Deadly Thyme (12 page)

15

J
on pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket and dialed. Whilst it rang, he turned to the old man, “Your name?”

“Gareth Wren Tavish,” came the gruff reply. He gave the dog a rough pat on the head. He didn
’t touch the shoe, merely looked once again out to sea.

His name surprised Jon. First impressions were funny things. His connection went through.

“Tom Bakewell.”

“Sir
. Jon Graham.”

He glanced up and down the coastline. “I
’m less than a mile from Perrin’s Point.”

“In which direction?”

“Sorry, south.” He watched as Mr. Tavish drew pictures in the dirt with his staff. “On the cliff top and I’ve run into a gentleman and his dog.”

“With your car?”

“I’m on foot.” He glanced at the dog. “The dog’s pulled a girl’s shoe from the surf.”

“Floating?”

“It was attached to something.”

“Have you looked?”

Jon’s eyes went to the spot on the rock ledge where the dog had been. “No,” Jon pushed the soft, springy sod with the toe of his shoe, “I don’t think it will wait; the tide will put it underwater again.”

“Discover what you can and ring me back no matter.”

“Yes, sir.” Jon closed the connection and turned. “Mr. Tavish, do you know what’s down there?”

“Tavy.”

“Excuse me?”

“People call me Tavy.”

“Tavy, do you know what’s down there?”

“Why?”

Jon pulled out his official identification, but Tavy motioned him to stop.

“Know yer
police.” He grinned. The old man sported a toothless upper palate.

Jon glanced again at the spot
where the dog had been. “I ask because you looked as if you knew what the dog was up to.”

Tavy studied the ground. He leaned against his staff. His hat hid his face. The white wisps of his beard shimmered in the early daylight as he gestured toward the dog sitting at his feet. “Wouldn
’t a-bothered about a fish.”

He prodded up the soft earth with the end of his staff as if there were more answers to be found in it. Coming from behind them
, the sunlight burst through the clouds and sparkled like diamonds across the sea. The beach below was darkly shadowed.

Jon shaded his eyes with his hands to try and pick out anything he could. “So you don
’t know if the missing girl is down there?”

The old man
’s eyes were dark tunnels of unfathomable depths—unsettling.

Jon started down over the side. He didn
’t mind the dirt and rocks. He wasn’t inexperienced with climbing—and with that thought, his foot slipped. He began a more rapid descent than he had intended. About midway down, in the soil and turf avalanche, his foot caught on a rock and twisted him sideways so he hit the soft sand at the bottom of the steep incline, on his face.

Spitting sand from his mouth, Jon sputtered, “I
’m fine. I’m fine.” No response from above. “Hello?”

Tavy
’s face appeared over the edge, looking down on Jon with a bemused twinkle. “Fallen over the side, ’ave ye?”

Dignity lost in one fell swoop
, Jon brushed the dry sand from his face. “If you wouldn’t mind sticking around a bit …”

Tavy made no indication to Jon
that he would or would not stay.

The waves soldiered in as the wind picked up. The sun disappeared behind a cloud and shadows disappeared. It was much easier to observe everything in this light.

Jon climbed onto the rock. He didn’t really want to see what he knew was there. A short phrase from Macbeth came to mind:
Present fears are less than horrible imaginings
. Only, he believed that his fears would prove true and be worse than what he imagined. From here, the incoming swell of water towered skyward, sank down, and then splashed up around him. What awaited in a crevice closer to the end of the rock shelf was far worse than crashing waves.

The slender, petite body was crammed into a wide crack in the rock so that it was almost entirely submerged beneath the clear-as-glass saltwater.

It might have been the child had fallen over the cliff and into the surf, which then mashed her body into this crack, but for the fact that the head was covered with a cloth sack. One end of the string binding the sack floated free and wiggled like a white sea-worm each time a new wave deposited more sea spray into the cauldron.

