Deadly Thyme (24 page)

31

W
hen Jon and Trewe entered the Perrin’s Point police station, Jon recognized Harold Sonders, the barman from the Spider’s Web, by his flame-red hair and familiar apron. In the light, the yellowed cloth looked as if its better days were long past. He reeked of cigarette smoke and fried fish as he intercepted Trewe, almost jumping in his path.

“Sir! Have you seen Tavy?” he asked.

“No. But we were on our way to see him.”

Jon could see the man was near panic. “Why are you concerned, Mr. Sonders?”

“Chelsea, Tavy’s Newfoundland. Sech a loyal, smart dog. Watches out fer him, if you were t’ ask me.” He leaned toward Jon and whispered, “Sump’n’s happened to Tavy!” The man wrung his hands and rocked back and forth on his feet.

“Explain yourself, man!” Trewe demanded.

“Chelsea comes to the pub. When I comes close, her takes off,” Harold swung his arm in an arch, “higgledy-piggledy.”

“Look! Not biting anyone, is she?”

“Nae.” The man shook his head, clearly put off by Trewe’s impatience. “But he’s not answerin’ my texts.”

“Dogs don
’t use mobiles,” Trewe said, then waved a dismissive hand at Harold. “Yes, yes, you meant Tavy. What has that to do with a dog showing up at the pub?”

Harold
’s agitation increased. “It’s the time he does, sir.” He directed his words to Jon, “The time.”

Trewe growled, “Time?”

“’Tis at the regular time Tavy comes to the pub, the dog shows up. Tavy shows up rain or shine, like clockwork, but not Saturday past, nor Sunday, nor Monday. Those days, the dog showed up without the man.”

“Now, Harold, he
’s probably just under the weather. It’s only been three days,” Trewe told the man. Then he sent Harold off with assurances they were just on their way to check on the old gent.

“Harold is overly emotional,” Trewe growled. “The girl
’s death has everyone on edge. We’ll drop in at the Spider’s Web and see if anyone else has seen him then.”

Clouds tinted the late afternoon sky gray. In search of a dog
’s man, they entered the pub. Conversation stopped dead, and the patrons stared at Jon and Trewe in a smoky still life.

Jon asked the blond, busty girl at the bar, “Seen Mr. Tavish?”

She waved her hand at the patrons. “No. We were all wondering about him, really.”

The man at Jon
’s right looked up from his drink. His glasses sat crooked on his face. “Might be ill. Not like ’im.” He went back to contemplating the bottom of his tankard.

Jon started to speak but the bald, fat man on his left nudged his arm with an elbow. “Go over
’is ’ome, be the quickest way.”

“Am I to understand you are all concerned about Mr. Tavish,” Jon said, “but none of you has gone to check on him?”

Three other people started to speak at once in protest, but Jon heard the girl above the men.

“Tavy likes his privacy.” There was a round of general agreement. “We would not be worried a bit but for the dog comin
’ here an’ all. He keeps himself to himself, does Tavy. Besides that, sometimes he goes away for days on end. Course, he would take his dog with him, wouldn’ ’e?” She was drying tankards and arranging them on a tray. The men nodded in agreement with her. She said, “Harold is the one worried half to death.”

“Where is Mr. Sonders?” Trewe asked. “We just saw him.”

“Off, isn’t ’e? Likely gorne lookin’ for him again.”

The two men at the bar nodded.

“So, if we want Mr. Tavish …” Jon started.

“
… go see him,” the bald man muttered.

Jon shook his head. “Right. We
’ll be back.”

Trewe said, “I
’ve summoned Perstow to join us. He knows Tavy better than we do.”

A crowd stood outside the pub
’s door. Chelsea appeared and received a grand welcome which included a plate full of sausage and chips. She lapped up the food scraps.

Jon watched and wondered. When the dog kept him from entering the
library, had she been trying to tell him something? “Regular as clockwork?” he said to Trewe.

