A Deadly Imperfection: Calladine & Bayliss 3 (5 page)

‘We’ll get a warrant, whatever it takes but we’ll leave it until it becomes vital,’ he decided.

As Harriet Finch opened her eyes the full horror of what she’d done hit like a thunderclap.   The old Harriet was back – the one who knew full well that her recent actions were horribly wrong.  The one with the conscience was on her case, urging her to stop before things got out of hand. 

Too late for that - she’d killed two men in as many
days.  What in hell’s name had possessed her?

Stupid question – she knew very well.  A woman she barely recognised was responsible, a version of Harriet Finch who was eventually going to take over her mind completely.  This new version was hell bent on revenge - she was a woman on a mission.  But what was worse - she was pressed for time.

She lay in bed and stared at her bedroom ceiling - she was a devil, a murderer. Could she be stopped?  No, not now, it was far too late.

The panic struck her stomach like a blow from a heavy fist.  She coughed violently, made a dash to bathroom and threw up down the toilet. 

Calm down, you’re safe
– the new Harriet reassured.  But was she?  Harriet was living in a sort of bubble, but a bubble that could burst at any time.  When it did, she’d be carted off to prison.  The ignominy, the shame – what was left of her family would never cope with it.

She crawled back to her bed and sat on the edge, exhausted, her body shaking. 
You have to finish this,
the cold, hard voice told her. 
You promised and you owe it to those you love.

‘Loved,’ Harriet corrected out loud.  ‘They’re nearly all gone, and that’s the whole point,’ she sighed wearily.  ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it - revenge, chaos and more misery?’

There was laughter in her head - the voice was taunting her. This wasn’t who she was.  Harriet Finch wasn’t a killer – not the old Harriet Finch anyway.  It was the cancer that had changed her.  The cancer had taken on a personality, a personality with raw intent.  It demanded and it pushed, and Harriet could refuse it nothing. She was powerless against its energy, its will.

The voice was insidious, it warned that she had to act now – she must be quick and avenge those she’d loved.  So she was compelled, haunted by the faces of those long dead.  They cried out to her in her dreams, in her head when she was awake, as they joined the voice.  They wanted vengeance too, and like it or not, they’d made her their vehicle.

She had to take control if she was to see this through to the end.  And control started now, today. Harriet, the new Harriet, had to get on with it. She might feel like crap, but there were still things to do. Like the voice kept telling her, time was running out.  Any day now she could become bed bound and her task would end frayed and unfinished.  So if she was going to complete this then she had to get on with things. 

Gordon Lessing – he’s the next one
, the voice whispered contentedly. 
You know how evil he is, you know the truth about him.  He finished your poor sister, Sybil.  But it wasn’t just Sybil was it?  The children Harriet, you know, you’ve suspected all along, and still you’re silent.  Your silence is deafening!  You know what he’s done and you know too that he won’t stop.  So why in all these years have you never spoken out?  That’s bad Harriet, very bad.  Think of the misery he’s given all those families, think of the children….  But you can put that right now, can’t you?

Yes she could, and Sybil would want that.  Suddenly she understood.  She knew what to do, but she’d have to plan carefully.  It had to be an end befitting the cruel bastard.  It had to be something satisfying to watch after what he’d done to those children and to Sybil. 

Sybil – her poor dead sister, she sobbed and dabbed her eyes.  She never used to cry like this but these days, she couldn’t help it.  Everything seemed so sad, so pointless.  Sybil had never been able to stand up for herself, so she never had a chance against that pig of man.  Lessing was a bully, a controlling, wicked bully.  To everyone who knew them as a couple he gave the impression of being a caring, good provider.  But that was a sham.  He pretended to be the successful business man, always boasting about his haulage company and how it gave his family a very good living.  But Harriet couldn’t see it – he only had two wagons and they were run into the ground.  No – she knew how he earned his money alright – he didn’t fool her, and it wasn’t by transporting goods across Europe.  It was about the children.  He was involved in people trafficking – a trade so wicked, he deserved all he was going to get.  

