One For Sorrow (The Cunning Prophet Series Book 1) Read online

  “Hindsight is a wonderful gift,” Dora said. It had been one of Queenie’s favourite expressions.

  “I thought you’d been brought over so that we didn’t need the gift of hindsight?”

  She bit her lip but didn’t answer. After a minute or two she said, “Did this place have any significance for Maisie Archer?”

  “No. The only things that mattered to Maisie were her mobile phone, shopping and her horses.”

  “Where was she found?”

  “In the middle of the circle.” He stepped forward, indicating the area. His mind took him back eighteen months, to a damp, grey November morning. To the sad, broken remains of Maisie Archer lying spread-eagled, like a brutalised starfish, on the sodden grass. “Her head was about here—” he squatted and pointed at a spot nearby, “—her feet were pointing toward the cliff top, to Bradda Point. Her legs were open, just about as wide as he could get them, and her arms were outstretched as well. She was fully clothed.”

  “How did she die?” Dora crouched next to him, and he was surprised by the gentleness of her tone. Almost as though he was a grieving relative and she was offering sympathy.

  “He ripped her apart with a knife.” She winced, and Harry drew a sharp breath in. “Sorry. She had been stabbed twenty-two times in the chest and abdomen. The coroner described the wounds to her breasts as particularly ‘frenzied’. Five of those had penetrated either her heart or her lungs. But that wasn’t what killed her. Those injuries were post-mortem. He had already cut her throat.”

  Harry rose to his feet. Dora remained where she was with her hands spread lightly over the tufty grass at the place where he told her Maisie’s head had rested.

  “The press reports state that all of the girls were raped,” she said at last.

  “In law, a person commits the offence of rape if he intentionally penetrates the vagina, anus or mouth of another person with his penis, and that person does not consent to the penetration. These girls were penetrated. Brutally. They were sexually tortured before they were killed.” Harry said. “But there was no evidence of ejaculation. We have no DNA evidence from any of the girls. No forensic evidence at all. So I can’t say for sure that they were raped, because I can’t say for sure that it was a penis that penetrated them.”

  “So you don’t even know it’s a man.”

  “No, but my instincts, the profile we’ve got on him and the fact that, as you said, he had to haul a dead body up here, tell me it is.” Dora rose to her feet, her expression unreadable. “Does that fit with what you feel? Or do you need to go into a trance or something to connect with him psychically?”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” she said. He thought her voice held a world of sadness.

  “How does it work?”

  “At the moment, it’s not working at all.” At his look of enquiry, she sighed. “Look, normally—if there is anything normal about it—I see something and then I contact the police. A few times the police have tried to do it this way round and come to me. They ask me to conjure up an image for them, but I can’t switch it on and off at will, so I always refuse.” She turned back to look at the centre of the circle again. Holding out her hands palms upward, she said, “That’s what it’s like this time. I’ve got nothing for you, Harry.”

  He whistled. “Does Archer know? He brought you over here, I hear he’s expecting big things from you.”

  He was becoming familiar with the quick-fire blaze of her anger, but this time it caught him unawares. “I know, and I thought I’d string him along for the sake of a luxury holiday.” She swept a hand to indicate the desolate moorland. “You know, take advantage of the man in his grief. It’s the first thing they teach you at charlatan school.”

  Brushing past him, she made her way back toward the path. Her head was down and her hands were jammed into her pockets. She stumbled, and Harry put out a hand, catching hold of her arm just above the elbow to stop her falling.

  “Don’t touch me!” The words came out on a hiss, and Harry dropped his hand instantly. He caught a glimpse of something that might have been a tear on her cheek before she swung away from him. He followed at what he hoped was a safe distance. When they reached the car, he unlocked it. Dora kept on walking.