A hole in the sack over her head pulsated
, and for one sick moment Jon imagined she was attempting to speak to him from inside her covering. But as he bent closer, tiny crabs crept from the hole and scattered over the rock, dropping one by one into the foamy surf. Some creature had devoured the flesh of the part of her arm that was visible above water, exposing the delicate bones of her forearm. Underwater, whatever skin he could see was washed of any color.

Shockingly, the fully clothed body lay as if resting in the bath. One shoeless foot still had a white sock on it.

The other foot did not have a shoe or sock because it was stripped of flesh.

A gull dropped from the sky onto the rock. It waddled toward the body, sharp beak pointed skyward, wings flared out. The sight of that small skeletal foot filled Jon with rage. Waving an arm, he shouted, “Scat!”

The bird screeched and launched itself into the breeze.

Jon turned back to where the body lay. He had seen death touch human beings in many ways
, but this—this horrible imagining proved fearfully real—was no good. This was no good at all. The fact that this white, torn piece of flesh had, only six days before, been a lively young girl turned his stomach. He dialed his mobile. After one ring the phone connected.

“Yes, Jon.”

“It’s a girl’s body,” Jon said.

“You
’ll have to ring up the police. Tell them who you are. Stay with the story, though. You’re on holiday.”

“Right.” Jon closed the connection. He stared out to sea. “Such a holiday.”

The doorbell rang. Sally answered. Ruth stopped brushing her teeth to listen from the next room. She could still hear her mother snoring; the noise was irksome because she couldn’t hear who was at the door. She wiped her face. The toothpaste tasted salty and artificially sweet.

She tightened her robe and slipped into the kitchen to sit at the table with her tea. A shiver passed through her. She wrapped her freezing fingers around the warmth. Her legs had been cramping all night and had kept her awake.

Sally entered the room followed by the same police officer who had questioned Ruth on the beach that dread morning. Constable Stark was followed by Constable Allison Craig. Each face revealed that what they needed to say would not be good news. Ruth gave a moan and fell sideways. The tea mug landed on her braided rag rug. The handle cracked and the tiny ceramic duck on the inside broke free and rolled out. The milky liquid soaked the rug.

Sally knelt next to Ruth
’s chair, paying no heed to the sticky mess. “They’ve found a girl’s body.”

Ruth sat bolt upright in the chair. “No! I don
’t want to hear this!” She searched Sally’s face. “Don’t look at me!” Ruth pushed her away and struggled to rise.

Constable
Stark had paled to a dead white with twin red blazes of color from cheek to ear. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Butler.”

“What do you mean? Why did you come here? It isn
’t Annie. Don’t be silly.”

He looked at the floor. “I don
’t quite know how to … The body … due to nature’s ways … They’ve moved ’er because of the tide comin’ in and all. We’re not asking you to identify the body—just to look at some of the items recovered.”

“What do you mean?” Her breath came in gasps. “What about the tide?” Her voice strained into a higher pitch and louder volume, “Why did you say tide?”

“Mrs. Butler—”

“Ruth
… Ruth …” Sally shook Ruth’s arm gently.

“Are you saying she drowned?” Her voice didn
’t sound like her voice. The truth of what they were saying bore through Ruth’s heart and left untellable pain in its wake. Her daughter had been in the water all this time? How could she not feel that? How could she not have detected through the deep blankness of space that her daughter had died? She could not believe it.

Ruth
’s eyes met Sally’s.

“I
’m sorry.” Sally hugged Ruth to her robust bosom, rocked her back and forth and sobbed, “I’m so sorry.”

Ruth felt sick to her stomach. She pushed away from Sally. “You
’re wrong! You’re wrong! Annie is not dead!”

She heard her mother say, “Annie is dead?”

Ruth couldn’t stop shaking. Her teeth clattered. Her throat was on fire. “No, Momma. She’s coming home. She’s lost. She’ll come home because she always does. She always comes home.”

Allison Craig reached for Ruth
’s mother as the stout woman slid to the floor.

“She
’s coming home!” Ruth yelled.