But getting Lessing would mean going out into the world again, during the daytime.  He did most of his driving at night so she had no choice.  So far Harriet had managed everything during the hours of darkness.  Daylight was not flattering.  She looked ill, like death itself, in fact.

However one way or another Harriet would have to conceal the ravages of her illness, cover them up behind makeup and a wig.  Chemotherapy had robbed her of both her looks and her hair.  She’d wear the titian one - it was nearest to what her old hair colour had been. 

The voice purred quietly at last, happy with the plan. 
He has a cellar
,
Harriet, everything you need is there.

Was it?  Why there, she couldn’t think, was she missing something?  

Harriet looked at her reflection – the makeup helped, but not much.  The wig looked garish against her sick pallor.  She screamed in frustration and threw the thing across the bedroom floor.

That’s it girl
, the voice encouraged.  She was hardly a girl, she sniffed - she was fifty five and terminal.  Her illness had stolen her energy and her looks.  All she had left, all that was keeping her going, was the voice with its burning, all consuming need for revenge.

If she didn’t get caught this time then it was back to the treatment.  Harriet couldn’t understand why she was still free.  She was no expert, and she’d killed two people with no repercussions – not even a visit from the police, well not yet anyway.  But it had made her nervous, every phone call, and every knock on the door made her sick with worry.
 

***
 

‘Long didn’t hang around, did he?’

‘You don’t really want that man nosing into everything we do, do you Sergeant?’

‘That’s not the point.  He knows we’re short on the team.  He could have offered to help. I’ve no idea what he finds to do in that office of his all day.’

‘He’ll have some time wasting occupation to fill the hours, Ruth – believe me.  Who was he on about – who is DI Greco?’

‘Some hotshot detective new to the area and stirring things up at Oldston nick from all accounts.  He sounds okay.’

‘Imogen should contact him – tell him her theories, it all sounded very plausible to me.’

‘There’ll be a free parking space by the Library, the shop is just around the corner,’ Ruth advised.

‘Is she scary?’

‘Don’t be daft, Guv.  She runs a shop not a coven and she’s nice.  I’m sure she’ll help, if she can.’

The shop was called ‘Moonbeams’.  It was small, packed with all sorts of weird stuff Calladine didn’t recognise but it smelled divine.

‘The smell is jasmine – from the incense.’   The female owner said as she watched the detective inhale deeply.  She laughed in a gentle, melodic way, ‘relaxing, isn’t it.  You should try some at home, Inspector,’ she suggested, her bright blue eyes twinkling with amusement.

Calladine had just been about to proffer his badge but instead retracted his hand from his pocket, puzzled.  ‘How do you know I’m police,’ he asked.

‘Because I live locally, and I’ve seen you about,’ she told him.  ‘It’s not magic, it’s just community knowledge.’ There was more twinkling of those incredible eyes.

So she’d noticed him – Calladine wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or not.  She was an attractive woman, mid forties, tall with a full, voluptuous figure, long sable coloured hair and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.  Calladine stood stock still and did nothing but stare at her for a good few seconds.  There was something mesmerising about the woman – not just the looks, the whole package.  Her mode of dress was what he’d describe as bohemian, or was it simply aging hippy?  He shook himself – what on earth was going on?  He only just clapped eyes on the woman and he was transfixed.  He had Lydia at home, and although he’d never put it to the test – he had her down as the jealous type.

‘Amaris Dean,’ she smiled a dazzling smile, and offered him her hand. 

‘Amaris?’  He repeated in practically a whisper, still puzzled.  He’d never heard a name like it.

‘Moon child – it’s my Wicca name,’ she explained.

More stuff he didn’t understand.  He’d have to let it go, he certainly didn’t have the time to get dragged in.  Something told him this woman was dangerous.  And not because she might possess some weird occult power either, but because she was the type who had the ability to play havoc with his libido!