  “Get in the car, Dora.” She ignored him. “We’re miles from anywhere.” She increased her speed. With a muttered curse, he slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Dora disappeared over a slight incline. She was going in the wrong direction and part of him—the biggest part, if truth be told—really badly wanted to leave the stubborn little bitch to it. He followed her along the road that was little more than a farm track, slowing the car to match her walking pace and lowering the window. “Come on, Dora…”

  She didn’t look round. “Fuck off, Sherlock. Sometimes we fraudsters like to be left alone to plan our next con trick.”

  That did it. His patience, already stretched to breaking point, gave way. With a screech of tyres that caused several nearby sheep to skitter nervously up the hillside, he swung the car round and headed off in the direction of Port Erin, leaving Eamon Archer’s protégé determinedly marching along a lane that would lead her precisely nowhere.

  * * * *

  “I still don’t understand how you managed to get lost when D.I. Grimshaw was supposed to be looking after you.” Eamon Archer brought the elegant Jaguar to a standstill in the empty carpark of The Magpie Inn and slewed his body round in the seat so that he could study Dora’s face. She found his nearness unnerving. She always did. Eamon Archer, M.H.K., was not only a stunningly handsome man, he was a man who worked hard at being charming. The effect was knee-weakening. And, Dora reflected, his impact didn’t lessen with familiarity. It hit you in the gut in the same way every time as strongly as it did the first time. And yet, there was something under that veneer that ruffled her composure even more.

  “What’s an M.H.K?” She had asked the first time she’d met him.

  “Member of the House of Keys. An elected member of the lower branch of the Tynwald, the Isle of Man’s Parliament. The Tynwald is over a thousand years old, and is therefore the oldest parliament in the world.” The pride in his voice as he recited his credentials spoke volumes about his feelings about his role.

  “Aren’t you kind of young to hold a position like that?”

  He had laughed, showing very white, very even teeth. It was clearly his favourite question. “Is this the point where I ask how old you think I am and we fall out?” Of course, she’d googled him, so she already knew he was thirty two. He looked younger. Even set in the context of family money and considerable personal success running his own P.R. firm, his political career was a huge achievement. So what Dora could never understand was his interest in her. Because there was no doubt about it, he was interested. Very interested. And not just in her psychic abilities.

  “It was a misunderstanding. I suppose you think I should be able to ‘intuit’ my way out of a situation like that. Ha, ha,” she said now in response to Eamon’s comment about Harry.

  Her earlier anger had fizzled out and the last thing she wanted to do was get the cop with the nice, but sad, eyes into trouble. He had a world of problems already. It wasn’t his fault he ended up being a knob every time he opened his mouth. It wasn’t his fault that, after Northern Ireland, any hint that she might be a fraud touched a raw nerve. Nor was it his fault that she was angry that, no matter how saddened and sickened Dora was at the thought of Maisie Archer lying cold and alone inside that eerie circle, she had nothing to draw upon that would help catch her killer.

  She’d walked her temper off as she trudged on along an increasingly narrow track, becoming more and more convinced that she was going to shortly drop off the end of this godforsaken island and into the Irish Sea.

  “Where are you?” Eamon had asked when she had finally managed to persuade his secretary that he really would want to talk to her.

  “Eamon, if I knew that, would I be after needing to call you?” Dora always found herself becoming more Irish when she was agitated.

  “Can you see anything that might help me out, Dora?”

  She hadn’t wanted to go back to Meayll Circle and phone him from the place where his niece’s body was found. So she had kept on going. Back in time. “This is going to sound very strange. I’m sitting outside a village blacksmith’s. I can see thatched cottages, a cart being pulled by a shire horse and the people around me are all in Victorian clothing.”

  “You’re in Cregneash. The whole village is a farming and crofting museum. Sit tight and I’ll come and get you.”

  She ended the call and resigned herself to a wait. Nearby, a group of school children were being taught to milk a cow amid much hilarity and she watched the scene with a slight smile.

  “Shiny.”

  It was the same voice she had heard in the cottage. Dora cocked her head, listening. Hoping. Searching the inner reaches of her own mind for more, trying to tune out the sights and sounds of the bygone era that were being played out around her. But, just like the first time, the speaker inside her head had teased her with that lone word then left her wanting more.

