by Poppy Blake
But what did he think of her? Would the personality issues she still struggled to master be a barrier to a long-term liaison? Maybe. If she delved beneath the surface, their differences were stark. She was a neat freak, he was a clutterbug; she was organized and methodical, he was more intuitive in his thinking. He loved action-packed itineraries in the rugged outdoors; her idea of a good time was swinging in a hammock with a cocktail in one hand and a glossy cookery book in the other.
Or maybe there was something in the old adage that opposites attract? If so, perhaps they could look forward to a long and happy marriage! Oh, well, whichever way she looked at it, she was excited about being Matt’s plus one for Grace and Josh’s wedding and that told her all she needed to know. She had changed since she had first met Matt, Mia and Freddie six months ago. She hadn’t said anything to anyone, but she’d been working hard on minimizing the clean gene she seemed to have involuntarily activated.
She knew she was a work in progress, but wasn’t everyone?
At least her life now had a smoother cadence. She enjoyed her job as café and holiday site manager and appreciated the autonomy Graham gave her to run the business how she chose, using her own initiative instead of deferring to someone else because she lacked confidence in her skills. She loved her quirky new home and the Merlot-infused nights out with Mia, and now Grace, and couldn’t believe she could boast to Georgina about taking part in a wild camping expedition, despite its disturbing outcome. All she had to do was solve the mystery of who shot Rick and life could return to normal.
Chapter 16
Rosie stared out of the window of her flat. The fields surrounding the windmill were flooded with ivory moonlight almost as bright as day. The arched canopy overhead was overcast and grey and provided the perfect backdrop for the swooping, squawking gang of crows that looked more like overgrown bats and instigated a curl of unease in her stomach. Matt had only dropped her off half an hour ago and had offered to sleep on one of the sofas either in her lounge or downstairs in the café. She regretted her refusal already. Whichever way she looked, north, south, east or west, the shadow-filled scene spread out before her had a malevolent feel.
She turned away, her gaze inevitably falling on her bedroom door. There was no way she could contemplate sleeping in there after the incident with the arrow. It was such a despicable thing to do to stab a child’s soft toy like that! However, it meant that she and Matt must have rattled someone’s cage with the direction of their questions, it was just she had no idea whose. She decided to curl up on the sofa with one of the peppermint and white cashmere throws Graham had brought back from Thailand. She began to relax, staring out at the starry sky, praying that sleep would ambush her before she resorted to the brandy.
Unfortunately, that night sleep played on the opposing team. Rosie glanced at her watch and was amazed to see it was only midnight. She groaned, giving herself a stern talking to about the safety of being upstairs in a windmill that had only one access route via a spiral staircase – through two sturdy locked doors. As she reached forward to switch off the lamp on the table beside her, she heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel gate outside the window.
She sat bolt upright, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might actually escape from her ribcage. Tiny electric spasms of fear coursed through her veins and radiated out to her fingertips and for a moment she couldn’t move. She just sat there, straining her ears, waiting for the next sound to send her imagination into the stratosphere. She thought she was going to have a coronary.
Oh God, was it her turn to be impaled by an arrow? Finally, her brain connected to its modem and she scrambled up from the sofa, grateful she hadn’t undressed for her night on her temporary bed. She ran to the kitchen, mentally running through the available weapons at her disposal and deciding on a carving knife. She grabbed the largest from the wooden block, raising it high above her head in a dramatic fashion, and fixed her eyes on the door leading from the staircase - but nothing happened.
She crept towards the window overlooking the terrace, squinting down through the gloom, terrified about what she might see. Would it be an archer, the string of their bow primed and ready to release the arrow, its tip dipped in poison so that it would kill her instantly? However, she couldn’t see anything and was in the process of persuading herself that she had been hearing things when there was a loud knock on the front door and she let out a terrified scream.
