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

by Jane Adams

  “You look like shit,” Jenny told her when she arrived back at the police station.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Welcome. Why don’t you get off home? You’re not going to be able to think straight and I’ve no wish to catch whatever it is you’ve got.”

  “Oh, pure self-interest, then?” It was good advice but when Rozlyn studied the stack of paperwork on her desk and caught a glimpse of the number of emails and messages awaiting a response, she figured she just couldn’t walk away. She’d have to deal with some of it at least.

  One email caught her attention immediately. It was from Stevens, her friend in Art and Antiques and the title in the subject line was Dr Donovan Baker.

  Rozlyn opened it and read.

  Rozlyn,

  Sorry to take time getting back to you. Truth is, we’re very interested in this Donovan. If my guess is right, his full name is Dr Donovan Baker, which explains why your search, if it was by last name, wouldn’t have got you anywhere. Donovan Baker is something of a mystery man. Respectable background — an academic, in fact, in the field of archaeology. Problem with our Donovan Baker is that he’s a greedy bastard; a question of much wants more, as they say. Got himself involved in some very dodgy insurance deals.

  Look, give me a call this afternoon and I’ll fill in the gaps.

  Cheers.

  Jack.

  So, Rozlyn thought, he was real, not some bogeyman created by Charlie and reinvented by Mouse Man. It felt both better, having this confirmation of Donovan’s solidity, and worse. Stevens was not someone who issued warnings without considering need.

  Rozlyn thought about Mouse Man’s injuries and shuddered.

  “I said you should get off home. You’re shivering.”

  “No, I’m all right. We’ve got something on Donovan.”

  “I’m guessing not the folk singer . . . anyway, he was skiffle. My dad told me.” She leaned over her shoulder to read the email. “Interesting. Certainly fits, doesn’t it.”

  Rozlyn nodded. “I’ll ring Jack Stevens later. Meantime—”

  “You’re going home to bed?”

  “I’m going to have another word with Mark Richards.”

  “Spreading your germs.”

  “I couldn’t give them to a worthier recipient.” She hauled herself out of the chair, body protesting and the dull ache spreading from between her shoulder blades and into the lower back. Her head throbbed. “You got any aspirin?”

  Jenny went over to her desk. From the drawer she produced a shiny box containing something that described itself as “Max Strength”. She gave Rozlyn two with water, then handed her the box. “Just go home.”

  “After I’ve seen Richards.”

  “Promise?”

  “Maybe. I’ll see how I feel.”

  How she felt was truly dreadful. Her eyes bulged in their sockets — or, at least, they felt as though they did, displaced by a pain like toothache in her sinuses. She knew Jenny was right and she should give it a rest and head for home but somehow, the news about Donovan had galvanised her and she knew that she would not be able to relax anyway.

  Rozlyn eased herself carefully into the car, wondering how long the tablets would take to work. It had started to rain, a steady downpour that blurred the windscreen even with the wipers on and the drive seemed infinitely longer because of it, but by the time she’d reached the wall running around the estate perimeter, Rozlyn was feeling somewhat better. The painkillers hadn’t quite lived up to their name but at least the ache and cramp in her lower back had subsided, even if she was left with dulled sinuses and the fist-sized lump of discomfort between her shoulders that refused to shift.

  When she reached Mark Richards’ house, having been kept waiting for some time at the gates, Albert stood guard in the shelter of the ostentatious porch with his arms folded and a facial lividity that had Rozlyn wondering about his heart.

  “I thought you’d completed your enquiries.”

  Rozlyn shook her head. “I did tell you I’d be back.” Albert’s position atop the steps left Rozlyn with no alternative than to pause, one step down, exactly where the rain dripped from the elaborate pediment. She had no doubt that this was deliberate. Irritated, she stepped around the guard dog in grey trousers and walked ahead of him into the house. “In his office, is he? I can find my way.”

