Unraveled Visions (A Shaman Mystery) (3 page)

“I don’t have problems.”

“Great! I’m sorry if—”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s bunkum, all this chakra rubbish. I don’t believe in any of it.”

“No.” I caught her gaze. “That’s evident, Drea. But in Eastern philosophy, chakras are part of the nonmaterial form of your body; the first place ill health or emotional trauma shows up. I felt a worrying strain within your sacral chakra. You don’t have to take any notice of what I felt, but that doesn’t alter the fact.”

“I don’t have problems at all. I’ve never been as happy as I am now.”

“Your root chakra showed that. It’s showing me how secure you feel.”

She smiled properly, and for a couple of seconds, her face lost its pointed, dour look. “It’s our first house together, Andy and me. He—” She broke off.

“He what?”

“We’ve put the past behind us. That’s all.”

I gave her a tiny, suspicious glance. It was almost as if Drea had come here today to prove something to herself. That the past was behind her. Or that the therapies I offered were “bunkum.”

Drea got up from her floor cushion, her thin legs as uncoordinated as a newborn foal. “No, that was nice. Well worth the money. I already feel like I’ve had an extra night’s sleep.”

“Don’t forget, the Reiki was only the first half of the therapy. You’ve paid for a shamanic interpretation. As soon as I’ve got an hour, I’ll journey for you.”

“Do what?”

“I’ll enter your spirit world. What I see is a sort of landscape. It should give us a picture of what your chakras were telling us.”

“That sounds horrid.” Drea busied herself, pulling on her mittens. “Like you’re going to poke around inside me.”

I tried to smile. “It shouldn’t be horrid. It clarifies things and paints a picture of where you are.”

“Well …”

Most people can’t wait to hear about themselves, and I didn’t think Drea was any different. “I’ll write everything down for you. I might be able to suggest some meditations or yoga postures. I’ll pop my report round, seeing you’re just up the street.”

“No, don’t do that.” For the first time, she touched me. I looked into her face and saw alarm.

“It’s no trouble—”

“I’ll pick it up. Maybe come round when you’ve got some spare eggs?”

We moved from the therapy room into my hall. She tucked wisps of hair under her hat, gearing herself up for sub-Arctic conditions as she waited for me to open the door.

“Dreadful about the shooting, isn’t it?” she said.

“What shooting?”

“It was on the breakfast news.” Her eyes widened as she spoke. “Someone killed a policeman.”

“Not local I hope?”

“Sounds like it. They found his body in town last night. It made me go cold when I heard. We moved here because Bridgwater is supposed to be a nice, peaceful place, and almost straightaway there was that body they found in the summer.”

“The girl that drowned in the Dunball Wharf ?”

“Yes. Only she didn’t, did she? She was thrown in there, they said. It spooked me. And now someone’s been killed on the night of the carnival.”

I saw the sky ablaze with squibs, heard the roar of the crowd, the crack of the fireworks, the flapping, bat-black coat.

I closed the door behind Drea and went straight into the kitchen. I booted up my laptop and searched the West Country news site I follow on Twitter.

CID officer shot during Carnival
was the most recent tweet. They weren’t giving a name yet, describing the dead man as …
a member of the Avon and Somerset CID.
Gary Abbott was a detective sergeant in the CID. I looked up, remembering him. When I’d known him, he’d been a detective constable, and I doubted that he’d suddenly changed for the better with his promotion. It couldn’t be Abbott; only the good die young.

I went through to the link to find out that Drea had been listening more closely than she’d suggested. A body had been discovered early this morning at the back end of the shopping precinct, where the stores had their delivery bays and rubbish bins.

I scratched my hairline. Not the churchyard. I tried to recall the explosive darkness of last night. What had I seen? A man obscured by shooting fire and raining sparks. A knee-length coat flapping in the night wind. I’d been sure then that Abbott was the wearer. I’d lost him in the firework excitement. Or had he dropped to the ground, the noise of a gun masked by gunpowder? If I had walked up the lane, would I have seen him being dragged away? Would I have been shot in the crossfire?

I thought about coppers, the risks they took. Someone had wanted a detective dead. Although I might have joked in the past that I’d’ve preferred a deceased Gary Abbott, I would never have meant it. The thought of him shot and dumped among garbage filled me with trepidation, and the sickness in my stomach confirmed it.

