Killer Witch in Westerham

by Dionne Lister

  I logged into the PIB site and checked out the places the bodies were found against witch toilet portals. One was within five hundred metres of a portal, but the rest were three–four miles from one. It would take less time to just drive, rather than walk from toilet cubicle to each site, plus the weather could change at any time, and I’d find myself in the pouring rain.

  I chucked my knapsack into Angelica’s car and set off. I couldn’t help a little snicker—I was using her car to help me do something she didn’t want me to do. Well, if justice wasn’t her motive, bad luck. I’d rather look like an idiot, have people angry at me, and know I did the right thing than send an innocent man to jail to save face, which was what Angelica and Will were suggesting should happen. If I was honest with myself, I’d admit how disappointed I was with them. Did their attitude come from being jaded after years of dealing with evil, or was it they just couldn’t imagine what it was like to be incarcerated when you were innocent? Well, I could, and I needed to do this, even if it made me about as popular as a swarm of mosquitos at a barbecue.

  According to the files on each of the women, they weren’t killed where they were found, and the police had never been able to identify where they’d been murdered. So many clues they didn’t have. I crossed my fingers that the killer hadn’t been careful when disposing of the bodies. My only hope was to get a picture of their face. According to the latest file, there were no traces of magic found at the crime scene, so whoever had killed Trudie had transported her the normal way. She’d been dumped at night, at a church down a country lane—no witnesses, no evidence except for tyre marks in the damp dirt next to the church grounds, which could have been left by anyone at any time. They’d noted two different tyre types, both common and likely belonging to a Volkswagen Polo and Mercedes-Benz A-Class.

  Great, how fantastic.

  Figuring out the car type the killer used was like finding a needle in a haystack—clichés existed for a reason; we all needed them sometimes. Hmm, could I rope Liv into helping me? I could really do with pulling the registration records of the guy who went to school with Jeremy. I didn’t want to get her into trouble, but she was my only hope.

  I dialled her number, my heart thudding noticeably from guilt at asking and fear that she’d be angry at me just like everyone else. But she didn’t pick up. It went to messages. “You’ve reached Olivia. Sorry I can’t answer right now. Please leave a message after the tone.” Beep.

  “Ah, hi, Liv. It’s Lily. Not sure if you’re even talking to me right now, but I really need your help with getting rego info on someone. Can you please call me back ASAP? Thanks.” I hung up and sucked in a deep breath, letting it whoosh out loudly. Damn. There wasn’t anything I could do about it right now, and I didn’t want to waste any time. Jeremy was sitting in that stinking cell, and every minute would be torture. And how long could I stand everyone being angry with me?

  I’d arranged the sites in order of where they were located in relation to Angelica’s house rather than in order of when the bodies had been found. I wasn’t even sure if the police had finished with the latest site, so I might have to visit that at night, when there would only be police tape and one half-asleep guard to stop me—okay, so that was an assumption on my part, but if they thought they had the murderer in custody, you wouldn’t think too many people would be desperate to have a look. Plus, if the actual murder hadn’t taken place there, they wouldn’t need to spend so much time collecting evidence and taking photos.

  My first stop was St Peter and St Paul’s Church at Edenbridge, which was directly south of Westerham. The drive took just over ten long minutes. There was nothing like being by yourself in the car to overthink things. As much as I tried to block out thoughts of Will, they snuck in. Was he really angry with me, or was it all for show? I wanted to text him and find out, but that might blow his cover. Chances were, I’d text him and receive an angry rant in reply. My shoulders sagged. Why couldn’t life be easy for five minutes? It seemed as if it was one depressing or dangerous day after another. There was little in the way of relaxation or pure joy. What the hell was up with that? Stupid universe.

  I pulled up and parked in front of a quaint, greystone wall that marked the church property’s front boundary. Tall trees spread their boughs behind the fence, their yellow leaves dotting branches and covering the ground. Across the road, brick semi-detached homes sat in a row, autumn-browned ivy trailing along some of the walls, tendrils framing aged timber windows.

