Scorched Heart (The Firebrand Series Book 4) by Helen Harper (read books for money TXT) 📕

stake for being a witch. She likes crystals and Tarot cards and palmistry. She has a reputation in the village for being weird.’

I was already annoyed on Miranda James’s behalf but I kept my own counsel. ‘Go on.’

Rothsay’s reluctance was growing. ‘I’ve heard several people say that she used to be a looker in her youth and that she, uh,’ he cleared his throat, ‘she, uh, had flings with some of the men.’

‘So?’

He looked at his shoes. ‘Apparently she was shagging Samuel Beswick at the time your parents were killed. The reason he killed them is because she was also having an affair with your dad.’

I blinked. That was a new one on me. I wasn’t foolish enough to believe that my parents were angels simply because they’d died young but I’d never heard anything along those lines before. I couldn’t recall seeing anything like this in the newspaper reports from the time. Surely if there was any suggestion it was true, it would have been used against Beswick in his trial because it gave him a strong motive to kill.

‘Sorry,’ Rothsay muttered.

‘That’s okay.’ I pursed my lips. Clearly I’d have to talk to Miranda James at some point, even though I didn’t think there was any truth in this story of an affair.

‘It probably didn’t happen,’ Rothsay added hastily. ‘And the James woman is nice but she isn’t all there.’

My eyes narrowed. ‘Because she likes crystals?’

Registering my irritation, Rothsay shifted uneasily. ‘I believe she has mental health issues. She’s not dangerous or anything like that, but she does draw attention to herself. Sometimes she shouts at things that aren’t there and sometimes, especially on a clear night when you can see the moon, she dances naked in the fields. She’s harmless, though, and her son helps her a lot.’

I lifted my head. ‘Her son?’

‘He’s just a teenager but he keeps her on the straight and narrow. He’s a good kid.’ Rothsay frowned. ‘Weird new age name though. Albion, I think.’

Albion. No Angel had called the boy on the train Al, and one of the boys she’d been with had taunted him about the medication his mum was taking. Then I thought about the way he’d reacted to my name. There was a very good chance that we were talking about the same boy. I’d definitely be paying Miranda James a visit, sooner rather than later.

‘Thank you, PC Rothsay,’ I said thoughtfully. Thank you indeed.

Patrick Lacey’s murder was so recent that the investigation was only in its infancy. A small forensic crew was still at the crime scene and the path remained roped off with police tape. We approached the first officer on duty to register our names and pick up whatever protective equipment we needed.

‘We’re almost finished here,’ the white-suited technician said cheerfully. ‘I don’t think there’s a scrap of ground that we’ve not covered. Protective booties will be enough.’ She passed over the disposable plastic coverings and PC Rothsay and I dutifully pulled them over our shoes. ‘Come on,’ she said, once we were ready, ‘I’ll walk you through the scene.’

The technician led the way to a small gap between two fences and pointed to where the path began. ‘The last sighting of Mr Lacey was back at the square. He was caught on CCTV and spotted by an eye-witness. That was just after 11pm on Friday. We’ve walked the route several times. Even inebriated, it would have taken him less than fifteen minutes to walk to this point.’ She glanced at Rothsay. ‘I’m told this path is unofficially called Lovers’ Lane by the locals.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It leads round the back of several streets and it’s well used. For walking,’ he added quickly, ‘not anything else.’

She appeared amused by his faint embarrassment. ‘Well,’ she demurred, ‘we did find a used condom amongst the other rubbish. It was in the undergrowth by the side of the path and unfortunately was some weeks old, so it’s of no use in this investigation. It’s been bagged and tagged, but I doubt you’ll get much joy from it.’

I couldn’t imagine getting any joy at all from an old used condom, but I understood what she meant. ‘Did you pick up anything else that you think is useful?’

‘I’m afraid not. There was quite a collection of litter, but most of it seems to have been blown in or been here for some time. It’ll all be carefully examined but it’s a relatively clean scene.’ She pulled a face. ‘Apart from all the blood and the bird shit, of course.’

I paused, thinking about that damned crow. ‘Bird shit? Can you tell what sort of bird it came from?’

The technician squinted. ‘No. Not a scooby.’

Rothsay gave me a confused look. Aware that I’d sound unhinged if I started babbling about feathered creatures that were following me around and attempting to warn me about murderers hiding in my wardrobe, I quickly changed the subject. ‘The entrance to the path is quite well concealed,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ Rothsay agreed. ‘It’s even harder to spot from the other side where it ends.’

I rubbed my chin. That made it more likely that the perp was a local, especially if Boateng was right and they’d approached from the opposite direction rather than following Patrick Lacey from behind.

The technician walked ahead of us onto the path. ‘The ground here is quite hard,’ she said. ‘We don’t pick up Lacey’s footprints until several metres in.’ We moved along until the first yellow tag was visible. ‘Here we go.’

I knelt down and gazed at the print. There were raised ridges around the toe, although the heel was rather smudged.

‘We’ve taken several casts,’ the technician said. ‘It’s definitely from Patrick Lacey’s shoes. So are the others. See here?’

I followed her finger.

‘He stumbled slightly and collided with these bushes. Too much beer to maintain a straight line.’ She shrugged. ‘We’ve all been there.’

Indeed. I asked the question all the same. ‘You’re sure that it was a stumble and not part of the attack?’

‘That’s