Deadly Thyme (35 page)

43

Early Monday morning

Day sixteen

Jon looked up from his reports when the Perrin’s Point police station’s door opened. Trewe walked in. He held his back straight, but an unhealthy pallor still marked the area of skin around his eyes and lips. Jon was surprised. “Well, you’re back then?”

“Aye, part of the day if the doctors get their say, which they won
’t. Bollocks. I’m too close to retirement, I told them, I’m not putting in for sick leave now.”

“But you really should listen
—”

“I said bollocks!”

Jon wondered how Trewe would react to his initiative to rekindle the search for Annie Butler. How much time did they have before he called off the search? Would there be any progress made at all? The clock was ticking. He wondered how Annie Butler was doing. He didn’t want to think about what might be happening to her. He checked his mobile for messages. There was nothing he had to respond to immediately.

He stared at the typed sheet in his hands. This would not make Trewe
’s day much better, but it certainly had his. He ventured to ask, “What did the doctors say?”

“IBS. Irritable Bowel Syndrome or some such unlikely name. Could have knocked me over with a feather
—thought it was the heart—it is that painful.”

“So I
’ve heard, poor—”

“Do not say it. I
’m well enough to walk, I’m well enough to be here. Tell me the latest.” Trewe’s relief that there was nothing deadly eating away at his insides was obvious.

“Well, it may not be on the top of your list of happy news
…”

“Tell me,” Trewe growled, sounding his old self again.

“Right.” He handed over the urgent fax that had just arrived from the crime lab.

Ruth had not slept well. Her hand still hurt. She sat on her step outside her front door, drinking a mug of hot sweet tea, staring blankly at the trees across the road, her bandaged hand cradled in her lap. She was waiting like a fly caught in a web. The spider hadn
’t shown itself yet. To complicate matters, Sam confessed to being too in love with her to be thinking clearly, asked would she please forgive him, and said he would leave her alone. She felt like a complete lout for throwing him out on his ear. Maybe she should consider asking him to represent her with her imminent deportation problem.

The American IRS had already phone
d her about back taxes. The American Bureau of Vital Statistics had sent her a letter about her name and Annie’s name. The American FBI had emailed her informing her that they needed to schedule a meeting. She wasn’t in much trouble—she was in loads of trouble. She had heard that she could possibly face prison time for using an alias to exit the United States and enter Britain.

It was too much, all of this bureaucratic mess combined with losing her daughter. It was too much. She had even snapped at her mother like she was a teenager all over again. This crazy anger wasn
’t rational, but she couldn’t help but be a little bitter towards her mother. Why couldn’t her mother have come when Annie was alive? Annie needed her grandmother, too. Things might have been different if she’d had another pair of eyes—an older, wiser person who loved Annie, too. Things might have been different, and Annie wouldn’t have been abducted.

When Annie first went missing she couldn
’t function, couldn’t feel anything. Every reminder of Annie brought tears, from Mandy staring at Ruth with her wise cat-eyes, to walking anywhere around the village. She felt like she was falling apart in bits every day. Losing Annie had been her fault. It was her fault. Overwhelming sadness had become resentment towards her mother for not being there, even if that was an unreasonable thought, added to fury at Sam for being a dolt, added to rage at herself for being stupid-angry at everybody.

She
forced her thoughts to anything else—like travel, someplace she’d already been. An overnight in Nice? Paris? London? London was charismatic and claustrophobic all in one thought. She enjoyed London for short bursts, but it was too car-exhaust smelling and the traffic noise at night kept her awake. But she couldn’t go anywhere without Annie. Annie was out there somewhere under the same sun, the same sky. If only she knew where. She often thought of this when she thought of her mother and her loved ones in Texas. They were over there, west, under the same sky.

