Jennifer knew Will’s scepticism was healthy, and tried not to feel let down. ‘But he accurately predicted Felicity dying in the woods. He may have tampered with the car but how would he have known that? It could have happened anywhere.’

Will gave a non-committal shrug. ‘Coincidence. First he got Price to unburden himself over a drink. He watched you visit his sudden death and that’s where he came up with the idea to send you a letter. Then he saw you deal with Christian and when he couldn’t get near him, he targeted his girlfriend Felicity. He’s probably after infamy, or revenge for the fact Christian blanked him. Who knows, maybe it was Felicity who said he couldn’t stay at their house.’

‘Mmm.’ Jennifer dropped her gaze. It was a tired and worn-out argument that got her nowhere. She didn’t tell Will her sense of foreboding was growing, as black as the wings of the ravens now perched on the rooftops of her home. She steadied her breath to push down the worry fluttering inside her. This man wanted more than infamy. He wanted people to die.

She painted a smile on her face. ‘This is meant to be our day off. Why don’t I book this into the property system and we can talk about it back at mine? I’ve got beer.’

Will’s face lit up like the sun breaking through the clouds. ‘That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.’

[#]

It took Jennifer just an hour to book the camisole into the property system and write up a quick statement before speaking to the DI on duty.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she picked it up, expecting to see Will’s name flash up on screen. But the voice on the other end belonged to Jacqui, the shop owner.

‘Hi babes, I just wanted to let you know one of my staff has come in and helped me view the CCTV on fast forward. We’ve found the shoplifter. One of our usuals I’m afraid.’

Jennifer sat bolt upright as she clung to her phone for the answer. Could she be closing in on the suspect?

‘Really? You know them?’

‘Oh yes, she’s been arrested before. She’s banned from the shop but I had new staff working for me that day and the little cow came in and robbed me blind.’

‘It’s a girl? Who is it?’ Jennifer said, hastily barging out of the cubicle while balancing the phone to her ear.

‘Emily Clarke. She came in with her little boy and shoved things in his buggy. You can’t miss her, with her long auburn hair.’

Chapter Eighteen

Bert

Driving down the sharp winding road on the edge of the forest had sent a surge of mixed emotions through Bert. He had avoided it up until now for this very reason. To allow his mind to wander would put his plan at risk, but he needed to rid himself of his mother’s cries in order to focus on what lay ahead. The memory haunted him; her begging for mercy, clawing his wrists as he wrapped his fingers around her throat. The memory was sharp but when did it happen? Last week, last month or beyond? A cold sense of dread enveloped him as his mind refused to provide answers. The hardwood peaks of his family home came into view as his van chugged up the steep gravel hill.

Bert drove through the rusted gates barely clinging to their hinges. A mist descended on the house, threatening a rain yet to come. He climbed out of the van, his limbs feeling fragile and old, much older than when he was last under the shadow of the imposing house. The damp breeze carried the smell of dead leaves, and he listened for the raven through air that returned only silence. The bird that called from his bedroom window had gone, and even through his confusion, Bert did not believe he would see him again. He searched the building for life, but all he could see were various stages of decay. The slumped roof threatened to buckle the windows below, and vine leaves snaked up the walls, strangling the once beautiful roses that lived there.

Bert walked forward, inhaling the damp musky smell from the rotten cavities gnawing through the bricks. He fingered his van keys as he dragged his feet to the front door. It creaked a greeting as he pushed it open, sending an empty milk bottle rolling through the leaf-swept hall.

‘Mother?’ he called, a brooding fear urging him to leave. He pushed the cobwebbed door to the right, leading to the living room where he had left her. The air felt cold and neglected as he poked his head through the gap. Surely she’s not living like this? he thought. But as the door fell ajar, Bert’s mouth gaped open, and for a few seconds he forgot to breathe.

Grace was rocking in front of the old stone fireplace. Her grey hair framed her fragile face, lined from a lifetime of grief and misfortune. The flickering fire did little to heat the dismal room, and nothing to dispel the musty spores climbing the walls.

‘Mother,’ he whispered, the words catching in his throat.

She looked up, her eyebrows raised. ‘Bertram, is that you?’ she said, staring right through him. Grasping the wooden arms of the rocking chair, she cocked her head to one side for a response. It was as if she was speaking from very far away.

Bert took two steps forward and stood in a shaft of dying sunlight. ‘Yes it’s me. So you’re all right then?’

Her voice sounded faint, and she leaned forward as if she was going to stand, then relaxed in the chair and set it back in motion. ‘Do I look all right?’

It was not a sarcastic question. A simple woman, she never understood complicated humour.

‘Yes you look fine,’ Bert said, shifting uncomfortably on the balls of his feet.

His mother nodded matter of factly. ‘Then yes, I am all right.’

For a moment, Bert felt sympathy, but it was fleeting and left before it had a chance to take hold. He glanced at the picture of the crying boy hanging over the mantelpiece, yellowed with age and as forlorn as the room that contained it. He waited for mother to shout at him, ask what he had been thinking strangling her like that, but she just rocked gently, staring into the fire.

‘It’s cold in here,’ Bert said, rubbing his arms. ‘Do you want me to get some wood for the fire?’

‘No,’ she replied softly, almost without breath. ‘I have everything I need. And you? Are you all right, son?’

Son. He couldn’t remember the last time she called him that. ‘Just a bit tired. I … I’ve not been very well.’

She pursed her lips together and glanced in his direction. ‘You’ve never been well. Why have you come?’

Bert took in his mother’s vacant expression and the dilapidated house. His eyes fell to the hem of her long black skirt, which touched the floor each time the old chair creaked forward. It was the skirt she had worn when Callum died. The pieces fell into place.

‘You’re not real, are you?’ he said, his voice husky. A vice-like band wrapped around his head and tightened with the realisation. It was taking him away. To the other place.

Mother narrowed her eyes, her voice full of steely hatred. Her skin paled, before becoming translucent. ‘I’m waiting for Callum.’

Bert took a step backwards as clarity descended. It was a mistake coming back to this place. If he stayed here he would never get better, he would return to the darkness, which brought the rage that ended his mother’s life. Perhaps it was already with him.

Memories of his childhood soured sympathy into disdain. He pushed his hands into his coat pockets and wrapped his bony fingers around the cold hard metal of his van keys. Creak, creak, creak, the rocking chair groaned, the infernal noise making him grip the keys tighter until they pierced his skin. The room fell into darkness, lit only by the shafts of light through the broken shuttered window.