by Scott Hunter
Charlie followed G into the living room. Well, one of the living rooms. So far she’d only had a brief tour, a ‘quick whiz round’ as G had called it. “Before you freshen up, because if you are like me that is the first thing you want to do when you get home from your work. Yes?”
G flumped into the sofa with a sigh and kicked off her shoes. She had gorgeously long legs, Charlie noticed, and a very pretty smile, attributes which would not have escaped Banner’s attention. Well, whatever. Charlie picked an armchair and sank into its designer folds. Why should she worry? Banner’s love life wasn’t her problem and G looked as if she could take care of herself. She raised her glass. “Cheers, G. I feel very welcome.”
G grinned and lifted her glass in response. “Salut! Stephen’s out with Andreas tonight so we have the place to ourselves.”
“Who needs men?” Charlie laughed and sipped her drink. “Mmm. This is gorgeous wine.”
“Glad you like it – I have a secret supplier. You can’t get it at the Tesco.” G winked.
“Oh yes? Friends in high places?”
G gave her a mysterious look. “Every girl needs the friends.”
“Too true.” Charlie grinned. G’s accent, which could be Slavik, or perhaps Polish, became more pronounced when she was excited, or when she shared a joke. Charlie found it engaging.
“Do you count Stephen as a friend?” G asked with a half-smile on her lips.
“I’m not sure, honestly. I can’t even get used to the ‘Stephen’. He’s ‘Banner’ to me.” Charlie shook her head. “We’ve never got on that well, to tell you the truth. I’m still surprised at myself that I took him up on this.”
“He’s fine,” G said. “All right most of the time.”
“Try working with him.” Charlie made a face. “Nightmare.”
“I did think he might have waited for you this evening,” G said. “You know, to welcome you to the house.”
“Don’t worry. I wasn’t expecting flowers.”
Both girls laughed and Charlie raised her glass again. “Oh well, here’s to a girly evening.” She sat forward in the voluminous armchair. “So come on. Tell me about Andreas.”
By the time they had finished the wine Charlie was ready for bed. The strain of covering for Moran, moving house, worrying about whether it was the right thing to do, had taken its toll. G was good company and Charlie couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed so much. She set her glass down and stretched. “I’m knackered, G. I’ll have to turn in or I’ll pass out on you.”
“No problem. I’ll send your love to the boys.”
“Don’t you dare,” Charlie giggled. She paused at the lounge door. “G, it’s been really nice. Thanks for a great welcome.”
“You’re welcome.” G yawned. “I’m going to go up to the bed myself.”
“Well, night then. And thanks again.”
“I hope your sleep is good.”
Charlie went upstairs and pottered around the bathroom; yes, it was small, but it was all hers. Her own en-suite. She hummed happily as she changed into her pyjamas and poured herself a glass of water from the bedside jug. The bed was large and comfortable. She set her alarm and snuggled down. The house was very quiet; Banner and Andreas had yet to return. As she drifted into sleep she found herself thinking about Moran, his mysterious disappearing lady. The lady vanishes, she thought sleepily. Where have I heard that before?
I am the spirit of the forest. I rule the trees, their leaves and branches, the green moss and the dark earth. I choose who will travel my paths, who will run free with the deer and the fox. I move unseen among them, these earthbound souls of clay, and watch and wait.
When the time is right, I take what belongs to me. When the seasons merge, when the year pauses on the cusp of change, I give back to the earth what the long winter has eroded.
I give to it the blood of new life.
Chapter 8
The thirst was the hardest to tolerate. She could endure the cold. She could cope with the darkness. But the thirst was what made her despair. Time had lost its meaning. And the pain: in her wrists and ankles where the rope cut, in her neck where the steel fingers had half-strangled her, in her mouth where days of dehydration had turned her tongue and mouth to sandpaper. But she was alive. That much she knew. And while she was alive, there was hope.
