Suit man shrugged as his words curled in a slur. ‘You’ve blown me away so far. Feel free.’ Bert's eyes flickered to suit man’s car keys, sat like an accusation on the bar. He licked his lips as he dealt his last hand.
‘That rope in the boot of your car, the one you’ve been playing with, well tonight you’re going to use it. Because it’s the only way you can pay for what you’ve done.’ Bert held back a chuckle as a frisson of excitement rose up inside him. Was there really a rope in the boot of his car? The crumpled expression on the man’s face told him there was. He paused for breath and glanced around the pub. The couple had left and the dying embers of the fire faintly crackled in the background. A clock ticked on the wall, a reminder that time was running out for both of them. The tiniest of smiles tugged at Bert's lips as he slowly and deliberately delivered the final words. ‘You came to face your demons but you are the monster of your nightmares. Finish it now and beg for forgiveness when you meet your maker. It’s the only way to save your soul.’
The man’s mask of friendship fell away to reveal eyes filled with torture and anguish. It was as if someone had let the air out of his face, and the age-ripened lines and grooves deepened in his distress. Slowly he nodded, before finishing his drink and sliding off the leather barstool. ‘It’s time,’ suit man said, in a hollow voice.
‘Yes,’ Bert agreed, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Time to die.’ He did not try to stop the man as he left the pub, his shoulders slouched under the burden of guilt. The ker-thunk sound of the double doors announced he had exited the building.
Snapping into action, Bert gathered together his cards. The shake in his hands was not from fear, but from the adrenalin coursing through his veins. It would not be long now. Giving the cards a quick shuffle, he slipped them back into the red velvet pouch before tugging the frayed gold drawstrings. It was a suitable punishment for the wicked, and a blessed release for him. Tonight suit man would take the rope to the dingy bedroom he was renting, and throw it over the strongest beam. With Bert’s words echoing in his mind, he would climb up onto a chair and place the noose over his head. Suit man’s final thoughts would be of the little girl he mowed down all those years ago.
Bert swigged the leftover whisky chaser in one gulp. As he slid off the barstool something on the floor caught his eye. Could it be? He ran his fingers through his hair, purposely knocking off his hat. Bending down to pick it up, he placed it over the wad of notes that had fallen from suit man’s pocket onto the floor. There must be a few hundred quid there. Sliding them into the inner lip of his hat, he walked out to his van. The prediction had served him well, and the man would not need it any more. He smiled at the prospect of his next kill. Sin was all around. He would not be found wanting.
Chapter Two
‘Stop, police!’ DC Jennifer Knight yelled at the young woman, who appeared to have gained the ability of a gazelle through the streets of Haven. ‘Why do I always get the runners?’ she said between breaths. ‘Emily, stop, I just need to talk to you.’
‘Bog off!’ the girl yelled, her long auburn hair streaming behind her as she clattered down the narrow alleyway, dodging puddles and overstuffed rubbish bins.
Jennifer began to lose ground and wondered where her partner DC Will Dunston had gotten to. He appeared at the end of the alleyway and took the girl’s legs in a swift rugby tackle. Not one to lose face, Jennifer pulled the girl out of the gutter by the scruff of her neck.
‘When I say stop, I mean stop,’ she said, pulling Emily’s wrists behind her as Will locked the cuffs in place. Jennifer recited the caution before arresting her for theft. A quick search under her puffa jacket produced the stash of jewellery freshly stolen from the counter of the jewellers on the high street. Shouts of police brutality drowned out her words as the insolent teen dragged her heels to the unmarked police car.
‘You want me to drive?’ Will asked, a smug grin creeping behind his beard. ‘You look all done in.’
Jennifer fingered a loose tendril of brown wavy hair back into her hairclip. ‘I was just giving you a head start. You drive, I’ll sit in the back with our friend here.’ She clicked Emily’s seatbelt in its holster before sliding in beside her, muttering under her breath as her puddle-stained trousers seeped through to her skin.
The best thing about working for Operation Moonlight was the steady stream of unusual cases hitting their office on a daily basis. Emily Clarke was a particular person of interest, and unfortunately for her, was being monitored by Will and Jennifer as she made an impromptu visit to the jewellers. Loath to blow her cover, Jennifer allowed uniformed officers to deal with the aftermath of Emily’s shoplifting of make-up and clothes, but expensive jewellery? As Will said, that was taking the piss. The elevation of her crime confirmed Jennifer’s suspicions. Emily was getting desperate.
Back at the station, Jennifer filled her sergeant in on Emily’s arrest, and together they wrote up interview tactics, which were far more about extracting intelligence than theft of jewellery. Emily was a member of a cult that was spreading to every county in the UK. Weekly meetings resulted in chants, meditation, and the so-called rebirthing process, which gave the group its name: ‘The Reborners’. Hailed as a second chance at life, they had no shortage of followers. But intelligence on drug use and suicides within neighbouring groups suggested all was not what it seemed. Nicknamed ‘The God Drug’, DMT, was the cheaply made psychedelic used to initiate powerful ‘spiritual experiences’. With high joining fees and low production costs, The Reborners was a profitable money making machine.
Tasked to shut the Haven branch down, Op Moonlight were under pressure to locate the clandestine gatherings.
‘Are you happy with that?’ DS Claire Gilmour asked, as Jennifer finished making her notes. ‘Will deals with the theft offence, and hopefully persuades her to speak to you about the cult. If we can’t convince her to speak, then remind her that social services will be all over this like a rash, if she ends up inside.’
‘It’s all for the greater good,’ Jennifer said, glad they were on the same wavelength. Using Emily’s misfortune as leverage for gaining quality intelligence may have seemed distasteful to some, but her cooperation could secure a suspended sentence, which meant keeping her out of prison as long as she kept her nose clean. It was a case of one back scratching the other, and worth pursuing, if it meant cleaning up the streets.
Jennifer had been thrilled to discover Claire was supervising Op Moonlight. An old friend from her joining-up days, her psychic talents had led to her being offered a place supervising the team. Claire’s office was clean and efficient, apart from the scent of dog that sometimes lingered on her clothes.
‘What do you think? Does it look like me? I bought it in Wilko’s,’ Claire said, holding a small spiky cactus decorated with two plastic eyes and a tuft of black curly hair.
‘I can see a passing resemblance,’ Jennifer laughed, enjoying the contrast between Claire and her previous sergeant, whose default mode was permanently stressed.
‘Can you do me a favour?’ Claire asked, as Jennifer rose to leave.
‘Of course,’ Jennifer said, sitting back down on the worn swivel chair.
‘We have a new starter this afternoon. Her name is Zoe. She’s only twenty-six. I’d like you to take her under your wing, help her settle in.’