  I grabbed my camera and got out. The picture of the make-up artist was from here. She’d been placed amongst the graves that creepified the grounds between the fence and old stone church. I walked up the street and found a gap in the fence that was just to the right of the church. The path sat between graves. I turned and checked out the houses across the street and shuddered. Living across the road from a cemetery was the last place I’d want to live—you’d be the first to die in a zombie apocalypse, and surely your house would be haunted by bored ghosts who were looking for stuff to do at night.

  Being curious and sometimes morbid, I didn’t mind looking at headstones from over a hundred years ago to see what age people were when they died and what they’d died of, but today had a sharp edge to it. I was hunting a murderer and risking friendships to do it. There was also something else that raised my arm hair, a discomfort I couldn’t name.

  Hardly any of the grave markers were straight—most lurched one way or the other like a swarm of zombies. I whispered to myself and magicked the crime-scene photo to my chest. I reached inside my coat and pulled it out. Holding it up, I turned around, trying to match the headstones in the photo to the ones in the grounds. Hmm, was that it?

  I walked closer to the church and veered left, to two rounded headstones that were next to a taller rectangular one. Broad branches from a huge pine hovered low over the graves, protectively, like a swan sheltering her young. I traversed the narrow space between headstones to get a closer look. “Sorry for treading on you…”—I leaned down and read the inscription—“Mavis. I hope you don’t mind.” She hadn’t had a bad go. Died at seventy-two, but that was in nineteen fifty-six. That was a pretty good innings back then. Taking another gander at the photo confirmed it. “This is the spot.”

  I backed away a few metres so I could get more of the scene in the shot. Would it play out as a movie again? And did I have any control over it if it did? The video mode sapped my energy much more than just taking photos, just as it would if I were the camera battery. Excitement and worry seesawed in my stomach, first one shooting to the top, then the other.

  I made the doesn’t-really-sound-like-a-drumroll-but-I’m-trying noise with my tongue because I felt like this needed a drumroll. “Show me who killed the make-up artist.” Darkness blackened my lens. A figure crouched, hands reaching for something on the ground, but the night had been so dark that the silhouette was only just showing up against the even darker background of the tree. Bummer.

  I frowned and walked around to get a view from the other side, which meant I was jammed up next to the tree, looking back towards the street. The silhouette was a bit clearer this way because faint street lights shone behind. But there was no detail I could discern. I walked until I was face-to-face with the person in black. From closer, I could see they were of medium build, but since they were crouched, I couldn’t tell their height, and they wore pants, jacket, and balaclava. There was no way I could even tell if the figure was male or female. Although, the person did look shorter than Jeremy. I crouched in the same position and tried to compare my slouching body length to theirs. Hmm, I was a bit shorter… maybe. It was hard to tell.

  I stood and tried again. “Show me the killer arriving with the body.” I scanned the street through my camera. It was so dark, despite the street lights, that I walked over to the fence and looked up and down. Nothing. Maybe it hadn’t worked? Surely whoever it was hadn’t travelled there, had they?

  Turning, I focussed on the church. I made my way
around to the doors, careful to check in real life where I was walking. The closer to the church I got, the darker it became, if that were even possible. I tilted my head back and looked up at the night sky, shrouded in clouds. No moon. No stars. No light. Nothing but black on black on black. I shivered, almost smelling the damp night air when I inhaled. Even though I knew it was really daytime, this was creeping me out, so I strayed closer to the church, straining to detect a person in the gloom.

  And there it was. A shadow within the shadows, just outside the church doors. I still couldn’t see any details, but I snapped some shots, showing they had travelled here, which was something, since they’d managed not to leave any magic traces on the body, although didn’t James say they hadn’t suspected witches, so the PIB hadn’t been involved to test for that? Had they found any magic on Trudie? And if they had, would it be the remnants from slamming into Jeremy’s invisible wall? Which would incriminate him all the more. Gah.

