‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Will murmured, his muscles rippling as he stretched.
‘Shower, then I’m going to make you breakfast. Is that to your satisfaction, Mr Dunston?’
‘Come back to bed first. I’ve got something for you,’ Will said sleepily.
‘Not until I’ve brushed my teeth,’ Jennifer said, pulling on a t-shirt. But Will was too quick, and in one steady movement he had her pinned on the bed.
‘My mum’s been asking about you,’ he murmured, brushing aside her hair as he kissed her collarbone.
Jennifer wriggled under his grasp. ‘I know you’re an expert in pulling women, but talking about your mother in bed is not what I’d call a turn-on.’
Will paused long enough for her to slide free from his grasp. ‘No, I don’t suppose it is. Wouldn’t you like to meet her?’
Jennifer’s voice trailed behind her as she walked to the en suite. ‘Early days, love. Early days.’
Jennifer relished the hot spikes of water cascading from her chrome showerhead, and used the time to organise her thoughts. Will had recently come out of a difficult marriage, and the last thing she wanted was to be his rebound lover. But recent events had shown her just how much he cared, and it was pointless spending any more time fretting about if it would work out between them or not. She had far bigger concerns. The extractor fan rattled as it tried to keep up with the level of steam in the bathroom. Will had described her shower as boiling hot needles of hell, preferring his own gentle showerhead attached to the wall over his bath. She squeezed out the shampoo and lathered it into her hair. Some people sang in the shower. She used the time to mull over her latest cases. It was surprising what came to you when you were hidden away, devoid of distractions of the outside world.
Her thoughts returned to Alan Price, Felicity Baron, and Emily Clarke. Alan’s death seemed to involve minimal effort, and Felicity’s death involved tinkering with her car. However, no effort was made to pass Emily Clarke’s death off as an unfortunate accident. It was violent and brutal, and that’s what worried her most. The Raven was gaining in confidence, each kill more daring than the one before. He was building up to something, his escape from the law strengthening his resolve. Her thoughts drifted to a serial rapist she had investigated in her old station. He started off small, speaking to random women to ask them the time, then moving on to handbag snatches down lonely paths. Once he had gotten away with that, he escalated to snatching the bag and giving the victim a push as he did so. The pushes became more violent and turned into punches. Yet he remained elusive to the police, varying his routes, changing his appearance, but all the while growing in confidence until he carried out first one rape, then two. It would have ended in murder had she not brought him to justice. To Jennifer, the Raven was just the same. He was testing the waters. He was testing her.
She turned off the tap and squeezed the excess water from her hair. Blotting her face against a towel, she tried to envisage what was coming next. Was it possible to escalate from murder? If he was willing to kill in a house with a child, just what was he capable of? But there was still a chink of humanity present, as he had locked the bedroom door to stop the boy witnessing the horror. Phone records had shown Emily’s telephone was cut off the day before for non-payment. What if the killer hadn’t known that? What if he’d dialled for help before he left? Perhaps he seen the state of the place and thought the boy was better off without her. There was no doubt in her mind that Emily had been involved in The Reborners group. Was the Raven picking them off because they didn’t deserve a second chance? Did he think the same about her?
Jennifer patted her skin dry before winding the towel around her body and picking up her toothbrush. She wanted to grasp for hope anywhere she could find it. If there was some semblance of empathy in the killer then perhaps the answer lay in his past. There was just one person who could help her with that. She would need to visit Christian Bowes.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Bert
At thirteen, Bert looked forward to the day he could leave school. The kudos of being Callum's brother had long since worn off, and Bert could not wait until he was old enough to make his way in the world. His Saturday job in the mail sorting office was given to him as a tribute to his father, whose sudden passing fell like an axe onto their home. Callum’s school friends had forgotten him, and to them, Bert was just plain creepy. It was a comment by Lucy Grimshaw that sparked him off.
Cycling beside him, she asked who he was going to dress up as for Halloween. Her two companions flanking her on either side emitted a chorus of shrill giggles.
Bert felt a blush rise to his pale cheekbones as she slowed her bike to a crawl, balancing the quivering handlebars to meet his steady gait. He thought it was cute, how she could cycle so slowly without having to put her feet to the ground. Bert was trying to think of an impressive reply when she broke into his thoughts, giggling between chews of gum.
‘Only I was thinking we could go to the Halloween disco together.’
Bertram's heart gave a little flutter in his chest. It was such an alien feeling he gave a little gasp to accommodate it.
Lucy smiled. ‘I’m gonna be the bride of Frankenstein …’
She squeezed her brakes as his bike shot ahead, and steadied it before turning her sky blue eyes back on his face. ‘Wanna know what the best part about it would be?’
Bert cleared his throat with a small cough, digging his hands into his pockets as a shy smile crossed his face. ‘What?’
‘You wouldn’t even need an outfit!’ An explosion of laughter followed the punchline as the girls leaned forward on their bikes and cycled down the road. ‘So long, loser!’ Lucy shouted, blonde ponytail bobbing, oblivious to the devastation in her wake.
It wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t liked her. He’d mistaken her glances for interest, when it was just morbid curiosity.
Bert clenched his fists as he gulped back the hot tears that threatened to flow. Walking home with his head bowed, his insides began to boil with indignation. A bird cawed in the distance. He felt a fluttering sensation, a stretching of wings, and steel grey eyes snapping open. The tarot cards. That night as he laid the cards on his bed, they produced a welcome image. It was like watching a television programme as Bert envisaged Lucy being knocked off her bike in front of an oncoming car. His breath quickened as the scene unravelled before him; Lucy, no longer mocking but a broken mess of matted hair. Rivulets of her blood decorating the black asphalt in his wake. Such thoughts both frightened and excited him. It was then that the raven within came into its own.
Bert jerked his rucksack forward as he walked home. Today was the day he had planned to carry out Lucy’s prediction, but second thoughts had plunged the heat of his anger into ice, and turning his back on his school he cast his head down as he pushed his thumbs under the straps biting into his shoulders. The rucksack felt ten times heavier, as if large claws were yanking it backwards with each step he took. The more he hurried, the more he could feel the breath of his nightmares tickle the back of his neck. Yes, he wanted revenge on Lucy, but killing her?