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

by Jane Adams

  Hugh took the first faltering step. He held his hand away from his body, holding it before his own eyes as though it pointed the direction he must take. The second step, the stink of flesh grown stronger now that it had reached bone. Treven was certain he could catch that acrid stench. The third step, Hugh cried out for the first time, head thrown back as he roared his pain to the clear blue sky. The fourth step and the fifth, he almost stumbled. Treven knew he could not release the bar now even if he’d a wish to. It would have forged itself to his flesh as tightly as the smith forged metal to metal. The sixth step and his hand dropped almost to his side. He was faltering now, his feet stumbling on the path and his cry failed to just a childish whimper.

  The seventh step was taken, but he had almost lost his footing. “Sweet Lord,” Treven heard him cry. “Help me.”

  Treven groaned. Drawn towards Hugh he reached out to help him make those final steps. He was close enough to feel the heat of the bar wrapped so tightly in Hugh’s hand. The colour was fading now to that of straw, heat passed into flesh and bone.

  “For pity’s sake,” Treven whispered fiercely as Kendryk took his arm and ordered him to stay.

  “He must take all nine paces alone, King’s Thegn. You cannot help him.”

  Treven fixed his eyes on Hugh’s face, willing him on. He could see that Hugh was sick with pain. The eighth step taken, then the ninth, one stubborn foot forced before the other, Hugh fell to the ground and Kendryk gave the signal. The smith came forward with a leather bucket filled with water. He tipped this over Hugh’s burning hand, the flesh smouldering and black from palm to fingertip. Then he bent down and dragged the metal bar from the clawed and welded grip. Hugh screamed as what was left of his flesh ripped from his palm. Treven could only watch as the monks lifted him and carried him away. The hand would be bandaged and left. If after three days Hugh had not died and the wound showed signs of healing, he would be declared innocent of all crimes and they could treat his injuries and give him poppy to kill the pain. Treven closed his eyes, then opened them again, aware that Kendryk was speaking to the smith, though it took a moment for his words to make sense.

  The smith turned away and returned to his forge carrying the now cooling bar.

  “What did you say to him?” Treven did not think he’d heard right.

  “I told him to forge a new sword, to weave that metal into the heart of it. It should hold great power, King’s Thegn.”

  Treven stared at him. “Sometimes I doubt you follow the Christ,” he said. “Your thoughts are more like those of my heathen grandsire.”

  “And I have told you, the land does not forget and neither does the metal torn from the womb of the earth. Better the sword be made and be presented to me for safekeeping than let it loose into the world. Treven, I have no more liking for this display than have you. I would prevent the effects from spilling further into this land.” He smiled, then: “and, besides, does not that Heliand Gospel of yours teach that the Christ was a great warrior, worthy of a woven sword?”

  He followed after his men and Hugh and left Treven open- mouthed and gawping like an ill-mannered child. The crowd began to disperse, their interest no longer held now that Hugh was gone and nothing would be known for three more days. Treven listened to their gossip as they went, aware that this incident would be told and retold with much enrichment in the months and winters to come. Aware too, that he had done himself no harm in permitting it. He felt sickened. After a moment of hesitation, wondering if he should accompany Kendryk, he decided he could take no more. He called for his horse and servants and returned to his own Hall.

  CHAPTER 27

  Clara Buranou sat in the interview room with her coat pulled tight round her skinny body and stared, her face stony and drawn, at the coffee Rozlyn had placed on the table. The room was bare but for a red-topped table, four wooden chairs and a tape player fixed onto the wall. The scuffed floor showed the marks of chair legs and years of restless feet. The walls had not been repainted in the decade and more Rozlyn had known it. She found their industrial flecked grey utterly depressing.

  “Where were you going?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “You’d bought a ticket?”

  “Yes. To Scotland.”

  “Why Scotland?”

  “It is far away.” Clara sighed and shifted in her seat, reached for the coffee and drank the scalding liquid in one go.

