Deadly Thyme (21 page)

28

Monday morning

Day nine

After last night’s uncomfortable confrontation with Trewe, Jon took himself to the daily briefing and then back to the Inn to put a call through to Bakewell at home. He explained in short order the bomb that Trewe had dropped on him last night about Bakewell’s wife Neena.

“A mare
’s nest,” was Bakewell’s reaction. “I’m certain you will sort everything.”

“Wait a tic, it
’s you has the trouble with this man.”

“Our troubles happened many years ago.”

“That’s a laugh. You know, I get the impression he isn’t over it.”

“It
’s none of your—”

“I would have appreciated a heads-up on this one, boss.”

“Look, if he makes an issue of something that took place so long ago, then that
is
a problem and I apologize to you. But it is not very professional of the man, and if I remember correctly, he was the definition of professional when I knew him. So this must go to the issue of what is taking place now and very likely has something to do with his sudden windfall. Sounds as if you’ve touched a nerve, something that makes him emotional enough to get personal, so get to the bottom of it and find out about the money. I shouldn’t have to remind you why you’re there. Try to avoid discussion of your assignment, and Jon …”

“Sir?”

“Stick to every directive Trewe passes down. Do not think you know best, even if you do. Your main assignment depends on Trewe trusting you enough to let you get to know him. This murder inquiry gives you the perfect opportunity.”

Jon thought,
Yes, it is very convenient, isn’t it?
But he said, “I’m not sure I like this.”

“Don
’t put a foot the wrong way now.”

“Why did you hand
-pick me for this assignment?”

“You were the best man for the job. I don
’t believe you should take my decision lightly. And one more thing …”

“Yes?”

“Don’t get too close to the victim’s family. Their lives are miles away from yours, and I know you. You tend to take things to heart. You get involved. I don’t want you to. Don’t forget, you won’t be there much longer.”

Jon rang off. His super had taken the piss and thrown it back at him. Maybe he was feeling the lack of sleep. He had just spent a night walking hospital hallways. He
’d had a short nap, but he needed true sleep to think straight.

He was the only police officer at Hasten Inn Bed and Breakfast. Mrs. McFarland, the proprietor, had fussed over him as if he were a helpless fledgling. He made the mistake of telling her that he needed a few hours of quiet.

She waved her oven mitts. “And that you will have, dear. And you’ll let me know if you need
anything,
will you?”

“I will.”

She followed him to his room. “You’ll just call down to me. I’ll be listening.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

“Just you call.”

It didn
’t take long to figure out what she needed was constant assurance she was doing a top-notch job. “I’m fine. Wonderful place you have here.”

“Thank you, dear.”

“Yes, well, I’ll just get settled then.”

“Oh! I
’ll see that you have quiet. You need your rest, because of this terrible business. Soon you’ll be right as rain.” She flapped her ever-present oven mitts at him and floundered away toward the kitchen at the back of the old house.

But the promised quiet had done him little good. He couldn
’t stop his brain thinking, especially now that he knew he had been the intended target, not Ruth Butler.

So the mystery remained. Why?

What Trewe had told Jon about Bakewell’s wife was a real shocker. His mistake had been not getting more information from Bakewell in the beginning. If he’d asked, he wouldn’t have wasted time trying to picture why Trewe left London for Cornwall. Or why after all these years Bakewell and Trewe were still at odds with one another. It wasn’t just because of the marriage breaking up. By keeping silent with the others at the station, Bakewell had let everyone believe Trewe had something to hide and therefor had run away home. But he didn’t have anything to hide. He left because his marriage ended. Bakewell had not only taken his wife but his reputation as well. Everything made sense now. He would tread carefully around Bakewell.

He didn
’t know how much time had passed, but the sun shone right into his room to wake him. He ran a toothbrush over his teeth and shaved. He was very impressed with the comfort of this B & B with its modern appointments and spacious, brightly lit rooms. He could sit back, relax, and really think. A shower with hot water, what a delightful concept. What would they come up with next?

He dressed and went searching for food.

Mrs. McFarland scampered around wiping crumbs from the sideboard with her oven mitts. “Oh Mr. Graham! What can I get you?”

“
Some eggs would be nice, Mrs. McFarland.”

“Veggies?”

“No, thanks.”

She brought out a steaming dish of eggs and added it to a side table where several other dishes were being kept warm. He helped himself and was soon quite satisfied. He was on his third cup of strong coffee when a group of six student-types
, gesturing and speaking in staccato bursts of Italian, crowded into the room. They spotted him and began gesturing “hello” and wanting to speak “the English.” He nodded, smiled, and excused himself before he had to commit to a word of it.

