Deadly Thyme (23 page)

But who was she to dictate what her mother could worry about? When she could gather her wits, patience
, and physical strength she would set her up in front of the “blasted” machine and let her make her own choices.

The sound of the surf came from outside. It seemed to come from below also
, and this was worrisome. Annie’s stomach couldn’t settle thinking about it. Were the waves real, and how close were they to the sea? What if water came in and drowned her, chained to the wall as she was? Everyone knew the caves around Perrin’s Point were too dangerous to explore because they were underwater at high tide.

Water had formed most of Cornwall
’s caves. Over time the sea’s tide had washed out the softer layers of sediment between the heavy granite, which caused the layers to collapse, and sometimes spaces were left behind. Some of the caves weren’t caves at all but adits, those engineered tunnels leading from earth’s surface to the mines. Breathing tubes for the miners, her mother called them.

Mummy help me.

She counted the links in her chain: twenty-five. She’d managed to work the bolt in the wall loose, but it would not come out. If she twisted it around and did a body flip she might be able to unscrew it. How long it would take she couldn’t tell. There were no clocks and no sun. Her sleep and awake times seemed to be running together. She stopped working on the chain when the blood ran down her hand from where the cuff bit into her skin.

Her clothes were filthy. Everything smelled putrid. Her mummy kept everything clean at h
ome. Oh, how she wanted to go home. She squeezed into a ball on the filthy mattress. Both arms hurt now. She wiped her snot onto the greasy material and wailed, “Mummy!”

No. No mummy.

There was no one to help her.

She stretched the chain
as far as it would go and could only reach the little pond of water. The effort had her tuckered out. Why did no one come? Why couldn’t she get to her mother? Someone whispered, “Let me go. Let me go. Let me go.” The words came from her own mouth.
Ugh,
she thought,
Shut up!

She would kick him where it counted. Except if she did, what good would it do if she couldn
’t get the chain from the wall?

All this movement was e
xhausting. Her mom would say it made her “bone tired.”

She lay down and stared at nothing. Her heart thundered inside. She pinched herself and it hardly hurt. She gulped back tears. Why couldn
’t she feel anything? She turned to her side and curled up, holding her tummy. Tears dripped to the mattress and the rhythm of the crashing waves out beyond the doorway were rocking her out and away until she jerked back to the present.

It s
eemed that she slept all the time. No matter how much sleep … she always wanted to sleep more. Why could she not shake the urge to close her eyes? What was wrong? She could hardly lift her arms above her head. When she struggled to stand, she couldn’t stop trembling. Her legs went rubbery until she crumbled into a heap again. She tried. Every time she woke up, the first thing she would do was stand on legs that didn’t feel like legs.

Were her legs real like the real of the walls, of trickling water, of hissing waves? She cradled her head and sobbed
, “Get me out of here!”

This real
—the little tufts of long hair hung on the wall, the bits of rag, the jars of blood, the blasted
drip, drip, drip
—repulsed her until she wanted to scream. What was real was no good.

11:30
p.m.

Charles didn’t like to talk to them, didn’t like to think of their needs or their names. He liked to think of what they were—tiny flames, so delicate, so easily extinguished. But while they were alive, they had to eat, and so he had to feed them.

He tied a string around each trouser leg to keep the material from snagging on the rock along the cliff
’s side as he made his way down the slanted and very narrow path. The turquoise water below foamed around the rocks at the base of the cliff. Above, turf overhung the edge to within six or seven feet from the path. The wind whipped his hair aside, and he paused to smooth it back before pulling the grass mat aside to squeeze into his little hidey-hole. He laid the platter down and lit a torch he kept near the door.

He checked to make sure the heater had oil
, and he made sure the temperature gauge was correct before picking up the platter to set it near the girl. She lay on a mat about ten feet from the cave’s entrance. Her portion of the cave was perfect. She had her toilet, her watering hole, and her bed. He brought her food. She had it made. He hoped that in time she would learn to be grateful for his thoughtful care.

She didn
’t stir, and he decided she was asleep. He didn’t want to check on her yet. He had other things he could do with his precious time.

