BURY ME DEEP an utterly gripping crime thriller with an epic twist (Detective Rozlyn Priest Book 1)

by Jane Adams

  “What the hell?” She blinked and looked again, then got out of her car and stared hard across the broad, stubble field.

  There was no one and yet, just for that instant she had been certain. She had seen Ethan Merrill together with that tall, red-haired man she had dreamed about at the dig site.

  Rozlyn got back into the car, unable to shake off the feeling of disorientation. On impulse, she pulled a road map out from beneath the seat and traced with her finger the road she had just travelled, then, as best she could, tracked across country towards the dig site. A mile, maybe two across the fields, that was it. With all the bends and twists in the rural road, she had lost touch with its proximity. Could Ethan have gone there? Could he then have walked across that particular field just in time for Rozlyn to see him and with that other one too . . . the odds would have taken Douglas Adams to calculate.

  “You need a holiday,” Rozlyn told herself. She had plenty of time owing that she never seemed to take and it was well overdue for her to go back across the pond to see her grandfather. Leave it too long, she reminded herself, and it might well be too late.

  Impatient now with these imaginings, she swung the car back onto the road, cursing the inadequate lock that meant, despite her misgivings, she had to reverse and take a second bite. Rozlyn checked the road and glanced again into the rear-view mirror, then yelped in shock.

  Turning to look into the back seat, she reassured herself that it was empty, but in that instant she had glanced into the mirror it had seemed that deep blue eyes had been staring back.

  She’d stalled the car and was half blocking the carriageway. A horn blared loud and painful as a 4x4 hurtling round the bend had to track onto the verge to get around.

  “What the fuck?” Rozlyn’s hands were shaking and her breathing ragged and painful. She managed to restart the car and complete the manoeuvre, driving away slowly until she regained control, her entire body shaking as though she had a fever.

  The phone rang again. It was Brook, demanding to know how long she was going to be.

  “As long as it bloody takes,” Rozlyn told him angrily and rang off before Brook could say another word.

  * * *

  As it happened, Rozlyn arrived in time to see Brook and a dozen other officers escort a group of frightened people from the Curzon Street house.

  “Oh, turned up at last, have we? Get in there and give Jenny a hand. Second floor.”

  With what? Rozlyn wanted to ask, but Brook was already yelling at someone else, so she decided not to bother. The house was cold: the radiator in the hall freezing to the touch, the stairs uncarpeted. Her footsteps echoed.

  Jenny was in a second-floor bedroom with another officer, trying to make a young woman understand that they did not intend to hurt her. Crouched in a corner, she clutched something tightly to her chest refusing to move. Jenny knelt facing her. The bare boards were scuffed and worn, badly laid where they’d been lifted at some time for plumbing or wiring to be installed and the wood beneath Jenny’s knees was sharply splintered. Thread from her black trousers had caught, Rozlyn noticed, and the edges of the board made a hole in the knee. As she shifted position to get closer to the woman, she noted too the smear of blood she left behind.

  “You’ve hurt yourself.”

  “It’s these bloody boards. It doesn’t matter, but these were a good pair of trousers.”

  “Send the bill to Brook. What’s going on here?”

  “We got the rest out. This one panicked and ran back upstairs. I don’t know what she thinks we’re going to do.”

  “We’re police,” Rozlyn said. “Who the hell knows what that means wherever she came from. She looks frozen.”

  “Not surprised. It’s colder in here than outside. God knows when this place last had the heating on.”

  “Obviously, our mysterious Mr T is a thrifty bastard.”

  She moved forward and dropped down beside Jenny so she too was eye level with the woman and extended her hands slowly thinking that if Jenny couldn’t get through to her, she very much doubted her own chances. ”It’s OK,” she said softly. “No one will hurt you. No one will do anything you don’t want them to.”

  “Except send her back,” Jenny muttered beneath her breath.

  “Except that,” Rozlyn agreed. “Come on now, let’s go somewhere warm. Are we getting a translator sent?”