Still clutching the knife for dear life, she scrambled in her bag with her left hand, searching for her mobile to call the police. When eventually she pulled the phone from its slumber at the very bottom of her bag, it slithered from her fingers and fell to the floor. As she leaned down to collect it, there was another even louder knock. This time she paused and her sensible side poked its head above the parapet. What kind of attacker knocked on the door? Twice?
A confident one, or maybe one with nothing to lose!
She was about to dial 999 when a handful of stones rattled against the windowpane and she heard a cry from down below.
‘Rosie? Are you awake?’
‘Omigod, Matt!’
She rushed to the window and opened it, leaning forward so she could see him.
‘What are you doing here? You scared me half to death!’
‘Is that a kitchen knife in your hand?’
‘Yes, it is.’
Rosie had forgotten she was still holding it. She briefly considered telling him she was slicing onions but she knew he wouldn’t believe her and she would have to admit to her mistake of believing she would be fine staying at the flat by herself.
‘Why?’
‘Mitzy is skewered with an arrow and then I hear someone creeping around the windmill in the dark. What would you think?’
‘Ah, yes. I get it. I should have called you from the car park. Do you think you could let me in? I think it could be minus ten out here and I forgot to put on my thermal underwear.’
Rosie smiled as a surge of warmth filtered through her veins. She had never been more pleased to see Matt lingering on her doorstep. She would definitely not be sending him home this time. She knew her limitations when it came to dealing with potential attackers.
‘Erm, why are you here? Not that I’m complaining. I know I should have jumped at your offer to take the sofa. Turns out I’m a big fat coward!’
‘No one can blame you – especially after the most recent development.’
‘What recent development?’
‘So you haven’t seen the news?’
‘No.’
‘When I got home, Mum told me there had been a police announcement on the late bulletin about identifying the fingerprints found on the chisel, and after that I couldn’t let you stay here by yourself, so I raced back like a knight-in-a-muddy-SUV in case you were scared.’
‘I was scared, but it turned out to be your fault!’
Rosie rolled her eyes as she filled the kettle, the delayed reaction to the relief that her midnight intruder was Matt making her feel light-headed.
‘So, come on, don’t keep me in suspense. Whose fingerprints were they?’
‘Brad Cookson’s.’
‘They found Brad Cookson’s fingerprints on a chisel that was hidden under a rock next to our camp ground?’ she gasped. ‘That’s … well, that’s…’
‘I know. I couldn’t get my head round it either.’
‘At least it explains why he and Emma didn’t come to the Drunken Duck last night. But what does it mean? Do the police think he shot Rick?’
‘Before I came over here, I called DS Kirkham at Norfolk Constabulary. He was happy to talk to me because when they spoke to Brad he admitted the chisel was his straight away. He told them that he hadn’t noticed it was missing, and it must have fallen out of his rucksack when he and Emma settled down for the night. The police are keeping an open mind, after all, Rick wasn’t stabbed in the ankle, was he? So, we’re back to square one, not to mention the fact that Ultimate Adventures was fe
atured prominently in the news item! At this rate we’ll be bankrupt before Christmas.’
‘I’m sorry, Matt. Are you okay? You look … well, you look exhausted.’
Matt rubbed the heels of his palms over his eyes and Rosie’s heart gave a nip of sympathy. She handed him a cup of decaffeinated coffee and he offered her a weak smile of gratitude, his usual cheerful expression missing-in-action and replaced by a seriousness she had rarely glimpsed before.
Rosie hated seeing Matt like this and she was desperate to help, yet her own scattered thoughts bombarded her brain. There was something niggling at the back of her mind, some inconsistency that was just beyond reach. She knew that if she was going to solve the mystery of Rick’s injury any time soon, she needed to think outside the self-imposed parameters of orderliness and indulge in a little creative thinking – that was what her father would have advised her to do if he’d been sitting next to her clutching his favourite Agatha Christie novel.
However, there was no way she could do that when her eyelids were drooping, so the most sensible thing to do was for them both to get some sleep and start again in the morning when they had more energy.
