Witch Is When It All Began (5 page)

Chapter 6

My usual breakfast comprised a cup of tea and cereal. The morning after the funeral, I had two strong cups of coffee. I needed them just to get me out of the door. The events of the previous day had left me exhausted.

“Morning, Mrs V.”

“Morning, dear. Are you okay? You look a little tired this morning.”

“I didn’t sleep very well. I have a few things on my mind right now.”

Mrs V looked over her half-moon glasses. “I know just the thing for that.”

Don’t you dare—just don’t you—

“Knitting. It’s what has kept me sane all of these years. Do you still have the—?”

I went through to my office and slammed the door closed behind me. I could hear Mrs V tutting through the glass. One of the reasons I felt so tired was because I’d had a nightmare in which I’d been searching high and low for dropped stitches.

“Meow!” Winky rubbed against my legs. “Meow!”

I stroked his head, “Here’s a tip for you, boy. Don’t ever take up knitting.”

I walked over to the window, and hung my coat on the stand. When I turned around I found Winky sitting on my chair. “Off you get!” I tapped his backside, and he jumped down. “You’ve got plenty of seats to choose from. You can’t have mine.”

I stooped down to get the ‘Caroline Fox’ folder out of the filing cabinet.

“Your chair is the most comfortable.”

I banged my head as I shot back up.

“Meow! Meow!”

I stared at him. He stared back—as best he could. Okay, now I was hearing things. I truly was losing my mind.

Normally, once I’m on a case, I’m laser-focussed, but I’d really dropped the ball this time. With all the upheaval of the previous few days, I’d barely thought about the ‘Fox’ case since Danny Peterson’s visit. Billable hours to-date came to precisely zero. That wouldn’t pay the rent or keep Winky in full cream milk. I did a quick read through of my notes to get back up to speed. I really was beginning to have second thoughts on whether or not I should have taken the case, but it was too late to back out now. I’d made a promise to Danny, and the least I could do was dig around and see what I could come up with. I couldn’t contact Mr Lyon, so decided to start with Mr Lamb, husband of the second murder victim. It wasn’t difficult to find his phone number and address.

By midday, it was obvious that he had no intention of answering his phone or responding to the numerous messages I’d left for him. That left me with only one option.

Just my luck. There was nowhere to park within sight of the house, so I had to leave my car several streets away. Trust me to pick the coldest day of the year so far. I managed to find a little shelter from the icy cold wind by leaning against a tree that was on the opposite side of the road to Lamb’s house. I’d already tried knocking on his door, and I’d stolen a look through the front window, but there was no sign of life. I’d also checked the garage, but his car wasn’t there. My plan was to doorstep him when he got back. That was if I didn’t die from hypothermia first.

It was a nice, quiet neighbourhood. Not the type of place you’d expect to find a murderer—serial killer or otherwise. I noticed an elderly woman staring at me from an upstairs window in the house behind me. She was probably Neighbourhood Watch. Hopefully Mr Lamb would return home before I was hauled away by the police.

“Mr Lamb?” I chased after him as soon as he got out of the car.

“I have nothing to say.” He was nothing like I’d expected him to be. For some reason I’d pictured a mild-mannered, accountant type. Instead what I got was a real bruiser who could have passed for a serial killer quite easily. Bald, apart from tufts of hair on either side of his head, he stood about five-eight tall. He was a little overweight, but not what you would call fat. He looked like he hadn’t had a shave for at least a week.

“Go away!” he snarled.

“I just want a few words.” I was already back-pedalling.

“I’m not talking to the press!”

“I’m not the press.”

“Course you aren’t. That’s what they all say.”

“It’s true.” I slid my hand into my inside pocket and pulled out a card. “Look.”

He glanced at the card. “P.I? You don’t look like a P.I.”

Which when translated meant ‘you’re not a man’.

“My name’s Jill Gooder. I’ve called several times today and left messages.”

“I don’t listen to my messages any more.”

“Right. Of course. I understand. Look, I’m working for Danny Peterson.”

“Who? Never heard of him.”

“He’s the boyfriend of Caroline Fox.” The name seemed to register with Lamb. “She was murdered a few days ago. He thinks her murder might be connected to your wife’s.”

“Because of her name? The police told me the Bugle article about a serial killer was nonsense.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. That’s what I want to find out.”

Mr Lamb’s demeanour had softened—enough for me to feel comfortable taking a few steps towards him. “Could we go inside to talk about this?” My nose and ears were freezing.

He looked back at the house, and then at me again. “Okay. Come in. But if I find out you’re press—”

Once we were inside, Mr Lamb dropped the aggression, and even offered me a coffee.

“Biscuit?”

I hesitated. I didn’t want to appear rude, but the biscuits were all mixed together. I had to suppress a shudder. “No, thanks. Got to think of my figure.”