He played his torchlight across the keepsakes on his special wall, in the niches he
’d carefully crafted in the rock—the small jar of teeth, the tube of lipstick, the snatches of hair, blond, brown, and red. There were slots for more, like that lovely golden brown of the American woman. Next to the hair were the lovely knickers, white with lace, blue, the pink ones with Sunday written on the front, the funny little stringy thing—what good was it, but it did make the juices flow didn’t it? Knickers—that was what they called them in the old days before this spoilage of language made them “pants.” Such a wearisome word. Knickers brought titillation to the thing, which was the way it should be, the way it should remain.

Then he let the light dance across his little collection of shoes. They had come in so handy.

He always saved the next keepsake for last. He liked to take his viewing of it slowly. It was the best prize of all. First, he slid the light down the object, and his breath caught from the delight of seeing how the light reflected on the blade—so pretty. The handle came down just so. He liked its heft. When he was ready—when the power was coursing through his veins and he could hear it sing to him—he would go forward with his plan to take back his true life.

He heard her shifting, the scrape of her foot against the stone. She uttered a small groan. He
’d have to bring her more medicine. Her head injury made his gleanings puny, as he was ultimately afraid of losing her too soon if he took too much.

The place reeked. The water and soap that he
’d scrubbed the floor with didn’t do much good. He needed to grab a couple of bunches of the thyme that grew at the mouth of the cave and spread the floor with it. He would crush it underfoot; its fragrance would mute the stench of death he couldn’t wash out.

30

Tuesday
morning

Day ten

A
cool breeze blew in from the sea to where Jon and Trewe sat at breakfast in the Hasten Inn B&B’s terraced garden. Jon smoothed his hair down and faced Trewe, whose grizzled head-mat never moved, and not for the first time Jon wondered if it might be a wig or a bad hairpiece.

Beside them the garden glowed in lazy terra cotta colors reminiscent of a far-off Italian garden of distant happy memory. Across the courtyard they had a view of the village and the beach cove partly hidden by a curve of cliff. The village look
ed brilliant and peaceful, the roads empty of traffic.

The sun warmed the skin, but the air was brilliantly cold and carried the faint scent of briny fish. Jon leaned forward to stir his tea while watching Trewe
’s narrow face. Something was amiss. He was angry.

Tiny sparrows flew back and forth, tittering and chattering as they fought over crumbs under the table.

Mrs. McFarland brought tea and chatted pleasantly about the weather. She asked if they needed anything and said she would be more than happy to set out a fresh pot. She slapped her oven mitts together before her ample bosom like she was giving the poor mitts an airing.

“This is more than lovely, Mrs. McFarland,” Trewe told her with a smile.

In Mrs. McFarland’s presence Trewe seemed amiable enough, but as soon as she had gone back inside, he became glaringly quiet. Jon could provoke nothing but monosyllabic responses from him.
This does not bode well,
Jon thought.
A quiet dog is a dog that attacks.

Jon split his scone and spread upon it the contents of the little condiment pots on the table. The strawberry jam and clotted cream slid in clumps off the scone, dripping onto the blue-and-white china plate, a hodge-podge of red, white
, and blue. He bit into his scone, and then noticed Trewe hadn’t touched his tea.

Trewe, his voice low, spit out the words, “You seem such a pleasant liar.”

Jon dropped his butter knife. “What?”

“I ca
nnot get around what was discovered in your caravan. And the cameras.”

“The
home office directed me in an investigation here, and I was told to stand down and follow whatever orders I’m given by you, and you did ask me to work on translation.”

“Trust,
” Trewe said flatly. “Trust is the key to work with here.”

“When I
’m able to divulge the nature of my investigation, you’ll be made aware of everything. Meanwhile, the subject is off-limits.” He paused to stir.

Trewe looked as if he
’d swallowed a pigeon and it still fluttered. “Tell me one thing. How many cameras are there?”

“Sixteen.”

“I see. Have any of them contributed to the murder investigation?”

