by George Mann
“Yes, but her bedroom,” pressed Griffiths.
“Well, I was trying to find her,” said Elspeth. She supposed it might seem a bit strange now that she’d explored the house as much as she had, but she’d been so intent on finding the woman. “I suppose I was concerned that something might be wrong. The front door was unlocked, but she wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen. I called up the stairs and didn’t get an answer, but knowing she might not be able to hear me properly, it seemed like the right thing to do, to make sure she was okay.”
“But she wasn’t okay, was she?” said Griffiths. There was no accusation in her voice, thankfully, but nevertheless, her stern manner was putting Elspeth on edge. Peter had said she had a tendency to jump to conclusions – Elspeth only hoped she wasn’t going to jump to the wrong conclusion.
“No. She wasn’t,” said Elspeth. “I called the emergency services the moment I found her.”
“And you didn’t touch the body, or check for life signs?”
“No. It was pretty evident I was too late for that.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?” said Griffiths. She started tapping her wedding band on the table again. She was an attractive woman, with flawless brown skin and almond-coloured eyes. Her hair was tied back, and she was wearing only the slightest hint of make-up. Elspeth wished she could get away with such lightness of touch.
“What makes you say that?”
Griffiths shrugged. “You have the demeanour of a city girl.”
What was that supposed to mean? She wondered if it was really that obvious, if she’d really been so affected by her time in London.
“I grew up in Wilsby-under-Wychwood,” said Elspeth. “I’m back to stay with my mum for a bit.”
Griffiths smiled, as if to say ‘I told you so’. “And you’ve already got a job on the local newspaper?”
“No,” said Elspeth. “I’m doing a couple of freelance assignments, that’s all. Look, I got made redundant recently, split up with my boyfriend – I came home to get away from it all.”
Griffiths stared at her, as if weighing her up. “Alright, we’re done here. PC Chambers will be along soon to help you write up your statement. Someone will see you home after that.” They’d already taken her clothes for processing, leaving her dressed in a white paper suit. She’d had her fingerprints and DNA swabs taken too.
Griffiths pushed her chair back and got to her feet. “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all of this, Miss Reeves. It’s a hell of a thing, finding a body like that.”
Elspeth nodded. Griffiths wasn’t wrong – she kept having flashbacks to the moment she’d walked into the room: the glossy streaks of blood upon the woman’s pale flesh, the ragged holes in her chest where the killer had forced the scissors in, the bloody handprint on the mirror. She shuddered again at the unbidden memory. “Do you think you’ll catch them?”
“That’s our job,” said Griffiths.
Elspeth nodded, and Griffiths left the room.
She sat back in her chair, staring at the bare walls of the interview room. After a moment, she heard the door handle turn, and looked round to see Peter standing there, his face etched with concern. “Ellie? Oh my god, what happened?”
She painted on a smile. “Oh, you know, found another body. All in a day’s work at the moment, it seems.”
His shoulders dropped as he visibly relaxed. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”
“In lieu of anything stronger, I could murder a coffee?” She realised what she’d said. “Sorry, that was an unfortunate phrase.”
Peter smiled. “Coming up,” he said. He disappeared for a couple of minutes, and then reappeared with a Styrofoam cup. He placed it on the table before her and dropped into the seat that had previously been occupied by Griffiths. “There you go. Tastes dreadful, but at least it’s strong.”
She picked it up and took a sip, nearly scalding her lips. Hastily, she put it down again. “And hot.”
“So, tell me.”
Elspeth gave a weary sigh. “Forgive me for not wanting to go through it all again, but basically I turned up to do that interview with the elderly competition winner and found her dead. She’d been stabbed repeatedly with a pair of scissors. She was a real mess.”
Peter winced. “God. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Me too,” she said. She reached out and touched the back of his hand. “But thanks for coming to check on me. I’m fine, really. It’s been a miserable day, but I’m alright. I’ve got to give a formal statement in a minute, and then I’m going home for a long soak in the bath.”
