Chapter Eleven

 

In the end, I took various photos of the booby-trapped door with my phone – at a distance, of course – so that I could show it to both Winter and whoever else decided to appear. Clare mooched around, looking for anything out of place. Apart from the door and the precariously balanced grenade, everything else seemed untouched. It felt like I’d gone to considerable effort to get in here but there was actually nothing to be seen or learned. More to the point, it was even harder to wriggle out than it had been to wriggle in.

By the time I was standing with Winter and Pete, who by now had fully abandoned his bid to destroy Winter’s good looks and appeared to have transformed into our latest cheerleader, I’d had enough. I didn’t think there was any skin left around my hips at all.

‘Here,’ I said, sulking. I passed the phone to Winter. Both he and Pete were far too eager to see the grenade. Boys and their toys. Frankly, it seemed to me as if it was more like the kind of daft – and very crude – thing a kid would do to annoy a younger sibling. Except a kid would use a cup of water or flour or something, not an explosive device.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Pete breathed. ‘What on earth was Clare mixed up in that someone tried to blow her up in her own house? Someone was really desperate to kill her off.’

‘The man who put this here knew she was already dead. He killed her. He did this,’ I said, pointing to the photo, ‘to kill whoever came looking for her.’ I glanced at Winter. ‘In other words, us.’

Winter scratched his chin. ‘We could have been the police or Clare’s family or the damned postman. This trap has been here for a while. Blackbeard might be a witch hater but he didn’t know for sure that the first person through that door would be a witch. I think this was less to do with killing anyone and more to do with knowing exactly when the coven’s disappearance was discovered. We already know he wants to stay anonymous and he’s tried to hide what he’d done.’ He gestured towards Pete. ‘He risked blowing his cover to pretend to be Clare’s brother. He was desperate to hide his murders but he was also desperate to know if – when – they’d been found. Setting bombs across a quiet Dorset town would be one way to make sure you hit the national news.’

‘Either everyone knows or no one knows.’ Pete nodded. ‘Makes sense.’

Winter frowned as he thought it through. ‘I think the best way to deal with this is to make sure that he doesn’t get what he wants. We need to get a media embargo to ensure this is kept quiet. No headlines, no whisper in the papers about serial killers or bombs or missing witches. Effective radio silence. He knows we’re onto him but if we don’t play the game the way he wants, maybe we can gain some leverage. And he might come back to find out why no one’s been to any of the coven’s homes to find out where they are.’ He paused and looked at me. ‘What do you think, Ivy?’

Something Winter had said was gnawing at me. ‘Hmm?’

Winter stilled as he clocked my expression. ‘You’ve thought of something.’

‘It does happen from time to time.’ Not that often, admittedly. I looked at the photo I’d snapped of the door. It included the doorframe and the doormat lying just inside. ‘You mentioned the postman. You said that the postman could have been the next person through the door.’

‘Well, he wouldn’t have had a key but he might have knocked and rattled the doorframe enough to set off the trap.’

I flicked a look at Clare. ‘You’ve not just moved here, have you?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t have a PO box or anything like that?’

She looked confused. ‘No. I get post through the door like most regular people. What…’ her voice faltered. ‘Oh. I see what you mean.’

Pete stared at me. ‘Who are you talking to?’

‘Clare,’ I answered. ‘She’s here.’ He went as white as a ghost, which was kind of funny if you thought about it. I patted him absently on the shoulder. ‘She wishes she’d known you liked her before she died,’ I said. ‘She’d have loved to get to know you better. Maybe go on a date or two. Maybe more. She thinks you’re really good looking.’

‘I didn’t say that!’ Clare burst out as Pete’s skin almost immediately transformed to bright red. It was an improvement on terrified white.

‘Ivy…’ Winter said, clearing his throat.

I nodded. ‘Sorry. It’s quite distracting carrying on two conversations at once. Multi-tasking is not my thing, I tend to have a single-minded focus. Stay on the straight and narrow until a job is done. In fact…’

‘Ivy…’

Oh yeah. I got back to the point. ‘I once stayed inside for ten days straight. Didn’t go out, didn’t talk to anyone, just lay on my sofa with my duvet and my cat.’ I sighed. ‘It was wonderful.’ Both Winter and Pete looked at me as if I were mad. I shrugged. ‘Anyway, by the time I finally ventured outside again, I had to clear a path to the door. There were bills and junk mail clogging up my doorstep. It took ages to open the door and it had only been ten days. Clare Rees hasn’t been home in weeks.’ I jabbed at the photo. ‘Where is her post? Where are the flyers for the local takeaway? Where are her bills? Or postcards? There’s not a single letter lying on her doormat.’