  “Would you like some more? Are you hungry?”

  Clara weighed Rozlyn with tired blue eyes, studying her face as though to catch the double meaning behind the words. The tape in the machine hummed softly and Jenny crossed her legs, the skim of fabric on fabric unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

  Finally, Clara nodded.

  “OK, I’ll send for more coffee and some sandwiches. Will that do? Is there anything you don’t eat?”

  Clara shrugged and then shook her head. “I am not fussy,” she said. Then, “Thank you.”

  Rozlyn regarded the young woman thoughtfully. “Charlie Higgins cleaned for the man who brings people like you into the country,” she said. “Is that how you met him?”

  Clara hesitated and then sighed again, nodding her head. “You will send me back?”

  “That’s not up to me. I’m just a police officer.”

  “But I will be sent back?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t know. Where is ‘back’?”

  “Kosovo. A little village.”

  “And what made you leave?”

  “There was no one to make me stay. No one left.”

  Rozlyn hesitated. There was so much here she’d like to know, but if it did not directly concern Charlie’s murder, then this wasn’t the time to be asking.

  Brook came into the room followed by an officer carrying coffee and sandwiches. Brook took them from him and then placed them on the table in front of Clara. “DCI Brook has entered the room,” he announced for the tape. “The time is two fifty-eight p.m. on the afternoon of October fourth.” Brook grabbed the spare chair and turned it around, sitting astride. “If you want to take a break now, you can, or you can eat and talk, that’s up to you.”

  “I can talk,” she told him. She studied him as closely as she had Rozlyn and then turned her attention back to the coffee and food.

  “What have you been doing since you left your flat?” Rozlyn asked.

  “I walked. I think about what to do. I walk some more. Last night, I sleep outside.”

  “It was very cold last night.”

  She nodded. “So today, I decide to catch a bus.”

  “When you met Charlie, was it at one of the houses?”

  She took a bite of sandwich and nodded, chewing fast so she could answer. “I arrived with others, they all went away. I did not know where to go. I came back to the house, they had told me not to, but I had nowhere else to go. I come back to the house to ask where should I go; what should I do? No one is there but Charlie. I sit on the steps and I tell him. He takes me to his home but I cannot stay there. People will see. Charlie finds me a place to live and work. I see him sometimes, but not often. People will see and Charlie will be in trouble. Charlie Higgins is a good man.”

  “These others that came into the country with you, where did they go to?”

  She shook her head violently. “I do not know. Some left in another car before we reach here. Others, two women, they leave with a man. I do not go with them. He promise work in a restaurant, but . . .” She shook her head. “I have seen this kind of man. He say, if I do not go, then I will find my own work and place to stay and I must go away from that place. So, I go, but two days later, I go back. No one is there except Charlie.”

  “And when was this. When did you arrive?”

  “It is May the fourth when I get here. May of last year.”

  “Do you think anyone saw you with Charlie?” Brook asked her.

  She shook her head but then nodded. “I did not think so, but Charlie did. He is frightened.”

  “And w
hen was this?”

  “Two weeks ago. Charlie say I should be ready to leave. Soon he will have big money and we can go to Scotland.”

  “Why Scotland?”

  “I do not know. Charlie wanted to go there. He had never been.”

  “And this money. Where was it going to come from?”

  She shrugged helplessly. “He say he has something to sell. Something of value that is very old. He does not tell me more.”

  “Did you have a relationship with Charlie Higgins?” Brook asked her.

  She looked away and took another large bite of sandwich, and then finally she shook her head. “Charlie was my friend, but if he asked me to, I would have had relationship with him,” she said simply. “He is a good man. I like him. I am sorry he is dead.”

  Brook rose and beckoned Rozlyn to the door. Jenny announced their departure for the tape and the entry of the watch officer.

  “Well. That’s that then,” Brook announced as he stood with Rozlyn in the corridor.

  “That’s what?”