He drove back toward the beach. The
incident room had its own car park, which was great because parking in the village was a problem. The village had begun as a port. There were no cars—only horses, carts, and, if you were wealthy, carriages. The narrow streets allowed for no turning around of cars. The car parks across from the Spider’s Web and next to the incident room were the only places for cars to get turned around in the area. He parked and locked his car. On his way into the building he almost ran into Perstow coming out.

“Sergeant,
tell me what happened after the fire.”

Perstow seemed surprised to see him.
“Oh! Not much—a few villagers hung about after.”

“Anyone stand out in your opinion?”

“No.”

“SOCO turn up anything unusual?”

“Your fingerprints. Some footprints. They’ll need shoes of those who entered the yard for reference.”

“Were any videocassettes
or DVDs found?” Jon said.

“None.”

“Thank you, Sergeant, that’ll be all.” Jon walked down toward the beach. None. The flash drives he’d sent to Bakewell turned up nothing new. The VHS cassettes had yet to arrive. He was still kicking himself for not hiding the copies of the tapes in the boot of his car.

The
incident room was empty save for two officers busy at computers. He skimmed through the reports. So many villagers had been interviewed. These officers were likely adding to the nominal index of Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, or HOLMES, a record of each person of notice during an enquiry. Apparently some interviews were flagged for further investigation having to do with other cases. They could wait.

He turned to leave.

“Have you been helped?” came a voice from the back of the room.

He turned. It was a young officer he didn
’t recognize. “No, I was looking for DCI Trewe.”

“He
’ll have gone back to Treborwick, something about another message found. Are you Jon Graham?”

“Yes.”

“He was looking for you.”

“Right. Thanks very much.” Another message. What fresh hell has been uncovered?

Wind whistled around stone. The muffled sound of waves came from out beyond the grass and leaf door. The heater gave off its occasional warmth. The rest of the time Annie shivered under her rag piles, clutching her button tightly in one hand. Even with the mattress it wasn’t easy to get comfortable on the knobby, damp cave floor. Her school used to have a guinea pig. She had had to clean the cage when it came to her turn. This cave smelled like the urine damp shavings.

There was water in a pool at the center of the cave. At first she wouldn
’t drink it, no matter how clear and cold it was. But her resolve passed when thirst and dry heaving drove her to gulp it down. Within no time she had the runs. The illness left her feeling like a deflated balloon. Her toilet needs ran through the tissue. She had to use what was nearest at hand: her windcheater. Afterward she had to toss it down the hole. She hoped creeper wouldn’t notice the missing jacket.

The
worst thing about sitting chained to a wall was the nothingness. She yelled a lot at first. She cried. She kicked the wall and strained to get the chain loose. Then came the nothingness, because nothing she did did any good, so she had nothing to do.

She thought about things she would do to the creeper if she were ever free. Because when she got her chance, she would do something. He crept around the cave, whispering things she could not understand that sounded poisonous. He was revolting
. She hated him. So, she would do something to him if she got the chance to escape.

She had uncovered some marks on the cave
’s wall when she rearranged the rags around where she was supposed to lay. Marks had been etched into the stone, tiny straight lines about as big as her thumbnail, all in a row. There were eighty-nine of them. Marks to count the days, perhaps.

Her skin tingled
when she realized what it meant. There had been someone here before her. She hurt all over when she thought of it.

Flashes of memory surfaced from the time when her eyes were still covered
and she had sneaked a peek. A groan escaped as she remembered. It had not been a nightmare—the grotesque, hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes, the white face with a gaping hole where a mouth should have been, the limp, rag-doll quality of body and limbs, the feet with
her
socks, and one of her new shoes being crammed onto one foot. In that half-out-of-mind moment, she had witnessed her fate.

She
curled up and closed her eyes, grinding her teeth, willing herself to stay calm. If she had seen what was to happen to her, there was nothing left for her to do but to make it unhappen.

Treborwick Police Station

Trewe was in rare form. “So I went looking for you at the B & B and Mrs. McFarlan
d said you were asleep. Tired from all your time spent at the hospital?”

Too late, Jon realized he
’d dumped four teaspoons of sugar into his cup. “Yes, sir.”

“Bakewell assures me you
’re the best. I don’t know if I share his opinion. I can’t police my police apparently. You’ve been asked to keep your distance from the victim’s family?”

“Yes, sir.”

Trewe glowered for a few moments, then let a file drop from his hand to his desktop. “There are a few things we haven’t made public about this investigation.”