“And no sign of Tavy.” Trewe
’s face paled. Jon wondered again if Trewe was ill.

A few minutes later, Perstow joined them with a plastic carrier bag. He held up the bag saying, “Best be prepared
; never know what we’ll be needing.”

“Regular Boy Scout is our Mr. Perstow
,” Trewe announced.

Perstow snickered, his round belly jiggling with his mirth.
What a household his must be,
Jon reflected. The jester and the shrew.

“Should we invite the dog to go with us?” Jon asked.

“I’m not sitting in a car with a dog,” Trewe gruffed. They took Jon’s car. Perstow squeezed into the back seat. They drove past shops and even Ruth Butler’s cottage.

Jon said, “Things look quiet at Mrs. Butler
’s house.”

“Don
’t blame her really,” Trewe said.

At the end of the road, the street took an abrupt turn left. They took a lane shooting to the right and then bumped along until they were forced to park and walk.

Tavy’s home had been named “The Combe.” Its front door hung partly open.

The three men moved toward it.

“This isn’t like Tavy a-tall,” Perstow said as they neared.

A huffing sound and a sudden movement sprang at Jon from behind. He pivoted into a defensive posture
as Perstow shouted, “Chelsea, heel!”

Jon breathed in relief
that his frightener was the dog. “She beat us here from the pub.”

“Chelsea
’s path over the hills would be quicker,” Perstow remarked. “In fact, anyone walking along the cliff could ’ave beaten us here. The coastal path is a rough walk, but short.”

The stout police sergeant pulled a ham bone from his carrier bag. The canine grabbed it out of his hand, tail sailing back and forth. She lay down. While she chewed and gnawed hungrily on the bone, holding it down with one massive paw, Jon ran a hand along her back. “She
’s bone thin.”

Trewe pushed the door with the toe of his shoe. “Mr. Tavish?”

An odor of moth crystals and
eau de dog
assailed Jon’s nostrils. Above it all a high keen of sickly-sweet wafted. Jon’s heart sank. It was the smell of death.

From somewhere came a ticking sound too irregular to be a clock.

Trewe switched a light on. The light revealed pale, olive-green walls lined with dark wooden shelves. Books were crammed in, stacked on their sides, or slumped against pieces of maritime jetsam. Ship instruments with polished brass and crystal-faced dials shown like jewels from beneath sheaves of papers. Various model ships sat on top of the bookshelves. Some were made with coconut husks and fragile dried palm leaf sails, some with bull horns and hooves, some with capuche shells and mother-of-pearl sails, and others with balsa wood and parachute silk sails.

Two large, over-stuffed chairs sat at odd angles. Around the chairs were stacks of books, used it appeared, as repositories for notes and pencils or as foot rests. Dust lay thick. On top of one of the stacks was a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, fingerprint-smudged, next to a mug with an inch of murky liquid complete with a scab of mold. A pair of worn slippers lay beside one of the chairs, waiting for the return of familiar feet.

Perstow gave a low whistle. “I’ve never been in this part of the house before.”

“What is that ticking sound?” Jon paused to read a framed paper set against the wall. “A Certificate of Merit from the Coast Guard? For lifesaving efforts during the sinking of the Greek ship
Stavinous Steady.
”

“Villagers frequently get involved in rescue efforts along the coast,” Trewe said. “Maybe the ticking is coming from that?”

Jon and Trewe converged at a computer, which looked vastly out of place in the quaint, old-fashioned room.

Jon touched the mouse. The screen flashed awake.

Trewe exclaimed, “Bloody hell.”

The words “The only good policeman is a dead one” were repeated over and over and shaped in the form of a skull.

Trewe bent closer and murmured, “Mr. Tavish has some explaining to do.”

“Someone else did it.” Perstow was behind them. “Not him.”

Jon frowned. “What makes you so sure?”

“Tavy
’s a good man, through ’n’ through.”

“Any relatives? He may be visiting elsewhere
,” Jon said.