“Only so far as the footage that you received. None of it shows anything, at least not that I could see. There were some old cameras at the beach
that record to VHS tapes. I didn’t have a VCR, so I sent them to London. Bakewell never received them. I had copies, but they were stolen by the person who set the fire.”

Trewe took another swallow of his tea and cleared his throat. He spoke carefully
, as if he held back strong emotion. “The camera my team found, so well hidden above the road, was an extremely sophisticated piece of equipment—an extremely sophisticated machine, indeed. I’ve never personally seen anything like it.”

“Most use micro
- or macro-cards these days.”

Trewe clawed at his scone with a finger. “So everything else is off
topic?”

Jon kept his silence. The man was dying of curiosity
—why was that? Was it because he did have something to hide?

Trewe eyed him. “So there was footage beyond the videos which were handed me?” He stuffed the last bit of scone in
to his mouth and talked around it. “I’m assuming your investigation had been in full swing that morning.”

“Yes.”

Trewe leaned forward pointing a finger alternately between Jon’s face and the sky. “If you had gotten the footage to me, I would have taken the bloody time to have every pixel dissected.”

“They were
the ones stolen.”

Trewe stood. His voice rose a notch. “If I could, I
’d have your guts for garters! You seem at the center of every mistake in the investigation, sir.”

Mrs. McFarland came out of the house carrying her broom. “Mr. Graham?”

Trewe waved her away. “Mr. Graham, you’re either with me or you’re not.”

Mrs. McFarland went back inside, but Jon noticed the curtain move. He wouldn
’t put it past her to jump out with the broom.

“I apologize. It was truly careless on my part,” Jon said.

“When would you have filled me in?”

“We would have reviewed the footage together
and straightened things out.”

“What with?” Trewe growled. “More lies?”

“I beg your pardon?” Jon sat upright.

Trewe remained standing, gripping the table. Then his face went white and he began to sway.

Jon reached, thinking he would topple over.

Trewe shook him off. “I
’m fine.”

This extreme emotionalism was not a virtue for a chief inspector. But it could be there was something else. Trewe looked like a sick man. Jon indicated the chair Trewe had vacated. “Please. We really should discuss the other abductions and murders.”

Trewe said, “I don’t understand your obsession with that. The perpetrators were found and convicted.”

“
There’s DNA.”

“Pixie dust!” Trewe shouted.

“Get with the times, man.
You said a DNA profile is being run on the girl’s body.”

“Standard procedure doesn’t make it foolproof.”

The bees found the strawberry jam. Jon brushed his hand across the table. “At the very least get a forensic profile and a psychological profile of what type of person this could be. Mary Shelly wrote ‘Our creature will be waiting in the shadows, waiting to view our slow and painful departure.’ You see, Peter, I think he is watching us. I think he is laughing at us.”

Trewe took out a small vial from his pocket and emptied a white tablet into his hand. He used his tea to swallow the pill down as if there were nothing more natural. He pulled out some sheets of paper from a folder he had brought with him, muttering, “I bloody well would have wanted to see the other videos.”

“Might we move on to the notes left on Mrs. Butler’s doorstep?”

Trewe sat down. He put the paper on the table
, disturbing the bees. “I read the emails to Mrs. Butler as threats towards her. At best, cyber stalking.”

“How did he get her email address?”

“The various neighborhood associations have address books. If she volunteers for anything, her email would be posted for the other volunteers.”

“And you
’ve followed up?”

“Yes.” Trewe looked tired. The bees found his hair interesting. He waved them away. “She volunteers at the church with keeping up the grounds. The author of these emails is writing from various public access computers, not only in
Perrin’s Point, but in other villages and towns, as well. We’re working to trace them to a central user, but there are different addresses for each email. Not an impossible problem, but it’ll take time.”

“Why didn
’t he send the emails to the police at the station?”

Trewe stared hard at Jon. “How many times a year do they let you out?”

“Sorry?”

