Copycat Killer (Psychic For Hire 1)

“I thought you might have luggage,” the kid explains. He is eyeing up their minimal hand-luggage with some degree of embarrassment.

“We travel light,” says Remi with a grin.

The kid looks grateful, but not for long as Storm shoves his suitcase towards the kid.

“Take the luggage back to the office and stay there. Send me a file on the victims and any connection to the Wintersdeep case. Make sure the coroner is expecting to see me asap, and chase forensics for their report.”

The kid’s face falls. He was probably hoping to tag along to the crime scene. “Yes, sir,” he says, struggling to get a hold of all three suitcases. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

Storm leaves him to it. He sees Remi shoot the kid an apologetic look. Storm sighs. Monroe is what he’s got, and he had better get used to it.

Chapter 8

DIANA

Number 23, the house from my dreams, is surrounded by a ten foot tall security railing tipped in vicious-looking spikes. Even if I had been physically capable of scaling that thing, I would have to be invisible to do it unseen by the numerous press vans and reporters loitering outside, not to mention the Agency officers posted at the front gate.

The little voice had sniggered when I’d come here with the idea of somehow sneaking in.

I told you so, she’d said. But you had to go seeking permission first.

“He never gave permission,” I mutter.

She is also right that I should have waited until night, but my money situation is crappy enough already without letting Luca down this evening. Especially after all he does to help me out.

Loitering halfway down the street, I eye the scene with disappointment. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get in. I had been stupid to make that wager with the chief. Goaded on by the little voice I had felt so bombastic and certain at the time, but now I feel kinda silly. The chief must’ve known this all along. Talk about embarrassing.

I bet it would be easier to get in from the back, says the little voice.

“If it was that easy those reporters would have done it by now.”

They’ll get sick of waiting and start figuring it out soon enough, says the little voice. See the way these properties are back-to-back with the properties on the adjoining road? You could get in from their back neighbor’s garden.

“I am not going to trespass into their neighbor’s garden!”

I can practically feel the little voice rolling her eyes. Why did you even bother coming? she gripes. Dragging me out here. Getting my hopes up. It looks like you don’t care much about Magda after all.

That bothers me. Magda is half the reason I came to London. The other half being Storm, but I won’t think about that.

I bet the neighbors won’t even be in at this time of day, she says slyly. They’re probably at work.

Feeling in a huff, I trudge down the street and then up the neighboring street that runs parallel to it until I get to the house I think must back onto Jared Everett’s mansion. Compared to the luxuriant mansion, this one is rather ordinary. It doesn’t even have a perimeter fence.

And the little voice was right. There are no cars in the driveway.

I can feel her crowing inside my mind. Feeling annoyed, I walk down the driveway trying to look as if I have every right to be here. I follow the path at the side of the house that leads to a wooden gate. I stand there looking at it for a moment, almost expecting a dog to bark. I check for a security camera that might be capturing my every move. I see and hear nothing.

I scramble over the gate and land in the neighbor’s back garden. I immediately see that the little voice may have been right again. At the back of the garden is an unsightly and poorly maintained wooden fence. Beyond that is a tightly packed row of tall evergreen trees which the Everett’s estate agent must have planted to cover the unsightly fence. I am able to easily climb the broken fence and tumble down into Jared Everett’s garden.

I land behind the trees. I crouch down amongst the dense foliage and peer out. I have no doubt that Jared Everett does have security cameras. Then again, I have no doubt that the inside of his house is currently crawling with crime scene technicians, who I am going to have to avoid somehow. There is no point chickening out now. And Storm is still in Paris, after all. This is my chance for a head start.

I check that my hood is pulled low over my head, covering half of my face. If the cameras do pick me up, hopefully whoever sees the footage will think I am a nosy reporter.

I lope over to the house. I’m rather surprised to see that the sliding back door is a few inches open. Beyond the glass is a lounge. It is empty. Feeling uncertain about whether this luck is really luck, I slip inside and return the door to its original position.

The lounge is furnished in a minimal style. It’s a large open space with marble flooring. At its focal point is a couple of sleek sofas and a glass coffee table on which is an angular vase containing a single sculptural flower. There are precious few places to hide.

Feeling horribly exposed I quickly make my way to the base of the stairs where I saw the man in my dream being killed. His body is gone, but where he had been is a patch of dried up blood on the wooden flooring. The area is marked with a little paper cone and taped off to prevent anyone stepping on it.