Perstow said
, “His only relative, a great-nephew, looks like ’im, only younger.” His round face was very grave. “Tavy wouldn’t ’ave gone off without his dog.”

Jon pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. His copy of the quotes was folded into the paper. He unfolded it and handed it to Perstow. “What would you make of th
ese?”

Perstow read them. “Oh! That
’s Tavy’s handwriting, sure as sure. Likes a bit of mystery, does our Tavy. Leaves notes in Welsh for everyone. It’s ’is way.” He glanced at them. “Condolences.” He frowned. “This one’s a warning. Must ’ave been in a hurry.”

“Too bad you weren
’t around much this past week,” Trewe growled. “Would’ve saved us trouble.”

Perstow
’s face turned red. “Her Indoors—”

Trewe cut him off. “We know.”

Jon made his way to the closed door opposite the open front door. The odd ticking noise grew louder. “The ticking sound is coming from here. Where’s this go?”

“Kitchen,” Perstow said. “It
’s the main door for visitors, really.”

As Jon opened the door, a plume of black smoke enveloped him. He ducked and rushed in, shouting, “Something
’s on fire.”

An ancient oscillating-type fan lay on its side with a piece of wood jammed into its tines, preventing much movement. It ticked as it jerked. Black smoke plumed from it. Jon lunged at the fan and jerked the plug from the wall. At the last squeak and groan of the fan, it was so quiet he could hear the dog just beyond the open front door gnawing the bone.

Choking, Perstow waved through the smoke and opened another door that led to the back garden, letting fresh air and bright light into the room. The kitchen was in disarray with chairs on their sides and crockery shattered on the floor.

Jon began documenting the room with his mobile
’s camera.

“Perstow,” Trewe yelled
, “call SOCO. I want official photos of this setup.”

Jon stooped to look at the dog prints on the slate floor. He dapped a finger
—it was dry. “Blood, not mud.”

At the deep stone sink, flies arose with the incoming of fresh air from out of doors. Two plates, mucky with food scraps and alive with maggots, sat in the sink. The
y were the source of the horrible smell.

Trewe said
, “Surely, a dog wouldn’t sit quietly as her owner was attacked. This mess could have been made by the dog.”

Jon coughed and sputtered. “It
’s the dog’s fault there is blood on the floor?”

Trewe pointed to a spool of string. “Looks like the string used to tie the sack around the girl
’s neck.”

“And the shoes in the tree
,” Perstow said, setting the dog’s water dish on the sink’s ledge. “The dog needs clean water.”

Jon saw two little white tablets where the dog
’s dish had been. “What’s this?” He scooped them into a baggie. “Perstow, don’t change that water. Find another bowl to use. Get these and that water to a lab. The killer’s playing a game with us. That’s why he set this up the way he did. It’s some bloody game and we have to figure out the bloody rules, because he’s not bloody telling.”

“Is that anger, Jon?” Trewe muttered.

“And what if it is?” Jon snatched up the iron fry pan from the floor. He took a deep breath. He knew being angry wasn’t helping anything. He studied the edge of the pan. “White hair. And more blood.”

Perstow backed into the table, jarring it against a wall.

Trewe whipped around to face Perstow. “Hell’s bells, man! Do I have to tell you twice? Get SOCO!”

32

Tuesday, late afternoon

R
uth’s mother suggested that she go sit in the garden. So here she was, sitting like a bump on a log. The afternoon sun was warm, though the occasional breeze had a cold nip to it. It was already late afternoon. Clouds on the horizon meant they would have rain again by evening. It rained a lot this time of year. Or maybe it rained all the time, she couldn’t recall. She actually loved the weather here, especially when the sun shone. The garden was still and quiet and still muddy from yesterday’s rain. She leaned back in the garden chair and let the sun warm her face.

She had so many questions. Should she approach Jon Graham? He seemed
the only one willing to believe the impossible. Had she only dreamed what happened between them when she was in the hospital? Had it been a drug-induced fantasy? Her mother told her that Mr. Graham had watched over her early on after her attack.

