Hidden Page 2

It felt like I’d been sitting alone with the body for eternity before I saw the flicker of torches in the distance and the sound of heavy feet crunching through the underbrush.

  “You sure this is the right place?” A gruff voice asked.

  “Positive,” Thomas answered, but I could hear the weariness in his voice.

  “This better not be some bloody joke,” the gruff voice sounded again.

  I rose from the ground and shouted towards the lights. “Over here,” I said.

  The torch instantly flickered in my direction. I squinted and raised my hand to shield myself from the bright light.

  “What the bloody hell,” said a short, wild-haired policeman with a weak chin and tired eyes. He wore a rumpled trench coat and slouched as he padded towards me, reminding me of Peter Falk in Columbo. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem as astute as the TV detective.

  “Why are you sitting out here in the dark?” he barked.

  “I didn’t have any light and we thought it best someone stayed with the body until you arrived.”

  “Yeah, right,” the policeman said.

  I saw the disbelief written all over his face and realised where Thomas’ weariness had come from. He’d probably already had an earful.

  The policeman motioned to the uniformed officers behind him and flashed the torch to the body. “Secure the victim,” he ordered the men before flashing the torch into Thomas’ eyes and then my own, causing us both discomfort with the brightness of the light. “You two over here with me.”

  Without another word, he stomped some distance away from the body and towards the road. I picked up my basket and followed.

  “Now, I want a straight answer from the pair of you,” he said, after coming to a halt and turning to face us. “What were you doing out here in the middle of the forest in the middle of winter?”

  “Officer—” I began, only to stand corrected.

  “It’s Detective Inspector, Ms?”

  “Summer Daniels.”

  “Well, Ms Summer Daniels. It’s Detective Inspector Owens, and it’s bloody freezing out here, and if you were about to spout the same ‘leisurely stroll’ crap I’ve been getting from your gentlemen friend then save your breath. The pair of you haven’t even got a dog.”

  I took a deep breath, put my basket at my feet, and smiled warmly, although inside I wanted nothing more than to take Detective Inspector Owens down a peg or two, while wondering why on Earth not having a dog precluded us from taking a stroll.

  “As it’s clear Thomas has already told you, we were out for a walk in the forest collecting tree samples when we came upon the body,” I said.

  Owens huffed and made a note in his pad, before bending down and rifling through my basket.

  “Should you be doing that?” I asked, annoyed at his behaviour.

  He glared up at me. “Reasonable grounds,” he said. “Why? You got something to hide?” He pushed the samples from side to side as though searching for something.

  “Tree samples,” I said. “I use them to make herbal remedies. On what reasonable grounds are you searching my basket? I hardly expect the victim to have been killed by a leaf.”

  Owens rose to his feet and looked me square in the eye. “Let me decide what did or didn’t kill the victim,” he said. “Now, tell me about your relationship to the victim?”

  “We had no relationship. We have never seen him before we discovered his body.”

  Owens turned to Thomas. “You’re awfully quiet, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “What more is there to say,” Thomas answered. “We were out for a stroll in the forest and gathering tree samples when we found the body. You have our names and address, and I have already advised you of the blue car we saw—”

  “The one with no make or model?”

  “We only caught a glimpse through the trees,” Thomas said with more calm than I felt. “Make and model were impossible to identify.”

  “And how many people were in this mystery blue car.”

  “That was also impossible to see.”

  “And where is your car?”

  “We didn’t come by car,” Thomas said. “We walked from our cottage, further in the forest. Not twenty minutes from here.”

  Owens made some more notes in his pad, and was about to ask another question when one of the officers called and asked him for a moment of his time. While we’d been talking, the officers and crime scene team had erected spot lights around the area and a white tent around the body.

  “This is ridiculous,” I said after Owens left us with stern instructions to stay put. “It’s no wonder people are wary about reporting crime if this is the reception they get.”

  “He’s only doing his job,” Thomas said.

  “If he was doing his job, he would have taken our statements and sent us on our way with strict instructions not to talk to the media. This feels more like he’s already made up his mind we’re somehow involved.”

