past and Bert waved away the offer of tea. I can’t stay here. I’ll get dressed and leave, Bert thought. His eyes grew heavy and despite the background noise, he succumbed to sleep. The closed-in feeling and antiseptic smell transported him to his bedroom and his earliest memory.

  As soon as he learned to walk, he wanted to be outside. The whistle of the wind was far more enticing than his pull-along toys. While Callum sang nursery rhymes with mother, Bert remained silent, animated by the whispers of the forest that only he could hear. To him there was nothing more powerful than nature, the crashing thunder and the rolling clouds laced with rain that stabbed the galvanised roof of their home. Nature was a powerful call, and as he stared through the window, his painted wooden blocks and balding teddy bears paled in comparison.

  Bert’s unwillingness to speak did not reflect a lack of intelligence, which was sharp beyond his years. His insight was not afforded to others. To his family, midnight was a time to turn their back on the beauty of the moon, the numbness of sleep blocking out the night cries of the nocturnal. But to Bert, the most enlivening time was between midnight and three am, when the veil between his reality and the world beyond was at its thinnest.

  That night he stroked the long inky tail feather that had fluttered through his open window. Bert did not feel the cold as he stared out to the fields beyond. He gasped as a raven cut through the diamond-studded night, flapping, cawing, swooping through the air, the gap in its tail feathers reflected by the sombre moon. Holding the feather tight in his grasp, he pulled on his red wellingtons and duffle coat, his small bony fingers struggling to thread the thick buttons through the frayed loops. Pulling back his blanket, he positioned the pillow underneath. It was unlikely anyone would check, but it made him feel better about leaving. Grasping the window ledge, he stepped onto his toy chest and slipped through the open window to the back yard. He had often snuck out unseen during the day, splintering his palms as he gripped the rough wooden ledge. But this was his first night excursion, and a tremble of excitement rose as his heart tick tocked like the drum of his wind-up toy solider.

  The frost sparkling on the gravel path seemed magical, and glinted invitingly as it stretched to the forest beyond. He glanced behind only once, before chasing the black feathered watchman down the track, deep into the purple shadows of the woodlands. A rasping caw of approval sliced through the air, and Bert’s heart clattered in his chest, as the exhilaration of freedom pumped blood through his veins like never before. He was running wild, and the night welcomed him. As he stretched out his arms either side, he imagined his flight, his clumsy red wellington boots replaced by powerful sca
ly claws, tucked under his body as he sped through the woodlands with ease. Eyes streaming, his hot breath puffed plumes of white smoke from his mouth, and for the first time in his short existence, he felt capable of anything. He ran until his lungs burned and the thorny-edged brambles tugged at his clothes, slowing his flight. Exhilarated, he dropped to the twitching forest floor, and a living carpet of tiny creatures scuttled away from their human invader. Bert smiled in wonder, breathing in the smell of frosted pinecones sweetening the air. He was lying in the birthplace of something dark and powerful, but he was not afraid. Whispers grew and branches crackled as he laid his weary body against a majestic tree – a silent witness of dark rituals and sacrifices decades before. The malevolence that seeped through the earth could not serve to hurt him now. It made the soil rich with an energy that promised strength, as long as he knew how to use it. His eyelids became heavy as the faint trace of icy fingertips touched his skin.

  Bert drew in a sharp breath as he realised he was no longer a four-year-old child in the depths of the forest, but a sixty-five-year-old man in a hospital. Yet as he blinked in awakening, the fingers continued to touch his senses; glacial messengers sent through a psychic link, seeping curious thoughts into his presence. It was the detective. She was looking for him.

  She was a person of flesh and blood like him, but with abilities beyond her understanding. He had been waiting for her, each victim a breadcrumb trail for her to follow. Their destinies were intertwined, but it was not yet their time. Bert swung his legs out of the bed and fumbled for his clothes, relieved to find his cards in his jacket pocket. Time was passing at a merciless rate, and more prophecies had to be delivered before the ritual came to its climax. His mouth cranked upwards at the promise of rejuvenation. A storm was coming for Jennifer Knight … but her death would not be in vain.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Jennifer threw her hands in the air. We’ve missed him by minutes.’ The smokers outside Haven Hospital gave Jennifer a bemused look as she paced the pavement.

  ‘In which case he can’t have gone far,’ Will said. ‘Come on, get in the car, we’ll have a scout around.’

  Jennifer cursed her stupidity as she wrestled with the car seatbelt. She should have gone straight to the hospital after her premonition. She had seen a bruised man in a metal bed, but didn’t know what it meant. The beeping machines, a hand drawn over a curtain … it all made sense now. But it wasn’t until she received the call from the neighbourhood police officer in response to her missing persons report that everything clicked into place. PC Wallace had informed her that she visited an elderly man matching Bert Bishop’s description in hospital. Unfortunately, he had just left, after being treated for concussion and bruising. The nurse described him as pleasant enough, somewhat bewildered, a little evasive, and suffering from acute eczema. Apart from that, he seemed no different to the many patients that discharged themselves without so much as a by-your-leave.

  The car jerked forward as Will pulled out of the car park, the wipers working to dispel the fat droplets of rain beginning to plop on the windscreen. ‘What’s the latest description?’

  Jennifer swallowed. Her throat felt like a sandpit and she really needed a coffee. ‘He’s tall and thin with short grey hair, wearing a long black coat and hat. He has facial injuries and bruising to his cheekbone. They think he discharged himself within the last thirty minutes. Their CCTV is under maintenance so I can’t even get a copy of that.’