  “Oh, don’t be so bloody obtuse. Someone saw Charlie with Clara and realised he’d got curious, so they shut him up before he decided to do anything about it. End of story.”

  “No. Not quite. What about the spear and the place his body was dumped, to say nothing of not knowing where he was killed. And what about this valuable something that Clara Buranou talked about?”

  “What about it? Look, once we get our mystery landlord, you’ll have all that sorted too. Let immigration do the legwork for us. Could be someone’s idea of a joke, for all I know. Most likely someone fed Charlie a line and he swallowed it. It’s nothing. Forget it. We know why Charlie Higgins died and the rest is someone else’s pigeon. He stuck his nose in where it wasn’t wanted, and he paid for it. Simple as that.”

  “Not so simple. Look, you may have the result you want, but that’s not the end of things. For one thing, we’re no closer to Thomas Thompson.”

  Brook waved her objections aside. “If I can spare the manpower, I’ll keep obs on the houses and on the office we turned up from that number you found in Charlie’s book. Frankly, I’m more than prepared to leave that one to immigration too. They’ve got the bodies, let them handle it.”

  “And you’re satisfied with that?”

  Brook shrugged. “He’s off our patch; someone else’s problem. Drop it, be satisfied.”

  “Time was, you’d never have said that. You’d have worried at it like a dog with a rag until every last drop had been wrung out.”

  “Aye, well, maybe I’ve learned. You don’t get any more applause for chasing what no one’s interested in. Charlie Higgins is dead. We found the cause, and we’ve got ourselves a nice line in people smuggling into the bargain. It’s up to someone else to find who stabbed him with that fancy bit of ironwork. Frankly, I’m happy to let them have the glory.”

  “I’m not,” Rozlyn told him, heat in her voice. “And as to the other business, we’ve got a driver and a receiver. Sweet F.A.”

  “And, like I said: immigration will take it from there. That’s their business. We’ve bloody well done our bit. I’ll make sure you get credit due if that’s what’s bothering you and, speaking of which, I’ve arranged a nice little press briefing for you tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, good of you to tell me.”

  “I’m telling you now, aren’t I? Take my advice and let the rest drop. When immigration find our Mr T. Thompson, I’ll make sure you get to ask him where he got his sense of the theatrical from.” He winked and strode off, leaving Rozlyn feeling frustrated and oddly sullied by his comments.

  “Hey,” Rozlyn shouted after him. “What about Mouse Man. Someone damn near killed him. You going to dismiss that too?”

  “Probably just couldn’t stand the stink,” Brook called back.

  CHAPTER 28

  It was the first chance Rozlyn had to see Mouse since that first morning. She’d arranged for clothes and the other items on the nurse’s ad hoc list to be taken in, but circumstances had militated against her own visit.

  Mouse was pleased to see her. He looked better, not so pale, and the bruises were now mostly yellow edged, with the blackest reduced to a mere deep violet. Now the swelling had subsided, the ruined eye had a hollow look, the half-closed lid sunk back against the blood-red void. Rozlyn was surprised to find it exposed like this. The heavy bandages, she could cope with, but being faced with the emptiness where Mouse Man’s eye had once been was unsettling and nauseating.

  Mouse saw her look. “The doc’s coming to examine it again,” he said, “so they took the dressing off.” He smiled. “You’re my second visitor today.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, that pretty blonde girl, Jenny, she called in to bring me another magazine. Found out I like mice, she did. Look.”

  So, Rozlyn thought. There were magazines for mouse fanciers. “That’s good of her,” she said.

  “Yes, she’s a lovely girl. She brought in all those things you got for me yesterday just at dinnertime and stayed for a chat. I let her eat my jelly. I’ve never been a big one for jelly, but she liked it. Raspberry, she said. She told me you were investigating, so you couldn’t come yourself.” He imbued the word with an almost religious awe.

  Good on you, Jenny, Rozlyn thought. The thought drifted unbidden that Mouse did not think of her as pretty. She told herself not to be so stupid. “You look a lot better,” she said.