  “What made you choose this dump?” Eamon brought her back to the present. He glanced across at the facade of The Magpie Inn, his expression slightly incredulous.

  “I really don’t like other people around me. This place suits my need for solitude. I can think better when I’m alone.”

  “Dora…”

  “I know what you’re going to ask me, Eamon. Believe me, if I felt anything—the tiniest slither of a thing—about the murders I’d tell you. In fact, after the grim detective, you’d be the first to know.” Dora made as if to get out of the car, but his hand on her arm forestalled her. She glanced down at it and he removed it,
a fraction more slowly than she’d have liked.

  “I feel bad that you won’t even let me pay your expenses for being here.”

  “We’ve talked about this,” Dora said. “I’m not going to waste your money as well as your time if it turns out I can’t do anything for you. Shit, Eamon! What sort of person would I be if I took cash from you for something like this?”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Dora was thinking about the five dead girls. She hoped he was too. Somehow, the way his eyes remained fixed on her profile told her he might not be. “Let me take you out to dinner tonight. I brought you over here, Dora, I feel I have a responsibility to make sure you at least eat well. Something I don’t think I can fulfil if I leave you to fend for yourself here at The Magpie Inn.” Just the way he said the name of the pub dripped contempt.

  Before Dora could answer, Harry’s tired-looking Astra pulled into the space beside them and its equally tired-looking owner emerged. His thunderous expression darkened even further when he saw Dora as, eager to escape Eamon’s claustrophobic presence, she clambered out of the car to meet him.

  “Thanks.” Harry nodded in the direction of the Jaguar.

  Dora flushed as his meaning dawned on her. Did he really think that badly of her that he imagined she’d go running to Eamon to complain about him? Eamon alighted from his own car and, for an instant, the difference between the two men was perfectly illustrated by the contrast in their cars. Eamon, standing by his sleek, elegant Jag, nodded curtly at Harry who leaned against the dusty surface of the battered Astra. Dora bit back a laugh as her mind developed a new theme. Did their cars tell you what they’d be like in bed? Would it be all satin sheets, champagne and well-oiled technique with Eamon? What did that say about Harry? She eyed him speculatively. Dirty and dangerous? The thought sent a thrill of excitement down her spine and, slightly reluctantly, she pushed the inappropriate sensation away.

  “I’ve just been telling Eamon here about the complete and utter arse-up we got into over where I was meant to meet you, Harry,” Dora said brightly. She turned to Eamon with a smile. “Thank you for rescuing me. I’m sorry I won’t be able to make dinner tonight. Harry and I had already arranged to meet here and go over some aspects of the case together. Isn’t that right?”

  Harry hesitated, frowning at her. She willed him with her eyes to play along. “Seven o’clock still okay with you, Dora?” he eventually responded.

  She thought she had never seen a look quite like that in Eamon’s eyes at that precise moment. His guard was well and truly lowered for a flicker of a second. She had already picked up on the animosity between the two men, but this was different. It was hatred. Pure and undiluted. Never mind his job, Harry would be lucky to walk away from this case without a knife between his shoulder blades. And it would probably be one with the Tynwald coat of arms on its handle.

  * * * *

  “The Daaney One. Where did that name come from, Harry?” They sat across a table from each other in The Magpie, eating Cass’s surprisingly good lasagne. “I looked it up. Daaney means daring or cheeky in Manx, right?”

  “Yes. Only a small minority of people on the island are fluent in the language now, but it is still culturally important to the majority. One of the local papers has just come up with it. I mean literally in the last week or two since Kelly Duckers was killed. They dubbed him ‘The Daaney One’. It came from an old Manx phrase. T’ou cha daaney myr clagh vane. It means ‘Thou art as impudent as a white stone’. It fits him well because he is so cocky and confident, but also because of where he chooses to leave them. Always on the white stones of an ancient monument.”

