Tarot's Touch (4 page)

“Nice to meet you. I hope this old reprobate isn’t leading you astray?”

Conor grinned at Higgs. “No, sir.”

“Let’s get on with it, shall we, Mike? What have you come up with?”

“Well, I can tell you it was an amateur job, but definitely arson. Someone shoved a Molotov cocktail through the letterbox. The burn was intense but contained by new fire resistant insulation. This place had just been fitted out, hadn’t it?”

Higgs nodded. “Had its ‘official’ opening the night of the fire, though they had been trading a few days prior.”

“Well, that’s why there wasn’t more damage to the neighboring buildings. If not for that insulation, the whole row could have gone up.”

Higgs scratched his head. “Fortunate—or maybe not.”

Gilbert shrugged. “What about your end? Are you thinking hate crime?”

“Maybe,” Higgs replied. “But the owner said they’d not had any threats or nuisance calls. No one objected to the planning application. We’re not drawing any conclusions just yet.”

An acrid smell still permeated the air, even though it had been some two weeks since the fire. Conor crossed the street to get a better view of the whole building—or what was left of it.

“Christ, Higgs, are you lot recruiting from model agencies now? Where the hell did you find him?”

Conor heard every word. He kept his gaze firmly on burnt timbers but his face heated.

Higgs laughed. “Are you saying I’m not pretty enough for you, Mike?”

“You’re uglier than my mother-in-law, Higgs, and you know it. Is pretty boy any good?”

Conor listened hard, keen to hear the taciturn sergeant’s response.

“Believe it or not, he is. Shit hot, in fact, and I’m not talking about his sex appeal.”

Conor held back a smile.

“Well, if he’s impressed you, he must be good. Hey, kid!”

Conor turned and walked back across the road, unoffended by the summoning.

“Put some boots on and I’ll give you the beginner’s guide to arson.”

Higgs chuckled. “All yours, Conor. I’ve done my fair share of tramping round in the muck over the years. I’ll see you back at the station.”

“Okay, Sarge.”

Conor retrieved his wellingtons and a hard hat from the boot of the car, along with a kit bag to put them in once he was done. It wasn’t that far back to the station so he would walk once the fire investigation officer had finished with him. He waved Higgs off then gave his full attention to Mike Gibson. Within five minutes he realized that he was being subjected to some kind of test as the burly fire investigator lead him through the filthy remains of the burnt out building. Gibson pointed out the spot where the accelerant had landed—the only evidence a few spots of melted glass. He explained where the seat of the fire had burnt hottest, how it had spread and finally how it had been contained. By the time they were done, Conor was filthy and tired. He took off his protective hat and combed fingers through his damp hair.

“Did I pass then?” he asked, with a wry smile on his face.

Gibson grinned. “Higgs said you were okay. Bright young detectives like you usually think twice before clambering around in a mess like this, but you didn’t hesitate. You need to see it, smell it, taste it, to really understand the damage a fire can do. You’ll stink of smoke for the rest of the day, so this scene should leave a lasting impression. No one was killed—this time—but it could have been so different. Do you understand?”

Conor nodded. “Thanks, Mike, I appreciate you taking the time to show me, and I promise I won’t forget.”

He swapped his boots for shoes, then packed the boots and his safety helmet in his bag and set off for the police station. The walk took him toward the High Street so he slipped down a narrow lane to see if a tiny shop he remembered was still there. From what Conor recalled, Arcania stocked crystals, whale music, floaty scarves and a whole host of weird posters and greetings cards. He was hoping that they might also have tarot cards and maybe advertisements for local readers.

Arcania was still there, looking a little the worse for wear, but still trading. Conor pushed the door open and a harsh bell jangled to announce his presence. Inside, the shop was dimly lit, fake candles were scattered around the shelves and strings of fairy lights adorned the window. Everything was draped with lengths of bright-colored fabric and there was an indoor fountain burbling away in a corner. Mournful music played from a small stereo set on the counter and the entire place stank of incense.

“Can I help you?”

