Demon on a Distant Shore (23 page)

Royal nodded. “I agree. Why else would he conclude we will leave now that the Nortons are found?”

I rested my head on his shoulder, his arm snaked my waist. “This is deep down dirty, Royal.”

“We will get to the bottom of it,” he said into my hair.

I dipped my eyes to the newspaper clipping of Johnny’s obituary. “Don’t tell me, under the door.”

“While I was in the bathroom.”

“I can understand someone knowing we’re out when they slipped us the note, but how did they know you were in the bathroom this time?”

“Heard the water running?”

I read the sad little obituary again. Jonathan Pierce Marsh, born July 28
^th
, 1994. Died August 1
^st
, 2011, two weeks ago. Seventeen; barely old enough to legally ride his scooter. It listed his schools, hobbies and of course his family. Altogether too brief for an entire lifespan. Sad.

Two weeks. Everything happened two weeks ago, or near enough.

“This doesn’t tell us anything, so all I can think is we’re being pointed in Johnny’s direction. We should talk to him again.”

“You mean you should talk to him again.”

I made a face. “Oh, yeah.”

“Before I call Fred Sturgis?”

“He’ll tell us to go home if he knows the Nortons are dead.”

“It would probably be best, Tiff.”

We went downstairs, where I was glad to find the lobby empty. I didn’t want to see Darnel Fowler’s smug face.

The heavy fog had lifted, but mist obscured the fringes of the village, limiting visibility to around fifty feet in every direction. Royal and I crossed to The Ugly Duck and started down the alley.

Atop a grass bank, a high wall made of small slices of flint stacked one on the other ran from the last cottage to the end of the alley. We would have walked on, but a voice saying, “Come ‘ere, you stupid little git!” caught our attention.

Royal put his fingers to his lips. I nodded. We climbed the bank to the wall so we could peek over.

“I let you out a minute, you go right for the cabbage. Still, it’s your nature.”

Narrow dirt paths separated small plots colorful with vegetables: cabbage, potato, onions, leeks, carrots and cauliflower by the look of them. I’m not a vegetable grower so I could have been mistaken. Four barrels designed to catch and store rainwater stood against the far wall. Over there, also, a wide break in the wall where a shiny Renault station wagon parked. Three decrepit sheds leaned on the south wall.

Stooped over, Malcolm trundled between the beds, hands not far from the ground. I thought the poor man’s back had gone out, until his hands darted at a flash of white between cabbage plants. He stood up holding a small white rabbit. “Aye, you’re a silly bugger,” he said affectionately, cuddling the ball of fluff in his arms.

Caught up in the cuteness factor of a big guy cuddling a bunny, I didn’t wonder at his agility. Not right then, anyhow. He went to a hutch on stilts and popped the bunny inside.

We were going to move on when Malcolm strode to a stack of large yellow plastic bags, grabbed one by both corners and slung it over his back. He made his way to the Renault and tossed the sack through the open hatchback. I just made out the lettering on the sack.

“Concrete mix! How much do those sacks weigh?” I hissed.

“Twenty-three kilograms. A fraction more than fifty pounds.”

Poor old Malcolm, who couldn’t carry our bags to our room, yet accepted a tip from Royal. Nothing wrong with the guy! And to top that, he had a disabled sticker on the back of the car.

I dug the toe of my shoe in a crevice, put my hands flat on top of the wall, meaning to go over there and have a word with Malcolm. Royal grabbed the back of my shirt and tugged me down. He stifled his chortling with one hand.

“Someone ought to turn the bugger in,” Carrie said.

I couldn’t swallow a stutter of surprise as I saw her at my elbow. I had a quick look over the wall. Slinging another sack in his car, Malcolm had not heard me.

“Sorry. Did I startle you?”

“I didn’t know you came with us,” I whispered.

She waved her hand at the cottage facing the brick wall. “I didn’t. I was already here, hoping to catch a ride back to The Hart and Garter.”

Royal took my hand and led us onward. We turned on the Salisbury road.

“What were you doing there?” I asked Carrie.

“Brenda Blackthorn told Jeanie Welsh she heard Glenda Wilcott caught her Harry watching Internet porn. Glenda visits her mum Mary Parry at this time every day. Poor Mrs. Parry, she can’t tell day from night most of the time. Why, she worked a forty-hour week at French the butchers in Marlborough not long ago. Sad, isn’t it, how a person can go into a decline like that.”

She was off on a tangent again.

“It was losing her cat. I think she hung on for that cat after her Alf died, her reason for living you could say. He was a nasty little bugger too. Killed Bill Wellington’s bantam cockerel and you know what fierce birds they are. Mrs. Parry denied it up one side of the street and down the other, but the cat had spur marks all over him. I’d like - ”

“Carrie!”

She tucked in her chin. “Yes?”

I briefly closed my eyes, then opened them again to see where I walked. “Nothing.”

