Downward Facing Death (8 page)

The woman police constable buzzed Keeley in and then fixed her with what was definitely an impatient look as Keeley approached the desk.

“Can I help you?” she snapped. She looked flustered, and Keeley couldn't help but look around her to the door she had come through, which must lead into an office. Was Ben in there? She didn't particularly want to see him, what with his suspicious eyes and abrupt manner, yet she also found herself not wanting to confide her fears to anyone else, especially not this hard-eyed young woman.

“I hope I'm not interrupting anything,” Keeley said, flushing as she realized her voice sounded more sarcastic than apologetic, which only made the WPC look more annoyed.

“I'm up to my ears in paperwork, and the bloody photocopier's broken,” she said by way of explanation. Keeley smiled at her, then hesitated, reaching for her back pocket and fingering the edge of the letter.

“Well, what is it?”

Keeley dropped the letter onto the desk in front of the policewoman and smoothed it out to show the message. She touched it gingerly, as though afraid it would go off like a bomb in her hands. The other woman squinted at it, puzzled, then rolled her eyes.

“Trouble with the neighbors, is it?” she said, sounding bored. Keeley felt her own spark of annoyance flame in her chest at the girl's dismissiveness.

“I've hardly been here long enough to warrant any. I'm Keeley Carpenter. I own the premises that Terry Smith was killed in.”

The WPC snapped to attention at that, straightening her back and looking at Keeley and then again at the letter with rather more interest.

“So you think this message is referring to the murder. A threat to yourself?”

“I can't think of anything else it could be,” Keeley admitted. She had ruminated long into the early hours, looking for any reason, however small, that a Belfrey resident could have to post her a poison pen letter, and had come up with precisely zero.

“Well, the murder is DC Taylor's case, but as he's Local CID, he's actually based in the main station at Ripley. I suppose I had better give him a ring.”

“Give me a ring about what?”

Ben's voice, along with a gust of wind from the suddenly opened door, made Keeley jump and turn to face him, startled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the blond woman hurriedly smooth down her hair and lean over the counter toward him, her expression no longer annoyed at all but now that of an eager puppy.

“DC Taylor,” she cooed, fixing him with what was clearly meant to be an alluring smile, “I have something here that may need bringing to your attention.”

I just bet you do,
Keeley thought. Ben seemed not to notice the blonde's demeanor at all, giving her only a cursory nod as he crossed the small reception area in one long stride and stared down at the letter. No doubt, he was used to women fawning all over him. His expression darkened as he looked up at Keeley.

“When and where did you find this?”

“Er, on my doorstep,” she stammered, feeling wrong-footed by him once again, “last night. Do you think it has something to do with the murder?”

Ben ignored her question, answering instead with one of his own.

“So why didn't you report it last night?”

Keeley was saved from answering by the blonde, who cut in on her behalf. No doubt it was purely to get Ben's attention, but nevertheless, Keeley gave her a grateful smile.

“We wouldn't have been open. And it hardly qualifies as an emergency.”

“You could have phoned me. You have my number.” Ben glared at Keeley as if she had personally insulted him. She swallowed hard, meeting his glare with one of her own, even if she did feel like squirming inside. Why was he so hostile? Surely he couldn't still think her responsible?
He probably thinks I sent it to myself.
She opened her mouth to accuse him of precisely that, but Ben had already turned his attention back to the letter.

“Kate,” he addressed the policewoman, “get this bagged up and tagged, please.”

Keeley watched the woman reach under a counter for a pair of gloves before picking up the letter and taking it into the office, giving Ben a last simpering smile, which he seemed to ignore.

“Ms. Carpenter,” he said, looking and sounding suddenly tired, “if you could just come in here for a few minutes.” He waved toward a door marked
INTERVIEW ROOM
, and Keeley felt a wave of anxiety and stayed where she was. Ben sighed and pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes.

“Just for a chat. You're looking at me like I'm about to arrest you.”

“You do seem rather suspicious of me.” Keeley decided to be frank. Ben, however, just looked surprised.

“Really? Occupational hazard, I suppose. Would you just come and sit down? I'm exhausted.”