  “Well!’’ Owens stated when he returned with the officer. “It seems like the two of you aren’t being straight with me after all.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Summer Daniels and Thomas Heart, private investigators.” He spat on the ground as he said the words. “What was your relationship with the deceased?”

  The questions went round and round in circles. What were we doing in the forest? Did we come here often? What was our relationship with the deceased? Over and over we were forced to answer the same silly questions, as if he thought we would suddenly slip up and change our answers.

  Were we working on a case involving the victim? Who hired us? The questions were endless, but when he finally asked: Did you kill Lee Page, and I heard the name, which I can only presume belonged to the victim, everything came crashing down on me. Somehow, knowing the victim’s name made the murder more real, made Lee Page more of a person, somebody who had a family and friends. Somebody who would be missed.

  I snapped.

  “This is bull,” I said, squaring up to Owens. “It’s obvious the victim was dumped here after being killed elsewhere, even a rookie could spot that there’s no footsteps or broken twigs, nothing that might indicate a fight took place, and that guy fought.” I took a deep breath and shook my head. This was ridiculous. “Why the hell would we kill him, dump his body, and then call it in?”

  Before I had the chance to say anything else, Thomas threaded his fingers through mine. “Look, it’s getting late,” he said. “We’re ready to go. If you have any intention of arresting us, then do it. If not, you have our details if you need anything else.”

  With that, we turned to leave, but as Thomas bent to pick up our basket of tree samples, Owens laid a restraining hand on his arm.

  “That stays here,” he said, with a smug smile plastered on his face. “Evidence.”

  I turned to snap again, but Thomas stepped in front of me. “In that case, we’d like a receipt of transfer, and confirmation it will remain intact and ready for us to collect as soon as you realise it has no bearing on your investigation?”

  “It’s just a damn basket full of twigs,” Owens said.

  “Then why do you want it?”

  I smiled and wondered what I would ever do without Thomas’ level head while the Detective Inspector had an officer write us out a receipt before we left.

  I kept quiet all the way to the cottage, but as soon as the door closed behind me, I burst. “Damn arsehole, trying to pin the murder on us,” I said. “I bet he’ll spend the best part of a week not even considering other suspects. By the time he acknowledges we have nothing to do with the killing, any trail there is to find may be cold.”

  I gritted my teeth in frustration. “The look on his face when we mentioned the blue car was one of pure dismissal. He could at least comb the area and look for tyre treads.”

  “I agree,” said Thomas. “So, what are we going to do about it?”

  Chapter Three

  “What can we do abo
ut it?” I asked and felt my anger at the detective Inspector seep away. “More to the point, should we do anything?”

  Thomas looked at me with incredulity written all over his face. “You’re telling me, we find the body of a young man dumped unceremoniously on our doorstep and you’re not going to look into it?”

  I sighed. “I didn’t say that. I’m just… I just wonder if we should get involved. This is a murder investigation in the human world. Who knows what trouble it could bring? Don’t we have enough of our plates looking into the curse?”

  Thomas reached out and pulled me into a hug. “That’s all the more reason for us to take the case. You’ve been fretting about the curse since the day Rhoslyn mentioned it. I know you’re desperate to find out the truth about what happened to your nana, but I honestly think there’s only one person who can help you with that.”

  “Mam.” I threaded my arms around Thomas’ waist and listened to his heartbeat along with his words.

  “Yes, your mam.” Thomas sighed. “Maybe we should find out who really killed Lee Page before Owens decides to charge us with murder. I don’t think he’s going to be looking beyond us, at least for the time being. After that… after that, we could hop on a plane and visit your mam. It would be hard for her to slam the phone down if you show up in person.”

  “She could always slam the door in my face.”

  “And we could always bash it down.”

  I laughed. “I can see that going down well. ‘Hi, Mam, sorry about the door, this is Thomas by the way. Love of my life.’” I sighed. “You really think Owens will try to pin this murder on us?”