The tall constable shifted from foot to foot, clawing at the brim of his hat. Constable Craig, her hair coming undone from
its clasp, face puffy as if she wanted to cry, helped Sally get Ruth’s mother into a chair. Constable Craig said quietly, “Mrs. Butler, please.”

Ruth took a breath. “What did you ask me?”

Allison Craig said, “We need someone to look at some clothing, and well, we do need you to allow us to take a sample of your DNA.” Her voice cracked. She pushed her hair away from her eyes. “You don’t have to view anything else.”

“But I want to see.” Her baby, her daughter
… a
body
lay on some cold metal surface somewhere? Impossible. In a firm voice, she said, “I need to see.”

“Me, too,” her mother sobbed.

“No, Momma. No. I’m going. Alone.”

Constable Stark swallowed. “There isn
’t enough of the face to identify.”

Sally took Ruth
’s hands in hers. “Think what you’re sayin’ Ruth! Let me go … or Sam!”

“I
’m going to see the body. If it’s Annie—and I know it isn’t—but if it is, I … This is my fault. I brought her here. I took away all her chances. It’s God’s punishment, isn’t it? I should have done something more or different. But …” Her face set, she said in a cold voice, “I need to see.”

Sally was shaking her head. “Have you
—”

“Thought about this? I
’ve spent all these nights and days thinking about it. There shouldn’t be any more thinking.”
A body.
She heard a voice that sounded like someone else’s voice speaking. “I will go.”
A body without feeling.

Sally took her hand. “Let me go with you.”

Ruth nodded.

Her mother pushed back from the table. She looked empty, deflated
—not like her mother at all. Ruth put out her hand. “Momma, you stay here. There may be a phone call.” She stood. Sally stood. One supporting the other, they followed the constables to the awaiting police car.

16

Friday, early afternoon

Jon Graham drove. The road into Treborwick was narrow, the way, short. Approaching from the direction of Perrin’s Point, one had to travel east and uphill to reach the larger town thirty minutes away. An old bridge, three men wide, crossed the river alongside the newer, navigable bridge leading into town. Treborwick police station was a larger, more modern facility than the Perrin’s Point police house that dated from former times when the police station and the policeman’s home were one and the same.

He had reported the body. The SOCO team came while he was still there. Tavy had been allowed to leave. The body had been transferred. Now he had been invited to speak to Trewe at his office.
Great!
He’d be face to face with the one he’d come to investigate. His hands were sweaty, his stomach full of flutter—as if he had come for a job interview. He was that nervous. The door to the police station swung opened. The boxy, sterile front room appeared deserted, and a glass-enclosed space encapsulated the front desk personnel.

Subdued activity could be heard from the rooms in back. Nearer at hand the buzz of conversation drew him to peek around a partition. He could see no one. He dare
not walk back to the adjoining room and interrupt as if he were part of the team. Jon thumped his knuckles against the scarred counter with the immediate reaction of silence.

A uniformed constable poked his head around a corner. “May I help you
, sir?”

“Jon Graham. Here to meet with Detective Chief Inspector Trewe.”

“Thank you for coming.” The constable conferred with someone behind him, then looked past Jon at the hard plastic chairs. “Someone will be right out.”

“Thank you.” Before Jon could sit, a woman police constable emerged from the inner recesses and announced that Detective Chief Inspector Trewe would see him now.
Should he follow her? She gave him an odd look. Then she smiled—good smile, solid woman, messy hair at odds with her perfectly creased attire.

The large
, sunless room held a gloom that had nothing to do with the weather. No one met his eyes. Uniformed police officers slumped back and forth, intent on their work. Suited detectives bent over one computer, taking notes from what was on the screen. A table stacked with papers took up the center of the room. Ringing phones, conversation, and the tap-tapping of fingers at keyboards rolled in waves of intensity—louder, then softer.

Push bicycles lined the inside wall near a back door.

The WPC leaned toward Jon and whispered, “Allison Craig.” She shook his hand. “Don’t misunderstand, things aren’t normally this—”

An office door opened. Ear splitting shouts burst from within. “Take that bloody rubbish out of here!”