‘I know the postman,’ Pete argued, momentarily abandoning his bid to wheel round and stare at thin air as if he expected Clare to materialise spookily any second. ‘He’s a good guy.’

‘I’m sure he is. I think Blackbeard has had Clare’s post redirected.’

Winter’s brow furrowed. ‘To what end?’

‘Goodness only knows,’ I said. ‘But if I’m right, we need to find out where her letters are being sent and we’ll find him.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘It’s not just booby traps we need to look for at the other coven members’ homes, it’s letters as well. As Clare said, serial killers take trophies. Maybe junk mail is the trophy Blackbeard is after.’ I wrinkled my nose at Winter’s expression. ‘I’m not saying it makes any sense. I’m just saying it can’t be a coincidence that there aren’t any letters waiting for Clare.’

‘Are you telling me,’ Winter said, ‘that you once were too lazy to get up and pick up the post from your own doorstep? For ten days?’

I grinned. ‘And look where that attitude has got us! Halfway to solving a series of tragic and brutal murders.’ Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Clare wincing. ‘We’ll get all the way there, Clare. I promise.’

‘You shouldn’t make promises you can't be certain you’ll keep,’ she whispered.

‘We could still go out on a date,’ Pete broke in. ‘I could book a table at La Boheme. The lazy blonde one can come and translate for us.’

‘I have a serial killer to catch,’ I informed him sniffily. ‘I don’t have time to go on dates so I can act as a conduit between the spirit world and the real world.’

‘You mean you’re too lazy to do it,’ Pete said.

No. I meant yes, kind of, but it was also too damned weird.

Clare smirked. ‘This is what you get for suggesting I fancied the pants off him.’

I rolled my eyes. Bloody ghosts.

***

Winter went off to speak to both the police and the Arcane Branch witches who were here to investigate the other coven members. He decided, all on his lonesome, that he’d do a better job persuading them to apply for the media embargo without my help. Apparently I had problems conducting myself in a professional manner and that might discourage them from acceding to our wishes. Pete seemed to agree with this assessment even though he’d only met my front half fifteen minutes earlier. Whatever. My ego could take the hit if it meant that Winter was the one who wasted time answering inane repetitive questions. When it comes to government agencies, whether we are talking about serial killers or rotas for recycling paper clips, the forms and bureaucracy can destroy your psyche in a manner which even Nietzsche couldn’t have envisaged. Unless you are Raphael Winter, of course. I secretly suspect he lives for that kind of thing.

Tempted as I was to take advantage of Winter’s absence and have forty winks, Clare’s obvious unhappiness precluded any naps. Given what neighbourly Pete had told us about the lies Blackbeard had spun him, I reckoned her family had probably been told something similar. Finding out for certain would at least cheer her up; she’d still be dead but she’d know that her family cared about her. Of course, that meant I’d have to be the bearer of bad tidings and tell her family that she’d been murdered. It wasn’t exactly my idea of fun by the seaside. Ice cream, yes; lying in the sun, yes. Informing a family that a serial killer had slaughtered their nearest and dearest several weeks ago and they’d not realised anything was wrong … no. It was tempting to sprint in the opposite direction as fast as my chubby little legs would carry me.

Clare’s parents lived in a quiet cul-de-sac less than twenty minutes from her house. It was the sort of place where the neighbours all spoke to each other, not just to murmur a hello in the morning but to stop and have a real chat. When someone baked cookies, Tupperware boxes were probably passed around every house on the street. My witchy senses might have never experienced precognition but I foresaw many casseroles in the Rees family’s future. I gave a loud sigh.

By my side, Clare was twitchy and nervous. ‘What if they really don’t care that I’m dead? Blackbeard might never have come here. He might never have spoken to them. They simply might not have noticed that I’m not around.’ She wrung her hands and I saw that her fingers were trembling. She might be a ghost but she was still afraid. Apparently you don’t lose your emotions or humanity when you lose your life. I wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or dismayed by that.

Unable to place a reassuring hand on her arm, I forced a smile in her direction. ‘How often did you see your family when you were alive?’

Her expression creased into worried guilt. ‘Not as often as I should have. We lived close to each other so I should have been round more often but they were always here, you know? I might have postponed a lot of dinners or days out, but it was only because I thought I could see them any time.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I didn’t know. I didn’t know I had such little time left. No wonder they don’t care that I’m gone – I didn’t care when they were here.’

