Past Due

by Catherine Winchester

  PaST DUE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, other than those clearly in the public domain, are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by C.S. Winchester. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Cover photograph copyright © Ivaylo Sarayski / 123RF All Rights Reserved

  Dedicated to my friends and family who have supported me not only with writing this book, but also through some of the darkest times in my life. I love you all.

  Prologue

  A vampire, a shapeshifter, a witch, a zombie, a demon and a psychic. Frankie thought it had the makings of a very good joke but her terror kept her from coming up with a decent punch line.

  As the psychic in the above equation, her life had always been odd and for ten years now her work had surrounded her in the supernatural but this situation plumbed new depths of weird, even for her.

  And as if that wasn’t strange enough, she was on the vampires’ side!

  Although she would vehemently disagree that she was overly morbid or suicidal, nonetheless Frankie had had good cause to think about her death before now yet she had never envisaged her current predicament.

  This, however, locked in a storeroom with the vampire and the shapeshifter for company, was the stickiest of all the situations she had ever found herself in. Short of a miracle (and since she was rather on the fence about the whole God issue anyway, she wasn’t hopeful) she couldn’t see that any of them had much chance of surviving the night.

  Chapter One

  Francis Wright took one last look over her shoulder to be sure no one was watching, then deftly picked the door lock. Thirty seconds later she closed the door behind her, safe inside the apartment. It wasn’t that she was a master lock picker that gave her such speed, merely the right equipment.

  Should she be caught carrying a locksmiths tools without a locksmiths licence there would be awkward questions, but Frankie was certain she’d never face any consequences.

  She felt along the wall until she found the light switch and then headed deeper into the apartment. The fact she’d had to come at night made stealth both harder in that she needed to use lights at all and easier in that there were fewer people around to see. She’d long ago learnt that using a home’s own lights drew a lot less attention than a flickering torchlight.

  The body had been moved but it was easy to see where it had lain, just inside the doorway to the living room. There were no helpful chalk outlines but the large pool of blood suggested that whoever had fallen there had not walked away under their own steam.

  She sighed and pushed a gloved hand through her dark hair.

  “Sometimes I hate this job,” she muttered. She knelt down beside the largest blood stain and pulled one of her leather gloves off. She rested her palm gently against the carpet and closed her eyes. Images of the horrific death flashed through her mind and she gritted her teeth. The poor girl had died painfully, but at least it was quick. A small mercy.

  She opened her eyes and removed her hand, swallowing down the residual pain and fear she was left with.

  “Sometimes I really hate this job.” She stood up, whirling around as someone coughed behind her.

  Standing in the hallway was a man. Damn, she had hoped to get out unseen.

  Even if she hadn't recognized him, his posture and clothes would have given him away as a cop. She wondered briefly when he'd made detective before reminding herself to stay focused.

  The policeman narrowed his eyes. “Well well, if it isn't Francis Wright. I didn’t expect to see you again.”

  “Good god, Will, could you be any more of a cliché?”

  Will smiled. He didn’t seem upset to find her in his crime scene, in fact he looked pleased. He shrugged at her question. “People find clichés comforting,” he told her.

  “I’m sure.” She looked around the crime scene, upset that further examination would now be hindered. She couldn’t do what she usually did without drawing some unwanted questions but she thought she might just have time to… she turned and took a few steps into the living room, running the back of her index finger across the symbol on the wall.

  She frowned, wishing she could run her hand over it again but as she turned back she noticed he was looking at her hand. He had noticed. Hopefully he’d dismiss it as nothing. She pulled her glove back on.

  Will followed her into the living room. “So, what does MI5 want with this?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “It’s probably nothing.”

  He raised his eyebrows in frustration, an expression she had grown to know and detest. “Francis, come on, it’s me you’re talking to.”

  “It’s Frankie, William, and I’m telling the truth. The young woman was a known acquaintance of a suspected low level terrorist. We have to check her death out but, one, I seriously doubt it’s him and two, even if he is a terrorist, he’s too low in the scheme of things to ever be a real threat. Your city is safe.”

  “For now.” He muttered darkly.

  “For now.” She agreed. The whole story was a lie but it was a lie she was used to telling.

  “So who is this suspected terrorist?” he asked.

  “I can’t tell you that. Sorry, it’s classified.”

  “So why are you poking around if there’s no threat?” His voice was calm but she could hear the determination to get answers.

  Her reply was irritable. Too many memories of his questions; questions she couldn’t answer. “Because until I poke around I can’t be sure there is no threat.”

  He sighed, recognising her emotions just as she had known his. He tried to let go of his police demeanour; it wasn’t easy but he knew that was the only way to engage her in real conversation.

  “So what were you looking for?” he asked. When she frowned he continued. “I might be able to help. I do know this crime scene better than you.”