  There followed a comic turn as Albert sought to get ahead of Rozlyn before she reached the stairs and then pushed her in ungentlemanly fashion out of the way so that he could precede her. Rozlyn almost laughed out loud, but the thought of laughing set her sinuses off again and manifested a spasm of such pain between her shoulders that it threatened to crease the rest of her back.

  Mark Richards was seated at his desk. Rozlyn wondered if he’d moved since his last visit or if this office was the heart of his home, much as the kitchen had been in her grandparents’ place, their entire lives seeming to revolve about that warm, welcoming hub.

  There was nothing either warm or welcoming about Mark Richards or his office.

  “What do you want, Inspector? I’ve already told you everything I know — and that’s nothing.”

  “Have you? Y’know, I’m still not convinced it wasn’t you that lost that spear and I wondered if, seeing what a fine collection you have, you could have overlooked it, somehow. Do you have an inventory for your collection, for instance? For insurance purposes and the like. You could show it to me and me and Al here could have a check through. See what else might have gone for a walk.”

  Albert gasped at the insult of having his name shortened. “I think you should leave.”

  “Hmm. I can see how you would like that. But I’ve another question for you and this one, you’ll be glad to know, is new. You ever hear of someone called Dr Donovan Baker?”

  “Of course.”

  His reply took the wind out of Rozlyn’s sails and, for a moment, she floundered.

  Mark Richards smiled. He got up from his desk, crossed to one of the bookcases that lined the wall opposite the window and withdrew two books. He brought them over for Rozlyn’s inspection. “Before he retired, Donovan Baker was one of the foremost field archaeologists working on late Anglo-Saxon sites in this area.”

  “Oh?” Rozlyn pulled the books towards her. They were fat volumes, packed with coloured plates and comparative tables. “He retired, you say? Old man, is he?”

  Mark Richards laughed. “No, just well off enough to make choices.”

  “Money to be made in this archaeology lark, is there?”

  “There can be, but I believe that Dr Baker had a private income. Inheritance from his mother’s side.”

  “Oh, you know him well, then, this Donovan Baker.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “No? You seem well appraised of his financial situation.”

  “I met him on odd occasions when we attended the same functions.” Richards scowled. “In fact he did some work for me here. On the chantry.”

  Rozlyn got the impression that Richards regretted saying that almost as soon as the words fell from his mouth. “Chantry? That’s some kind of chapel, isn’t it? Where’s that then?”

  Richards’ involuntary flick of the head took her over to the window. The rain had eased, though glowering skies promised much more. Across the vast expanse of lawn, and to the side, between the line of trees that marked the road and a more formal clipped yew hedge, Rozlyn could see the remnants of a building, the top of a wall and a high arched window. The yew hedge would have hidden it from the drive and she’d not looked out of that particular window on her last visit. “How old is it?” she asked, pure curiosity taking the place of police-type questions.

  Mark Richards sighed. “What you can see is twelfth century,” he said, “but it’s built on a much earlier foundation. Records suggest that it was founded by the abbey out at Storton, about ten miles away, some time in the late ninth century. Now, if you’ve satisfied your curiosity, I’d be glad if you went.”

  “W
hat kind of work did he do, this Donovan Baker? Was it a private commission?”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “Mr Richards, we’re conducting a murder investigation. Anything that might impinge upon that is business of mine.”

  “I still fail to see . . .”

  “Mr Donovan Baker’s name has come up in relation to some dodgy dealings in the antiquities market and a predisposition towards violence. Personally, I think that’s enough to make him of legitimate interest.”

  Mark Richards shrugged this aside, but Rozlyn knew from the way he left his desk and began to pace the room that he was shaken. Or maybe it was just that he really didn’t like Rozlyn.

  “He did a preliminary excavation, that’s all. As I say, the records indicated earlier foundations; I wanted to know.”

  “Find anything to add to that personal museum of yours?”

  “That’s enough, Inspector. This is my home and I insist that you leave.”

  Rozlyn shrugged. She made a meal of writing down the titles of the two books she’d been shown and checking the flyleaf for other books Donovan Baker might have authored. Then she took her leave. “See you again, Mr Richards.”