Clare was seriously over-thinking. ‘Stop it,’ I said, harshly enough to make her glance at me in surprise. ‘You were human. You are human. You did something that people all over the country do. You can’t beat yourself up for living or for making a few mistakes. To err is human, Clare.’

She screwed up her face. ‘And to forgive is divine.’ She waved a hand around. ‘I’m dead and I don’t see anyone divine around here. I’ve even managed to mess that up.’

I was starting to get the impression that nothing I said was going to make any difference. When Clare’s family heard what had happened to her and collapsed, devastated, she wasn’t going to feel any better about herself. To err was human indeed – I should never have come here. Some things were better left to professionals. What the hell did I know about grief?

I pressed my finger on the doorbell and stepped back. With any luck, no one would be in and the police would come later and do this themselves. I counted to three in my head.

‘No one’s here! We should go.’ I twisted round hurriedly and walked away far faster than I normally did.

 ‘Ivy!’ Clare protested immediately. She needn’t have bothered – I could already hear the door opening behind me. Arse.

I turned back slowly, my stomach churning and my mouth dry. I’d take on a platoon of zombies over this any day. Hell, I’d take on Tarquin – and that was saying something.

The woman had Clare’s face but with a few more careworn lines around her eyes and mouth. She started to smile at me but something about my expression gave her pause because her smile faltered. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

Big fat ghost tears started to roll down Clare’s cheeks. ‘Mummy.’ She ran towards her, arms outstretched, and tried to throw herself into a hug. Of course it didn’t work and Clare fell through her mother’s body, stumbling to the other side. She let out an anguished sob and slumped down.

I swallowed. ‘Mrs Rees.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘Do I know you?’

I shook my head. ‘No, but I know your daughter, Clare.’ Or should that be knew your daughter Clare? I’d not said more than two sentences and this was already one of the hardest things I’d ever done.

‘Clare? Where is she? How is she doing?’ She pursed her lips. ‘Honestly that girl is terrible at keeping in touch! She could be dead for all we know!’ She laughed at her weak joke. When I did nothing more than wince slightly, her hand rose to her mouth. ‘Wait. What’s happened?’

The doorstep was not the place for this conversation. ‘Perhaps we should go inside.’

Clare’s mum’s face went even whiter. ‘Tell me. Tell me where she is.’

From behind her mum, Clare pushed herself back up to her feet. She wiped her eyes and looked at me. ‘Do it, Ivy.’

I pulled my shoulders back. Woman up, Ivy. This was not the time to hide under the bed and be a wimp. Tell the truth and stop prolonging this woman’s misery. ‘I’m sorry to tell you,’ I said, in a voice that I was relieved to hear was both clear and audible, ‘that Clare has been the victim of a terrible crime.’

Her mother gasped. I ploughed on; I had to say this now, before I lost what little gumption I had left. ‘She was killed, along with the rest of her coven, by a man we believe to be a serial killer with a grudge against witches.’

Mrs Rees’s eyes were wide open. I had to give her credit – she was holding herself together better than I was. Clare stared at her, taking in every nuance of her expression. ‘In Iceland?’

What? ‘No. On Dartmoor.’

A door opened across the street and a group of laughing children piled out, the occasional delighted scream punctuating the air. Clare’s mum didn’t even look at them. ‘You’d better come in,’ she murmured. She led me into the living room and gestured. ‘Please. Have a seat.’

I moved to the nearest chair. Clare let out a small shriek. ‘Not there!’ I sprang up again. ‘That’s my dad’s chair,’ she said. ‘No one sits in that chair apart from him.’

I edged round to the sofa and did my best to look casual.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ Mrs Rees asked. ‘Tea or coffee or something?’

It should probably be me asking her that. ‘No. But I can put the kettle on if you…’

‘No.’

Footsteps sounded outside and a man appeared, wiping his hands on an oily rag. He glanced at me, then at Clare’s mum. ‘What’s going on?’

‘This is…’ Mrs Rees faltered. I hadn’t even introduced myself yet.

‘Ivy Wilde,’ I said. ‘I’m…’ I’m what? A taxi driver? A medium?

‘She’s here about Clare,’ Mrs Rees said. The note in her voice said it all.

The man, presumably Clare’s father, stiffened. He sat down in the chair, his shoulders slumping. ‘Fuck.’

That’s pretty much what I was thinking too.

***

It took some time to explain everything. A lot of the conversation had a strange roundabout fashion.

‘So you’re with the Hallowed Order of Magical Enlightenment?’

‘No, but sometimes I work with them.’

‘You’re not a witch then?’

‘I’m a witch.’