She stood and pulled her
cellphone from her jeans pocket to call Detective Inspector Graham. He answered but told her he’d ring her back, and he did within a few minutes. He told her, “I’ll be by soon. I can’t promise when.”

She gripped her
cellphone until she had to set it down or she would break it. Why could she think of nothing to do to help?

Jon set the phone down. He had only just washed the soot from Tavy
’s kitchen from his hands and face when he answered Mrs. Butler’s call. He sat alone in the former jail cell now called an office. He caught his breath, then pushed it out. Whether he went against orders was not a question any longer. She wished to speak to him. He wanted no one in this small village to gossip or question his presence near her. The best possible course was to ask Constable Craig to assist him.

Before he could do that, he had been asked to wait. Trewe wanted to consult with him. He stared at the piles of papers accumulated across Perstow
’s desk. His mind filled with dark thoughts. Where was Tavy? The scene suggested foul play. Why would someone suddenly find Tavy a threat?

Annie Butler
’s disappearance was no isolated incident. But how could he prove it?

If he could place his hands on the man who killed the child, he would show him justice. If only a suspect would surface, someone to investigate.
If only something concrete would come to light that would tie everything together so he could show Trewe what he meant about Annie’s murder. And what about all the other girls from the past thirty years? No, it seemed even to him to be too fantastic. If only he could find a strong enough thread to hang his convictions on besides the twigs of thyme. All the other girls had had herbs on or near their bodies. Of course, there was always the matter of the shoes. But who would believe such flimsy evidence?

The current topic of conversation in the office was the disappearance of Tavy. Mr. Tavish had been known to take long treks along the coast, he and his dog and a backpack. But after viewing Tavy
’s cottage, Jon was sure the old man hadn’t walked away willingly. Unless he had something to hide and staged the things at the cottage to look as if he’d met foul play. No, he wouldn’t have left the dog. Even in the short time Jon had been acquainted, he knew the man loved his dog. How did this tie in to Annie’s murder? Tavy was an old man. His death does not fit in with girls found dead in Cornwall.

Budgets were tight, and police officers don
’t lie around like spare change. He needed Allison Craig, but she and another constable were actively making inquiries after Mr. Tavish. Everyone else had loads of work.

He listened to the constable tapping at his computer in
the front room of the Perrin’s Point police station. The man had been pushed out of the incident room because it was too crowded. All the officers were on edge. They were tired. They were all tired from knocking on doors and interviewing villagers. The village wasn’t huge, but because of the narrow streets and lack of parking they did a lot of walking. They worked twelve- and fifteen-hour shifts in the mud and wet weather, until they were a bedraggled lot.

The entire village seemed to be in lockdown mode out of fear from what was taking place. People didn
’t walk on the streets in the daylight, much less at night. The elderly hid behind locked doors afraid to even purchase groceries. Jon mused that fear gave crime fewer witnesses and greater opportunity.

At his desk, Jon watched dust m
ites dance in the sunlight, which streamed through the tiny window above the prison-plank bed. What else could he do to move this case forward? Time was a funny thing. When one wanted to have something over and done with, life crawled into an unbearable forever.

No fingerprints, no footprints
, no suspects.
Spinning wheels.
The supposed poem from the killer—Why had he said that?

Jon pulled out his copy.
We spin our wheels on grounds of understanding. The wheels slip. Such a waste, I find you take up space, an inner place our history dictates.
Grounds of understanding? What does that mean? An acquaintance? A friend? Another police officer? And why start rhyming now? Waste, space, place, dictates, there’s a clue here.
Why can’t I see it?

Without a suspect what could he do
—test everyone in the surrounding villages and towns? It’d been done before: first the blood grouping, then the DNA profiles. He could stand to endure all the bloodsucking jokes if he could lay his finger on a murderer. But the initial narrowing down could take weeks of testing non-intimate samples. The scene played in his imagination. “Excuse me, gentlemen, if you would all queue up whilst we swab your mouth. Step right up!”