You are Linda Harrison. Married, with a house, three dogs and a life. You will be missed. Matt will be searching for you.
She twisted, tried to relieve the pressure on her spine where the walls of her prison dug into her back. She was in a space just large enough to lie in, legs curled. Above her was solid stone, on one side a metal grille of some sort, on the other what felt like hard earth studded with sharp-edged rock. Like being buried alive… Linda felt panic rise again and forced her mind onto another subject. She tried to picture herself standing in the open, leaning on Matt for support. Her abductor in police custody, the prospect of warmth, safety, water…
It’s only a matter of time.
But as she lay cramped and blind in her silent dungeon, some essential part of her, a part she kept desperately trying to suppress, went on whispering the one thing she didn’t want to hear.
You haven’t much time left, Linda.
“You again.”
Moran ignored the look, the tone, the frost in the space between them. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if I could have a brief word with Mr de Courcy?”
“What about?” Lady Cernham’s eyes narrowed.
“I wanted to clear up a misunderstanding.”
“And what possible misunderstanding could you be referring to?”
“I’m sure Mr de Courcy would be happy to–”
“Can I help?”
Moran turned to see de Courcy walking briskly from the direction of the outbuildings, a broken shotgun in the crook of his arm.
“It’s perfectly all right, Mother,” he said, climbing the steps until he reached their level. “Mr Moran and I have already met.”
“He’s a policeman.”
“Yes, yes, I know he’s a policeman. It’s all right. What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“Oh, just a little thing. It won’t take a moment. You see, I was having a drink in the pub and I got chatting to one or two of the locals. An American lady arrived. She was looking for a friend.”
“What on earth has all this to do with us, would you mind telling me?” Lady Cernham had come forward onto the porch as if to shoo Moran away like some disposable door-to-door salesman.
“Mother, please.” De Courcy raised his voice a fraction.
His mother gave him a long look. “As you wish,” she conceded, and with a disapproving shake of her head she retreated into the house.
“I apologise. My mother doesn’t take kindly to strangers.”
“Not a problem.” Moran smiled, he hoped tolerantly.
“You were saying?”
“Yes. This American lady. You see, after I left the pub she was found in her car.”
“What do you mean, found?”
“She was dead, Mr de Courcy.”
“How extraordinary. Is that what you were telling PC Frobisher about?”
“Yes, as it happens.”
“But how can I help you, Inspector? I mean, it’s terribly sad, I’m sure, but I can’t see–”
“Why did you return her hire car?”
“I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”
“I think you do. A man answering your description returned a silver Lexus to the car hire company early this morning .”
“Ridiculous. You can’t prove any of this. Absolute nonsense. Now, clear off before I have you removed from my property.”
“Your property?” Moran pitched the question with an innocent expression. “I understood that the estate belongs to Lady Cernham.”
De Courcy half-raised the broken shotgun. “I’m warning you. Leave now. For your own good.”
Moran looked steadily at de Courcy. �
�Sorry to interrupt your day, Mr de Courcy. I’ve no further questions – for the moment.” He gave de Courcy a pleasant smile, turned and, shoulder blades tingling, crunched back to his waiting car.
“What do you know about the Manor house?”
Celine shuffled a beer mat to and fro on the bar and furrowed her brow. “Not a lot. Lady C’s a bit of a recluse. I’ve only ever seen her once, walking in the woods.”
“Never comes into the village?”
Celine shook her head. “Not that I’ve ever known.”
Moran was admiring the way Celine’s hair was braided into two long plaits, yet somehow coiled into a style that suited the shape of her face. On anyone else of a similar age it might have looked too young, but Celine pulled it off with aplomb.
“Are you with me?” Celine waved her hand up and down, like a camera shutter.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to stare.”
She held his gaze. “That’s OK. I’m of that ‘certain’ age when a man’s attention has become a bit of a rarity.”
“I can’t see why,” Moran said, swilling his beer around the half-empty pint jug.