The assistant behind the counter had waist-length orange hair held back by a purple bandana. She was wearing a robe of some kind and had elongated lacquered purple fingernails covered in tiny gold stars. The curtain behind the counter twitched, and Conor thought he caught sight of someone else looking at him through a narrow gap but no one appeared, so he dismissed it with a shrug.

“Perhaps. I’m looking for some tarot cards and a book on how to use them. Do you have anything?”

The assistant flicked back her hair and pointed with a bony finger toward a dark corner at the back of the shop.

“Over there. We have several sets of cards and a whole collection of books on the topic.” The woman had a strange habit of looking away, never quite making eye contact. Conor judged her to be in her early thirties but it was difficult to tell with the amount of heavy makeup she was wearing.

He found the cards without a problem and browsed through the stock, all the time feeling eyes drilling into his back. When he looked around, the assistant ducked her head and pretended to fiddle with something on the counter. Conor raised an eyebrow. Perhaps she thought he looked like a potential shoplifter. He picked out a deck of cards—not the cheapest but certainly not the most expensive. That accolade was reserved for a large set of cards in a wooden presentation box. He’d only seen a photograph of the card left on the victim so he had to guess at the kind of deck, but the one he chose looked similar. For the same reason, he also selected a couple of books that looked reasonably factual and covered a variety of card styles. He took everything over to the counter.

“I’ll take these, please.” Something stopped him from revealing that he was a policeman. He sensed suspicion—even animosity—toward him, but had no idea why he should have invited such a response.

“Can you tell me if there are any tarot readers around here?”

The assistant rang up his purchases and handed him a brightly colored bag. “Why? Are you a journalist?” She tapped out a nervous rhythm on the counter top with one long nail.

“No. Just interested. Thought I might get someone to read for me.”

Conor wondered if she could smell the smoke on him, as her nose wrinkled.

“Here.” She pulled a business card from beneath the counter. “You could try this one.” She turned away dismissively, so Conor pocketed the card and headed outside. Taking a breath of fresh air, he realized just how cloying the atmosphere in the shop had been.

A couple of times as he made his way back to the police station, Conor had a nagging feeling that someone was following him. There was nothing concrete—a movement in the corner of his eye, a brief reflection in a window. He thought it was a man but never quite managed to spot him.

Overactive imagination.
Even as he thought it, he knew it wasn’t true, but in broad daylight on a busy street it did seem ridiculous. Why would anyone want to tail him?

When Conor finally got back to the squad room, Higgs took one look at him and burst out laughing. Conor scowled, dumped his bags next to his desk then put the kettle on, desperate for something to take the taste of smoke out of his mouth.

“You knew exactly what Mike Gibson was going to do, didn’t you, Sarge?”

Higgs chuckled. “Maybe. Two sugars for me, please.”

“I suppose he does that to all the new guys?”

“Nope. Just the ones he thinks will listen and learn something useful. He doesn’t waste his time on just anyone. From the state you’re in, you must have impressed him. You’re even dirtier than the boss was after his first arson scene.”

Conor made two mugs of tea and handed one over.

“He dragged me over every inch of that bloody building. I’ve got soot in places you really don’t want to know about.”

Higgs snorted into his tea. “You’re right. I don’t want to know. Let’s sit down and do a quick case review. With this new murder to handle, we need to make sure we’re well organized. I don’t want the arson case neglected.”

They took their tea and sat down at Higgs’ desk where he pulled up some files on the computer.

“Right. So we know the building that was torched housed an upmarket sex shop, selling clothing and toys that catered to anyone wealthy enough to be able to afford the prices.”

“That’s right. They were at the luxury end of the market,” Conor agreed. “The place had only been trading for a week and on the night of the fire, there was an evening launch event for the press and VIP guests. That finished by midnight and no one noticed anything suspicious as they left. Of course, most of them had been on the champagne and wouldn’t have noticed a pink elephant walking down the middle of the street.”

“Agreed. The street’s not residential and it was only by chance that a postman on his way to the sorting office to start his shift cycled past and noticed an orange glow from behind the blinds.”

Conor spread out some black and white pictures of the scene. “Hmm. Still too late for the fire boys to help much. All they could do was control the blaze until it died. There was no way of saving the building. This may have been an amateur’s work, but the planning was good. He—or she—picked the best time to set the fire—when it was least likely to be detected quickly.”