  I approached the shadow, getting close enough to touch the killer. Whoever it was did look taller than me, and they seemed to be struggling under the weight of the dead woman slung over their shoulder. The killer’s legs were bent and their back bowed. So we weren’t dealing with a weight lifter. Jeremy was buff—yes, even I’d noticed in his latest movie when he took his shirt off—but he wasn’t huge. Still, he was taller than the killer, and I wouldn’t imagine he would be struggling quite so much—none of the murdered women were large. From the police reports, they ranged from about five foot three to five foot six, slim build, except for the mystery woman—she’d been medium build, but I couldn’t remember the weight. Stupid brain. That guy from school who hated him probably weighed the same, but he looked to have more fat than muscle. Hmm. Something to ponder.

  It was too dark to see anything else about the murderer, and at least I could assume the killer had travelled rather than driven. Did that mean they had to turn up earlier and set the landing spot? Interesting. I’d have to come back tomorrow when I could get inside. There was no way they would have been wearing a balaclava in the middle of the day when they set the landing spot. Maybe this wasn’t going to be as hard as I’d thought. Nevertheless, I needed to check out the other murder scenes.

  I turned my camera off and blinked in the daylight. It wasn’t bright compared to a sunny Sydney day, but compared to what it had been, it was like looking directly into the sun. You’re getting soft, Lily. I smiled to myself as I slid back into the car. Maybe I should try and plan a trip home soon. I missed the beach and my old friends—Skype video wasn’t quite the same, and the lag made it annoying because we kept talking over the top of each other.

  The next location was about twenty minutes’ drive further south, to a tourist spot called Groombridge Place. I’d checked it out online, so I knew what to expect. It was a stunning 1660s brick manor house on a massive land plot. From the photos of the formal gardens and “enchanted forest,” it was the sort of place I’d love to spend the day. Unfortunately, I was going there for an entirely unenjoyable reason. It was tricky since it was closed during the week, and the house was out of bounds to visitors, as it was lived in and used as a proper residence. The body had been left on a giant chess board—yes, that’s right, a giant chess board. Why there was anyone’s guess. The police were yet to agree on it. Was it random or a choice? From what I’d seen about serial killers on TV, they liked to toy with the authorities, so maybe it was some kind of cryptic clue.

  The main entry gates to the road leading to the manor were shut. I’d expected it, and I could easily find a way to magic my way inside, but what if the people living or working there were witches? My no-notice spell would never work. Maybe I needed to do this when it was dark, as I’d done with Beren last night. I gritted my teeth in frustration. Patience, Lily. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Be patient. Easy for you to say.” Yes, I was talking to myself—but don’t judge. I’m not the only one, and you know it.

  There was nothing that said I couldn’t take photos from here. At least it would show me whether or not the killer had driven or magicked themselves over. I cast a no-notice spell—even if the owners were witches, at least passers-by wouldn’t stop and ask why I was taking photos of the front gates.

  Standing near the main two-lane road and looking back at the grand iron gates, I said, “Show me the killer arriving with the body.” I turned in a slow circle till I was facing the estate again. Nothing. They must have travelled here too. I turned my camera off and hopped in the car. Today was turning into a depressing waste of time. Meanwhile, Jeremy was locked in a tiny cell smelling toilet fumes. That was a punishment in itself. I scrunched my nose in remembrance, put my blinker on, and turned onto the main road.

  My next stop was just over an hour to the northwest. It was a car park in the Surrey Hills area, near a place called Peaslake. How had they come up with such a silly name? Or was there actually a lake of peas. I could picture it, the gentle slope of grassy field to a lake filled with peas as far as the eye could see, like those children’s ball pits but way squishier. But wait a minute! Brits loved mushy peas, didn’t they? I laughed. Was there a potato hill and carrot marsh? Maybe all those years ago, they’d had rules, kind of like when you were on Facebook and a meme says, you’re in a zombie apocalypse. The thing closest to you is your weapon. What is it? The local priest probably rushed in and said, “Lord Busby, we need to name that damn lake before tomorrow’s festivities.” Lord Busby looked down, and, luckily, his dinner plate was sitting there. “I’ll just use the first food I put in my mouth at dinner. Peaslake it is!” Little did they know that their methodology would re-emerge in the future when important things such as “what’s your porn-star name” and “what’s your zombie-apocalypse weapon” were in danger of not being figured out. It was incredible how far society had come….