  “Only if you have a search warrant and a bloody good reason.”

  “Oh, don’t fret, I’m working on it.”

  “I have friends, you know.”

  Rozlyn had been wondering when that would come up. “I’m sure you do, but you know something? It’s always amazed me how those kinds of friends tend to vanish back into the woodwork when they think their own reputation might be affected. I can see myself out.”

  Albert escorted her to the door and watched as she got into her car. Rozlyn drove off round the sweep of drive and onto the straight avenue that led to the gates and then she pulled over. She guessed that the chantry was about level with her present position and wondered if she could reach it through the trees. Quite why she wanted to look, she didn’t know but the place drew her with an insistence that felt like more than just idle curiosity? Or was it simply the opportunity, not to be missed, of winding up Mark Richards just that little bit further.

  The verge was muddy and the heavy fall of leaves damply fragrant beneath her tread. Rozlyn inhaled deeply of the summer ghosts and was refreshed by the warm pungency of the rain-washed, wet-leaf scent. Once past the line of trees she could see the chantry. Two walls remained, one around eight feet in height, then the end wall that she had glimpsed from the house, towering much higher. An arched window had been set into the wall at this tallest end and she tried to recall what little she knew about ecclesiastical building. She assumed that this portion must be the church and, from what scatter of low, ruined walls she could pick out in the long grass, that there had been other buildings surrounding and supporting this.

  The highest wall leaned at an alarming angle and Rozlyn moved round to the outside of it to get a better view. Its final fall had been delayed by one of the ugliest constructions Rozlyn had ever seen. A cruel frame, arched and welded out of box section, had been wedged tightly against the wall, tracking around the windows, cross bracing the main wall and with its base firmly set against the ground. That, in turn, was propped by a metal column, set at a forty-five-degree angle, pushing back against the metal frame and preventing the entire structure from crashing earthward.

  Rozlyn stared at it, shocked by the brutality of the metal work and struck by the thought that it might be better to allow the ruin to fall, to be reclaimed by the nature that had provided stone and mortar and was now encroaching across its structure, whether Mark Richards would have it or not. Tiny plants clung to the stonework, some winter-browned and decayed, others still fresh and vibrant against the grey.

  She was aware that Albert had begun to cross from the house even before she saw him, as though the knowledge that he and Richards would soon realise she had not passed through the gates had alerted and sharpened her senses. She moved back to what would once have been the interior of the building, and discerned deep russet tiles on the ancient floor that gleamed like river-smoothed pebbles amongst the grass and dying nettles. A rough stone block suggested an altar, although its position seemed odd. She’d read somewhere that in early churches the altar was placed somewhere else than she would have expected in a modern church, but she couldn’t think where. Near the entrance? This didn’t look to be aligned with anything, though, and she examined the stone and its position with increased interest. It was carved with a pattern of intertwined animals and plants. The shadow cast by the walls and the heavy clouds darkened the day and made it hard for her to see but, as she dragged her fingers across the surface and as they helped her eyes to pick out the shapes, she understood that this was a complex and beautiful work and that it deserved better than to be standing here in this unsheltered spot, torn from its roots and abandoned to the weather and the years.

  “You were told to leave. I’ve called the local constabulary.”

  “Really, that’s nice. Many hands make light work, as they say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that they’ll send a patrol car around and when they realise your intruder is a detective inspector who outranks them, then they’ll either take themselves off or they’ll be asking me what they can do to be helpful.” She turned with a pleasant smile. “Albert, where did this stone originally stand? It was the altar, wasn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Albert told her frostily.

