‘Who the fuck are you?’ Charlie asked, exhausted. The man grinned. Charlie thought he looked familiar but couldn’t place him. Then he realised who the bloodied woman kneeling next to Greg was. The other woman whose screams he had heard.

  ‘Molly?’

  She looked up through drenched, matted hair. Even though she was soaking wet, Charlie could tell it was her. And that meant the man was…

  ‘Greg Armstrong. Fuck me.’

  This is not how it was supposed to go! Cally Buchanan screamed internally. The blade of her own knife was being held against her throat. She stood perfectly still, nervous of being cut, but also because she didn’t know what else to do.

  Although she tried not to, she couldn’t help glancing at Natalie, who lay unmoving. She was still on fire. There was no doubt that she was dead. The smell of burning flesh was unmistakable. Cally sighed, couldn’t help noting the irony of Natalie dying by fire on the same night they were, as a coven, attempting to reclaim the act of burning at the stake. She felt mixed emotions too. It was tragic that Natalie was dead. She had inspired Cally and, in many ways, had allowed Cally to reveal her true self to the world. Cally hadn’t realised that up until recently she had been living such an inauthentic life. Natalie had completely changed that, so to see her burn to death was a loss that Cally felt deeply. That didn’t stop her inner voice piping up again.

  Better her than me.

  Cally had not known exactly how the night would end. She thought she’d be arrested, or killed. Now, faced by Natalie’s death, she found herself hoping that she’d be arrested. She wasn’t as prepared to die for the cause as she had thought. If it was a case of staying alive but locked up rather than being burned to a crisp, a life behind bars with her skin intact seemed like a clear winner. Her name would still be known across the country. She would still achieve the accolade of being a nationally known witch – maybe even globally known. Her name would go down in infamy, forever tied to the craft.

  Given her current circumstances, arrest seemed inevitable. This stranger, however, the man that DI Palmer had just called Greg Armstrong, was very much an unknown element. Especially as he had brought his own victim with him. The look on Palmer’s face suggested the chaos wasn’t over just yet.

  Cally decided that the only sensible thing to do was to stay still, wait and see what happened. At least that way she wouldn’t end up like Natalie.

  A few minutes later an opportunity presented itself, however, and Cally took it without hesitation.

  ‘Detective, what on earth have you got involved in? Filming the sequel to The Witches of Eastwick?’ Greg Armstrong laughed as he gestured with his gun to the stakes and the burning woman. He made sure he didn’t let go of the woman crying on her knees next to him.

  Charlie Palmer did not return his laughter.

  ‘Oh, come on, that was funny. I mean, look at this place!’

  Again Charlie stayed silent. Greg assessed the situation. While he couldn’t figure out exactly what had happened, it didn’t seem to him as though Palmer had full control over it all. To Greg’s left a very nervous-looking woman held a blade to the neck of another woman – clearly one of the women responsible for the fire. Then there was the woman on her back still strapped to a wooden pole while a fourth woman, dressed in black just like the other little witch, attempted to untie her. And now Greg, and Daniel Graves’ girlfriend. It was a lot for one detective to stay on top of.

  ‘A lot of plates seem to be spinning here, Detective. I wonder which one will fall first.’

  ‘Shut up, Armstrong,’ Palmer snapped. ‘Backup is on the way. This is over.’ He stepped forward.

  ‘I wouldn’t move if I were you. And I have no doubt that Graves is on his way here as we speak. I planned for it. I’m ready for it. This is not over just yet.’

  ‘What do you want, Armstrong? Really.’

  Greg laughed at the question even as he glanced around the confused faces watching him in the darkness, their eyes lit up like glittering gems in the firelight.

  ‘Graves in a grave, of course! You know that.’

  ‘I thought as much. But that doesn’t involve any of these people.’ It was Palmer’s turn to gesture, waving a hand at the women. ‘This is between you and Daniel and, like you said, he’s on his way. Just let me deal with this, okay?’