Keeley followed him into the interview room, sitting opposite him in an uncomfortable plastic chair. Under the sickly lighting, she saw there were indeed shadows under his eyes.

“Rough night, then?” She tried and failed to keep the sympathy out of her voice, fighting the urge to come over all nurturing and offer him a cup of chamomile.

“There was a bit of bother in Matlock, in one of the biker bars. Not by the bikers themselves—they're generally a very polite bunch of guys—but a couple of local youths causing trouble. Problem was, there were about fifty witness statements to take, and half the officers at Ripley were out investigating a vandalized tractor.”

Keeley stifled a giggle. It certainly wouldn't be funny to the poor farmer whose vehicle had been damaged, but even so, the situation struck her as so bizarre, she couldn't help smiling. Ben's mouth twitched a little at the corner; then he let out a low laugh that made Keeley's stomach flip.

His whole face changed when he laughed, she noticed, making him look boyish and far more approachable. Dimples that she only now remembered having spotted at school appeared in his cheeks, and his eyes danced at her. She ducked her head as she realized she was staring, and Ben stopped laughing abruptly and gave her a strange look.

“Would you like a drink? I really need a coffee. Then we can try to figure out what's going on here.”

Keeley nodded, avoiding his gaze as he got up to leave the room, brushing past her in its small confines as he did so.

He returned quickly with a tray and two mugs, and Keeley took hers with gratitude, the warmth of it comforting between her hands.

“So, you found it last night? What time? Was it delivered when you were out?”

He was all business again, a small notebook and pen having appeared in his hand from the lining of his jacket.

“It must have been. I would have noticed if it had been there when I left. It was on the doormat when I came in. Which was about half past ten.”

“Were you alone?” His voice was clipped again, and when Keeley met his eyes, he looked back down at his notebook, an eyebrow raised expectantly. He was asking about Duane, she understood.

“Yes,” she said quietly, then louder when that eyebrow nearly disappeared into his hairline, although he didn't look up at her. “Yes. Duane—that's the guy I was with at the inn—walked me home, but he didn't come in. I saw the letter when I was taking my shoes off.”

“Why?” he asked, and Keeley frowned at him, puzzled.

“Because I crouched down to pull them off and I saw it on the mat?” Ben had gone very still, and was staring at his notebook intently, although he hadn't written down anything except the time. With a not unpleasant surprise, Keeley realized what he had meant.

“Duane didn't come in,” she clarified, “because I didn't want him to. I had a headache.”

Ben did look at her then, with what she was certain was relief. Keeley felt a little surge of triumph. Was he, after all this time, finally interested in her?

“A headache,” he repeated, looking amused.

“Yes.” Keeley nodded firmly. “A headache.”

Ben stared at her for a long minute; then his gaze dropped, just for a second, to her lips. Keeley felt her tummy tighten. Was that desire in his eyes? But it was gone as soon as she wondered about it, leaving her berating herself and looking away. Letting old feelings from high school distract her was the last thing she needed to do. He sat back in his chair, picking up his notebook again. There was a sudden, heavy tension in the room that she didn't quite understand, and Ben seemed to be studying his notebook intently. The change in atmosphere made her feel testy, and when she spoke, her voice came out sounding more irritated than she'd intended.

“Do you have any more questions for me, or is that it?”

Ben frowned at her tone.

“I need to know who you were with and at what time if you want me to investigate this letter.”

“I was alone, I told you,” Keeley snapped.

“Did anyone know you were going to be out yesterday evening?”

“Only Megan and Duane. I was with him all evening, of course.”

“Of course,” Ben said with just the barest touch of sarcasm. “I take it you mean Megan Powell, the owner of the New Age shop.”

Keeley nodded, a chill settling over her as she wondered if he suspected Megan.

“How well do you know Miss Powell?”

Keeley shook her head.

“It wasn't her.” When Ben just looked at her coolly, Keeley found herself examining her statement. Intuition told her Megan wouldn't harm a fly, but how well did she know her? She shook her head again, irritated. Too much time in Ben Taylor's company, and she would be suspicious of her own shadow. There was another uneasy silence; then Ben leaned over the table with a swift smile that showcased the dimple in his chin.