  Thirty minutes into my drive, sleepiness tugged at my eyelids. It must be coffee time. “Hey, Siri, where is the nearest Costa Café?” I didn’t know if there was one nearby, but if there was, I was in.

  Siri’s happy voice came from my phone. “The nearest one I found is Costa, which averages five stars. Does that one sound good?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perfect. I can call that location or get directions. Which would you like?”

  “Directions, thanks.” I giggled at how ingrained being polite was. Siri was a computer, not a person, yet I treated her like one.

  “Getting directions to Costa.” She switched over to map mode and told me how to get there. Technology was incredible, so much so that why did people think witches were an impossibility? So much stuff we took for granted was science-fiction stuff, and even though it existed, I had no idea how it could. Maybe it didn’t take much to confound me, but still, the world was an amazing place.

  With Siri’s awesome guidance, I found Costa, grabbed a coffee and sandwich, and got back in the car. I sat there and enjoyed my afternoon snack while trying not to think about everything I had going on. I was pretty sure I’d earned five minutes of mental peace.

  My phone rang.

  Okay, maybe not.

  Instead of seeing the name I wanted on the screen—Olivia—it was James. I so wanted to let it go to message bank, but then I’d just have an angrier brother to deal with later. I swiped to answer. “Hello, brother of mine.” Maybe reminding him we were related would make him be nicer?

  His voice was so loud, I had to hold my phone away from my ear. “What the hell were you thinking, agreeing to help a serial killer and signing a non-disclosure?!” Or maybe not. There were a lot of maybe nots happening to me today. If only I could fast-forward to tomorrow.

  I rubbed my temples with thumb and middle finger. “Do you remember when stupid Snezana kidnapped you?”

  “Yes, but what has that got to do with the price of fish?”

  “I told you the story about how I spent time in jail, did I not? And where would I and, for that matter, you be if no one had believed in me and helped me? I’m not an idiot, and don’t think I ha
ven’t considered the fact that he might be guilty. If he’s innocent, not only does he not deserve to be in jail, but the real killer is still out there. If he’s guilty and I find evidence, I’ll find a way to drop you a hint. Okay?”

  He was silent for a few beats, but I wasn’t going to gush into it and try and appease him. I needed to do this, and if he didn’t understand why, that was his bad luck. “Argh! All right, fine. But if you find evidence proving he’s guilty, I want to be the first to get the hint.”

  “Of course.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Sitting in Angelica’s car outside Costa.”

  “Why didn’t you just walk?”

  I smiled. “I’m not in Westerham. This Costa is a bit far to walk to.”

  “Are you going to tell me where you are?”

  I didn’t see the harm in it. It wasn’t as if he was going to pop over here and drag me home. Actually, knowing James, he just might. “On the way to Peaslake, actually.”

  “You wouldn’t be going to a certain car park, would you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, be careful. I mean it, Lily. I think you’re wasting your time, but don’t forget Dana’s out there somewhere, and if you’re right, so is a serial killer who wants your friend in jail. Oh, and Will’s not very happy about you helping the guy either.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, he made that clear this morning, but guess what? We’ve broken up, and he doesn’t get a say.” I knew I was splitting hairs—he still cared about me, and we’d still be together if it wasn’t for our investigation into Regula Pythonissum. But for some stupid reason, I felt rejected, and I was annoyed. Also, having been single for so long, I wasn’t used to having to consider other opinions on what I did or didn’t do. That was a hard habit to break, and maybe I didn’t want to break it.

  “Yeah, well, just tread lightly, Lily. I’ll speak to you later.”