‘Can you help us with these?’  He asked, clearing his throat and getting his mind back on track before pulling the cards from his coat pocket.

‘Ah, from the pack you bought here,’ she smiled at Ruth.

‘You have two very powerful cards there, Inspector.  She noted as he held them in his hand.

‘They were both found at murder scenes – this at the first,’ he said holding out the Tower, and this at the second.  I need some help to understand what they mean.’

She walked closer, Calladine was aware of her scent - it was heady like the incense.   Part of him was praying she didn’t come too close – he was already sweating.

‘The problem is that people tend to take the images literally.’

Her voice had depth – it was sexy.  Calladine’s mind was suddenly elsewhere as he wondered what that voice would sound like whispering sweet nothings to him in the bedroom.  Damn the woman, he hadn’t reacted to one like this since Lydia.

‘Granted the Tower is bad news – it’s that sudden catastrophic event that changes lives for ever.  It’s the event that shapes the rest of our lives for good or ill.  The Devil too, is not a good card.   If it falls in a reading then I take it to mean that the Querant is under the influence of wickedness of some form.   But as we know, Inspector, wickedness can take many forms, so the other cards in the spread would help with this.’

She fell quiet for a moment.  ‘The victim was male and elderly,’ she said at last.   ‘So I’ll offer this - the card has links to addiction, perhaps represents a man who benefits from the failings and addictions of those who fall under his spell.’

Calladine kept a straight face but he was amazed.  How could she know this – Albert North had been a notorious drug dealer on the Hobfield and many a poor soul had fallen foul of his particular brand of wickedness – but his identity and the nature of the death hadn’t been released yet?

‘You think your killer is matching cards to victims – is that not so?’

‘It’s too early in the investigation to say.  And the Tower,’ he asked without adding anything else.

‘The Querant is about to, or has suffered a huge change in their life - the metaphoric car crash that happens out of the blue and leaves everything in ruins.’

In Tariq Ahmed’s case that was certainly true, but perhaps it was true of the killer too.  Perhaps it was he or she who’d suffered that metaphoric car crash?

‘So whoever left these would understand the meanings?’

She shrugged, ‘perhaps – those particular cards are well known and have obvious interpretations.  The meanings can be got from any book on the Tarot or even online.’

‘Do you sell many packs of these?’

‘No – not really.  I sell the jewellery, the incense and candles but the Tarot and other items used for divination are not particularly popular.  If my customers want to know what the Tarot can tell them then they book a reading with me.’

‘Are readings popular?’

‘Yes very, also the healing and development sessions offered here.  That is what I make most of my living from, Inspector.’

She smiled at him and reached for a pack of Tarot cards from her counter.  ‘You are sceptical, I can tell.  But no matter, I shall try to educate you,’ she offered.

Amaris Dean handed the pack to Calladine.

‘Shuffle them Inspector, then hand me three cards – any three you like.’

He felt weird, no he felt nervous, like a kid who’d unexpectedly set eyes on a girl he fancied, and all she did was make fun of him.  He glanced at Ruth, she was smirking.  She knew damn well what was going on, and she was enjoying every second of his discomfort.

Calladine couldn’t concentrate, but he managed to shuffle the cards and make a random selection.  What she hoped to glean from them he couldn’t imagine, he thought as he handed them to her.  He was all fingers and thumbs, as he handed the pack back a lone card fell to the floor.  Amaris gave him another of her dazzling smiles and bent to pick it up.

‘We’ll look at this one later,’ she promised, putting it aside.

She placed the three face up on her counter, her long, elegant fingers skimming over the images, her expression enigmatic.

‘You have an issue you do not want to face, Inspector.  It’s an issue that has history but you’ve only become aware of it recently.  It concerns a woman,’ she said, running her fingertips over a particular card.  ‘This is the Queen of Pentacles - she is dark and older than you.  She is wealthy, and she is the woman who carries the photo of an infant near to her heart.  She feels the need too resolve what happened in the past too, Inspector.’