  “There’s not a doubt in my mind. I don’t think he’ll be successful, but by the time he realises he’s barking up the wrong tree, whoever did kill Lee Page could be long gone.”

  Thomas was right, and I couldn’t understand my reluctance to take the case. It was as though I had a nagging voice at the back of my mind screaming at me to stay out of it, that only trouble would follow. That body was dumped in our forest and it made me wonder if we were connected; was it a message, a warning of some sort? I hadn’t felt the heavy rolling of my stomach and sluggish thumping in my chest since I saw Thomas lying prostrate on the ground during the Platt case. The vision of him laying there still haunts my dreams. For a second, I hadn’t known if he was alive or dead. His wards had released the magical trap set by Rebecca Platt, creating a backlash that knocked Thomas for six, shattered my heart, and sent my mind screaming. Maybe everything would set me on edge from now on?

  Maybe it was related to the curse?

  As soon as the thought surfaced in my head, I knew Thomas was doubly right. I was too focused on this stupid curse that it was clouding my judgement on everything else. Even if Owens wasn’t hell bent on pinning the murder on us, I somehow felt we owed it to Lee Page to find out the truth of what happened to him. We could, I knew that, and as we may be the only ones who could, we should. I didn’t want his murder to remain unsolved.

  “Okay,” I said after taking one last whiff of Thomas’ delicious scent and pushing away. “A human murder case probably isn’t that different to a supernatural one. So, where do we start?”

  Thomas rubbed my arms and smiled. “There’s my girl,” he said. “We start the same place we always start.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “The kitchen. I’m starving and you must be, too. There’s no way we can solve a murder, supernatural or otherwise, on an empty stomach.”

  “There’s my boy,” I said laughing. “Always getting his priorities straight.”

  “Too right. Omelette sound good?”

  “Omelette sounds great.”

  Thomas busied himself preparing a salad and making a cheese and mushroom omelette while I sat at the kitchen table. I pulled the hair I’d taken from the body out of my shoe, placed it carefully in a tupperware box and settled back to watch Thomas at work.

  I could barely remember a time before he came into my life, bringing his good food and healthy living with him. Like any teenager out on their own in the world, despite my ability at cooking — I am a witch. Binding ingredients, making a brew, and creating concoctions is in my blood — I found myself living on takeout pizza and curry. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with a breakfast wrap once in a while, but every day can get a little tiresome. As the mouth-watering scent of food filled the air, my tummy grumbled with impatience and I realised how hungry I was. We hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was now almost ten at night.

  I looked through the window. The gibbous moon cast a silver sheen over trees being whipped back and forth by a gathering wind, and I marvelled at the ability of the new windows to block out the howling sound I knew to be building outside.

  “Looks like the weather’s turning for the worst,” I said.

  “Forecast isn’t great for the winter,” Thomas answered absently while he flipped the omelette.

  I scoffed. Weather forecasters! Any fool watching squirrels frantically storing their food and moving their nests higher up the trees could tell you the winter was going to be a bad one. What was the old proverb Nana used to recite: “Swallows fly high, clear blue sky; Swallows fly low, rain we shall know.” Animals don’t need fancy computers or weather models, they sense the change in the air pressure, read the signs.

  I thanked Thomas as he placed a plate overflowing with a colourful salad and mouth-watering omelette in front of me.

  “Feeling better?” he asked between mouthfuls.

  “How could I not?” I tucked in, moaning in pleasure at the gooey, melted yumminess. “Cheese makes everything better.”

  Thomas chuckled and we ate in silence for a few minutes. As soon as we had finished, Thomas cleared the plates, stacked them in the dishwasher, and poured us both a glass of water.

  “Now,” he said, sitting and patting his stomach. “My tummy’s full, so my brain can think about more than eating. What’s the plan?”

  I nodded to the single hair in the tupperware box in the middle of the table. “It seems my research this morning might not have been entirely in vain.”

  “How so?”

  “I am pretty sure, I saw a spell in one of Nana’s books about viewing another person’s memory.”

  “Like when you entered Gwen’s mind to retrieve her memories?”