It is funny how a place can settle a restless soul. Most people sought out their roots. She, however, had been glad to see Texas behind her. She
had taken her child and searched for she knew not what until she came to Cornwall. She realized now that she had been searching for what she found in Cornwall all along. Attracted as one can be with an old friend, Cornwall, with its wild open-places and ever-changing weather, touched in her soul a familiarity with the Texas coast. Here, she developed a new sense of the delicate balance in nature that she could not remember from her past. The only color that she could really remember from Texas was the many variables of brown. Here, she had the many hues of the sea and the greens of the fields to keep her bursting with creative joy.

Absorbed in thought, she didn
’t hear the white Mini until its tires scraped against the pavement edge in front of her walkway. A white Mini … seemed like she knew whose car it was. Oh yes. She heard the handbrake being set. Detective Inspector Jon Graham exited first, then Constable Craig and Sergeant Perstow. Mr. Graham rounded the car’s hood. He looked eager. She wondered what he wanted as he walked toward her. He had a neat, compact way about him. “Mrs. Butler, we have some news.”

Ruth swallowed, her heart did a backflip. She jumped up. “What is it?”

“Wouldn’t you rather we talked inside?”

“Tell me now.”

Jon looked at the windows of neighboring cottages, clearly uncomfortable. “You don’t want us standing on your front step.”

“Of course.” She opened the door. “Take a seat.”

Jon looked as if he needed more sleep. Ruth wanted to touch his face, let him know he didn’t need to be uncomfortable around her.

“Didn
’t you sleep well last night?” she asked and then thought,
What a ridiculous question, don’t embarrass him.

“I haven
’t slept. The news came through early enough to catch me at the station, and I knew I could not sleep then. So I finished a lot of paperwork.”

“Can I get you tea?” Ruth offered. She tried to figure out what Jon
’s expression meant. “I’m not so sure I want to hear what you have to say. Just tell me.”

“Mrs. Butler,” Perstow stood to one side of her. His voice struck a note of calm despite what his words said. “Ye might want to have your mom here with you
, actually.”

Constable Craig laid a hand on Ruth
’s arm and positioned herself near Ruth’s other shoulder.

“What?” Breathing hard, Ruth pivoted toward Jon. They must have horrible news. “You better tell me now, Mr. Graham.”

“We did get the DNA back. The body of the girl in the surf was not Annie.”

44

T
he quiet swallowed up Ruth Butler’s cottage. Jon wanted to rejoice with her, but there would be no rejoicing until they found Annie alive. Sunlight streamed through the cottage doorway, caught each painting of Annie, and pooled on the floor where the white cat took up a curled position. The light brought to Jon’s attention the awards and school honors that were taped to the wall between each of the paintings.

Jon stood near Ruth. Her face was too white. He stepped closer to her and took her arm. “Perhaps you
’d like to take a seat?”

A whistle rose from the kitchen.

“The kettle …” Ruth mumbled.

“How about that tea now?” Jon offered.
Stop being so stupidly cheerful, no one has given her anything she didn’t know.

Constable Craig said, “I
’ll get the tea.”

Jon turned toward Ruth. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears
. It broke his heart.

“I knew it,” she whispered. “I knew it.”

“We tried not to get your hopes up.”

“Any thought of Annie not coming home
and I shut down, as if one tiny thought might get through the crack. What am I to think now? Am I supposed to be happy?”

She gripped the back of the chair so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Who was it? In the surf
, I mean.” Her voice was barely audible.

“The girl, Victoria Benton, missing now six months.”

“How did this happen? This mix up.”

“The blood type matched yours,” Jon said. “Annie
’s clothes were on the body, the hair, the same type and color. She was the same height as Annie. The shoes fit. We made a mistake.”

Constable Craig returned with tea steeping in mugs.

Perstow offered, “We didn’t question. We should have.”

“I mean how would a dead body last that long so well-preserved?” Ruth rubbed her eyes.

“She had only just died.”

“Oh God, no! He kept her alive? That poor child. Oh, that poor mother. Where is her mother
?”