I shrugged. “Could be anyone.”

three

“Any chance of a
cup of tea?”

I bounced up from my bar stool. Debs stood on the other side of the working top, her makeup back in place, the spikes of her dip-dyed hair looking jaunty, and her sparkly bag on wheels zipped up ready for the trip back to Bristol. I’d half forgotten, after Drea and the news about last night, that she’d been sleeping in my spare bedroom.

“Debs! Remember the bloke last night at the carnival? The copper I saw running?”

“Sort of …”

“Someone was shot last night. I think it could be him.”

“Blimey,” said Debs, shaking her head as if she had something irritating an ear. “He’s not … he’s not that detective you had a thing with, is he?”

“No. Not him. That was Rey. Only we never ‘had a thing.’ ” My knees gave way for a second—until the dead man had been named, it could be any detective. “Please don’t even think that it might be Rey.”

Detective Inspector Reynard Buckley. Rey to his mates. He’d been given promotion after the successful closure of the Wetland Murders case. Abbott had got a leg-up too. After it was all over, Rey had begun popping in to see me on his way to work. He’d listened to me moan on about Gary Abbot, and I’d managed to get Rey to admit that Abbott did annoy him; he thumbed through classic military vehicle mags in the car and banged on about the rules of things like Australian football until after closing time. And it worried him that after a night’s drinking, Rey and a couple of other cops would have to help Gary out into the night and check he’d got home to his partner. Back then, I was still seething at the way Gary Abbott had treated me, and Rey’s stories confirmed it: Abbott was a smug, spiteful, cynical slime ball with a hatred of anything he couldn’t understand. But in truth, I knew Rey was secretly fond of the guy. He’d worked alongside him through a nasty investigation, after all.

By the time they’d found that unnamed girl at the Dunball Wharf, Rey’s morning visits had all but stopped, and I’d been glad, because nothing had moved on. He’d come into the kitchen, eat a boiled egg if the hens were laying, drink a coffee, then bomb off to work, like I was some sort of café. He’d never suggested a date. He’d never kissed me.

Since then, the only thing that had kept me going through the long, lonely nights was his continually changing photo on the social network sites.

“I’m going to put the kettle on and make us some toast,” said Debs, taking charge. “You look dreadful.”

“I’m trying to piece last night together, Debs. Because they ask you to phone, don’t they, if you have any information? Even if it turns out to be nothing. And I might’ve been the last person to see Abbott alive.”

“You might not have seen him at all!”

“I saw a man running. He was so focused he didn’t even realize he’d knocked over a little boy. I picked him up. He’d fallen onto a mobile phone. Not his dad’s …” I trailed off. “I stuck it in my pocket. Goddess, Debs, it could be Abbott’s phone.”

I put my hands over my eyes. I felt suddenly sick; sapped by the Reiki treatment and lack of nourishment and too much booze and the thought that there was a crucial piece of criminal evidence stashed in my coat pocket. I slid off the stool and went over to the sofa, where I’d thrown my coat and bag when I’d got back last night.

“You don’t know it was Abbott’s phone for sure,” said Debs, from the sink. “Could have been anyone’s. And if it was a cop’s, I bet it’s locked and passworded against theft.”

“He didn’t stop when he knocked the boy over. He ran up the lane to St. Mary’s and … disappeared.”

“That gypsy might have seen something.”

“She must have seen Abbott pass her in the lane.”

“What was it she said about your future?”

“Dunno. It was probably all bunk—” I slammed my teeth together. This morning, Drea had dismissed my belief of Reiki, calling it bunkum. Last night, I had dismissed they gypsy’s forecast in almost the same terms. But surely the gypsy costume had been a carnival game?

For the first time I clearly recalled Kizzy’s soft hands and Debs’s delighted squeal …
she’s promising you sex!

“She said something very odd, Debs, when you think about it. Something about danger leading to death.”

“Well, it did, for this copper, didn’t it? So she got that right.”

I rested my coat back down on the sofa and started to search my bag. “I can’t find the phone.” I tipped the contents of my bag out onto the sofa. “I did have it, Debs. I can remember at least some of last night. Maybe I dropped it too.”