“You women. My wife was always on a diet.” He picked up a framed photo, and handed it to me. The woman was beautiful, and certainly had no need of a diet.

“That was taken last Christmas.”

I could hear the hurt in his voice.

“She was beautiful,” I said.

“Much too beautiful for an ugly brute like me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” It definitely was. Mr Lamb had been punching well above his weight.

“It is true. She was much too good for me in every way. I couldn’t believe my luck when she said she’d go out with me. When she agreed to be my wife, I couldn’t have been any happier.”

I smiled. Words seemed inadequate.

“Then someone stole her away from me. If I ever lay my hands on him, he’ll wish that he was dead.”

“Have the police said if they have any leads?”

“They seem clueless. Every time I ask what’s happening, they say that they’re ‘pursuing a number of lines of enquiry.’ What does that mean? It’s all double-talk. I’d been thinking about doing the same thing—contacting a P.I., but I didn’t know where to begin. Are you any good?”

“You’d have to ask my clients, but yes, I like to think so. My father was a P.I.”

“Family business eh? That’s nice. Maybe you could work for me too?”

“If it turns out the cases are connected, then I guess I will be doing—in a manner of speaking. Is it okay if I ask you a few questions?”

He nodded.

“What can you tell me about the day your wife was murdered?”

“It was just a normal day. Trisha had been to the book club at the library—she went there every Wednesday afternoon. She loved to read. Not me—I’m more of a TV kind of guy. Most nights, if we weren’t going out, I’d watch TV while Trisha read her books. She liked Romance novels. I offered to watch TV upstairs, so as not to disturb her, but she said that once she was engrossed in a good book, all other sounds faded into the background.”

“What about the days leading up to her death? Anything out of the ordinary? Anything at all?”

“Nothing. We lived a fairly routine kind of life. Boring, you might say. Trisha did the weekly shop, went to the gym, and visited her brother.”

“Do you have a contact number for him?”

“It’s on my phone.” He flicked through his list of contacts until he had it. “There you go.”

We talked for over an hour. Most of that time, I spent listening to Mr Lamb reminisce about the woman who had been the love of his life. His soul mate.

As I left, I promised to keep him posted on events. He offered to pay me, but I declined. I didn’t feel right about taking two payments for the same case. I was pleased to have made contact with Mr Lamb, but I didn’t feel that I’d learned anything new. From what he’d told me, there was no obvious reason why anyone would have wanted to kill his wife. The more I thought about it, the more it felt like a senseless, random attack, which was precisely how the police were treating it from all accounts.

On the drive home, I felt my phone vibrate. I ignored it until I arrived back at my flat. There was a voice mail from Jack Maxwell:
‘I told you to stay away from the Fox case, and yet you paid a visit to Mr Lamb today. I won’t tell you again. Stay out of police business. All you are doing is hindering our enquiries.’

Who did he think he was? I pressed ‘delete’.

Even though it was only four o’clock, I decided to call it a day. I was feeling pretty frazzled, and there had to be a few perks to being your own boss. I called Mrs V to make sure there was nothing that needed my attention.

“Only that damn cat. He’s driving me insane.”

I didn’t ask why. Mrs V and Winky would have to sort out their differences by themselves for once.

Back at my flat, I decided what I needed was a lazy, self-indulgent evening. That meant a hot bath, followed by a takeaway pizza, a glass of wine, and an enormous bar of chocolate. Just what the doctor ordered.

Before I had a chance to put my plan into action, there was a knock on the door. Much as I loved Kathy, I prayed it wouldn’t be her. I just wanted some ‘
me, myself, I
’ time.

“Jill Gooder?” The badge on the young man’s jacket read ‘Lightning Couriers’. His hair certainly looked as though he’d been struck by lightning.

“That’s me.”

“Sign here.” He passed me one of those ridiculous, hand-held thingamajigs and a plastic stick.

“Where?”

“Anywhere on the screen. Don’t matter.”

“I can’t see what I’m writing.”

“Don’t worry. Just scribble something.”

I scribbled ‘Winky the cat’—not that I could read it, and then took the package from him. Although it was only about twelve inches square, it weighed a ton. There was no card or anything else that might have indicated who’d sent it.

I tore off the wrapping to reveal a black box. The lid was fastened down with tape on each side. I grabbed a pair of scissors from the kitchen, and sliced each piece of tape in turn. Inside was a leather-bound book, which looked as though it was a thousand years old. On the front, in large gold letters, the title read ‘Spells’.

Was this some kind of joke? What else could it be? Not satisfied with calling me a witch with her dying breath, my mother must have arranged to have this delivered to me after her death. She really had been a piece of work. I was beginning to realise how lucky I’d been to grow up without her.

I lifted the book out of the box, laid it on the coffee table, and opened the front cover. My mother must have gone to a lot of trouble and expense to do this. I hoped it had made her happy. What a sicko!