  Greg thought that Palmer sounded desperate, pleading. That wasn’t a surprise, really, given the circumstances. The man must be shitting himself at the thought of more dead bodies. Greg considered the request.

  ‘How many of them are innocent?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘These women. I count four. Two seem to be of the witchy persuasion. The other two, not so much. Are they innocent?’

  ‘Yes. Correct.’

  ‘So the witches here, they’ll be arrested?’ He looked at the women in black. The one helping the injured woman off the wooden pole looked terrified. The other one, who had a knife to her throat, seemed to be paying very close attention to what was happening.

  ‘Yes,’ Palmer answered. ‘Why? What does that have to do with anything?’

  Greg smiled.

  ‘I’m just thinking, Detective. Until Danny boy gets here, you have six people under your watch, if you include me. One person is already dead. That’s a lot of pressure.’

  Charlie watched him like a hawk, his brow furrowed.

  ‘Tell you what. I’ll ease your workload.’ Greg raised the gun, aimed at the woman in black crouching next to the fire, and pulled the trigger. The shot exploded in the relative quiet of the building and the woman screamed as she fell backwards. In fact, everyone screamed except Palmer, who looked horrified, frozen in place.

  ‘Down to five. Already easier. You’re welcome!’ Greg laughed again. This was fun! He was enjoying himself immensely. He had only planned to kill Graves and maybe the girlfriend, yet now that he had multiple lives in his hands, he realised the power was intoxicating.

  ‘Shall I make it four? That one is already injured, anyway. I could put her out of her misery,’ he said, raising the gun again. Palmer raised his hands, clearly about to beg him not to shoot someone else, when the sound of a car pulling up outside changed the game yet again.

  ‘Let them go, Armstrong!’ came a shout. Greg turned to see Daniel Graves running towards him, three other officers close behind him.

  Shit! Too many of them.

  He had what he wanted, Graves in front of him, ready to pay, but he needed it to be one on one. He tightened his grip on Molly Goodings’ hair and pulled her backwards, away from Palmer and the other women, holding his gun against his captive’s head.

  ‘Everyone but Graves needs to leave, or I’ll shoot her!’ he shouted, glancing between Graves and Palmer.

  Graves skidded to a halt, his face a picture of fear and panic.

  Not everyone froze, though. The witch with the knife at her throat clearly had other plans. She jammed her elbow into the stomach of the woman holding her. The knife dropped to the floor. She swooped down and grabbed it, then she was off, speeding towards the exit. She was soon swallowed by shadows. When Graves nodded to the officers behind him, all three took off in hot pursuit.

  ‘Palmer, take those two, the burned-up blonde and the black woman, and get out. I’m feeling charitable. Graves, buddy, you stay right where you are.’

  Palmer was already moving to the woman who had been gut-punched. He helped her up. The others watched as Palmer and Angelica headed towards the police cars, carrying Sarah between them, her arms over their shoulders. The market was silent again, save for the rain still hammering down above them and the soft whimpers of Molly Goodings, who Greg still held hostage.

  He waited until Palmer had left with the women, then locked eyes with Graves.

  ‘So much better! Any last requests?’ he said, lifting the gun, aiming it squarely at Daniel Graves, his finger hovering over the trigger.

  He was close to getting everything he wanted.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The downpour was like a slap to the face as Sergeant Amelia Harding charged through the open gate and out into the night after Cally Buchanan. She was forced to pause to get a bead on the runner and in seconds she was drenched, her hair matted to her head. She saw movement to her right, clocked Buchanan. Pushing her fringe out of her eyes, Amelia sped after her.

  The rain was worse than she recalled ever seeing in London, and she pounded through a river that had formed in the road. As the rain hit her face she found herself squinting, droplets blurring her vision. It made it hard to keep track of the woman she was chasing, but Buchanan was facing the same conditions – and at least the roads were deserted. Amelia ran right in the middle of the street.

  Buchanan took a left up ahead and Amelia tried to pick up her pace, fearful of losing the witch. She reached the road, saw Buchanan ahead of her, and checked to see if the other officers were still with her. One was.