“I’ll buy you a stiff drink later, if you want?”
She shook her head. “Not tonight. Thanks for asking. I think I just want to curl up with a book.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I can understand that. Another time.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Peter looked at his watch. “Look, I’ve got to run. I’m sorry. I’ve got a briefing…”
“Go,” she said, waving him away. “You’re working. Get out of here. I’m fine.”
“I’ll call you,” he said, as he left the room.
Elspeth took a sip of her coffee, and hoped that PC Chambers wouldn’t be too much longer. She wanted to get it all over and done with, and get back to Wilsby-under-Wychwood and her computer. She’d had a crappy day, and the very least she could do was turn it into a story.
* * *
The statement process had proved as laborious as she’d feared, but at least it was over with, and now she was back at home and curled up on the sofa reading Philip Cowper’s book.
She’d told her mum all about it, of course – sparing her the grisliest of details – and Dorothy had listened intently, given her a hug, and made her a strong cup of tea. Now she was busy preparing some food in the kitchen. She wondered what her mum was making of all this. Elspeth had suddenly come roaring back into her life, invaded her home, and then gone and got herself involved in two murder enquiries, all in the space of a couple of days. And that was on top of all the problems with Andrew, and her job, and what the hell she was going to do in the future. If Dorothy was troubled by any of it, though, she was putting on a stoic face. Elspeth made a mental note to tell her mum how much she appreciated it.
She put the book down for a minute and checked her phone for any sign of email. The first thing she’d done after getting home was to dash off a piece for Meredith about the murder. She’d opted for a short account of what she’d discovered at the house on Windsom Road, how the police had responded, and her experience discovering the body – all the details the police were allowing her to give. She had no idea if the piece would ever see print, but she felt she needed to do something.
It wasn’t exactly what Meredith was expecting – a puff piece about a local wildlife competition – but she had no intention of losing out on the freelance fee, so instead she’d delivered the story she could tell. It was late, she knew that, but it was good, and the circumstances were in her favour.
She’d delivered it over three hours ago, though, and she’d yet to hear anything back. She’d also fired off a bunch of emails to editors and former colleagues in London, telling them she was on the lookout for freelance work. Her inbox, though, was full of marketing spam, subscriptions, and messages from her London friends, asking after how she was doing. She’d have to respond to them sooner or later, but for now, she didn’t want to get dragged back into that world. Not yet.
She placed her phone back on the arm of the sofa. She hadn’t heard anything more from Peter, either.
“You know, that name, Patricia Graves. It’s familiar for some reason. Was she well known?” Dorothy shouted through from the kitchen.
“I don’t think so. I asked around a bit in preparation for the interview. As far as I can tell she was a bit of a lonely old lady. She lost her husband some years ago. No kids, and no remaining family. She’d been a foster carer years ago, apparently, but gave it up when her husband
died. Winning that photography competition was the only notable thing to happen to her for a decade.”
Dorothy stuck her head around the doorframe. “Did you say foster kids?”
“Mmmm hmmm,” murmured Elspeth, leafing through the pages of Cowper’s book. There was very little detail in the text, barely more than she’d found in her old book on the mythology of Oxfordshire, but the illustrations were livid and grotesque, watercolours which looked as though they were based on the old woodcuts in her own book, along with depictions of the Carrion King carrying out rituals in the Wychwood, drawing circles in the soil with a staff, and peering into the shimmering surface of a mirror.
“That’s it, then,” said Dorothy, as she popped back in from the kitchen bearing another mug of tea.
Elspeth thanked her and accepted it with a smile, warming her hands on the ceramic. “What’s that?”
“Tea, love.”
“No, not the tea. You said ‘that’s it, then’.”
“Oh, Patricia Graves. That’s why I recognised her name.”
“I’m sorry, Mum. You’ve lost me. I was looking at my book…”
“Don’t worry. It’s not important. It’s probably thirty or forty years ago now. Water under the bridge.”