  “Sort of, but not quite so intrusive. From the notes, it sounds more like the projection of a strong memory rather than actually entering someone’s mind. Kind of like psychometry, which enables psychics to pick up information from an object closely connected to a person.”

  Thomas picked up the tupperware and turned it around, looking at the hair inside. “It’s such a small connection. Do you think you’ll get anything useful out of it?”

  “It isn’t much. I’ll give you that.” I sighed and took the box from his hands. “Nana’s spell didn’t say anything about the person whose memories you need to access being alive or dead, and… and it used blood not hair.”

  Thomas shuddered. “Can you imagine the field day Owens would have is he found drops of the victim's blood in our possession?”

  “We’d already be up on charges,” I agreed. “Though, I’m not sure the hair is any better. Still, it’s all we have, and there won’t be anything left of it to find after I’ve worked the magic.”

  Thomas downed his glass of water. “Alright then,” he said. “Unless there is anything you need me for in relation to the spell, I’ll start with some more mundane activities and see what I can learn about the victim.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Look him up on social media, of course.”

  “Of course.” This time, I shuddered. Computers and I didn’t mix, but from the little I knew about social media, that was a blessing more than a curse.

  Chapter Four

  There are six parts to casting any good spell: preparation, state of mind, linking to your power source, directing and releasing the spell, and connecting with your desired intent. Som
etimes, such as when releasing a blast of energy to knock down an opponent, you can forgo the first step. You don’t need preparation to lash out, but any spell that requires precision, or a set of desired results, takes a lot of leg work for it to be successful.

  It took me a good twenty minutes to relocate the spell in my nana’s diary, and another ten to rework it without the required blood sample. The ingredients were simple enough: rowan to enhance my psychic abilities and guard my spirit, and reed to connect with the hair and guide my step. Although, I decided it best to add a good dose of Elder into the mix to ensure a connection with the other side. Lee Page was dead, after all. See, three simple ingredients, and while anyone can gather some tree samples and mix them together, only a witch can infuse them with the power of the trees they come from, and store their energy with a focused intent. People who play at being witches like to make up wordy incantations, a silly rhyme or chant, but real magic doesn’t need words to work. Trees don’t speak any human language that I’ve encountered.

  I wrapped up warm, gathered the ingredients, along with two tin cans and two empty paint cans that I kept in my workroom, and made a mental note of a much needed trip to the wetlands to gather some more reed samples, as I was down to my last one.

  Outside in the clearing, Thomas had restored the remnants of Nana’s old fire pit. He’d dug a large hole in the ground and surrounded it with a brick wall. He’d even been thoughtful enough to build a small seating area, although, I didn’t think my bottom would take kindly to the cold stone. It was easily below freezing! I looked to the sky and thanked my lucky stars for the clear winter night. There wasn’t a rain cloud in sight.

  I set a standing torch on the wall to give me light and set to work. After digging two small holes in the ground big enough for the paint cans to be half buried, and then two smaller holes in the centre of those to house the smaller tin cans, I placed the cans inside. It was a simple process, really, extracting the oil from the tree bark. I had to fill the two paint cans with the bark samples and secure the lids — this usually meant putting a large stone on top of them, so they wouldn’t pop off with the buildup of heat after I lit a fire around them. The bark in the paint cans would heat up and the oil would drip down through a hole I’d punctured in the bottom and collect in the smaller tin cans. Sure, it’s simple, but it’s also time consuming, especially when you consider that each batch needs to be made fresh, or at least with a specific spell in mind. That’s where the witch aspect comes in. Sometimes, when I’m in a hurry, I wish I could pop to the shop and buy some previously extracted oil, or even make samples in large batches. Witches like Gwen, made up batches of simple spells to sell in her shop. That’s fine when you know the spell you need to create. If only it were that easy for me! I have to imbue the oil with the purpose for which it’s created, and most of the time, I don’t know the spell I’ll need until I need it. That said, I love the feel of being outside, sitting around the fire and working spells, and tonight was no exception.