Chapter 7

I began to flick through the pages. As far as I could tell the ‘spells’ appeared in no particular order. They certainly weren’t listed alphabetically and there was no obvious theme.

Just for a laugh, I decided to read a few of them. I started with ‘perfect cakes’. According to the description, it did pretty much ‘what it said on the label’—it created perfect cupcakes. It was a pity that it was nonsense because, as the world’s worst baker, I could have done with some help on the cake front.

It seemed to me that whoever had come up with the ‘Spell’ book really hadn’t done their research. Everyone knew that spells required things like the wing of bat or the wart of toad. These spells didn’t have anything like that. Instead, the instructions required only that I process a sequence of mental images. For example, ‘perfect cakes’ required me to picture: a golden beach, a waterfall, a blackbird and a ladybird. It all sounded rather ‘hippy’ and total nonsense.

My phone rang—unknown number, but I recognised the voice immediately.

“Jill? It’s Aunt Lucy.”

“Oh? Hi.” How had she come by my phone number?

“I hope you don’t mind me calling you?”

“Err. No. That’s okay.”

“I’m sorry you had to rush off the other day. I guess all of this must have come as a shock to you?”

No kidding. “Yes, it has.”

“The rest of the family were disappointed they didn’t get the chance to meet you. We’d all love for you to come over again once you’re feeling up to it.”

Not a chance. “I’ll have to see.”

“Of course, my dear. There’s no rush. We’ll still be here when you’ve had time to let it all sink in.”

“Okay. Thanks. Bye then—”

“Jill! Wait! That’s not why I called.”

“Why
did
you call?” My impatience was beginning to show, but I didn’t really care.

“I wanted to check you’d received the book.”

“You sent it?”

“Yes. Your mother asked me to send it to you—in the event of her death. Normally, you’d have started learning spells when you were a child, but—”

“But I wasn’t there.” I spat the words. “My mother had given me away.”

“Jill, I told you. It wasn’t like that. Your mother truly—”

“Stop! Please don’t try to tell me that she loved me. A mother who loves her child does not use her dying breath to call her a witch.”

“Jill! Please! It wasn’t like that, I promise. It was—”

“Complicated. I know. You’ve already said. Well, it isn’t complicated now. In fact, it’s very straight forward. I want nothing more to do with you or the rest of my so-called family.”

“If we could just meet, I could explain.”

“Sorry, but no. Please don’t contact me again.”

“Jill! The book—”

“I’m going to burn it.” I ended the call. My hands were shaking.

My phone rang again. What was the matter with that woman? Why wouldn’t she take the hint?

“I don’t want to speak to you—” I yelled down the phone.

“Wow!” Kathy said. “What did I do?”

“Kathy?” I’d been so wound up that I hadn’t even checked the caller ID. “Sorry. I didn’t realise it was you.”

I plonked myself down on the sofa. The stupid book was still open on the coffee table—taunting me.

“Are you okay?” Kathy sounded concerned. She obviously thought I’d finally lost it.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“Who did you think I was?”

“Aunt Lucy.”

“What on earth did she do to make you so angry? It sounded like you wanted to kill her.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me.”

“She sent me a book. It— I—”

“What kind of book?”

“Do you remember I told you what my mother said on her death-bed?”

“When she called you a witch?”

“Yeah. Well it seems that she must have had the whole thing planned.”

“Had what planned? You aren’t making any sense.”

“She had Aunt Lucy send me a book on magic spells.”

Kathy laughed.

“It isn’t funny!”

“It is a bit. Come on, Jill. Your new family are obviously as nutty as fruit cakes. What does the book look like?”

“It’s big. Old—Wait! What does it matter what the book looks like?”

“Sorry. Look, I’ll come round.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“I’m coming. I’ll be there in twenty.”

So much for my quiet, relaxing evening. I knew what Kathy was like. She’d insist on trying the stupid spells. I had to get rid of the book before she arrived or she’d be here until the early hours of the morning.

I took it to the communal skip, which was behind the shops. It hit the bottom of the skip with a satisfying thud. Good riddance.

While I was there, I decided to buy a packet of custard creams because I knew Kathy would make short work of the few I had left in the flat. It was always the same. She’d say ‘
I’ll just have one
’ and then proceed to scoff the lot.

As I came out of the shop, my heart sank. Mr Ivers, a man who could bore for England, was headed my way. It was too late to duck back inside because he’d already seen me. He lived alone and was an avid cinema-goer. It was the only thing he ever talked about. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to the cinema. I watched the occasional movie online, but that was about it. Whenever I bumped into him, he insisted on telling me all about the movies he’d watched recently. And he watched an awful lot of them. Apparently he paid a monthly subscription, which meant he could watch as many as he liked. I’d become good at avoiding him, but today I was cornered.