“You old charmer, you.” Celine grinned, obviously pleased. “Cork man through and through.”
Moran smiled. He enjoyed Celine’s company, but he was also wondering how much to tell her. For all he knew she might be a close friend of de Courcy’s, although something told him that wasn’t the case. “I thought I might visit Mrs Harrison’s husband tomorrow.”
Celine raised her eyebrows. “You really can’t switch off, can you?” She toyed absently with one of her plaits. “Brendan, you’re on holiday. You’ve reported an incident. Let the local police deal with it. Relax. It’s probably nothing.”
“A dead woman? Nothing?”
Celine sighed. “Maybe we were wrong. I mean, no one’s reported her missing, have they? I’ll bet she just had second thoughts about staying over and–”
“I traced her car.”
Celine’s mouth hung open. “Really? How?”
“It wasn’t difficult. I contacted the hire company.”
“Oh. I see.” Celine’s face was a picture of confusion. “Well, I don’t actually.”
“Whoever returned the car, it wasn’t Blanche.”
“Curiouser and curiouser.”
“So, I was wondering if you knew where I might find Matt Harrison? Maybe his wife has come back from wherever she’s been; she may be able to fill in the gaps.” He decided not to mention his conversation with de Courcy – nor his intuitive feeling that Linda Harrison would not be at home.
“Sure. It’s on the corner, right by the village stores. Crossroads Cottage.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“Are the police really doing nothing at all?”
“I tried to contact DS Wilmot again. No go – Exeter has been hit by a flu bug. They’re short-staffed, flat out busy according to the desk sergeant, and I can’t get hold of Wilmot or anyone else. Not that he took any of it seriously anyway.”
“Same again?” Terl’s broad arm hovered over the glasses.
“A half for me, Terl. Thanks. Celine?”
“Not for now, Terl. Cheers anyway.”
Moran reached for his half-pint and felt his heart skip as Celine placed her hand on his. “Brendan. Perhaps it would be better to let all this pass by. The village is … well, it’s different here.”
“Different? How, exactly?”
“I can’t explain. It’s just – well, it’s just the way things are. Look, Brendan, I really like you. I don’t want to see you getting into trouble.” She read Moran’s blank expression. “I’m not making much sense, am I? Look, I have to go. Why don’t we meet up tomorrow lunchtime, maybe drive to the coast, take a look around, have lunch?”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Moran nodded. “Come over to mine, say ten o’clock?”
Celine visibly relaxed and treated him to a wide smile. “Great. See you then. Sleep well.”
Moran nursed his beer as he pondered Celine’s remarks. What was she trying to hide? What sort of trouble was he about to get into? One thing was certain; Celine knew a lot more about what was going on than she was prepared to admit. Ten o’clock. Fine. That still allowed him an hour or so to visit Crossroads Cottage in the morning.
Moran poured himself a nightcap, an oaty malt he had been introduced to by his sergeant, Rob Phelps. He took a sip and grunted appreciatively as the fiery liquid warmed his throat. He wondered how Phelps was getting on. The heart attack had come out of nowhere, as they always did. Phelps had been lucky. Moran grinned as he thought of Phelps’ battered features expressing disagreement in his usual forthright way. “Lucky?” he would have said. “Flat on my back for months, a teetotal diet, Chaucer and the Bard for stimulation, daytime TV for relaxation and Mrs P laying down the law 24/7? Lucky? I think not, guv, I think not.”
Moran slumped into the small sofa. He missed Phelps. Would the DS return? He hoped so, but had his doubts. It was stressful work at the best of times, and Rob always gave his all. He’d need a radical switch of lifestyle, and Moran was doubtful whether Phelps would even want to make such a drastic change. Still, another couple of months of daytime TV might do the trick, or maybe the patient would fail to find solace in his Open University Shakespeare after all.
Moran sat quietly, warming the whisky. Charlie Pepper was a safe pair of hands in his – and Phelps’ – absence. No worries there.