  “You couldn’t move it far. It must weigh a ton.” She circled it, looking not at the altar stone but around it. Two feet away, almost hidden by the overgrowth of grass and bramble and nettles, she saw it, the stone base on which the altar must have been placed and, as she glanced again at the altar, she saw that the great block was carved on only four of the sides that she could see. “Three sides and the top, then. Probably the fourth side too. This here . . .” she bent and examined the unadorned section more closely. “This here, must have been the base.” She looked curiously at Albert. “It was rolled,” she said. “Just turfed sideways and here, I can see where the crow bar was rammed beneath it.” She stood and went to look at the plinth. Beneath the level at which the altar must have rested was a hollow, only ten or twelve inches deep, but lined with dressed stone broad enough to support the weight of the great slab. “Find anything?”

  “Did I find anything where?”

  Rozlyn laughed. “Oh, Albert, you’re a bad liar,” she said. “You get many trespassers here, do you?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Or maybe undesirables wanting to see your boss?”

  He frowned. “We have security, as you are well aware.”

  “Sure you do, but you’ve also got a lot of unguarded wall. The reality is, anyone could get in, couldn’t they, Albert. So, do you get many unwelcome visitors? Like, for instance, a little man with short grey hair and wearing a pinstriped suit?”

  It was there, Rozlyn thought, that slight twitch of recognition. Albert knew who she meant.

  She walked slowly back to the car, Albert watching her as she left. Only when she had turned the ignition on did she look at the tiny fragment of cloth she held now in her left hand. It had been caught on a bramble close to the altar and she would have missed it if she’d not bent closer to look at the carving and caught her own sleeve on the thorns. Suiting, cheap and synthetic, black with a hint of paler stripe. It could have come from anywhere at any time — but it looked to Rozlyn like the stuff that made up Charlie’s cheap pinstripe suits.

  Not enough to prove a damn thing, she knew, and if there’d been traces of violence or blood, she would have seen them. She doubted he had been killed in that place but she was convinced now that Charlie had been there.

  CHAPTER 30

  Rozlyn took more painkillers and then drove back towards work. On the way she called in at the university bookshop and asked if they had any of Donovan Baker’s work. She was surprised to find that one volume was a set text on the Archeolo
gy degree. The book was one of those Rozlyn had seen earlier that day.

  “And there’s this,” The assistant told her. “He did a lot of work locally and a small press put out this book based on his excavations. He didn’t write it, but he did a foreword for them.”

  Rozlyn flicked through the pages. There were a number of photographs including two that she recognised; a photograph of the chantry, pre-grotesque ironwork, and also an image of the cross she had seen depicted on Ethan Merrill’s wall. “The small press that published this . . . um . . . Birch Wood. You know if it’s still going?”

  The assistant shook her head. “I’ve not heard from them in a little while. We get reprints of this from one of those print-on-demand places. To be honest, we only sell a handful, though I think the museum does a bit better. I think the address should be . . . yes. Here.” She pointed and Rozlyn caught her breath. The address for Birch Wood was Ethan Merill’s place out at Stamford.

  * * *

  Reaching the police station Rozlyn got straight onto the phone to her colleague in Art and Antiques. Stevens had been waiting for her call.

  “I’m told he was first rate at his job, directed several really significant excavations, did international lecture tours, published books . . . he was even called as an expert witness by the Met. Then the shit hit the fan big time. Baker was implicated in an insurance scam and, even though nothing was proved, there was enough of a stink hanging around to make him persona non grata in certain respectable circles. Donovan Baker retired from academia and we’ve been trying to pin something on him ever since. Best we’ve got so far is assault and that was dropped ’cause the bloke he hit refused to testify. We couldn’t prove it, but we figure Baker got to him and he didn’t want to risk another beating . . . or worse.”

  “What would you prefer to have him on?”

  Stevens laughed. “OK, the game is played like this. Donovan Baker has the contacts, both legit and not so kosher and he knows who owns what, makes it his business to know who could do with a little cash injection. Lo and behold, they get turned over, usually a range of artworks lifted, sometimes antiquities, but not always. They claim on the insurance and Baker, who has the art or antiques stashed somewhere, arranges the sale. He takes a hefty commission, but even so, said previous owner gets insurance cash and part of the proceeds from the sale. Two payouts in one.”