  Frankie shook her head and tried to release herself from the old patterns of behaviour. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years and it’s like a day hasn’t passed.” She smiled. There had been a lot of good memories too.

  He returned her smile and seemed to relax. “It’s good to see you, Frankie.” He opened his arms for a hug.

  She hesitated briefly but reasoned they were both in thick winter coats and she had her gloves on so as long as he didn’t kiss her cheek, she’d be fine. She stepped into his arms.

  Will noticed her hesitation and recognised it but didn’t comment on it. She breathed deeply, inhaling that familiar mixture of Joop, polo mints and Will. It was a comforting smell and one she associated with good memories.

  When she pulled away, far too soon for Will’s liking, he let her go. He had liked holding her again, it felt like coming home. He’d also remembered, too late, her aversion to touching.

  “So, what were you looking for?” he moved the conversation onto safer territory.

  “Anything to either prove or disprove our suspect might be involved.”

  “And is he?”

  Frankie gestured to the walls. “I hardly think an Islamic fundamentalist would be drawing pagan symbols on the walls in blood, do you?”

  Will conceded the point with a shrug. “Do you want to look over the reports?”

  “I already have,” she sounded distracted as she examined the symbols.

  “What! God damn Secret Service, you think you can
just have whatever you want!”

  Frankie turned around slowly. “It’s the Security Service or MI5, if you must be colloquial. And you just offered to let me see the reports so I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  “Yeah, I offered. There’s a big difference between me letting you have something and you taking it.”

  “Look, I have no say over how MI5 operate. If you prefer I could just call the boys in and take over your investigation.” This wasn’t the diplomacy she’d been taught but screw diplomacy.

  “Oh right, the mighty MI5 like investigating serial killers now, do they?”

  That caught her by surprise. “Serial?”

  He smiled, seemingly pleased she didn’t know everything. “We had another one this evening.”

  Frankie closed her eyes, took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. “Oh no.” Things were about to get a lot more complicated. “So is it the same as this murder?”

  “Exactly. I came back to get some more photos of the finger painting for comparison.”

  So there were also pagan symbols at the new crime scene. Shit!

  “Frankie?”

  What did she tell him? That despite telling him this had nothing to do with MI5 she would now be running a parallel investigation because of the wiccan symbols on the walls? Yeah, that’d go down really well. If only she hadn't been in Aberdeen investigating UFO’s, she would have time to properly go over the files, to see that Will was involved, she would have had the police computer hacked so she’d know immediately when the second murder was entered onto the system.

  “Sorry, it’s been a long week. I’ve been following leads in Aberdeen and all I wanted when I got back was a nice hot bath.”

  His eyes narrowed as he realised she was lying but she didn’t notice. He let it slide for now.

  “Got back?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I moved up here about three months ago.”

  “And you didn’t look me up?” he feigned hurt.

  “Yeah,” her voice was dripping with sarcasm. “Because things ended so well between us.”

  “That was a long time ago.” He reminded her.

  “I know. Feels like yesterday though. You know, dating a policeman made me the least cool student at Edinburgh University.”

  “Really? Because dating you made me the most envied copper in the Lothian and Borders Police.”

  She smiled. “Charmer.”

  “Come on, let me buy you dinner and I’ll fill you in on the other murder.”

  “You’ll share information about an ongoing investigation with a civilian? Isn’t that against the rules?”

  “You’re hardly a civilian, Frankie.” He realised there was more to her being here than she was telling him. He also knew that sharing a little information would make her more likely to open up to him in return. If she wanted to play games, he was more than willing.

  “Deal, but just fast food, Okay, no fancy restaurants.”

  “You’re still on a mission to have the highest cholesterol in Scotland, then?” He remembered her love of fast food.

  “Of course.” It was a lot more than a love of fast food. Fast food meant finger food, which meant she wouldn’t have to either use cutlery many other people had handled, or worse use her own cutlery she carried in her bag. She was used to people thinking she had obsessive compulsive disorder, it was a good cover. In fact she frequently told people she had the condition, but that didn’t mean she liked the side long glances. Especially when it came to people she cared about.

  It was 2am when Frankie finally made it home and logged onto her computer. It was directly linked to MI5’s main frame and as such she could access any police system in the UK. A few abroad as well, but those weren’t talked about.

  As she looked over the latest murder report she could see that Will had told her the truth over dinner. So what did an occult serial killer mean?

  She had already seen from the first crime scene that this was no wannabe, whoever it was knew his pagan symbols and didn’t rely just on the pentagram. Was he killing for his witchcraft or was he just expressing his beliefs at the scenes?

  If he was killing for a reason, he was working some powerful magic. Blood magic was the strongest. Sacrificial magic… Well, Frankie hadn't encountered that yet, and she had hoped she never would.