“Oh, hello there.” He beamed. “I haven’t seen you for a while.”

“I’ve been rather busy.”

I tried to side-step him, but he mirrored my move.

“Have you seen any good movies recently?” he asked.

“Like I said before, I don’t often go to the cinema.”

“You really should. There have been some real blockbusters recently. Last weekend, I went to see Morgan’s Secret. You must have read about it. It stars—”

“Sorry, that’s my sister. I’ll have to go.” Kathy’s car had just pulled up outside my flat.

“Oh? Okay. Maybe I—”

I didn’t hang around to hear what else he had to say.

“Kathy!” I shouted.

“Are you okay?” She took the bag of shopping from me. “You bought custard creams. Great, I’m starving.” She led the way inside. “I can’t wait to see this book.”

As soon as I stepped into the living room, I saw it. Right there on the coffee table—the book of spells.

But how? Someone must have taken it out of the skip while I was in the shop. But who? Was Aunt Lucy stalking me? And if so, how had she got inside the flat?

Kathy walked through to the kitchen, put the shopping on the worktop, and then came back into the living room. “So? Where’s this mysterious book?”

“It—it’s there.” I pointed.

“This?” Now it was Kathy’s turn to look puzzled as she stared at the book.

“Yes.”

“This little thing?” She leaned forward and put her hand on the front cover. “I thought you said it was some kind of magic book?”

I did a double-take. Kathy was flicking through a small hardback book titled ‘Magical cooking in 5 days’.

I snatched the book away from her. The thin, modern-looking volume weighed almost nothing.

“Jill? Are you sure you’re okay?”

“This isn’t the book. It’s changed.”

“Changed?”

“It shouldn’t even be here. I threw it in the skip.”

“Are there two books?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.”

Kathy took the book from me and placed it back on the coffee table. “I think you need to lie down.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “This thing with your mother has affected you more than you’re admitting.”

“I’m okay.” Was I though? I was beginning to have doubts.

Kathy led me through to the bedroom, and insisted I lay on the bed. I was too dazed to argue. What had happened? I’d thrown the book in the skip, but it had somehow come back. Or had it? Now it was a different book. Or were there two books? Maybe things would make more sense if I had a drink. “I need vodka.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

“Pour me a vodka.”

“You’re having tea, and that’s an end to it.”

See? I told you she was bossy.

“Here.” She passed me the cup of tea. “Do you want a biscuit?” she said through a mouthful of custard creams.

“Are there any left?”

“I’ve only had two—or three—maybe four, but definitely not more than five. And, I’ve hidden the vodka.”

“Thanks.” Little did she know I had another bottle under the sink.

“Both bottles.”

Bum!

“Maybe I should stay with you tonight,” Kathy said, eyeing up the packet of biscuits.

“Why? So you can finish off the custard creams?”

“I’m worried about you. You’ve been acting a bit weird. I could ring Pete.”

“No! I’ll be okay. I promise.”

“It’s no bother.”

“Honestly. I’ll be fine.”

It took me a while, but I eventually persuaded her that I was well enough to be left alone. Someone was playing tricks on me, and I wasn’t impressed. I stayed in the bedroom for a few minutes after she left just in case she doubled back to check on me—she could be sneaky like that. I hardly dared look at the coffee table, for fear of what I might see. The book was right there—not the cute little baking book that Kathy had seen, but the book of spells. The one I’d thrown into the skip.

Okay, I needed to recap. I’d put the book in the skip. When I’d returned to the flat, the book was on the coffee table. It had then transformed into the baking book. And then it had transformed back into the book of spells. Confused? I certainly was, but somehow I had to find a logical explanation.

Someone could have taken the book out of the skip and brought it back to my flat while I was in the shop, but how had they got in? There was no sign of forced entry. Could I have left the door unlocked? No, because I’d had to unlock it when I came back with Kathy. How had the book changed from an old book of spells into a modern, lightweight book on baking? There must have been two books, and someone must have swapped them.

The only explanation that made even a lick of sense was that someone must have got into the flat, and they must still have been there when Kathy and I returned. But how come I hadn’t seen them make the switch? Could whoever it was still be in the flat?

I went into my bedroom, and picked up Dad’s old golf club, which I always kept under the bed. The flat wasn’t very big, and there were a limited number of places that anyone could hide. I checked the bathroom and then the spare bedroom. Then I checked all the large cupboards and the walk-in wardrobe. Finally, I had a quick look around the garden. All clear, but I was still convinced that someone must have been in the flat while I was in the shop.

I found the number of a local locksmith and gave him a call. He said he could be with me within three hours. I considered taking the book back to the skip, but I didn’t really want to leave the flat again until the locks had been changed. As soon as they had, I’d get rid of the stupid book once and for all.