Deadly Thyme (19 page)

“What did she say?”

“That I wasn’t an angel.”

“I could have told her that.” Trewe
tugged Jon’s sleeve and motioned him away from Mrs. Butler’s side.  “Why are
you
here? I have a uniform guarding the room.”

             
“What happened to Mrs. Butler concerns us all. Besides, I couldn’t sleep. My bedroom’s in a bit of a mess.”

Standing in the doorway behind Trewe, the uniformed officer
’s face was pink and his brow furrowed.

             
Trewe swung around to the young constable. “Has anyone else tried to enter this room?”

“Just Mr. Ketterman
, sir. I turned him away. I didn’t think you’d mind the Detective Inspector—”

“You
’re not paid to think,” Trewe almost hissed. The patient stirred. Trewe glanced in Ruth’s direction, then back at the officer. He whispered, “No others without contacting me. And
that
is final!” Trewe closed the door in the constable’s face. He turned back to Jon. Mrs. Butler’s mother stirred. Trewe watched her for a moment. His voice a whisper again. “Is this her mother?”

“Yes.”

Trewe glanced at Mrs. Butler, and shook his head. “Perstow tells me you chased the bugger off.”

“Seems so.”

“He could have killed her.”

“Probably his intention.”

“Mr. Graham, tell me why there were six monitors in the caravan you say you were staying in.”

“I can
’t pretend I don’t know what you are talking about. I was sent here with the Regional Crime Squad on another matter.”

“I
know. From Complaints. Truth out, is it?”

“You don
’t seem at all surprised, Chief Inspector.”

“It
’s about my department isn’t it? Oh, you don’t have to tell me.” Trewe rubbed his chin. “I’ve already talked to your super. It was time we had a few things out. Though he had no answer for me.”

Jon wondered what Bakewell had said and why Trewe sounded so bitter. He glanced at the sleeping beauty again. Trewe looked at Mrs. Butler
’s mother and then at Jon. “I’ll just have a brief word with her mother before I leave. I won’t be back by noon for our meeting. I’m not sure I’ll be in my office until later. I’ll give you a ring.”

Jon went to the door. “I
’ll be waiting.”

A lone young man, dressed in black from head to toe, strolled along the cliffs. A breeze carried a faint
, dried-shellfish scent. Tugging on a multi-pierced earlobe, he watched the sun transform dark clouds to pink sheets, floating above a glistening, purple sea. He was trying to unlock his creative spirit by listening to Mozart on his headphones. When his foot came down on something hard, he didn’t give it a second thought until he happened to glance down and see it was a videocassette.

“What
’s this?” Brushing aside the dyed black hair that hung over his face, he picked it up. No markings. He thought it might contain something interesting. Why else would it be lying here with no one about? After meeting up with his mates, he would slip home to view it. He could maybe add it to the other interesting tapes he had hidden in his room away from his mum’s prying eyes.

He did not peek over the edge of the cliff
, so he failed to see the other videocassette trapped in a crevice, gutted and exposed, film blowing like streamers in the wind, or the DVDs smashed to smithereens reflecting the light like so much glitter.

By virtue of not looking, he was spared from viewing the human body, split and broken among the tapes and DVDs. That sight would have destroyed
from his mind all the benefits of the Mozart.

The hollow echo of dripping water never stopped. With a terrible foreboding Annie was finally able to
slip the scarf from her eyes. He wasn’t there. She’d already figured out that she was in a cave. She hated the nose-numbing cold and the smell of wet stone. The dark was darker than anything she’d ever experienced before. Daylight was dim. Light came from an opening about fifteen feet from her, the one with the grass and leaf mat over it. The door was a flimsy nothing. The freezing wind blew in with force and, finding nowhere to go, sat down with her to stay and tickle her shins with ice-fingers.

The walls were rough and pitted. In the pits were jars. There were tons of jars. A metal band around her wrist was melted to a chain that was bolted to the wall
, or she would have left long ago.

She shivered, teeth clattering.
Despite the archaic, oil heater  ticking on and off, it only teased her with warmth. Unlabeled cans were stacked against the wall. She wondered if they were food cans. She didn’t have an opener. She could bash one on the rock to open it, but what if it wasn’t food? He hadn’t brought her anything to eat today. A gnawing pain gripped her tummy. She could eat anything, but there was nothing.

The skin under the plaster strips on her arm itched
, but if she scratched, it hurt. There were holes in her skin that she imagined were needle marks. What had he done to her?

The dripping
sound came from the ceiling where droplets formed and fell into a puddle at the center of the cave. All around her were rags and pieces of material. The mattress with the loose button lay beside her. It had been on top of her when she first arrived. It stank. She was sure the brown stains must be blood. Whose blood was it? Thinking about it made her head hurt worse.

She tried to see everything she could before pulling the scarf back over her eyes. The creeper told her to keep it there. Her head hurt when she shifted around, so she lay still and thought about tearing the metal cuff off and finding real clothing that wasn
’t rags—or something to eat or some shoes that fit.