  “If we can figure out what language she speaks.”

  “Good point. I’m surprised Brook didn’t just drag her out.”

  “The press have been tipped off. One of the neighbours spotted us when we came in. Hard not to, we made enough noise. Brook is of the opinion that a photographer is bound to show up the moment we appear on the steps carrying our unwilling victim here. Wouldn’t look good. Even Brook gets a bit sensitive these days.”

  “Brook, sensitive!”

  “Wants his full pension in three years’ time, doesn’t he? Anything untoward that could force early retirement and Brook wicks off and leaves someone else, namely us, to take the flak.”

  “I have to say, your opinion of our beloved leader leaves something to be desired.”

  Jenny grinned, then turned back to the woman. “Come on,” she gestured, shifting just a little closer. ”Let’s get somewhere warm, get some food.” She gestured eating and drinking and the woman moaned as though she were in pain.

  “You think she’s all right?

  “I think she’s just scared.”

  The bundle in her arms moved.

  “Oh my God, she’s got a baby.” Jenny leaned towards her and the woman edged away crying out in panic.

  “Hush now,” Rozlyn spoke softly. She moved sideways, blocking the woman in case she should make a sudden break for the door. She couldn’t get far but she’d rather not have to chase this frightened woman carrying her tiny child down those godawful steep stairs. “Hush now,” she said again. “Shhh. Don’t cry.” Her voice had taken on an almost sing-song quality, like a parent comforting a child woken with nightmares. She inched forward. “Hush now, sweet, nothin’s goin’ to harm you.” The words were her grandmother’s, the rhythm too. “Nothin’ bad. You come with me.”

  The woman was watching, but she was silent now, observing Rozlyn with wide, round, brown eyes. She clasped the baby closer, pulling the blanket round it when it moved again. Rozlyn was so close now she could feel the nervous, half-drawn breath upon her own skin. She leaned in and looked down at the baby. “Oh, she’s so sweet. Does she have a name?” She reached out and, with one finger, stroked the baby’s cheek. The woman whimpered, shifted even further into her corner.

  “Hush, now,” Rozlyn told her again. “Let’s go somewhere we can both get warm.”

  She extended one hand and, reluctantly, the woman took it and permitted Rozlyn to raise her to her feet and lead her towards the door. They took the stairs slowly, Jenny bringing up the rear, Rozlyn leading, still holding the woman’s hand. Now that she’d allowed that touch, she didn’t seem ready to let go.

  The cameras, as Brook predicted, were on hand when they reached the front door. Brook would be proud, Rozlyn reflected as she helped the woman into the car, Jenny beside her. The human, multi-ethnic side of policing would make it onto the front page and earn him a few brownie points.

  She stepped back onto the pavement and watched the car drive away, then faced the chilly representatives of the local press ranged before her. She knew them all, greeted them by name. Carl from the Mail and Rob from the Rutland and District. “You got a new photographer, Rob?”

  “Yes, Frankie, joined us a month ago. Got a statement Inspector?”

  “Hi Frankie. Pleased to meet you. Be sure and get my best side now. Not much to tell, I’m afraid. I arrived late and missed most of it.”

  “Ooh, you’ll be getting a tardy mark for that.”

  Rozlyn laughed. “OK, we think we have a network bringing illegal immigrants into the country. We think they’re from Eastern Europe, presumably some country not yet part of the
EU or they could apply for work visas and come here legitimately.” She shrugged. “Until we’ve interviewed them, I can’t even tell you their nationality. That’s about it really. I’m as ignorant as you lot.”

  There was a murmur of good-natured grumbling, but they’d got their pictures and their statements and Rozlyn knew they were perfectly capable of building the rest of the story for themselves. In fact, she suspected there might even be resentment if she didn’t confer that opportunity.

  Rozlyn allowed one more photo and then made her way back to the car, hoping no one noticed that she checked the back seat before getting inside.