Charlie.
Don’t even go there, Brendan. Too young. Too close to home. Station romance was always unwise. Nevertheless…
And what about Celine? A very attractive proposition. But she was guarded, keeping her distance. Something to hide, perhaps. Or a bad history of relationships. I’ll drink to that, his subconscious whispered.
But she had tried to warn him off. Who was she trying to protect? She knew damn well that Blanche Cassidy was dead. She couldn’t have faked that. Moran had seen shock before. The pallor, the shakes, the slight incoherence of expression. The questioning. No, she had been sure all right. But now, apparently not. Had someone spoken to her? Warned her off? Moran took another sip and thought about de Courcy.
Leave now. For your own good…
Moran tossed down the remainder of the malt and banged his glass on the table. De Courcy wasn’t to know, was he? That, to Moran, an undisguised threat was like a red rag to a bull?
No sign of life at Crossroads Cottage, but a regular, percussive sound from the rear of the property indicated activity of some kind. Moran opened the gate and followed the path around the cottage into the back garden. A man in a red vest was laying rhythmically into a section of tree trunk, swinging a long-handled axe in a wide arc and bringing the head expertly down in precisely the same location as the previous stroke. Splinters flew as the wood shuddered under the blow. The axe lifted again. The man looked up and the axe halted in mid-swing.
“Mr Harrison?”
“Who the hell are you?” Matt Harrison squared his shoulders and hefted the axe before letting it dangle, loose-gripped, at his side. He was a fit-looking young man in his early thirties, short hair with the fashionably flicked tuft at the front which, to the great amusement of the rest of the team, Moran had once tried to adopt. “Bit young for you, sir,” one of the WPCs had advised, sotto voce, in the canteen queue. Since then Moran had stuck with a regular off-centre parting.
“DCI Brendan Moran. Hope you don’t mind my arriving unannounced, but I thought you might be able to help me.”
“With what?” Harrison’s stance was not aggressive, but neither was it inviting.
“I understand that your wife was expecting a visitor?”
“What’s it to you?” Harrison rested the axe against the back wall of the cottage and wiped sweat from his temple with the back of his hand.
“An American lady. An old friend. Perhaps I could have a word with your wife?”
“She’s not here.”
“I see.” Moran watched Harrison’s face. I
t was giving nothing away. “When will she be in?”
“No idea.”
“Well, later this morning?” Moran prompted. “This evening?”
“I said I don’t know, all right? She’s away.”
“Away?”
“Away. Not here. Not at home.” Harrison picked up the axe and made as if to resume his chopping.
Moran hesitated. Should he push any harder? He wanted something tangible, something to go on, however small. He noticed a roomy kennel near the front door but there was no sign of a canine occupant. “Dog out too?”
“She’s probably taken them somewhere. A friend’s, maybe. Like I said, I’m not her keeper.”
“Perhaps you could ask her to call me. She can leave a message if I don’t answer – the signal’s bad here. I’ll get back to her.” He handed Harrison his card.
Harrison glanced at it briefly. “Thames Valley? What are you doing poking around here?”
“I’m helping with a local enquiry.” Which was not untrue.
Harrison looked at him. “Really.”
“Thanks for your help, sir. Sorry to bother you.” Moran walked away but paused at the side gate and turned. “You don’t recall anyone looking for your wife the other evening?”
Harrison leaned on the axe. “No. I don’t.”
“You see, the person in question had arranged to visit.”
“I said no.”
“I see. Strange, because the lady told me that she’d spoken to you.” Moran registered Harrison’s expression, a mixture of surprise and outright hostility. “Well, thanks anyway, sir. I’ll be in touch.”
He felt the eyes bore into his back as he pushed the gate open. Moran glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock. It was nearly time to see a friendlier face. He couldn’t help feeling that, all things considered, he was becoming rather unpopular in Cernham.
Chapter 9