“Have you seen our computers? Hand-me-downs.
We only just graduated to color monitors. Our email is sporadic at the smaller stations; there’s no budget for the online-all-the-time services. It’s not been so many years since we received bulletproof vests. All around us they have things like the new Adams metal-detecting gloves. They handed them out like candy just south of us but do we have any? No.” He paused to wave his hand at an errant bee. “Our crime may not be as terrible in quantity as it may be in the big city, granted. But the summers bring in the bad with the good, you know. It is crowded here then. We get our share.”

“I just assumed your police stations were online.” The pace here was definitely slower than London. Were the head
-office technology people not aware that the southwest of England needed attention? He was certain they were aware, but budgets lately had taken even the London Met’s expectations down a notch or two.

“Not in
Perrin’s Point,” Trewe said. “Between four police stations in our area, there are two computers online at any given time. The server’s down more than it is up.”

“If I have anything to say about it when I return
…”

“Don
’t trouble yourself.”

“This isn
’t pretty.” Jon shifted papers and scanned through a few of the emails. One bee still clung to the side of the jam pot. “Here’s the email to the police. I suppose this one is for me. It’s called ‘An Ode to the Stupid Police’:

Come thou fount of blathering wisdom,

Fount of misguided direction.

So you slip and slide with Pete Trewe,

A toast! Follies of combined detection!

We spin our wheels on grounds

of understandings, the wheels slip.

Such a waste, I find you take up space,

an inner place our history dictates.

Death won’t come too soon.”

“Well?” Trewe asked.

“Scary
devil. Spinning our wheels?”

“None of it makes sense and he isn
’t a poet. If we spend too much time on this, we are spinning our wheels.”

“True, but I
’m going to think about this. There may be clues in what he says.”

“Let
’s move on to the scraps of paper tied to the flowers.” Trewe waved the bees away again, as he slid the emails back into his case. “Damned bees.”

“It
’s early. They aren’t finding enough flowers.” Jon pulled his notes from his pocket. “The notes—written in Welsh—are condolences to Mrs. Butler. And something more.”

“Condolences! He should have written in bloody plain English.” He waved his hand again. “Is it my imagination
, or are there more bees than crumbs?”

As if on cue
, the bustling Mrs. McFarland appeared. “My busy bees have found the sweets. Here, Mr. Graham, let me take that away.”

“Bless you
, Mrs. McFarland.” Jon noticed at least one bee follow her into the house. He began lining the strips of paper one after the other across the white wrought iron table, securing them with the salt and pepper shakers, the cream pitcher, and the covered butter dish so they wouldn’t blow away. “If they’re placed in order of the days they were sent, as per the notation on the outside of the evidence bag, they look like … this. What was Mrs. Butler supposed to do with the notes, not being able to read them?”

“Save them for us
—as she has done?” Butter dripped down Trewe’s chin. He wiped it with his napkin, then bent forward to stare at the scraps of paper.

“Used the dictionary
’s translation as best I could,” Jon said, “The first one—‘
Gyda phob cydymdeimlad dwys,’
with every sympathy deep—doesn’t look suspicious.”

“Everything
’s suspicious,” Trewe muttered.

“This one
, in English, warns her to be careful—be vigilant— which indicates he was dead serious about getting the message across,” Jon said. “Then in Welsh,
‘Fel neidr yn y ddaear’.
Like a snake in the earth. There’s a quote from Virgil that is similar, ‘
Latet anguis in herba
,’ a snake lurks in the grass.”

“Warning her of someone who is sneaking around.”

The way Trewe said it brought something else to mind. He’d have to give it more thought. He leaned back to catch the full warmth of the sun across his chest. “The next one,
‘gofalwch gofala,’
means watch out.”

Trewe nodded. “That
’s plainly a warning.”

“
Who would know to warn her–” he caught himself and stopped.

“What is it?”

“I know who wrote these.”

“Who is it?” Trewe swept crumbs into a neat pile and absent-mindedly waved away a bee or two circling his head. “Why
’d he do it?”

Jon shook his head, baffled. “The deep depression of the pencil shows he meant it. He was writing these things as he walked to her house. He didn
’t plan it.”

“Who is it then?

“Gareth Wren Tavish.”