  “Didn’t think I’d make it, did you?” Mouse said. “They told me you stopped half the night, then came back again early in the morning. I appreciate that.”

  Rozlyn smiled tightly, uncomfortable with the role in which Mouse Man had cast her. “I fed the mice,” she said.

  “Not many of them left, were there?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. Jenny told me. She said they must have escaped into the street because I’d not shut the door properly. They’ll be all right.”

  Silently, Rozlyn blessed Jenny again. It would never have occurred to her to lie, but she was glad Jenny had. Mouse shouldn’t know the cruelty that had been meted out to his little pets.

  “She told me a few of them died,” Mouse went on. “He knocked the cages over, you see and some probably got trampled when we fought.” He shook his head. “He’s a cruel sort, whoever he was. He didn’t need to knock the cages down. The little folk couldn’t do anything to hurt him or to defend themselves. I’m glad most of them managed to run away.”

  “I’m glad too,” Rozlyn said. “Mouse, can you remember any more about what happened?”

  He shook his head. “I let myself in and I put the shopping down. Then I heard a noise. I heard them squeaking and someone moving about. Then he was all over me. Punching and kicking and shouting about Charlie stealing and hiding something.”

  Mouse closed his eyes.

  “He gave you no clue to what it was?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it, Inspector Priest. Truly I have. I think . . . I’m almost sure, he was shouting something about a box. Charlie taking something from a box or a cabinet or something.” He shook his head again. “I’m sorry, it all happened so fast and he was kicking and hitting me all the time. I couldn’t think straight.”

  The ward sister arrived then with a doctor in tow and Rozlyn, telling Mouse to rest and get well, thought it time to leave. She drove home, the problems surrounding Charlie’s death nagging her.

  When she’d gone to visit Mouse Man she’d left her coat in the boot of the car and lifting it out now, she felt the weight of the spearhead still in the pocket.

  “Damn.” She’d meant to return that to the evidence locker. She considered her options. Should she take it back tonight? Would anyone notice it was gone before morning? She decided not and that, even if they did, they’d find it had been signed out to her. It wasn’t as if it had walked. She went inside, pausing only to check for messages before going through to the kitchen.

  She laid the spearhead on the ki
tchen table, glancing at it from time to time while she made tea and cobbled together a sandwich of cheese, smoked ham, salad and mayonnaise, thinking about that strange sensation she’d got, those weird impressions, when she’d taken the thing from Ethan’s hand.

  Her head ached. She took a couple of paracetamol and went up to shower, leaving the spearhead in her bedroom. She didn’t want it out of her sight, not when she was the one who had not checked it back in. That night she slept but found it hard to settle down. The object on the bedside table loomed large in her consciousness and, when she turned in her bed to look at it, it seemed larger in the darkness than it had any right to be.

  Serves you right, she told herself, for bringing a murder weapon home to bed. She turned away from it again, but its presence at her back unnerved her and finally she picked it up and locked it in the wardrobe.

  Rozlyn stepped back and observed the tightly locked cupboard. She’d swear she could still feel the presence of the thing even through the locked and heavy wooden door.

  “You’re a fool, Rozlyn Priest. Get yourself to bed.”

  She lay down, switched off the bedside lamp and then, almost at once, switched it back on, regretting for once that she had neither television nor radio in the bedroom. This was one occasion she’d overcome her dislike and have it on.

  Finally, she closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe slowly, relaxing consciously from her toes towards her head. She’d read somewhere that this could help calm a mind ready for sleep.

  Something must have worked because finally Rozlyn slept and when she slept, she dreamed of Ethan.

  CHAPTER 29

  Rozlyn woke feeling as though she’d been beaten. Her body ached and her throat felt sore. At first she put the symptoms down to a poor night’s sleep but by the time she’d choked through the press conference — pausing every few words for cold water to lubricate a burning throat — she knew it was something more.