“So you cottoned onto our Malcolm. As I said, someone should turn him in. I don’t understand why people put up with his shenanigans. He’s getting benefits illegally and that means
our
money is paying for his perks!”

We turned down Church Lane. “
Our
money?”

“Their money, then. He doesn’t work except at The Hart and Garter, and he doesn’t report it as income. He gets free housing, free medical, subsidies for food and all the necessities. Free petrol for a
free
car. And he has no shame!”

I shoved my hands deep in my pockets. “Why
don’t
they report him?”

“Bunch of lily-livered cowards, that’s what they are.”

I grinned at the mist. “Did you see the porno?”

She made a fussy gesture with both hands. “No I did not. I wouldn’t have watched it anyway.”

The mist clotted to fog; it curled up Church Lane, advancing on the village.

“Then why go there when the wife is out?”

“Here’s our Johnny! Did you come to see him?”

“About that porno. . . .”

“Oh hush, you.”

Royal stepped closer to me. “Sounds interesting. You can tell me when we get back.”

I composed my features. Typical. Mention porn and a man is all ears.

Johnny appeared in a swirl of fog. “Hello you young whippersnapper,” Carrie said brightly.

“Wotcher, you old trollop. Shagged any Eye-talians lately?”

“I
loathe
that word. It’s crude.” She shifted her attention to me. “I was shocked, yes shocked, when you people called that film
The Spy Who Shagged Me.
I can’t believe anyone in your part of the world knows the connotation or they wouldn’t have used it. It doesn’t mean ‘made love to,’ you know. Nothing so sweet and romantic. Might as well have called it The Spy Who Fu - ” With a quick glance at Johnny, she gulped down the word. “Anyway, we didn’t, more’s the pity.”

I stopped beside Johnny. “Hi, Johnny. I gather you two know each other.”

“Oh, you again,” he said sullenly.

“Nice to see you too.”

“Gonna stand there staring at me all day are you?”

“As long as it takes, yeah.”

“What takes?”

“To figure out if what happened to you is connected to the deaths of Paul and Sylvia Norton.”

Johnny stood, straddling his scooter. “They’re dead?” He slumped down again.

“We think they were murdered.”

He smacked his knee by way of emphasis. “I
knew
som’at was off.”

Familiar tension washed through me. We were onto something.

He ran one finger under his nose as if rubbing away a sniffle. “I did jobs for them. Gardening, mucking out the chicken ‘ouse, any old thing. I goes there Sunday evening and there’s this moving van outside and guys loading their furniture and stuff. I says to them, I didn’t know the Nortons was moving, they never told me nothing about it.” His gaze zipped to mine. “They would ‘ave said something, wouldn’t they. But a big guy, ‘e says it was sudden-like, an emergency. So I tries to go talk to the Nortons and ‘e stops me, says they already left.

“I thought, must be some emergency or Sylvia would be ‘overing over them. She were particular about ‘er stuff.”

“Did you recognize these guys?”

“Only Nobby Clarke. I did think it strange, ‘iring blokes to load and drive a rental van, not proper movers. Supposed it were cheaper doing it that way.”

“Nobby Clarke?”

“Bill Clarke. Lives over Churchfont way.”

Men cleaned out the Nortons’ house and one of them was William Clarke. I gave Royal a crooked smile. There we had it. Johnny saw something he should not, so Johnny had to go.

I told Royal what Johnny had said.

“Did they kill Paul and Sylvia?” Johnny asked.

“We don’t know, Johnny, but they are involved.”

He twisted on the scooter as if to get comfortable. “Bad luck, weren’t it, Darnel running me down. I could ‘ave told the police what I saw.”

Bad luck? I didn’t think so. The more I mulled it over, the more I thought Darnel Fowler was involved in the Nortons’ disappearance, perhaps their murder.

Carrie was quiet and I bet I knew why.

I concentrated on Johnny. “Why didn’t you tell us Fowler is a police constable?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“It changes things. We’re strangers, and not everyone believes I talk to the deceased, which would include your policemen. We’ll do our best, but I can’t guarantee we’ll nail Fowler for your death.”

“Ah. See what you mean.” He rolled one shoulder. “Don’t you worry, ‘e’ll get what’s coming to ‘im.” And he looked to his left, to where the little Elemental blinked huge eyes as it squatted on the bank.

“Royal.”

“I feel it.”

The Elemental stood on spindly legs, stepped back in the mist and was gone.

“Did you see it?” I asked Carrie.

“See what?”

I guess not.

I lifted a hand to Johnny. “Thanks, Johnny. We’ll be back later.”

“Don’t put yourself out.”

We started off. I watched Carrie easily breeze along at my side. “You were quiet back there. Couldn’t be because you already knew Johnny was the Norton’s gardener?”

She sniffed and brought her chin up. “Perhaps I did. Perhaps I didn’t.”

“Good thing we’re not paying you for information.”

Her voice spiked with indignation. “You said listen to what people say! I didn’t know
you
didn’t know Johnny worked for Sylvia.”