He sat straighter when he heard Trewe
’s voice in the outer office.

Trewe poked his head around the doorframe and said, “What trouble are you going to give me this afternoon? Have you found out anything more about Tavy? Have there been any answers to the television appeals about the girl
’s kidnapping?”

“Have you gotten any DNA back on Annie Butler?”

“No. Why?”

The antagonism wasn
’t getting easier. “I do fine when allowed a little respect for my opinions.”

Trewe turned his face away. “I won
’t raise objections to anything you do.”

“I hear an
‘unless’?”

“I don
’t care a bit for vigilantes.”

Jon didn
’t move. “I mean to look at the other girls’ murders. I don’t believe it has anything to do with vigilantism. I like to think I have initiative.”

“I say you are wasting the department
’s time.”

“Short of a miracle, this investigation might take time, which I don
’t have much of. I’ve got to return to London.” He forced himself to remain calm. “But I don’t want to leave you hanging.”

Trewe eyes flashed slivered ice. “And to think I
’ve been able to manage all this time without you.”

Wake up, Annie.

No. I can’t. Leave me alone. I want to sleep.

Wake up, Annie.
It was her own voice in her head. Why couldn’t she just shut up?

I want to sleep. I don
’t want dreams. I want Mummy. No more
real.
Leave me alone.

The dripping water made music like a distant piano playing. It was sad music. The music was more distinct just before she drifted into sleep
, and she slept a lot; sleeping was the best thing. The dripping water, the whisper of the waves outside, her hollow heartbeat, those didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Wake up, Annie.

I don’t know how.

Jon could not locate Allison Craig, and no one else was available to come with him
. But he had a commitment to keep, so he found himself alone at Ruth’s door. He would be in and out quickly, he told himself.

Her mother let him in. He wasn
’t sure how this was going to go, but at least he wouldn’t be alone with the victim’s mother and give Trewe more ammunition to fire at him.

Mrs. Thompson was speaking. “Everyone is so helpful. I can
’t imagine who would hurt Ruth-Ann or Annie, because every person I’ve met has been so kind. I just don’t know.”

“Thank you.”

“Hot tea? That’s what you people like isn’t it?”

“Sorry. I don
’t want anything, thank you.” He wondered when she said “you people” if she meant the police or the British. “Mrs. Butler called me.”

“She
’s resting. I’ll tell her—”

“No! Please don
’t disturb her.” He turned to leave. “I’ll be off.”

As he turned, he saw her. She stood at the door opposite the front door. Despite the bandaged hand, taped head
, and battered face, he could think of nothing else he’d rather see.
No, don’t think.
Why couldn’t he think? He was falling in love with this woman, and he was absolutely stupid.

She said, “I can tell by your expression, I must look scary.”

“No. No, I wasn’t thinking that, just … umm … you called?”

“I did.” She moved slowly to a small desk in the corner where a computer sat. A long table was covered in paper and some jars with color-tinged liquid. Paint brushes sprouted from a coffee can. The drape of Ruth
’s gold-tinged hair obscured her face, so he couldn’t guess at her expression as she checked the computer screen. On the wall above her head was an oil painting of a girl on the beach. He could see it was Port Isaac south, about fourteen miles from Perrin’s Point. The painting had the boats canted on the sand, and visible cables stretched out to the sea wall. There were several paintings around the room of the same girl.

He said, “Annie
’s a beautiful girl. Nice colors you used, the way the light comes from all around. Is this what you do? I mean, as a business.”

“I do research and some illustration. It keeps us in cereal.”

“I like them. Not that … I know what I’m talking about. I mean, art … I’m no critic.” He needed to stop talking. A small voice inside his head told him if he let her look into his eyes she would know more about him than he wanted known. He shouldn’t have come. He must be crazy. He had a crime to solve; how was he helping? She rearranged papers. Jon had the impression of a bird in a cage, not able to stay still. “Mrs. Butler?”