  ‘How do we know it’s our Raven? There must be plenty of old men that fall around drunk and end up in the hospital.’

  Jennifer recalled her premonition and shuddered. ‘Take my word for it, I know.’

  The streets of Haven were not ready to give up the Raven, and Jennifer attended afternoon briefing with the Lexton Murder Investigation Team, offering up what information she had of value. Returning to Haven with notes and tasks, her eyes were drawn to the yellow Post-it note alerting her to a missed call. She peeled it from her computer screen as she automatically dialled the number and introduced herself. It took her several seconds to recognise the voice on the other side.

  ‘My girl is dead. My beautiful Felicity is dead,’ Christian cried, the words erupting into sobs.

  Jennifer cradled the phone against her ear, cursing herself for failing to recognise his number. She wondered if he felt more comfortable with her than his shallow showbiz friends.

  ‘I know. I’m very sorry for your loss.’ Jennifer bit her tongue. She hated those words, having heard them over and over at her mother’s funeral when she was just ten years old. Sorry for your loss, sorry for your loss, accompanied by firm handshakes from smartly dressed police officers conveying their sympathies. Wearing full dress uniform, with shiny buttons and squeaky polished boots, they extended their hands in sympathy. She had grasped each one until her fingers ached, while her father’s shoulders shook, tears running in rivulets down his unshaven face. She could smell the alcohol on his breath even then. The office door slammed, and Jennifer snapped out of her memory, returning her attention to Christian.

  His slow deliberate tones could not disguise the slur in his voice. ‘Why have the police arrested my ex-wife?’ A bottle clinked against glass in the background.

  ‘I’m sorry, you need to speak to DC Hardwick,’ Jennifer said. Her knowledge of the arrest was that Christian’s ex-wife had denied all offences and been bailed for further enquiries while they checked out her alibi. Her reluctance to provide one was because she had been with another man, something she had wanted to keep to herself.

  Christian’s thick breathing intermingled with old reruns of the reality TV programme, The Beauty Salon, as it played in the background. She caught the unmistakable laugh of his dead fiancée as it blared through his speaker system.

  ‘I’ve lost everything.’ Christian cried, great big heaving sobs down the phone.

  ‘I’m sorry, but …’

  Lost in his grief, Christian just kept talking. ‘I told you there was something dark on the horizon and you wouldn’t listen. Now Felicity’s dead.’

  Jennifer’s jaw clenched as his words hit close to the mark. She had forgotten all about his warning, but there was little point discussing it when Christian was off his face. ‘I’m at work now, but how about we meet for a coffee? I’ll text you when I’ve worked something out, how about that?’

  But Christian wasn’t listening, and another sob erupted as he blurted out the words, ‘She’s dead. My beautiful girl is dead.’

  Jennifer took a deep breath. She had been meaning to ask the question and now was as good a time as any. ‘Did Felicity have a keyring on her car keys?’

  Christian sniffled loudly before replying. ‘A keyring? Well … yes. It was a diamond-studded D and G. I bought it for her when I gave her the car. I wish I’d never bought her that car …’

  Jennifer sighed. At least she had clarification of the owner of the keyring. MIT would surely listen to her now. It had already been booked into the property system, a request on its way for forensics to check for fingerprints. She would also need a statement from Christian outlining what he had just said. But now was not the time. ‘You sound worn out. Is anyone staying with you?’

  ‘My … mum … and the children. What if the police charge my ex-wife? You should be speaking to my cousin, not her. What if she goes to prison? What about them?’

  Jennifer extricated her fingers from the tightly wound phone cord as she prepared to end the call. ‘She may just be helping them with their questioning. Have you heard from your cousin at all?’

  ‘No … Why? You think he did it, don’t you?’

  Jennifer paused, choosing her words carefully. ‘There are often several persons of interest in investigations. But if you hear from him, you must contact us immediately. I’ve put a flag on your address and phone line, so any calls will be treated as a priority. Now why don’t you get some rest, it sounds like you need it.’

  Christian exhaled slowly,
as if he had been deflated and was slowly coming to ground. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to have a go at you. I comfort people about life after death, but I’ve never experienced loss before. I don’t know what to do with myself.’

  Jennifer’s voice softened. ‘You’ve had a lot to endure. Get some rest, you need to stay strong for your children.’

  The phone call left Jennifer feeling emotionally drained. It wasn’t the right time to go into details of his cousin’s involvement. It was all so horrendous.

  It was time to bring her sergeant up to date with the briefing on the Raven case, and inform her about the letter found in the glove box of her car. Admitting her discovery of a dead raven outside her home could have her removed from the case for her own safety, and she had warned Will to keep that snippet of information to himself.

  Claire opened the door a couple of inches before swiftly pulling Jennifer inside.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Jennifer said, wondering why the sudden need for secrecy.

  Claire gave an apologetic smile. ‘Yeah, sorry. I’ve a guest with me and I didn’t want anyone else seeing.’

  ‘A guest?’ Jennifer looked around the empty room, and then heard a drumming noise under Claire’s desk. She bent down to see a small wiry dog lying on his back with his tail pounding a beat against the carpeted floor. ‘Hello boy,’ Jennifer said, his back leg twitching as she reached down and scratched his stomach. ‘Is that George’s dog?’

  Claire smiled, ‘Yes. The old codger persuaded me to take him in while he sorted out his benefits. It’s the second time this week.’

  ‘Hasn’t anyone noticed?’

  ‘No, and don’t tell Will, because he’ll be mooning over him instead of getting on with his work.’