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

The detective spoke softly. ‘Can you describe what you saw, Patrick?’

Lacey shrank into himself. ‘There was blood. There was a lot of blood. Diane was lying on the floor by the far wall. She was on her back. Mark was opposite her but he was face down. The wee one, the kiddie, was in between them.’

‘Did you touch either Mark or Diane?’

‘No.’ The cigarette in Patrick’s fingers continued to burn, although it was a long time since he’d taken a drag. The ash on the tip fell onto the table but he didn’t notice it. ‘I knew,’ he said, his voice barely audible. ‘I knew they were already dead. I grabbed the kid and ran out of there. I ran all the way here with her in my arms.’

I stopped the video, my breath shallow and my chest tight. Lacey’s words didn’t jog my memory, but they did conjure up a whole world of agonising hurt.

Then I froze. Wait a minute.

Samuel Beswick had got off the bus from London just after 10.30pm. If he’d sprinted directly to the cottage, he would have reached it by 10.45pm. My parents’ times of death had been estimated closer to midnight. But none of that made sense – not if I’d died too. It took exactly twelve hours from the point of my death for me to resurrect. I had been alive when Patrick Lacey had walked into the cottage, and all the evidence suggested that I had died with my parents. Patrick Lacey’s time frame only allowed for ten hours, eleven at best.

My shoulders slumped in horror. My parents must have been killed earlier than the reports claimed. And that could mean only one thing: Samuel Beswick definitely hadn’t killed me – and therefore he probably hadn’t killed my parents either.

I sped through the other files, desperate to find any evidence that would refute what Patrick Lacey had said, but it all matched up. The bus driver and three passengers placed Samuel Beswick on that 10.30 bus. It arrived in Barchapel on time. Patrick Lacey arrived with my bloodied, wailing body in his arms at the door of the Barchapel police station at 10.18 the following morning. It was there in black and white.

I might have already had my suspicions, but to have Beswick’s innocence confirmed shattered everything. He’d admitted his guilt to my face and now it seemed that he’d been lying.

The walls of the room were closing in on me. Blood was pulsating through my ears and it was difficult to think straight. I had to get some fresh air. I had to get outside.

I headed for the door before spinning back, reaching for my crossbow and hoisting it onto my shoulders. Then I ran out, darted down the stairs and burst through the front door to suck oxygen into my lungs.

Samuel Beswick hadn’t killed my parents. He’d been in prison for twenty-five years but he hadn’t killed them.

I took a moment to compose myself. I smoothed my shaking hands up and down my thighs, rubbing them until I started to feel normal again. My breath, which had been coming in short, painful gasps, became more regular. The tightness in my chest remained, but the cool evening air was helping.

I’d been smacked in the face with the truth. Now I had to work out what to do with it.

There were police everywhere, knocking on doors, stopping passers-by and desperately searching for clues as to who had murdered Julie and Patrick. I watched their progress dully for several moments before deciding that I had to get away and find somewhere quieter.

I ducked my head and crossed the street. A pair of hikers were trudging towards the pub, their expressions grim, and I knew that they’d heard about the latest murder. Their massive backpacks engulfed their bodies, making them walk with slow, heavy footsteps. Judging by the way they were moving, they’d packed everything but the kitchen sink.

I stepped off the pavement to get out of their way, aware that they’d noticed my crossbow even in the dim light. Then I paused and stared at them again. The man who’d killed Patrick Lacey – and presumably both me and Julie Mackintosh – was estimated to be a hundred-and-twenty kilograms. That made him a heavy guy. But what if it wasn’t his own body that weighed that much? What if his weight was because of what he was carrying? Like some kind of supernatural bear? It would explain the instant transformation that the footprints in the park had suggested. I frowned. It didn’t explain anything else, however, and it was a daft idea. I shook my head and continued on my way.

Boateng’s people would be working at Roselands for as long as the light allowed, but I had no desire to head back there. Instead I went to the only place I could think of, marching quickly with my head down until I reached the overgrown hedgerows and the small gate that led to the old cottage. I paused for a moment outside, then I pushed open the gate and walked into the garden.

The door to the cottage was closed and there was a shiny new padlock and bolt in place of the one I’d broken. No doubt that had been Laura’s doing. I gazed at it briefly before turning over a large, squat log and sitting on top of it. I drew out my phone. I had to do this. I couldn’t put it off for any longer.

Anyone serving at Her Majesty’s Pleasure usually couldn’t receive phone calls from the outside world – they weren’t at a holiday camp, after all. But I was a serving police officer, and where there was a will there was a way.

After pondering the fastest way to get what I wanted, I located DSI Barnes’ phone number and called her up. ‘DC Bellamy,’ she answered, her tone more formal than usual. ‘What is going on down there? I’ve seen the report about the second