  Then there was the question of who had painted those symbols. It was clear that whoever had painted them had done so with bare hands because she could see fingerprints in the blood, but she had gotten no impressions off them when she touched them.

  Frankie had been both blessed and cursed with a gift; she was psychic. Nothing helpful, like seeing the future, but she could see impressions left by people’s souls. Every time you touch something, you leave an impression and Frankie could read those. Stronger emotions leave a bigger impression and considering that the killer had just brutally murdered someone, he should have been rather emotional.

  So what did that mean? Could a ghost have killed her? Most ghosts were nothing more than a strong impression themselves - they couldn’t harm anyone - and trapped souls, which did have the power to harm would surely leave an impression themselves. Plus she doubted souls had fingerprints.

  Then there was Will. He was lead investigator on this and his involvement would only make things more difficult for her.

  Frankie met Will in her last year of university. He was perfect; handsome, charming and very good to her, but Frankie had been fooling herself that she could have a relationship with anyone. Will had been her last ditch attempt.

  Her gift also allowed her to read the people around her, meaning she could see into Will’s past, both his actions and his thoughts. Frankie hated that, hated knowing peoples' secrets, and of course not everyone’s thoughts were particularly nice.

  Two totally naked bodies in almost total contact overwhelmed her gift. Not only did she see more than she ever wanted to; it hurt. Before meeting Will, Frankie had only had sex twice, and both times she’d had to be totally drunk. The alcohol dimmed the edges but not enough.

  For four months she had kept Will waiting, kissing him only occasionally and as briefly as possible. He respected her boundaries and waited for her to be ready but she had felt him beginning to pull away. Not wanting to lose him she had made their relationship physical.

  She'd tried getting drunk but Will hadn't liked that. She tried valium but Will noticed that too. Anyway, neither helped very much so she finally tried sex while stone cold sober. It had been awful.

  By this point he knew something was wrong with her and put it down to abuse suffered in her childhood. Frankie knew that was what he thought because she could see those thoughts for herself. She considered telling him the truth but she didn’t want him thinking she was a freak, just like everyone else she’d ever told. She had loved him too much to bear seeing that look in his eyes.

  So she left, heading back to England to accept the job offer from MI5. She didn’t discuss it with him and he was furious with her. They had the fight to end all fights. Frankie used a lot of the stuff she’d seen in his head against him, he called her all sorts of foul names before finally slamming the door on his way out.

  Frankie had left the next day.

  Now she realised that not only did she still care for him, until she’d found this occultist she’d likely be running into him quite often.

  At half past three she decided to call it a night and start again tomorrow. She wasn’t thinking clearly and she’d been up since 7a.m. Maybe some sleep would help her focus.

  Alexander McNabb frowned at his computer screen. According to the BBC news site there had been a second murder. Unfortunately no name had been released yet.

  He sighed and leaned back in his chair, wondering what his next move should be. It wasn’t necessarily bad news. The first girl, Kerry, had been a patron of his club but there was nothing to say this latest victim was.

  He heard the door open and looked up to see Kate standing there.

  “Her
e’s tonight’s takings,” she handed him the bag of cash. “I’m off, boss.”

  “Everywhere locked?”

  Kate nodded. “You look beat, you need an early night.”

  He smiled. “Maybe. Good night Kate.”

  “Night.”

  As the door closed behind her, Alex got to his feet. He needed to find out who this second victim was. The article didn’t give an address but it did list an area. Surely the area would still be swimming with police; it wouldn’t be hard to find.

  In the end it was the news vans that gave the location away and Alex pulled up close to them. Although the risk of being recognised was low, he decided to question the news teams before the police. They often had more information than they put in their reports.

  He struck up a casual conversation with the camera man from STV, Pete, and sympathised with him about the cold. When he was sure they weren’t being watched he caught the cameraman's gaze.

  Pete found himself unable to look away and watched in amazement as the cool blue eyes grew darker. By the time they were midnight blue he felt calm and relaxed.

  “Do you know the name of the woman who was killed tonight?” Alex asked softly.

  Pete knew he shouldn’t tell a member of the public her name, but this guy was alright, he was trustworthy. Pete would stake his life on that. “Sylvia Fornham.”

  He name didn’t mean anything to Alex, but considering how busy his club was, he couldn’t know all the patrons by name. “Do you have a photograph of her?”

  Pete nodded. “But we can’t release it until the family have been informed.”

  “Of course, I understand. Could I see that photograph?”

  “Sure.” Pete stepped up into the van and pulled the image up on one of the screens.

  Alex’s expression showed no reaction but his fists clenched.

  “Look at me.” Pete did as he was told. “You will only remember our conversation as a friendly chat. You will not remember my face, my asking about the victim or showing me this photograph, do you understand?”