Higgs shuffled his chair across a bit. “Here, you drive the computer. You can type quicker than me. Bring up the file with the witness statements in it.”

Conor pulled the keyboard a bit closer and did as he’d been asked.

“There it is. Between us, we’ve interviewed almost everyone on the guest list that night, either in person or by telephone, and I’ve spoken to the owner twice. So far there’s no apparent motive for the attack and without witnesses or forensic evidence, we’re fighting a losing battle.”

Higgs tilted his chair back on two legs and sucked on the end of his well-chewed biro.

“This is a pig of a case. An overdone hog roast…”

Conor prepared for more porcine analogies but was saved as Higgs’ verbal flow was averted when Phil arrived back from the lab and began to pin pictures up on to the incident board. Conor pushed his chair back and went to take a look, closely followed by Higgs.

“Fuck, Conor, you smell like one of my barbecues.”

“Succinct as ever, Phil—remind me never to eat at your house.”

“You left him with Mike Gilbert, didn’t you, Sarge?” Phil looked far too gleeful in Conor’s opinion.

Higgs raised one bushy eyebrow. “Might have done.”

Conor grimaced. “I’d take a shower but I came in on the bike today and the only spare clothes I’ve got are my leathers. I don’t want to sit around in them all day. I’ll boil.”

Phil cackled. “You’ve already been chargrilled…but no. You in leather means an endless stream of WPCs inventing reasons to come in here. That in itself isn’t a problem, but you ruin them for the rest of us mere mortals. Their expectations get far too bloody high.”

Conor suspected that Phil was only half teasing. His face heated to what he imagined was an interesting shade of tomato and he fixed his gaze on the board.

“Shit! Look at this, Sarge.”

Higgs stood at Conor’s shoulder and looked at the photo he was pointing at.

“Well, I’ll be…”

“What?” Phil looked from one to the other in frustration.

Higgs tapped the photo. “The murder victim is—or rather was—the owner of Leather and Lace, our arson scene. Looks like we may have one case, not two.” He picked up the nearest phone and tapped in an extension number.

“Engaged. Conor, go and dig the boss out of his office. Knowing him, he’s got his phone off the hook to avoid the Chief Super.”

Conor left his colleagues pouring over the new pictures, jogged up three flights of stairs and trotted along a corridor to Alex’s small office. He knocked and entered when he heard a growled “What?” from inside. Piles of files were heaped all over Alex’s desk. He looked up impatiently but his expression softened when he saw Conor waiting. Then his nose wrinkled. “Fuck, Conor, you need scrubbing down.”

Mmm. Now there’s a thought.
Conor flushed to the roots of his hair when Alex licked his lips. The moment was broken as Alex pushed his chair back and made a painful scraping noise on the lino.

“What can I do for you, Detective Trethuan?”

Conor really wanted a bucket of cold water to dunk his head in but ignored his discomfort.

“We’ve identified the murder victim, sir. Sergeant Higgs asked me to come and get you.”

Alex grinned. “Already? How? I didn’t think the dental matching had been done yet. Never mind. You can tell me all about it down in the incident room.”

He strode from the room and Conor had to walk fast to keep up with him. Alex took the stairs at a run, jumping the last three. Conor rolled his eyes. If there had been a banister, Alex would have slid down it. They arrived at the office and the four members of the investigating team that were present gathered together around the incident board.

Conor looked to Sergeant Higgs, who gave him the nod to speak.

Conor gestured at the picture of the murder victim.

“His name was Sam Teller, thirty-seven years old, recently moved to the area from Edinburgh, though he wasn’t Scottish. He managed a successful branch of Leather and Lace up there and had taken up a franchise deal with the owner to open another shop down here.”

Sarge took up the briefing, “He had no criminal record and though the shop was well insured, he had no financial issues and no reason to torch the place.”

“Relationships?” Alex asked.

“A partner. Toby. They’d been together three months. He had a rock solid alibi for the time of the fire—he was at home with Sam, having been with him at the shop opening. He doesn’t have a record either.”