“Look,” he said, pocketing his notebook and pen, “do you want to do this over lunch? I haven't eaten since yesterday, and you've obviously had a shock. There's a little Italian place around the corner, does the best bowl of comfort pasta you could eat.”

Keeley grinned in spite of herself, feeling suddenly at home.

“You mean Mario's? I used to go there with my friends every Saturday.”

“Did you?” Ben looked confused. “I forgot for a moment you grew up here. Silly. Considering we went to school together.”

“I don't expect you to remember me from school,” she said, surprising herself at how clipped and tight her voice sounded. She really must stop bearing a grudge over her unreciprocated crush. If his reaction to Kate's simpering was anything to go by, Ben seemed to be one of those rare men who were genuinely oblivious to how hot they were.

“Of course I remember you; I told you that in the car. You've … changed, though.” His tone was so obviously diplomatic that she looked away, thoroughly deflated. He meant, of course, that she wasn't fat anymore. She stood up, wondering now if she should refuse his offer of lunch, mysterious letter or no mysterious letter. But she did need his help, and a bowl of Mario's cheese and spinach pasta rolls sounded too good to resist.

Mario himself remembered her, throwing his arms around her in delight. He was a small blond man who, although authentically Italian with a thick Florentine accent, couldn't have looked less so if he tried. He kissed both her cheeks, then pinched her waist disapprovingly.

“Where have you gone?” he demanded as he ushered her and Ben to a table. “Do people not eat in London?”

“Actually, I've been in America.” Keeley gave him a quick history of her travels, gratified by Mario's interest in her plans for the café.

“Ah, we can share recipes. We should help each other, no?”

Keeley nodded, enthused by his warmth, then saw Ben looking at her curiously as Mario bustled off.

“You really went to India? That must have been amazing.”

“It was,” she admitted. And it had been, if only for the initial relief of getting away from her mother. And of course, it had started her off on her path to becoming a yoga instructor. Which conversely had led her right back here, to Belfrey.

“Did you always want to be a policeman?” she asked, wondering now why Ben himself hadn't left the small town for pastures new. He nodded.

“Once I stopped dreaming of being a professional footballer, yeah. Dad was in the army, wasn't he, so he always wanted me to follow in his footsteps. The police force seemed a reasonable compromise. I'm hoping to make detective sergeant this year. If I can nail this case—” He realized what he was saying and grimaced. “Sorry, that was insensitive.”

“It's okay. It's not as if I knew him. You must have, though?” Keeley hadn't really considered that before, how personal a murder case must be for the authorities concerned when it occurred in such a small community, where everybody knew everybody. It was fairly short odds you would know either the victim or the perpetrator, if not both. No wonder he was so snappy about it.

“I can't say I liked him all that much,” Ben admitted, “but he definitely didn't deserve that.”

“Is it your first murder?”

“Not quite. But certainly my first in Belfrey. It's just not a place where things like this happen very often. The odd domestic maybe, or a pub brawl that gets out of hand, and of course, any violence is bad enough, but this is different.”

Keeley nodded. As a pretty red-haired waitress brought over their food, Keeley looked down at the huge bowl of fresh, steaming pasta and didn't feel hungry anymore. This murder was different, though not in the way Ben meant. But because it seemed to concern her, and she had no idea why.

“I think whoever wrote that letter was the murderer,” she blurted, admitting it for the first time as much to herself as to him. Ben nodded slowly, his expression hardening again into that of detective.

“What makes you say that?”

Keeley shrugged. “I don't know.” Maybe she just didn't want to think of two psychopaths on the loose in Belfrey. “Don't you think so?”

“Logically?” Ben shook his head. “They seem very different acts. A murder and an arson attempt, followed by a nasty anonymous letter. They seem like entirely different modi operandi. Not to mention that if you didn't know Terry Smith, there's no reason why his killer would want to taunt you. Yet gut instinct tells me that yes, it could be the same person.”