‘You’re in a coven like Clare was?’

‘No.’

‘So who the hell are you?’

I wasn’t sure even I knew the answer to that any more. About the only thing that was clear to all of us, even Clare, was just how devastated her parents were. There had been a few quiet tears and very little in the way of hysterics but that was because they had so many questions and, right now, I had very few answers.

‘She’s here then?’ her mother asked. ‘She’s dead and she’s been dead for weeks. Her body has been cremated. But she’s here as a ghost and you can talk to her?’

I nodded. ‘Pretty much.’

‘We don’t have any money,’ Mr Rees said, with a hard, sceptical look in his eye. ‘If you’re trying to get us to give you some so that we can talk to Clare then…’

I held up my hands, palms facing outwards. ‘I don’t want your money. I’m not here for that.’

Clare knelt down beside him. ‘He was so proud when my magic first appeared,’ she said. ‘Even though we all knew there wasn’t much of it. There hadn’t been a witch in our family for generations. He thought I’d go on to do great things.’ She sighed. ‘Yeah, right. Tell him that I’m sorry about the money I stole when I was twelve. And that I wish I’d come back to visit more often. And that I’ll always be his munchkin, no matter what. Tell my mum that Granny’s necklace is in my old jewellery box. There’s a false bottom. I only took it because…’ Her voice trailed off. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’

I repeated what she’d said. Both her parents stared at me as if they weren’t sure whether to hug me or grab the nearest barge pole with which to prod me out of their house.

‘I know this is difficult,’ I said. ‘Truthfully, I can’t begin to imagine how difficult. But the man who did this to Clare and the rest of her coven is still out there. The faster we find him, the less chance there is he’ll do this to someone else. I just have a few questions.’

They nodded.

Drawing a deep breath, I tried to prioritise. ‘Why did you think she was in Iceland?’

‘We got a postcard,’ Clare’s mum said. She went to the mantelpiece, picked up a pretty card and passed it over to me. ‘Here.’

Clare was at my side in an instant. ‘I’ve never been to Iceland,’ she said, looking at the photo of a shooting geyser. ‘Turn it over.’

Apart from the address, there were only three words scrawled on the back: ‘Love you. C.’

‘It looks like my handwriting.’ Clare’s voice started to rise. ‘How the hell does he know my handwriting? He copied me. Blackbeard bloody…’

I hushed her while her parents looked on with frozen watchfulness. ‘He was inside your house, Clare. It probably wouldn’t have been difficult to find an example of your writing and copy it.’ I bit down hard on my bottom lip. No, it wouldn’t have been difficult. But it did show a level of premeditation that chilled me.

‘She didn’t write this?’ her father probed.

‘No. I’m sorry.’ I paused. ‘Did you ever meet anyone with a black beard and a skull earring who came round and said they knew Clare?’

They exchanged glances. ‘No. There’s not been anyone,’ Mrs Rees said. ‘Apart from that Order witch conducting the diligence checks.’

I sat up straight. Clare’s gaze shot to her mother as well. ‘What?’

She stood up once more and walked over to a bureau, opening a drawer and taking out a business card. ‘He left his details.’ She passed it over to me. I stared at Tarquin’s gold-embossed name and tried very hard not to scream. ‘She’d finally given up on that foolish idea of the coven and had applied to become an Order witch.’

Clare’s mouth dropped open. ‘I didn’t! I wouldn’t do that! I hate the Order! I’d never join them.’ She gave me a sidelong glance. Both of us knew that her magic wasn’t strong enough for her to do well in the Order. She’d probably be accepted but she’d never progress beyond Neophyte. She’d been in a seven-strong coven outside the Order for a reason.

‘Can I keep this?’ I asked.

‘Of course. Does it mean something?’

I had a horrible feeling it did. ‘No, but it’s good to explore every clue.’ I stood up. ‘I should probably get going.’

Clare’s parents also rose to their feet. ‘Clare?’ her mother asked, almost timidly. ‘Will you stay? It will make me feel better knowing you are here.’

Clare sniffed loudly. ‘I’ll stay. Of course I’ll stay.’

I nodded to her mum in acknowledgment.

‘We also need to get her remains so we can give them a proper burial,’ her father added, in a gruff voice choked by tears.

‘The police will be in touch about that,’ I said. ‘But here’s my number as well. Call me any time. I’m so very sorry for your loss.’

They reached for each other, their hands clasping together for comfort. And even though they couldn’t see her, Clare leaned in towards them, her head bowed and her hands outstretched towards them for further comfort. I let myself out.