Time passed in centuries. She hated the nights, alone in the cave, thinking about the creeper. It
’s what she called him because it is what he did. She couldn’t figure out the days. The fuzziness in her mind must be from her fall. She’d had a fall—that’s what he told her. The fall gave her a concussion. He said her mother wanted her to stay with him while she healed.

That was crazy talk.

She still had her thin windcheater. There was an old quilt. She worked hard to stay on the dry side of the quilt. It wasn’t easy because the damp coated everything. He’d left an anorak there beside her, and woolen socks, and trainers that were too big, but it was better than having no shoes, because her feet were the coldest part of her—her feet and her hands.

She pulled the scarf over her eyes. Just in time. Soft rustling.

26

As Jon didn’t need to be in Trewe’s office until later, he went to secure anything salvageable from his wreck of a caravan that was now cordoned off as a crime scene. What the fire didn’t get had been slashed or smashed beyond recognition. Graphite smears and glass shards coated everything. A few of his books he could dry out or repair, and he had more in his car. He knocked on Perstow’s rear door again and had a brief natter. “Did Mrs. Perstow hear anything last night?”

“Not a thing, s
ar. The wife said all was quiet till the ball of fire from the caravan drew her attention; it didn’t make a sound that she heard. She saw a flash o’ light, and soon after, you raised the alarm at the back door, just as I arrived home.”

After asking for recommendations and then directions
, Jon took himself to the Hasten Inn B & B with only a change of clothes and the toiletries kit he carried in his car at all times. The bed and breakfast was a quaint affair, set in a sturdy white house at the top of the village. Those flats-to-let and B & B’s closer to the police incident room were fully booked with the teams of police. They came from all over Devon and Cornwall to help with the search and the investigation.

After a brief wash, he took a nap, then decided to check to see if there was any change with Mrs. Butler. He had to find out what took her to his caravan after dark. He picked up WPC Craig in order to question the patient without complications arising if Trewe were to discover a second visit in one day.

He entered her hospital room and the first thing he noticed was the new wrap-bandage that encased the top half of her head and that there were far fewer tubes sprouting from her arms. The entire side of her lovely face was starting to turn purple. He greeted her with, “You’ve got two, lovely black eyes.”

“Oh
, thank you. Not only is the man observant, but complimentary, too.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Ruth closed her eyes and then opened them again. The tendency to smile was curtailed because moving any muscle on her face hurt something awful. He sounded like a policeman, but didn’t look like one, wearing a casual shirt and jeans. He wore jeans like he was born in them. Despite the pain, she wanted to keep looking. Allison Craig was standing by the door. What were these two up to? She said to the man, “I assume you’re police, too.”

“Detective Inspector Jon Graham. I
’ll leave my card.” He put a card next to the flowers on the stand by her bed. “I brought WPC Craig with me. I met your mother this morning.”

“My mother said there was a policeman here earlier. Why did you come back?” She closed her eyes again. It took such effort to keep them open. “I don
’t have anything to add to what I’ve already told Detective Chief Inspector Trewe. The attacker said, ‘you stupid policeman,’ then … He must have realized I wasn’t who he thought I was. He yelled or screamed, or someone did. He hit me. I punched him away, but he must have knocked me out.”

“I
’m the policeman who lived there. At the risk of sounding blunt, why were you there?”

“I didn
’t know about the camper. I was restless. I was curious about the view of the shore from Perstow’s shed. There’s a little wood deck. Oh! Sounds crazy in the daylight, doesn’t it? But the nights are my worst time. I can’t stop thinking about things. I keep asking myself how I could have prevented this.”

“It wasn
’t your fault.”

She looked at him then. He had a nice nose in a Romanesque way and sensuous lips on a generous mouth that curved up on both sides in a natural smile. Dark eyelashes, why did men always get the good lashes? Not handsome, interesting maybe, nothing more. “The sergeant showed Annie and me the view last summer. I hadn
’t seen it at night. But when I arrived … When was it? … last night … I couldn’t help but be curious about the camper—excuse me—caravan at the bottom of the garden, so I walked over to it. The door must have hit me. That’s the only way he could have grabbed me. I know how to defend myself. Both Annie and I have taken self-defense. I used to teach kick boxing.”

“That
is
impressive.”

“I
’m sure I look impressive. Great at self-defense, right? What is it you wanted to ask?”

“Do you have any idea why that man would have been there?”

“No idea. Except he was angry at you.”

“Why? Did you recognize him?”

“No. He called me the stupid policeman. Then …” She looked into his green eyes, and she knew instinctively that she could trust him. “It sounds mad …”

“Tell me.”

“As I walked up to the camper—er, caravan—I heard the person inside say that the American woman was the devil. The voice was a loud whisper. It was the voice on Annie’s mobile. I knew I would know that voice again. Before I could get away, he was lashing out.”

“I
’m sorry, Mrs. Butler. I’m sorry he hurt you, and I’m deeply sorry for your loss.”

“My daughter isn
’t dead,” she said. She leaned deeper into her pillows and closed her eyes because it was hard to keep them open.
Thank you, Lord, for such a calming voice to listen to.