Elspeth folded the book shut on her lap. “Tell me.”
“There’s not much to tell. It’s just… I seem to remember a story from the late seventies, about a foster child that went missing. A runaway. There was a big deal about it at the time, and for some reason that woman’s name is lodged in my head. Patricia Graves. I could be wrong, it was all a long time ago, but it certainly sounds familiar.” She shrugged. “Anyway, not that it matters now. Poor woman. It sounds as if she’d had a pretty miserable life.”
Elspeth sipped at her tea. Perhaps she’d do a bit of digging, see if there was anything interesting in this foster kid story. It might form the basis of a longer piece.
“Ellie?”
“Sorry, Mum. Did you say something?”
Dorothy sighed ruefully. “You’re miles away, aren’t you? Only to be expected, really. I said do you mind if I turn the TV over? EastEnders is on in a minute. Only if you’re not watching this…”
“You go ahead. I’m going to have a bath, and then chill out with my book.”
“Good idea, love. You’ve had so much going on recently. You deserve some rest. Tea’ll be ready soon.”
Elspeth peeled herself off the sofa, stretched her weary limbs and kissed her mum on the top of her head. Her hair smelled of lavender. “Thanks, Mum.”
She made it to the top of the stairs before her phone vibrated. She placed her mug on the windowsill on the landing, tucked the book under her arm, and checked the screen. It was an email from Meredith.
Nice piece. I’ll run it on the website. Get me more on the murders, I’ll run them too, same fee. Daily updates as things develop.
Meredith.
Elspeth grinned. Well, at least that was something positive to come out of the day’s events.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“You look nice,” said Peter. He was standing in the doorway of the cottage, dressed in his usual grey suit and looking a little windswept. He hastily brushed his hair with his fingers. It made little difference to his shaggy mop. “Are you off somewhere? I don’t want to interrupt.”
“Just into Heighton,” said Elspeth, smoothing the front of her dress. She was running out of clean clothes, so had been forced to resort to a black dress that she usually reserved for evenings out. She was going to have to pick up some more jeans in town.
“Well, I’m heading that way,” said Peter. “And there’s news on the case. I thought you’d be interested.” He kicked at the step with the side of his shoe – a habit he’d had since he was a boy.
Elspeth grinned. “Of course. Come on, you can tell me in the car.” She grabbed her purse and bustled him out into the gusty morning. It was spitting rain, but warm, and they ran to the end of the garden path, where Peter had parked his blue Ford Focus up on the kerb.
“You know, when we were kids, I thought you’d end up with a bright red racing car or something,” she said, as she opened the door. “This is all very… normal.”
“Like I said, people grow up,” said Peter. “Besides, it’s a pool car from work.” She waited until he’d finished his manoeuvre and they were pulling away down the road. “So, what news?”
“It’s a bit grim,” said Peter. “We’ve had the autopsy report on Lucy Adams.”
“Let me guess – she was poisoned?” said Elspeth.
Peter nodded. “Yeah. Whoever killed her was sticking to the stories pretty closely. Even their choice of poison seems to reflect the mediaeval roots of the story – if you’ll forgive my pun.”
“I’m sorry?”
“She was injected with a concentrated extract of nightshade.”
“How horrible.”
Elspeth pictured the woman’s slack-jawed face and shuddered. “And forensics? There must be something to go on, some evidence he left on her body?”
“He was careful,” said Peter. “We found her clothes on the canal path. They’d been doused in lighter fluid and burned. Out there, in the woods, there’s very little chance of picking up a stray hair or fingerprint, and the only identifiable fibres we could find on the body were from her own clothes, or strands torn from crow feathers. There was nothing of his on her handbag.”
“So we’re no closer to finding her killer,” said Elspeth.
“Not necessarily. Uniform are appealing for any witnesses along the canal. It’s a popular dog-walking spot.” He reached for a mint from the packet in the cup holder and popped it into his mouth, passing them to her so she could help herself.