Everyone froze.

The individual receiving those words backed out, closing the door
. Apparently not realizing anyone stood behind him, he turned and smashed into Jon’s chest. The papers he carried scattered across the carpeted floor.

“Sorry.” Jon peeled the poor man from his shirt. “Sergeant.”

A flush spread from the officer’s neck to his ears. Sergeant Perstow began stuttering his apologies. “Should be a-mindin’ where I go.” The sweating older man looked around as if not quite sure what to do with himself. He started a fresh apology. “Sorry—”

Jon stopped him. The man had a bandage along one wrist that disappeared beneath his cuff. “You
’ve hurt your arm?”

“I
’m fine, sar.” Again, Perstow’s ultra-fair skin grew red in a deep blush as he bent down to gather papers. “Sorry, sar.”

Jon glanced over
at Trewe’s secretary. Meeting his eyes, she gave him a provocative half-smile and shrugged with a shake of her head. He nodded and knocked on Trewe’s door.

The door jerked open. Trewe proclaimed, “I said no interruptions!”

A second or two of silence elapsed.

Trewe huffed. “Who are you?”

“Detective Inspector Jon Graham. I was asked to come round.”

Trewe shook his hand and fumbled with the door. He marched around his desk, opened a drawer, and popped two white tablets into his water glass where they fizzed. He drank it in one go and sat down, his face a studied picture of calm. He pointed at a chair across from his desk. “Please.”

Jon quickly scanned Trewe’s face, noting the thin, wrinkle-free skin and palest of blue eyes, the unwavering gaze—definitely the face of a determined individual. He knew it by the set of the jaw. He sat.

Perstow seemed hesitant to enter but Trewe waved him in impatiently. Perstow sat down on the edge of his seat, still holding his papers as if he didn
’t expect to stay for long.

“Why are you here, Mr. Graham?” Trewe demanded.

“I’m the one who found the body.”

Trewe
’s demeanor changed. He pushed his chair back. “A policeman finding the body. That’s novel.”

“Yes, sir.”

Trewe shuffled paper. “The officers at the scene took a detailed statement. I just want to go over a few items.”

“All right.”

“Why are you in Cornwall?”

Because where there
’s muck there’s brass.
He kept his retort and held his gaze level, hoping his face appeared honest and sincere as he lied. “Actually, I’m on holiday. Been planning to come down this way for a bit of a seaside holiday for years. I surf. Seemed a likely spot, you see.”

“A change from
…” Trewe let the question hang.

“London
,” Jon said, smiling. The fixed stare was threatening, the pale of Trewe’s eyes as disconcerting as circles of blue-white flame from hell’s bottomless pit. “The weather seems pleasant enough for this time of year.”

“Usually get some kind of weather.” Trewe shifted his eyes to the other man. “This is Sergeant Perstow.”

Jon shook Perstow’s hand, as if this was a complete stranger and he couldn’t be camping, at this moment, in his garden. “How do you do?”

“Very well, s
ar.” Perstow cleared his throat.

Jon saw the round face turn pink and thought,
the blooming idiot’s giving the game away.

Trewe glared at Perstow. Perstow looked at the floor. Trewe stood. “Excuse us for one moment, Mr. Graham. I need to speak to the sergeant.”

Trewe and Perstow stepped out.

Jon glanced around Trewe
’s office. It was definitely as uncomfortable as the man, and there was nothing to indicate his new wealth here. The shelves held few books, and those amounted to nothing more exciting than procedural manuals. There were no framed family photos, no awards, no medals, no indication of any hobby. An electric pencil sharpener held down a stack of papers, and there were papers and files stacked on the desk and on the floor. Cello-taped to the lampshade was a snapshot of a man standing with one hand on a cow, the other held a blue ribbon.