Debs came over and did the same fruitless search. She stood erect. “Jeans pocket?”

“I was wearing my green skirt, wasn’t I? No pockets.”

“Then don’t you see? We gave that gypsy twenty quid to tell a fortune and she took the money
and
the phone. She had us twice over.”

“I’m certain she didn’t have the second sight.”

“No,” Debs agreed. “But I’m certain that she was a thief.”

_____

Bridgwater Police Station rose before me—mean, hard, ready and willing to enforce the law. Above my head, rows of square-set windows. At ground level, solid brickwork and shutters. They can see you coming, but you can’t see them. It was months since I’d been in the front office, but apart from the posters on the walls, it hadn’t changed.

I waited in line to be seen by the duty officer and wondered if I’d get the chance to clap eyes on a certain detective inspector. He probably wouldn’t be here, or be the one to take a statement.

“Can I help you miss?”

“Yes, ah …” I brought my striped Doc Ms up to the counter. The police constable behind it was looking through me, her entire face deadpan. She was so smart, so polished and ironed, while I looked so …
alternative.
“I’m not sure. That is—I’m not sure if I can be of any help, but I think I might have seen something last night.”

“You think you witnessed something?”

“Yes. That is—I have no idea. It depends.”

“Depends on what?” The door behind me swung open and another member of the public came in. Some chap who’d lost his wallet or something. Illogically, I lowered my voice and leaned close to the glass partition. The PC swayed back. She didn’t like the breach of security. “It depends on who died yesterday. I mean, who was shot.”

“I’m sorry, miss, but you’re not making much sense.”

“Was it Detective Sergeant Abbott?”

I saw a flicker pass across her face, a wavering muscle that was under control in seconds.

“I wondered if he was missing an iPhone, the dead officer.”

She paused for a single heart beat before speaking. “If you could take a seat, miss.”

“What?”

“Please, wait over there.” She picked up the phone and spoke into it, too quietly for me to hear. I leaned against a wall. The man was with the duty officer now. I got so caught up with the story he was telling—how a dog had shot across the road in the dark last night, how he wasn’t able to stop, how there hadn’t been a name on the collar—that I didn’t see the detective until he was standing over me.

“I should’ve guessed,” said Reynard Buckley.

I jumped. “Guessed what?”

“If there was every another nasty case, you’d turn out to be part of it.”

He didn’t give me chance to respond, even to ask what the hell he meant. I simply followed him through corridors and up stairs until he stopped to open a door.

We went in and sat opposite each other at a table. I’d given statements to the police before, long, involved sessions where the questions were lined with suspicion. But surely this would be quick, easy. After a few moments of silence I raised my shoulders in a Gallic shrug. “It’s probably nothing at all.” Rey didn’t reply. He drummed his fingers.

“Look,” I said, “I’m—”

“Can you wait for the interview to formally begin?” said Rey.

I slammed my mouth tight.

By the time a uniformed officer turned up, the recording equipment had been switched on, and the interview begun, I’d lost my nerve. I had no idea what to say.

Abbott had taken against me the last time I’d brushed shoulders with the police. He’d had a way of closing his eyes that was more uncomfortable than an outright stare. He’d sworn at me, with intent, hoping to throw me off balance. If Abbott had been conducting this interview, the fact that I’d lost a vital piece of evidence would have been all he’d need to mock and taunt me. And from the vibes coming from Rey, he was tempted to try the same game. Anyway, it wasn’t a vital piece of evidence, was it? It had been dropped before Abbott had died, while he was pursuing … his killer? I blanched at the thought. At least they now knew why it was missing; they could call up the logs from the phone company if they were interested, couldn’t they?

“I feel a bit of a fool,” I said. “But I only put the phone in my pocket so that I could ask the father of the little boy if he’d lost one without him seeing it.” I hoped that made me sound logical … or at least more sober than I’d actually been. “Then there was this girl from a float, all dressed up as a gypsy, pretending to tell fortunes. I have no proof that she took it, but someone did.”

They stared back at me, reaffirming the “bit of a fool” part without having to say a word.

“I haven’t been a lot of help,” I finished.