  ‘Where the hell has Martin gone, Steve?’ she yelled as she slowed.

  ‘He went the other way when we left the market, looping around in case he can get her from the other side.’

  Amelia immediately knew that wouldn’t work. It was too far around the block. She had to stay on Buchanan. If she lost her, she would never forgive herself. Amelia charged off again, not waiting to see if Steve was keeping up. She didn’t care.

  I can take this bitch myself!

  Spurred on by anger and determination, Amelia barrelled down the road after the suspect. All the shops, delis and bars were closed, their insides hidden in shadow, and only a few streetlights fought to illuminate London through the oppressive rain and darkness, but Amelia could still see Buchanan. The woman had got further ahead, but not much further.

  I can catch her…

  Amelia saw a lit-up sign for Farringdon train station, and for a second her heart almost stopped. If Buchanan got on a train before Amelia caught up with her, then she would be gone. Then it dawned on Amelia that the station was closed, and had been for an hour or so. Obviously Buchanan had had the same thought. She had stopped, was desperately looking around her for a plan B. She saw Amelia in pursuit and legged it again, taking a right down the road that ran parallel with the station. Amelia knew there was a main road somewhere nearby, thought she had a better chance if she could herd the witch that way. Less chance to lose her if she could get off the side streets, and maybe there would even be a few cars or buses around, some witnesses, someone to block Buchanan’s route.

  Amelia reached the road Buchanan had taken, barely slowing to take the corner, when she realised she could no longer see the woman.

  ‘Shit!’ she yelled. A few seconds later Steve was next to her. ‘Fuck!’ she shouted, again wiping water from her eyes.

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t be fucking standing here chatting to you,’ Amelia snapped. Steve looked taken aback but didn’t say anything, for which she was glad. She didn’t have the time or inclination to apologise. Steve would cope.

  Jogging down the road, Steve keeping pace, Amelia scanned the terraced buildings on their right. The train station was on the left and offered no options. There didn’t seem anywhere that Buchanan could have gone. She had just vanished.

  Hopped on a fucking broomstick?

  Amelia spotted the entrance to the station on their left, ran to the door and tried it. It was locked, as she had suspected. Buchanan hadn’t broken into the station, then, at least not this way, and the wall was too high to scale without equipment.

  ‘She couldn’t have reached the end of the road already; I was too close behind her. I would have seen her,’ Amelia said, as much to herself as to Steve. She continued jogging up the street.

  ‘Is that an alley?’ Steve asked.

  ‘Where?’

  He jogged past her. ‘Here. Shit. Come on!’

  Knowing he had to be right, Amelia didn’t hesitate. She ran after him and together they sped down the shadow-filled alley. After about twenty metres, the space opened up into a small courtyard, and Amelia realised it hadn’t been an alley at all. It was an entrance to a private parking area, with only one car parked there. Buildings rose up on all sides. It was a dead end.

  ‘Shit!’ Amelia yelled again. She checked around the back of the car, under it. Nothing. ‘Now what?’

  ‘There!’ Steve said, taking off down a second, much more narrow, alley almost entirely hidden in darkness. It led out of the courtyard. He was gone in a flash and Amelia took off after him, worried that she would lose him too. She could only just make out his silhouette. Up ahead she could see a bit more light, and when she caught up with Steve they stopped. They were standing in a small park. The path went two ways.

  ‘Bollocks. Which way?’ Steve asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Fuck, we don’t even know she came this way!’ Amelia said, her anxiety building, her mind screaming that they had to find Buchanan fast or that was it, they would lose her entirely.

  ‘She had to have. Where the hell else could she have gone? You go right, I’ll go left. Deal?’

  Amelia nodded reluctantly. When her adrenaline had kicked in, she had not been even slightly bothered whether or not Steve had followed her. Now, with trees towering over and around her, barely any moonlight breaking through and the rain still hammering down, the thought of splitting up terrified her. She knew they had no choice, though. She swallowed hard, removed her baton from her belt. Steve did the same. Then he was off, jogging down the path to their left, swallowed by the darkness within seconds. She felt incredibly alone, as if she were suddenly the only person left on the planet.