Considering all he
’d heard and read about Trewe’s character and drive, he should have made Superintendent by now. Something must have happened when he was with the London Met twenty years before, because it was at that time he abruptly put in for a transfer to his birthplace of Cornwall. He never pursued promotion from that point on. What had happened? Even after reviewing the files he had on the man, the mystery remained. The explanation for the transfer: personal.

The two officers re-entered the room. Perstow
’s hands were empty of papers, and Trewe’s demeanor had changed, become sharply alert. “You work for Complaints and Discipline, Mr. Graham? And you came all this way a month before the tourist season starts—to play in the sun?”

Jon glanced at the stout man plopped beside him whose gaze seemed intent on the pencil sharpener. What game was Perstow playing? He had been sworn to secrecy about why Jon Graham
’s holiday spot was in Perstow’s back garden, so why tell Trewe that Jon worked for Complaints? Hell, why not tell him he was camping in his garden and that they poured tea together every morning? He said to Trewe, “The job and the London weather do get a bit monotonous at precisely this time of year.”

Trewe
’s nostrils flared. “This department operates like clockwork. Is there any question o’ that?”

“Why would there be?”

Trewe’s square jaw worked back and forth. Under his thin skin along the sides of his face, the rippling muscles looked as though he did a lot of teeth grinding. Trewe sat behind his desk facing Jon. “We’ve interviewed you about finding the body. You gave your name and rank but not what department you’re with. Why the bloody hell not?”

“I didn
’t think my department had any bearing on your case.” Jon rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve seen the posters of the missing girl.”
That sounded natural enough
. “I knew it was not my place to interfere with your investigation or I would have volunteered to help find her.”
That sounded weak.
He’d
never been completely confident that he would know what to say once he met up with Trewe.

Trewe made a noise in his throat
that sounded like a growl. “On holiday, my arse! I wouldn’t mind a holiday about now. A few hours ago, a girl’s body—an American girl’s body—turns up in the surf. The media have swarmed. Just as I suspected, this is a bloody mess. I don’t need more complications, Mr. Graham. We can’t even get official identification without a face or teeth.” Trewe kept his gaze steady. “And now it seems we’ve suddenly become a favorite holiday spot.”

“Planned to do some sightseeing.”

“Haven’t you seen enough?” Trewe’s voice rose. He did not wait for a response. “Let us know your whereabouts after this.”

It was a dismissal
, but Jon didn’t want to leave just yet. “Actually, it seems a frivolous thing to be touring with a murder investigation under my nose.” Jon watched for a response. Perhaps this could be a lead-in to asking quite naturally if he could lend a hand.

Trewe angled his chair. Shadows fell across his face. “A murder such as this is very rare.”

Jon cleared his throat. “You’ve pinned it down to murder then?”

“The child didn
’t put the bag over her head and jam herself into the rocks. Let me be frank with you, Mr. Graham.” Trewe paused, eyes narrowed. “I don’t need London, nor do I need you to interfere in this investigation.”

“I spoke to Trewe.” Jon was frying up an egg and juggling his mobile against his ear. The beans were hot and he was hungry. Nothing like runny egg and beans on toast.

Bakewell asked, “Wasn’t keen to include you in the investigation, then?”

“No
, he was not.” Jon transferred his food to a plate.

“
Hmm … So Trewe’s only interested that you happened into Perrin’s Point just as a murder occurs?”

“As if I planned it. And he knows I work in
Complaints and is suspicious why I’m here.”

“Keep your head down for the time being.
You’ve got my permission to stay as long as you need to.”

“What I
’ve been thinking is,” Jon said, using his free hand to cut the toast into bite-size pieces with a fork, “if, say, I was ordered onto this investigation team, I’d have a real inside chance at figuring out Trewe.”

“It
would be
the natural progression of things. I’ll see what I can do.”

He rang off.

Jon set his plate on the small fold-out table beneath his bank of monitors. He lined up his flatware beside the plate. If it weren’t that he was trying to get close to Trewe, he wouldn’t
want
to get involved in this investigation. His hand tightened around his glass of water. It’s a horrible murder, and of a child. He looked down at his congealed egg. He had no appetite.