Rothsay nodded while Boateng gave me a surprised look of approval. ‘I will add my own apologies. That was uncalled for on my part. There’s a time and a place for banter and this isn’t it.’ He gestured to the door. ‘Why don’t you come through, Emma, then I can show you why both Robert and myself are so convinced that supes are involved? I hope it’s not the case, but the evidence certainly points towards the supernatural.’
More concerned now, I nodded soberly and followed him.
Chapter Six
The Barchapel police station might have been very small but it was bustling with activity. As I walked behind Boateng, I saw the evidence board plastered with a photo of Patrick Lacey and various details about both his life and death. As I became aware of the serious expressions and buzz of concentration from the assembled police officers, I imagined that it would have been like this when my parents were killed. There wouldn’t have been laptops and smartphones, but the intensity would have been the same. Something about that thought was oddly reassuring.
Boateng acknowledged various people but didn’t pause until we reached the small room he’d clearly commandeered as his office. He closed the door and sat down, gesturing at me to do the same. ‘You know, Emma,’ he said without any further preamble, ‘there’s no chance that the murder of Patrick Lacey is in any way related to the murder of your mother and father.’
He was heading straight for the elephant in the room. I wasn’t surprised that he was aware of my connection to Barchapel; either DSI Barnes had told him or he’d looked into my background himself. I’d have done the same thing in his position. As far as he was concerned, I was an upstart stranger striding into the middle of his investigation with scant experience.
I met his eyes and spoke as frankly as I could. ‘I’m not here to insert myself into your investigation, sir. I’m with the Metropolitan Police and I’m well aware that I have no official capacity or authority to investigate in Barchapel. I’m not particularly experienced as a detective, but I do know supes and I think I can offer some assistance in that regard. But if you’d prefer that I stay clear, I will fully understand. Officially, I’m only here on holiday.’
Boateng leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. ‘We both know you’re not here for a holiday. And while I agree that you don’t have a lot of experience in terms of time served, you’ve proved yourself as a detective. I’ve done my homework. You’ve produced incredible results over the last few months.’
I inclined my head. ‘Thank you for that.’ I straightened my shoulders. ‘I can’t deny that the main reason I’m here is because of my parents, but their murderer is already behind bars. Samuel Beswick was arrested three days after he killed them and I have the police here to thank for that. Justice was served and—’ I suddenly stopped short.
Boateng gave me a curious look. ‘And what?’
And when I’d asked Beswick why he hadn’t killed me, he’d obviously been horrified at the thought. He’d said it wouldn’t have been fair to kill a child and I’d believed him. If the sulphurous soot I’d found at the cottage really was evidence of my death, had he been lying? To what end? It didn’t make sense.
‘Nothing,’ I said. I shook my head, attempting to dispel my thoughts. ‘Maybe we should get to the point. Why are you so sure that Patrick Lacey was murdered by a supe?’
A tiny frown marred Boateng’s forehead as I shifted gear. He watched me for a moment or two and then shrugged. ‘Very well. There are a few indications.’ He opened a drawer, took out a folder and laid it on the desk between us. ‘Patrick Lacey was forty-six years old.’ He held up a photo of him. ‘As you can see, he kept himself in very good shape. He held a black belt in karate, judo and his Krav Maga skills have been highly spoken of. He was very fit, and remarkably strong.’
I gazed at the photo. I knew exactly what Boateng was implying: a human would find it difficult to overpower Patrick Lacey but a supe wouldn’t. ‘It’s one thing to hold your own in a gym. It’s quite another when you’re taken by surprise and attacked outside at night.’
‘True,’ Boateng conceded. He reached for another A4 photo and gave me a warning look, preparing me for what was to come. Then he handed over the photo. ‘But there is also the manner in which he died. Take a look. Lacey’s body was found in a narrow snicket that leads between the back of two rows of houses.’
It was a clear shot of Patrick Lacey lying face up, his head slumped to one side. ‘This was taken at the scene before his body was moved?’
Boateng nodded. ‘The evidence indicates that he died where he fell.’ He slid another photo across the desk, a close up that focused on Lacey’s face and neck. I stared at it. ‘This wound,’ I said. ‘The one on his neck. It’s the only one?’
‘The only one,’ Boateng told me. ‘Patrick Lacey died because his throat was ripped out. You see the ragged edges around the skin? The preliminary report suggests those are teeth marks. Last time I checked, there weren’t any wild wolves or grizzly bears wandering around the Kentish countryside. We’ve sent samples off to the lab in Maidstone to see if we can get any DNA hits. If something bit into Lacey, we’ll know about it soon.’ His tone was