  CHAPTER 23

  “I had a wife and son,” Treven was not drunk, exactly, but was certainly well on the road to that destination. Kendryk, though he’d matched him cup for cup, showed no sign.

  “What happened to them?”

  “Raiders came, wiped out my family, drove off the livestock. Took over my land.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Away on the King’s business. They died in springtime. It was near winter before I knew of it.”

  “And what pains you most, that you did not know or that you were absent from them when they needed you?”

  “Both,” Treven said shortly. He drank deep, first of the mead and then from the jug of steeped herbs Osric had placed beside him. The two battled, both in his mouth and his belly. “We should summon Hugh,” he said.

  “You stated such an hour ago. Two hours ago.”

  “Which?”

  “Both.”

  “Oh.” Treven fell silent. They had argued the matter from all angles and Kendryk had finally delivered a solution, though it was not one Treven liked. “My Grandsire traced his lineage back to Wotan himself. My mother too, kept faith with his gods, though she said the prayers of Christ also, to honour my father’s wishes.”

  “As does Guthrum no doubt.”

  “He is no longer Guthrum. You should know that, Priest. He took another name. A Christian name.”

  “So he did,” Kendryk leaned forward and refilled both their cups. He lifted the jug containing Osric’s stomach medicine and sniffed. “Water mint, vervain. I cannot tell what else.”

  Treven shrugged. “Ask him. His mother taught him the skill. She died also when the invaders came. Do you believe in Guthrum’s conversion?”

  “It is not my place to believe, only to accept,” Kendryk told him sententiously.

  Treven eyed him with suspicion “And that means?”

  “It means that the King was wise to give a cornered beast a way of escape. He avoided Guthrum’s teeth and Guthrum avoided dishonour.”

  “Or death. Aelfred would have killed him.”

  “Would that have troubled Guthrum? I think not. He is a man raised in the shadow of death. For that matter, so is Aelfred. If either feared it even for a moment they would crush such thoughts beneath a shoe heel, but both he and Aelfred knew that to kill Guthrum would give only reason and space for another to rise in his place. Conversion was convenient. Guthrum will say the words that he must say and keep his own counsel in his heart.”

  “And you approve of that?”

  “I see the expediency of it. In the end, God will judge. Thankfully, we can offer up that final responsibility to him.”

  Treven fell silent. To offer final judgement of Hugh to the Almighty was exactly what Kendryk had earlier proposed. All Father, Treven breathed, not knowing at that moment which version of God he addressed, should I permit this? Guide me now.

  “I measure the man by his strength in battle and his courage,” Treven said slowly. “Twice my life has been saved by Hugh’s skill and three times I have kept him from death. Many others, too numerous to count, have we watched the other’s back and fought odds I choose not to remember.”

  “Then you are an unusual man,” Kendryk returned Treven’s earlier observation to him.

  “How so?”

  “Most men choose not only to recall the odds, but to double those they met in battle.”

  Treven snorted. “When I am certain that the land is at peace and I have solved this dilemma with Hugh, then I will find a scop worthy of the name who can sing of my glory in battle, and he may raise the odds to suit his song. You’ll forgive me if I wait a season or two meantime.”

  “I will forgive you that. But I must insist on an invitation to your new built hall and a place of honour at your feast. I would hear the lay of Treven of Theadingford.”

  “You can mock, Priest.”

  “Indeed I can. It is a skill I seek, daily, to perfect.”

  Treven’s laughter exploded, disturbing the peace of the monks who slept beside the door. “How did you become a man of God?” he demanded. “You are as unsuited to the task as Hugh would be.”

  Kendryk nodded slowly. “I have learnt to make the best of it,” he said. “Something I believe Hugh could never do. As to how? The way is similar. I am a younger son of a Frankish father. To avoid conversion by the sword at the hands of the Holy Emperor, his father, my grandsire, spoke the words of conversion and promised a son to the church. The first of each generation were kept, to be heir to their lands. The second they gave to God. I was a boy of six when I left my home. I’ve seen nothing of it since.”