Elspeth nodded. “Thanks.”
Peter turned the car down the road towards Heighton. “So, have you decided if you’re sticking around, then?”
Elspeth considered her answer. She’d been ruminating on it all night, and after talking it over with her mum over breakfast, she’d decided to give it at least another week before heading back to London. This seemed to be where the story was at the moment, and she still couldn’t face the idea of going back to the flat to collect her things. Besides, she didn’t have anywhere to put them yet – she couldn’t stay with Dorothy indefinitely, and if she was going to rent somewhere, she’d have to figure out where she wanted to be. “For now,” she said. “You’ll have to put up with me for another week or so, at least.”
“Hmmm, when you put it like that…” said Peter.
Elspeth jabbed him with her elbow. “You were supposed to say something nice at that point.”
“I was?” he said, with mock innocence. “How about, ‘Do you want to come and help me interview that author, Michael Williams?’ Is that nice enough?”
“It’ll do,” she said, laughing.
“He lives over in Ascott-under-Wychwood. I can drop you in Heighton first if you’d rather?”
“No, Heighton can wait,” said Elspeth. “Provided, of course, we can stop for coffee on the way?”
* * *
The drive down to Ascott-under-Wychwood was quaint, sleepy, and picturesque. Sheep dotted the hillside like daisies run rampant across an unkempt lawn, and shafts of pale sunlight speared through broken clouds, searchlights sent to dispel the late morning mist.
Peter’s playful banter had subsided during the drive over, and she suspected he was going through the mental equivalent of changing gears, preparing himself for the interview. She left him to it.
She was still feeling a little uncomfortable interfering with a police investigation, and potentially putting Peter in a difficult position in the process. Aside from her trespassing at the scene of Lucy Adams’s murder, though, she supposed all she’d really done so far was help him question a bookshop owner about some ancient mythology. And now this. She wondered what to expect from Michael Williams.
She’d never read any of his books, although she’d seen them from time to time in
bookshops and airports and he’d done well out of that sudden interest in historical conspiracy thrillers a few years earlier with a murder mystery about the spirits of dead Knights Templars in Lincolnshire, or something to that effect. And now, according to Philip Cowper, he was writing a novel about the Carrion King.
The satnav issued its polite command to turn left, and Peter swung the car along a narrow lane, and then on through the heart of the village. On the right she could see the spire of the old church, and a breaker’s yard filled with the skeletal hulks of half a dozen old Beetles.
They turned left again, past a small shop, and then on out of the village down a narrow country lane. After a few minutes, the satnav warned them of a right turn approaching.
“So he lives on a farm?” she said.
“More that he lives in the farmhouse, I think,” said Peter. “This hasn’t been a working farm for some time. Look how overgrown the fields are.”
She peered through the windscreen as the car jostled and bounced along the dirt track to the house. There were a couple of forlorn-looking horses in one of the fields, and the ruins of a barn in another, but Peter was right – the place looked more or less abandoned, desolate.
The farmhouse itself, however, was something else entirely. It was a grand Georgian affair, rectangular and slab-like, with rows of tall, symmetrical windows, and a portico over the door. They pulled up on the gravel driveway, tyres crunching across the stones.
A quick glance at the house told her a woman was peeking out of one of the downstairs windows. “Are we expected?”
“No,” said Peter. “I usually find it’s best to catch people off guard. That way they haven’t had time to prepare in advance.”
“Sneaky,” said Elspeth.
“Standard practice, in these circumstances,” said Peter. He opened the door and climbed out of the car. She followed suit.
It was windy and exposed, and she could feel rain beginning to spot on her arms and the back of her neck. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get on with it.”
Peter approached the grand entrance. The door was painted a rich navy blue, and looked as if it had received a fresh coat fairly recently. The fittings were brass, the knocker cast to resemble a lion’s head with a sweeping mane. Not that these people were ostentatious in any way, Elspeth considered.