Jon said, “She and her husband are on their way. They are in a state of shock. It
’s been especially hard for them. They accepted she’d died long ago.”

Ruth stared at the floor
and whispered, “Now they’ll have the guilt of being wrong, and wonder why they didn’t persist in searching.”

“They
’ve also identified an anorak found buried in the sand at the beach as hers. Forensics doesn’t think it had been in the water long and it was found long after the body.”

“What does that mean? Why was the jacket buried recently? Where has it been?”

“All questions we have no answers for, Mrs. Butler. We don’t think it was purposefully buried. It must have fallen into the water at some point. The action of the tide and waves left it partially covered in sand.”

“So
… so this means that he is holding Annie hostage now. But to what end? I haven’t had a ransom demand.” Ruth’s hand shook as she put it to her lips.

She began rocking in her seat. “He
’s keeping her alive. Oh Annie!”

“Keeping who alive?” Ruth
’s mother walked into the sitting room in a fluffy pink robe. “Ruth, what’s wrong?”

Jon caught Ruth as she slipped sideways.

“Ruth!” Her mother dashed to Ruth.

             
“Where is my daughter?” Ruth’s eyes were streaming tears.

             
“We don’t know,” Jon said. “We’ve got teams trying to be discreet, but the search has been stepped up. We are intensely searching everywhere. We don’t want to alert him that we know. It might make things worse.”

             
Ruth’s mother zeroed in on Jon. “Young man! You’d better explain! I’m not deaf, and I’m certainly not invisible.”

“Mrs. Thompson,” Jon said, “we
’ll get this sorted.”

“Why does he go to all the trouble to keep someone alive just to kill her
?” Ruth asked, “To what end?”

“Annie is alive?” Ruth
’s mother screeched.

“Mother
, please! I’ve told you all along. You wouldn’t listen.”

“Th
is is an ongoing investigation,” Perstow told Ruth.

“Look!” Ruth said. “We
’re talking about my daughter. What else do you know?”

“We must keep this new information to ourselves,” Jon said. “If the killer knows we know, he
’ll run to ground. We can’t begin a full-blown search and alert media and so on.”

“That
’s ridiculous!” Ruth snapped. She jumped up and left the room. Annie’s paper awards fluttered as Ruth dashed past them. She came back moments later with her keys and shoes.

“What are you doing?” Ruth
’s mother asked.

“I
’m going out to search for her.”

Jon shook his head. He didn
’t know how to reason with her. He didn’t want to tell her about the stains on the jacket that were being analyzed.

“Didn
’t you hear them, Ruth-Ann?” her mother said. “They just got through telling us we must not let the killer know we know. We’ve got to act as if they’d never told us, or we could put Annie in more danger.”

“This is stupid! I
’ve said it all along and no one would listen, and now that you all know, too, you’re telling me to stay home and pretend? My daughter is out there. Are you all crazy?”

Jon stood ready to keep her from running out the door. “
Please, Mrs. Butler …”

Ruth
’s mother muttered, “Sounds as if we could all use a little whiskey in our tea this morning.”

Jon stepped aside as she brushed past him on her way to the kitchen.

Monday morning, 11:10 a.m.

He went to the small garage where the old car sat. Oh, he could afford better now, sure, but why draw attention? He only took her out on special occasions.

He ran his fingers along the smooth, cold metal on the car
’s roof. The oxidizing paint left a gray residue on his fingertips. He wiped his hands thoroughly on his handkerchief.

Sunshine filtered a dusty yellow haze through the old shed
’s window. Cobwebs were draped from the exposed beams above him. The scent of hay and rodents mixed with petrol assailed his nostrils. Wattle and daub walls were spattered with different colors, a result of his renderings on canvas from earlier years. He remembered the liberating feeling of throwing paint. Stupid galleries didn’t know what excellence was.