‘Matt, I think we should get some rest and then go and talk to Brad and Emma ourselves in the morning.’
‘Agreed, and anyway this coffee is disgusting.’ Matt tried to produce a comedic grimace that didn’t quite work, but some of his habitual chirpiness returned as he lay on the sofa opposite Rosie’s, gave her a wink, and closed his eyes.
Rosie wrapped her throw around her body and spent a few moments studying her unexpected guest. She loved the way his eyelashes flickered against his cheeks, the slight twitch at the corners of his lips, and the slow rhythm of his breathing as sleep took him for its own. An unexpected mellowness descended over the room and erased the jagged edges of her anxiety. She wanted to stay awake all night to watch him sleep, to memorize every detail of Matt Wilson at rest so she could conjure up the image whenever she needed a smile. Sadly, her own cherubs of Morpheus had other ideas and she too was soon dreaming of happier times.
Chapter 17
As dawn dispatched fissures of apricot and salmon light through the leaden sky to the east, Rosie peeled open her eyelids. It took her a few seconds to remember that she had chosen to spend the night curled up on the sofa, but the change of scenery had meant her brain had worked out a plan whilst she slept. She rubbed her fists into her eye sockets and raked her fingers through her wayward curls, knowing she must look like she’d been dragged through the fields behind one of Farmer Giles’ tractors.
With a quick glance in Matt’s direction, she slipped from the room, showered, dressed and went down to the café where she spent the next hour whipping up a feast of breakfast muffins – two dozen with dried cherries, cranberries and cinnamon, two dozen with pumpkin and oats and a handful of toffee pieces, and two dozen with bran and prunes. The baking activity served to allay her nerves and the subsequent stint of extreme cleaning – during which she eradicated every tiny crumb – nudged her spirits even higher.
A delicious aroma rippled through the deserted room, tickling at her nostrils and she almost swooned. How she wished someone would bottle the fragrance of freshly baked cakes and distribute it to the needy. Coupled with freshly ground coffee and the offer of scrambled egg on toast, she hoped she wouldn’t find it too difficult to lure her prey into the café so she could ask the questions she had finalized at 5 a.m. that morning.
She wrapped her old grey hoodie around her shoulders and sprinted to Brad and Emma’s lodge, praying that Brad would answer her knock and not Emma. She hadn’t been able to formulate a believable enough reason if Emma asked her why she’d chosen to invite Brad for breakfast and not her. Even to Rosie, it looked like a shaky excuse to get her clutches on the buttocks of steel that belonged to Brad Cookson. She had noted the excessive possessive streak that inhabited Emma’s character and was loath to be the one to inflame her jealousy.
‘Oh, hi Brad,’ sighed Rosie, wisps of air lingering at her lips when she saw him crouched on his veranda busily untying the laces of his trainers. Clearly he’d been out for an early morning run to dispel the anxiety demons and she was a little surprised that Emma wasn’t at his side. ‘Erm, I’ve made some breakfast muffins if you fancy coming over to the café?’
‘Sounds great. Emma’s still asleep, though. We … well, we both overindulged on the vodka last night and I think she came off worst.’
‘Mmm,’ Rosie said, averting her eyes from the closeness of the fit of his Lycra running shorts. She knew Brad had seen her because a flicker of a smirk flared in his eyes, the colour of liquid chocolate. He really did ooze sex appeal. Every muscle in his body had been honed to peak condition, not overblown from multiple sessions in the gym – just perfectly in proportion. A fleeting image of his naked torso floated across her mind and she felt a spasm of heat radiating from her chest to her face and she cringed.
‘Okay, lead the way.’ Brad grabbed his Gore-Tex cycling jacket and followed Rosie to the café. ‘Do you need any help with the … oh, hi, Matt. I didn’t expect to see you here so early?’ A knowing smile lingered on Brad’s lips as his eyebrows shot into his forehead.
‘How can anyone resist the smell of freshly ground coffee?’