“On the contrary,” said the constable, emotionally numb to any atmosphere that was pulsing red round Rey and me, “this will be very useful. Police deaths are always taken with extreme seriousness.”

“Extreme seriousness,” echoed Rey. “Your friend, Deborah Hitchens. We’ll be having a word with her. She should have come with you.”

“I know,” I said, looking away. “It was Debs who pushed me into having my palm read.”

“I thought you were a shaman. Why would you want your palm read?”

“We were only mucking about.”

“There seems to have been a lot of mucking about.”

“It was the
carnival
, Rey. People go to have fun—if you recognise that phrase.”

“How much had you both had to drink?”

“Oh! Well, what with the pubs open late, we were probably quite … ankled.”

Rey passed a hand over his number-three crew cut. He hadn’t allowed it to grow by a single millimetre since our last meeting. “I’ll see you out.”

His words were formal and toneless. My innards felt as if they were dropping through my body, part by part.
Don’t get affected by this
, I told myself, not knowing if I meant the knowledge that Abbott was dead or that Rey wasn’t pleased to see me.

He watched in silence as I got signed out. I took the chance to try to defend myself.

“To be fair, Rey, most people had been drinking, not just us.”

He didn’t reply. I made it to the door without my knees giving way, but the door had become obscenely heavy, as if locked against absconders.

Suddenly, Rey was beside me, his hand tucked round my elbow. “Fancy a quick coffee?” he asked. “I’m gasping for a fag.”

“Don’t want to remind you of established legislation, but you can’t smoke in cafés.”

“No worries. Follow me.”

He shrugged himself into a combat jacket and I tagged after him as we went down Northgate and up a side road, where a street vendor was doing a roaring trade in snacks from his van, mainly, I fancied, to on-duty cops. Rey fished in his pocket and paid for two paper cups filled with dubious brown liquid.

There were no tables, so we perched on the flat low wall to one side of the van. Rey balanced his cup on the stonework and fished out his cigarettes. “Want one?”

“You know I don’t smoke.” I didn’t drink coffee, either, but I kept that to myself. “I gave up ten years ago, for the good of my health.”

“You gave
up
ten years ago. For Pete’s sake, how old were you when you began?”

“Eleven,” I said, grinning. “I was a hard-knock kid. Mind you, when I went to live with Gloria, I had to hide the packs and suck mints, but that made it more fun. Do you remember Gloria?”

“Your foster mum? Of course I do.” He shielded his cigarette and lit it with a cheap lighter.

“Look, I’m sorry … you know … that your friend was shot.”

“He was a good copper,” said Rey. “But not good at sharing.”

I let that sink in. “Was Gary on duty at the carnival?”

“He was doing the same as everyone else, I imagine. Having a good time.”

I put my hand to my mouth. “He was with his family? How awful for them.”

“He’d got a girl, she’s got a kid. They’ll likely be all over the telly, so no harm in telling you. Yeah, in a way, I suppose he was a family man. Not like me.”

I was thrown into a flurry of thoughts. Was Rey hinting that hooking up was out of the question? Or that he was still free and looking? He watched me flounder around.

“He loved his promotion. Took over my well-worn shoes with a vengeance. Worked his hunches, did Gary. But nah. He wasn’t on duty last night.”

“He was running. Like he was chasing someone.”

“Yeah. Well, ‘off duty’ isn’t the same as ‘not working.’ Cops are always at work.” Rey blew smoke away from me and changed his tack, as if he didn’t want to show where his deeper thoughts might be taking him. “They’re still talking about you, at the station.”

“What? Why?”

“You did the impossible, on the Wetlands case. You’re a mystery, and you know how cops like a mystery.”

I snorted. “Cops don’t usually replace truth with invention. I didn’t do anything mysterious, not in the end. I stumbled into the scene of the crime was all.”

“Even so, you deserved your reward, Sabbie. What you were eligible for, I mean. The money the
Mercury
put up.”

I looked down at my brim-full coffee. The reward for finding a child killer. I hadn’t been thinking of a reward as I’d faced a murderer with cruel madness in their eyes, and it had come as a surprise when I’d received the cheque.

“What did you do with the money in the end? Don’t tell me, let me guess.” He raised his eyes to the clouds, in mock deliberation. “A herd of milking goats?”