His windfall money had afforded him the more important things. Who knew all this would be the result of the discovery in the cave so many years ago
? Now, he had a new spot on the map, a different world to travel within freely—and a faked university degree. With enough money one could buy just about anything.

He and
The Wife had had a row the morning the girl died. He had stayed with her late that last night. Sad really, the choking last gasps, the pleading eyes. He couldn’t help it. He needed the blood. He could see improvement—his skin was smoother, he had more energy—it was working. The Wife thought he was out too late, too many times. Her opinion didn’t matter. The morning after, he had taken the American woman’s daughter. Ha! Lady Luck was good to him.

He just needed a little more time and some more blood. The American woman was bent on distracting him
, but he would overcome the distraction. He didn’t need her blood. Just her life. A life for a life. Isn’t that how it worked?

Then he could complete his mission to turn back time and reclaim what his mother had taken from him. He would be young again. If he couldn
’t have Cecil back the way it had been, he would find another Cecil. He didn’t care about the baby. He wanted to tell her that. He didn’t care about the baby. He just wanted her back. He would do whatever she wanted if only he could have a second chance, if only he could tell her that.

Hardly three words passed between Allison Craig, Perstow, and Jon as
they drove from Ruth’s house to the car park. Finally Perstow broke the uneasy silence, “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but you do seem different around the lass.”

“I make myself ridiculous in her presence.” Jon caught the secret smile Constable Craig passed to Perstow. “Don
’t go reading into the situation, you two.”

He negotiated a turn, slowing to take a right, giving a honk to make sure no one was barreling down the lane towards him on the blind curve. “Surely there is something more we can do than sit on our hands at this point. We
’ve got men combing the lanes and fields looking for some clue. We can’t be too obvious.”

Allison Craig said, “Someone would have noticed if he is keeping her in a house.”

Perstow added, “Not in a box, not with a mouse, not with a fox—Mind the rabbit!”

Jon swerved to avoid a hare that chose that moment to dash across the road in front of them. “You
’ve been reading too many children’s books.”

“It
’s Her Indoors, wishin’ for a child. I’m afraid I’m a bit over my past due date.”

“Ah
a! Allison did you hear that? You are witness.”

Perstow turned red. “Now, s
ar!”

“You
’re as young as you feel,” Allison offered.

“I feel old,” Perstow moaned.

Jon slowed the car to turn again. He swept an arm out to indicate the area. “See this spot? I chased him and lost him on the cliffs, about here. The dogs lost the scent at the stream up on the rise just over there. I’m thinking, wild animals will decoy themselves to protect the young in their lairs or nest from predators. The killer would be guarding his lair. If we get too close, he pops out and leads us away, in a different direction to distract us. Could there be a place on the cliffs to hide?”

“Smugglers have hidden their goods along the coast of Cornwall for centuries,” Allison said.

“I bet the local youths know some good places to hide along the cliffs.” Jon pulled up to the village car park. “Perstow, get on to that. Someone here knows about places to hide things.”

“Should we get the dogs to try again, tracking something of Annie
’s?” Allison asked.

“There
’s an idea to float by Trewe. Caves. Caves and abandoned mines. Are there maps?”

Perstow nodded. “Aye. We
’ll have some at the library, p’r’aps.”

Jon dropped Allison and Perstow at the incident room and drove back along the High Street to
the Hasten Inn. Mrs. McFarland burst from the direction of the kitchen to greet him at the entrance. Her cheeks glowed. “Is Peter Trewe out of hospital? Poor man, with all those grandchildren. The
noise
in that house. It’s proper baked goods he needs. I’ll take him a cake. He’ll like that.”

Exhausted from almost twenty
-four hours without sleep, Jon made excuses and stumbled upstairs to his room. He’d laid down the law to the Murder Investigations Team, but he was the one who should have been listening. His brain was as muddled as his sock drawer. He lifted mismatched socks up. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t used to mismatched socks, but Mrs. McFarland was quite diligent with his laundry usually.