‘Exactly! It smells amazing, Rosie.’
Brad folded his six-foot-three frame into one of the café’s white-washed wooden chairs and dug in to his plate of scrambled eggs, relishing every mouthful before sampling the pyramid of muffins.
‘So, we heard on the news last night that the chisel the police found at the priory belonged to you,’ began Rosie, conversationally.
She saw a shadow of panic flitter across Brad’s handsome face, but he recovered well. She knew he would never be the sharpest tool in the box, but with Emma by his side, that area was amply covered. However, his girlfriend was tucked up in bed nursing a hangover and he had to fend for himself and if the tremble of his fingers on his mug was anything to go by his acting skills would win no awards.
‘Yeah, I carry all sorts of useless stuff with me when we come on trips like this. I didn’t even notice it was missing until they called me about it. It’s not worth much but I’m glad to have it back.’
Brad’s flippant response caused Rosie’s conclusion over the discrepancy between his explanation and the evidence contained in Dan Forrester’s article to crystallize. She levelled her gaze to his and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, flicking his eyes towards the door.
‘So, can you explain how a chisel can accidentally fall out of a rucksack and land underneath a rock?’
‘I…’
Rosie scrolled through the Willerby Gazette’s website until she arrived at the photograph accompanying the article and shoved her phone under Brad’s nose.
‘And if it didn’t fall out, then you must have hidden it.’
‘No, I…’
‘Which means that you didn’t want anyone to find it in your possession,’ continued Matt, keen to ratchet up the pressure on Brad.
‘Well, I…’
Beads of perspiration had started to collect at Brad’s temples, his fidgeting was becoming more pronounced and he held his lower lip between his teeth to stop it from trembling.
‘So, that leads us to assume that you could have hidden a few other belongings that you didn’t want anyone to find.’
‘No, I…’
‘Like a quiver full of arrows and a recurve bow…’
‘Hey, hey, now hang on. I…’
‘Maybe it just started as a bit of a prank to frighten Rick, but unfortunately one of the arrows actually hit the target and you panicked.’
‘I didn’t…’
‘And you had to get rid of the weapon quickly.’
‘Or perhaps,’ said Matt, snatching the deduction baton from Rosie. ‘You were actually aiming for Rick’s chest and missed?’
‘Stop it! Stop it! I had nothing to do with Rick’s injury! Nothing!’
‘Well, we only have your word for that, don’t we? And I might not be a seasoned detective, but it’s not difficult to see that you’re hiding something, Brad, and if that’s the attempted murder of…’
‘Attempted murder?’
Brad’s mouth gaped open and he blanched. Every muscle in his body seemed to deflate like a pricked balloon and Rosie wondered why she had ever found him attractive. His jaw was too angular, his eyes had taken on a heavy, haunted expression and his pallor told her he used fake tan. The outward-bound daredevil had retreated into his protective shell.
‘I did not … I haven’t…’
To Rosie’s astonishment tears began to trickle down Brad’s cheeks. She shot a glance at Matt whose expression displayed a hint of surprise too. She decided to switch tactics by scooting forward to the edge of her seat and offering Brad a smile of sympathy which only caused his face to crumple even more. He dropped his face into his hands and his body began to heave with silent sobs. He looked like a wounded animal, cornered, cowering and expecting the next blow to finish him off.
‘Brad, I’m sorry about asking you all these questions, but after the piece on the news last night, Matt’s business is facing ruin. All we want to do is find out who did this to Rick so that we can just get back to normal. If you know anything, anything at all, you have to tell us.’
Brad accepted the handful of tissues Rosie offered and worked hard to control his emotions. He inhaled a steadying breath and met Matt’s eyes straight on, an expression of intense agony written boldly across his face.
‘Okay. I’ll explain. My brother died five years ago – cancer.’
A spasm of shock ricocheted through Rosie – those heart-breaking words had been the last thing she had expected Brad to utter. She watched him swallow down hard and a determined expression replaced his tears.