  Amelia went right, jogging slowly, trying to take in every shadow around her. Could one of them be Buchanan? Would she hide, rather than keep running? Amelia was breathing heavily from chasing her, yet she was fit, worked out regularly. She wasn’t sure about Buchanan. It would be just her luck that the woman ran marathons every other weekend and was now long gone.

  The wind picked up, as if to add insult to injury, and the rain thrashed around her, whipping the trees into a frenzy. Amelia could barely see anything, and wiped frantically at her eyes again as she followed the path. Just a minute later, she reached a gate. It was closed and she pulled at it. It rattled but didn’t budge. On both sides was a fence topped with sharp spikes slick with water, high enough to pose difficulty and an actual threat to anyone trying to climb over. Ducking down, she checked to the left, looking for gaps in the fence. It was unbroken. She checked the right too, and found it to be intact also. Amelia stood up and turned back to the path. If Cally Buchanan had come this way, she would likely not have got out of the park. She was a small woman and Amelia didn’t think she could have clambered over the fence. That meant she was either hiding or had gone the other way, unless they had lost her back when they had stopped next to the station.

  But she must have gone this way! She didn’t just vanish in the middle of the street!

  Amelia’s heart sank. They had messed up. She had messed up. Buchanan was clearly gone. In this weather, at night, there was no way they would find the woman. She hoped that either Steve or Martin had found her, but knew it wasn’t likely. She couldn’t believe it.

  We’ve lost her… I’ve failed…

  With less conviction, Amelia started back in the direction Steve had taken. The park seemed much smaller now that her adrenaline had started to level out again. She still kept an eye on the shadows among the hedges and trees, but nothing jumped out at her and no human-looking shapes seemed to be among the leaves and branches. As she reached the junction where she and Steve had separated she called his name. Her words were buried by the downpour. She doubted he would hear her anyway; he was likely long out of earshot.

  It was so dark she could barely make out anything as she continued further down the path Steve had taken.

  Then she heard something. It sounded like a scream.

  Amelia stopped, held her breath, trying to listen through the steady rhythm of the rain and wind and rustling branches overhead. It was impossible. She couldn’t hear anything, and after a brief pause started to jog again. Then she heard the sound once more.

  Amelia surged on, spotted the open gate exiting the park. A rusted padlock lay on the ground. She emerged onto another small road, swamped with darkness apart from one pathetic trickle of light coming from a Victorian streetlamp that had not been replaced with a more modern version. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw a figure lying motionless in the street. Cautiously she approached, the baton gripped tightly in her hand.

  ‘Steve!’ She rushed to his side, saw trickles of blood mixing with the rain under him.

  ‘She… jumped out…’ he muttered.

  Amelia, glad he was alive, quickly inspected the wound on his head before checking around her. ‘Where is she?’ she whispered.

  ‘I… I don’t know…’ Steve tried to sit up. Amelia helped him to his feet and walked him to the shelter of an overhang on the building next to them, out of the rain. He slumped down onto the ground again, wiping his face.

  Amelia scanned all around. There were three roads apart from the one she had just come from. Three escape routes, each as likely as the next. That was it. Buchanan really was lost now. She had taken the chance to put down one of her pursuers to buy some breathing room and had vanished.

  With a painful sigh of disappointment, Amelia turned back to Steve. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked, crouching to get another look at the cut on his forehead, not really able to see the level of damage in the low light.

  ‘I think so. Dizzy, a bit anyway. I think I blacked out for a second. She tried to stab me but my vest blocked it. My head is pounding but I’m okay…’ he answered, taking a few slow, deep breaths. ‘I’m sorry I lost her.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’ Amelia sighed again. ‘I’ll radio in, get an ambulance to come get you.’ She was reaching for her radio when Steve shouted.

  ‘Behind you!’

 

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