  Treven stared at him. “I hope you have no such children at that Abbey of yours. A man may choose to make peace and settle to the holy life, but a child or a boy should be allowed to grow as the gods intended.”

  Kendryk raised an eyebrow, but Treven seemed unaware or uncaring of his slip. “Sometimes,” he said softly, “it is better for a child to be homed with the brothers than unwanted and ill fed. You and I must disagree on this, King’s Thegn.”

  Treven frowned but let it pass, another thought had drifted into his inebriated brain and he felt inclined to speak of it. “Do you believe the land has spirits in it?”

  “Reluctantly. But, yes.”

  “What sway do the old gods have when the new ones come to take their place?”

  “As much as they ever did, which is why we should be always on our guard. Why?”

  “Because when I first came to this place it seemed to me I saw evil omens at every turn and since then . . . I have had strange dreams, Priest. Have you the skill of Joseph to interpret them?” He tried to keep his voice light and his mood seemingly untroubled, but the mead and the memory of these visions conspired to put a tremor in his voice. He drank again to steady his nerve.

  “Tell me of these dreams and I will aspire, at least, to Joseph’s virtues.”

  “You mock me again?”

  “Sometimes it is easier to reply to mockery than to sincerity. Tell me anyway since you’ve a mind to?”

  Treven drew a deep breath and held it before he began. “I saw two omens. On the day I came here there was a man hanged facing a wooden cross up on the hill above my home.”

  “I know the place.”

  “I looked at the figure on the cross and it seemed to me I could not tell clearly if it was an image of the Christ or of the All Father, but that was not the thing . . . the thing that troubled me.”

  “What then?”

  “The bird. It was the bird, pegged down. Its wings fastened to the ground. A great black thing like a battle crow. It sickened me to see it captured and I cannot yet tell you why, though I’ve given so much thought to the matter . . .”

  “What did you do about it?”

  Treven looked uneasily at Kendryk, still not certain about the man; he was, nonetheless, drawn to him. “I set it free,” he said.

  “It was still living? Treven you’d have done better to put the poor creature from its misery.”

  “No, it was dead. I . . . had my men pull it free and ordered it burned.”

  “Burned? Why?”

  Treven sighed. “I followed my mother’s teaching,” he confessed.

  “The Christian or Heathen side of her?”

  “The Heathen, I suppose. My mother was a woman of great wisdom and learning. She could r
ead the Latin text and the Runic and Frisian script of her ancestors. She had us all, her children, taught to do the same. I knew what she would have done in this instance, a creature of the air should be set free into the air and the swiftest way to do this was with fire.”

  “So that its spirit could rise with the smoke towards the gods,” Kendryk nodded. “I have heard of such customs. Treven, I will not blame you for this. The sight upset you and you sought remedy. But you spoke of two omens; what was the second?”

  Treven hesitated, he still failed to understand his dream and it troubled him more than he liked to think. He was shamed by it. He’d woken in panic. Treven, a warrior, battle hardened and blooded more times than he could count with the gore of his enemies. “I had a dream,” he said softly. “In my dream I saw the All Father.”

  “You saw Odin?”

  “Wotan, yes. He walked in the guise of an old man with flowing silver hair. But I knew him by his blind eye and . . . and the power within him. Kendryk, I could sense his strength. I saw him walking from the woodland beside my hall and walking with him was a stranger from the far south. Her skin almost black and her hair loose and curling all about her head. Her clothes were strange and she looked bewildered as though finding herself in an unfamiliar place. I knew the Lord Wotan had brought her here and I knew the reason must be a warning.”

  “You dreamed of this only once?”

  Treven shook his head. “The first time was a brief matter. I had fallen asleep beside the fire. Hugh was talking to me but his words failed to hold my interest and I dozed. In my dream I saw them walking. Then the second time was the night before Cate was found. I saw them again and this time I saw other things. Faces of dead comrades, and worse, their hands reached out to me as thought to pull me down. Kendryk, if I had not woken . . .”