“
I must go, but I have one more question, Mrs. Butler.”

“Of course.”

“Why do you walk the cliffs at night?”

S
he blinked to clear her view.
Wow, where did the sudden tears come from?
“I walk the cliffs because I need to get out of the house to clear my head and think. I thought we were safe here.” Wiping the tears made her face hurt even worse than it had. “When this happened I thought he had found us. But the thing is—he died. Two weeks ago.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Who died?”

“My ex-husband. I’ve been hiding from him. That’s why we came here.” She looked into his eyes. She saw a sudden sadness coming from them. Her free hand, as if it held a will of its own, moved to his hand and grasped it. His hand tightened around hers. She could sink into those eyes. “I thought it was safe. I guess I got real complacent.”

He must have suddenly become aware
they that were holding hands. He let go and took a step back, his face flushed. “Pardon me … I’m sorry.”

Ruth closed her eyes again. It hurt
too much to keep them open. Something still nagged at her—someone not there. “Where’s my mother?”

“I understand she
’s resting at your house.”

“If this happened to my daughter, and then to me, my mother isn
’t safe.”

“I
’ll see to it she’s safe.”

“Thank you.
I can’t help but think that if I’d only reached out to whoever was sending those emails …”

Jon Graham said, “He wouldn
’t have been stopped.”

“
But he might tell me where Annie is.” Her voice caught. She willed herself to be stronger. “That’s the real reason I go walking at night. I know I’m being watched, but he is the only one who can tell me where my daughter is. I was trying to follow him. She is still alive. No one believes me, so no one will help me.”

There was silence. She looked at him.
His face had gone pale except for two splotches of color on his cheeks. “What is it?” Her breath caught and held. “What else has happened?”

He said, “
You are not the only one who believes the way you do.”

Ruth’s
breath whooshed out of her. “What are you saying?”

Allison Craig cleared her throat.
“We better be on our way.”

Jon Graham
edged toward the door. “Look, I’ve said too much. I have an appointment to keep.”

Ruth struggled to sit up
. This man may be her only hope to start a new search for her daughter. “Tell me what you know.”

He paused at the door. “I
’ll come back to talk with you after I’ve kept my appointment and made sure your mother is well.”

She
strained against the tangled IV tubes. “Wait!”

“Please don
’t move, Mrs. Butler.”

“Mr. Graham
, my feet aren’t hurt. I’m getting out of here.”

After seeing her settled, the doctors explained to Jon that agitation was a symptom of
her head injury. They gave her a mild sedative to help her relax. He and WPC Craig stayed a short time longer to make sure she wouldn’t try to follow him from the hospital.

According to the uniformed officer guarding the door,
Detective Chief Inspector Trewe had taken Mrs. Thompson home earlier. That must have been an interesting ride; he wished he could have witnessed it.

Like every other cottage on her street, Mrs. Butler
’s cottage had been constructed with locally quarried granite, but she had painted red shutters and a red door. He could tell a true gardener lived here, not like his pretension to the title. Miniature azaleas bloomed in decorative pots beside the stoop. Forsythia branches draped in graceful yellow over the low stone wall that lined her front garden. Primula had been planted along the top of the wall.

Near the front path, in a rusting toy wagon full of potted flowers, toy bears and dolls had been placed amongst the cards and flower bouquets, a bright memorial to the child who had lived here.

Ruth’s mother opened the door and ushered him inside. “I’d say ‘Howdy’ because that’s a cheery hello we say in Texas, but it sounds strange to say it here—like a shoe that doesn’t fit. And I’m not cheery.” She jerked and put her hand to her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said ‘shoe.’ When I think about those little black shoes of Annie’s …”

“It
’s hard not to think of them, Mrs. Thompson. You can feel free to speak with us,” Allison Craig said as they entered.

The room was warm to the point of hot. A large window opened onto the front garden and gave a clear view of the street. The white ceiling was not so low that Jon had to duck around door frames and beams to get around,
which was unusual for a cottage as old as this one must be. The walls were a muted peach color. It was furnished with comfortable-looking sofas and chairs, with bookcases full of books on the far wall. Soft guitar notes strummed from a speaker nearby. A laptop was open on a tiny table in a corner opposite the book wall and next to a door that led, presumably, to the back of the house. There were canvasses everywhere, some on the walls and some leaning against the walls. Jars of paint lined narrow shelves; the colorful effect was very artistic. Some of the canvasses on the walls were paintings of Annie in various locations at the beach, sitting in the churchyard among the flowers, or holding a white cat.

Jon took special note of the watercolors of herbs haphazardly placed across a work table near an easel. The area would be a dining room for most people
, but this was obviously where Mrs. Butler worked. Her herb illustrations must be a work in progress.

Upon the sofa table
sat an opened bottle of Madeira, and there were several empty wine glasses around the room. On top of a drinks cabinet sat a nearly empty bottle of Glenlivet. Judging from the neatness of the rest of the room, Jon figured the incongruous bottles and glasses must be a new development, possibly from Mrs. Thompson, as she had a glass in her hand.