‘Shaken? Why?’

Linda sniffed loudly. ‘The fortune teller said he would break his neck climbing down the tree house ladder. It was there when Geoff bought the place, left over from the last family. But it was falling apart, and the boards were loose. The man said that Geoffrey would come a cropper.’

Jennifer paused. ‘So he climbed the tree using the wooden steps?’

‘Usually, yes. But after the reading he said he would use the metal ladder. Of course he told me he was using it because he liked bird watching. The silly bugger, bird watching indeed!’

Jennifer turned it over in her mind. Geoffrey scuppered the prediction, but it happened another way. Had fate alone ensured his demise or had it received a helping hand?

With some disappointment, Jennifer realised her sense of foreboding had led to this moment. The tarot card reader had to be responsible, but why? Even if Geoffrey was connected to The Reborners, just what was the Raven getting out of these deaths? Was he a member? Acting purely as their judge, jury and executioner? Whatever the reason, people were dying, and the Raven was never far away.

Chapter Forty-Six

What his sergeant called psychic instinct, Will called a gut feeling. He was proud of the fact he was the levelheaded one, with his feet planted firmly on the ground. But the more time he spent with Jennifer, the better a detective he became. Her passion for protecting the people of Haven had rubbed off on him, and the Raven played heavily on his mind. Today his investigative skills rewarded him richly.

Will slowed his car to a crawl down the narrow laneway, as his eyes fell on the orange VW van. Led by nothing but old fashioned detective work, Will allowed himself some pride in his achievement. And on his own too. Jennifer would kill him for keeping it from her, but he couldn’t put her in the face of danger after her stunt in the woods. He pressed the side button of his radio to call for backup, before realising the battery was dead. He slid his mobile from his pocket and stared at the blank screen. Jennifer had warned him about this; close links to powerful psychic connection could zap batteries, give you headaches, blow light bulbs and shorten CCTV footage. It was all part of the strangeness he was being fed on a daily basis. But today she had been right. Will parked his car discreetly in the ditch. He should return to the nick and get backup, but if he left, the owner of the van would be free to drive away. That’s if anyone was in it.

He rubbed his beard as he mulled it over. If the man was as old and frail as witnesses described, then he had nothing to worry about. As long as he didn’t allow him to read his fortune, that was.

‘Hello, can you open up?’ Will said, tapping on the back doors of the van. A scuffling sound ensued within, rusted springs creaking as the occupant shifted their weight from one end of the van to the other.

‘What do you want?’ a frail scratchy voice said from within.

Will grew confident in his abilities to apprehend the owner of the voice. But he would need more than an old man in an ancient orange van to justify an arrest at this stage. He needed an identity.

‘I’d like to have my fortune told,’ Will said, hoping to pander to the man to effect an easy arrest. He slid a twenty-pound note from the folds of his wallet and held it out to the frail figure as he cautiously opened the back doors.

He was taller than Will, with gaunt features and dry flaky skin resting on the shoulders of his coat. His beady black eyes darted from side to side as he eyed Will suspiciously.

Will relaxed, finding it hard to believe that the man before him was capable of hurting anyone, let alone murder.

‘I don’t call them readings any more, they’re prophecies, Mr …?’ the man spoke, bent over as he shuffled out of his van and onto the dirt track of the isolated laneway.

Will slipped his warrant card from his jacket pocket and flashed it at the man as he spoke. ‘Dunston. DC Dunston. And you are Bertram Bishop, I take it? Or should I call you “the Raven”?’

‘Bertram means Raven,’ the man said quietly, loosening his necktie.

‘This is an informal visit,’ Will said, hoping to put him at ease so he could persuade him to go for a ride in the police car.

‘In that case you won’t mind taking off your jacket and turning around. I don’t wish to hear my own voice played in a court of law.’

‘I’m not wearing any recorders. It’s not CSI, you know,’ Will said, removing his jacket and folding it over his arm.

‘Turn around please.’ Bert raised his hand and pointed his finger in a circular motion.

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Will said, raising his hands palms upwards and turning around.

He did not have time to register shock as the shovel came down on his head. He only experienced a flash of white-hot light, before his knees gave way and he hit the ground.

[#]

The floorboards of the darkened room pressed unforgivingly against Will’s face as consciousness flooded in. Blinking to accustom his eyes, he emitted a moan of pain and confusion. Bound tightly, he lay on his side, fighting the sour taste from the oil-stained rag wound tightly against his mouth. Pain sliced through him as he jerked against his bindings. He was ensnared. Warm, sticky blood trickled from puncture wounds in his wrists and ankles, and he tried to breathe through the haze. The pain from his bindings competed only with the pounding of his head. With building dread, Will realised he was bound not with rope, but something much more vicious – spiked wire, which punctured his flesh every time he fought against it.

He strained to listen to the sounds around him as he tried to find his bearings. The muffled noise of a car engine revved in the distance, but the sign of life brought a little relief as hammer blows of pain rained through his skull. He groaned, feeling as if he was on a revolving floor. The room began to spin, searing pain bringing him to the edge of passing out. Nausea swept over him, and he fought to keep it down. Control. He needed to take control. Choking on his own vomit would kill him in seconds. He blinked furiously in the dim light. All he could smell was the oil from the damn rag tied around his mouth, and wherever he was, it was as black as the night. If it was night. There was no way of telling what time it was. Just how long had he been here? Fear cranked up his heart, skipping beats as he tried to remember what happened.

The air was stifling, and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as he choked a restricted cough. His head was pounding harder now, and he held his breath as a rasping noise broke out behind him. In the depths of darkness, he was not alone. Will stiffened for fear of further attack, his last memory turning around for the old man. He had become complacent, and dropped his guard. Stupid … stupid … what a fucking stupid thing to do. A crack of a match made him jerk, and he bit into his gag as the barbs cut further.

Bert sat before him, cross-legged on the floor. Will blinked as Bert’s face danced before him, his button eyes black with intent, just like his namesake.

Shaking his fingers violently, his captor extinguished the match as it burnt the tips of his fingers. Another crack as a fresh match struck the edge of the box, and the smell of sulphur invaded Will’s nostrils.

Bert dipped the match to the wick of the small candle, giving little light to the gloomy space. ‘You shouldn’t have turned your back. Appearances can be deceiving.’

Will tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. He blinked at Bert, echoing his sentiments. How could he have been so stupid? The only comfort was that it was him, and not Jennifer. As if reading his mind, Bert spoke.