  “But why ‘Daaney One’?” She persisted. “It’s the word ‘one’ I can’t get my head around. Why not call him the ‘Daaney Ripper’, ‘Daaney Killer’ or just ‘Daaney Murderer’?”

  “I don’t know, but I can ask the reporter who came up with the name if you want me to.”

  He watched Dora’s face as she nodded. They had already studied a map of the island and looked at the other sites on Harry’s iPad. Each girl had been left in a place as ancient and bleakly beautiful as the Meayll Circle where Maisie Archer had been found. Each body had been arranged in exactly the same way. Each girl had been fully clothed when found, but naked when killed. He dressed them again after killing them. Each girl had been killed elsewhere and moved to the place where her body was displayed. In each case, the cause of death had been the fact that the girl’s throat had been slit from ear to ear. Each girl had then been subjected to a frenzied knife attack that was concentrated on her breasts and abdomen. Each girl had been brutally sexually tortured prior to her death. It was estimated that he kept each girl for about forty-eight hours between abducting her and killing her.

  Dora had listened to these details without comment. Her eyes remained as deep and unreadable as ever. Although it was his job, Harry nevertheless felt a sense of guilt at having to tell her all of this. Although he knew she had helped out on other, equally horrific murder cases in the past, he still felt like he was systematically kicking a trusting puppy.

  “He then disposes of them within twenty-four hours of killing them. It’s a crucial time in any murder. Essentially, from the killer’s point of view, he’s left with a useless lump of meat about five-and-a-half foot in length and weighing at least eight stone. If he doesn’t get rid of it in that first day, it’s going to go rock hard through rigor mortis and, soon after that, it’ll start to stink.”

  “Why does he do it? Kill these girls, I mean. Is it sexual?”

  “That’s what’s strange about him. He’s quite unique. The profiler thinks that the murders serve another purpose for him. It’s as if he knows this is what murderers do, so he does it in order to be a murderer. Does that make sense?”

  “It’s a job not a vocation,” Dora said.

  Harry nodded, pleased that she understood. “Exactly. He fulfils the requirements of the job description but he’s not really feeling it. He knows that a sexually sadistic psychopath would torture them, so he does it. But it’s clinical. He’s not very inventive. Nasty, but not imaginative. He has a routine and he sticks to it.”

  “Maybe he just knows what he likes?”

  “Maybe. But there’s no evidence that he does like it. It’s not just that he doesn’t climax. Lack of semen alone doesn’t mean anything particularly. Even serial killers are forensically aware these days. Or he might be impotent. It’s the coldness, the calculated-ness that is the key. The ‘frenzied’ knife attacks that the coroner described, for example. They’re just not that frenzied. He makes them look frenzied. The stab wounds on each girl are incredibly similar in their pattern and placement. If you were in a blood-induced frenzy, the chances of achieving that are pretty remote. Again, it’s as if he’s following a blueprint.”

  “So, if he’s not doing this because he has to—because he can’t help himself—why is he doing it?” Dora asked.

  “If we knew that, we might be able to figure out who he is,” Harry said. She bit her lip and he knew she was feeling guilty that she hadn’t been able to offer more help. “Do you hear voices, is that what happens?” he asked abruptly.

  Her face was guarded. “I never have heard voices in the past.” It seemed a strange way to put it, but he was so relieved that she was answering his question about her psychic ability without taking offence that he let it pass. He had wondered if he might end up with his drink poured over his head if he brought the subject up again. “I do have occasional precognitions.”

  “Help me out here, Dora. The jargon’s all new to me.”

  “Precognition is when you see something that is going to happen. My psychic ability is never linked to good things. So I don’t look at someone and think ‘That fella over there is in for a big lottery win’. It’s always to do with violence and, more often than not, death. The precognition was much stronger when I was a child. But, you see, it’s pretty useless because I never know the exact details. So I couldn’t look around the room and say ‘At 6 p.m. next Sunday week, that woman in the red dress will be strangled by her boyfriend, Joe Smith, in a row over the fact that his dinner’s gone cold’. I’d just get a feeling, without warning, that she was going to die.”