by Kim M Watt
“Adams,” she said, trying to see the speedometer.
“Really? That’s what your friends call you?”
“Sometimes.”
“You don’t sound posh.”
“What?”
“Only posh people call their friends by their last names.”
She snorted. “I’m definitely not posh.” She wasn’t anything in particular, really. Sometimes people assumed that since she came from London and had the heritage she did, she’d have grown up in some rough council flat, all drug users on the stairs and single mums with twelve kids. She hadn’t. She’d had her own room, even if her brothers had shared, and although there had been a few years where any clothes that didn’t come from the market had come from charity shops, it hadn’t lasted. And there had always been food on the table and new shoes before they outgrew the old ones. They’d even had a tiny backyard in their terraced house, big enough to play hopscotch in.
“So what’s your name?” DI Collins repeated.
“Adams.”
He gave her an amused, evaluating look, and she resisted the urge to tell him to watch the damn road. “That bad, huh?”
“I don’t love it.” It was Jeanette. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t her, either. Only her mum really used it.
He grinned. “You want bad names? Mine’s Colin.”
DI Adams tried to stop pumping the imaginary brake pedal on her side of the car. “Colin Collins?”
“Yeah. Family legend says that Dad was celebrating a little too hard, and when he went to register the name he wrote the same thing in both boxes.”
“Really?”
Collins shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe he was too tipsy to remember what Mum wanted to call me. Either way, that’s me. Colin Collins.”
“No middle name?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. Yeah, that’s pretty bad.”
“Ah, could be worse. They could have called me Moonchild or something. It was an option, apparently.” They were briefly airborne as they came over a rise, and narrowly avoided a truck coming the other way that was, DI Adams considered, far too big for the road. “But alright then, Adams. What’s got you so interested in missing postmen that you’re wasting your days off sitting in interview rooms in strange police stations? I know we’ve already established that you don’t have hobbies, and no friends close enough to use your first name, but it’s still a little over-dedicated.”
She considered telling him it wasn’t a day off, but that would only seem more suspicious. And the truth wasn’t going to work. Well, I’m pretty sure it has something to do with dragons? Or, failing that, it might be the ladies of the Toot Hansell Women’s Institute that we should be looking at? And most likely it involves both the W.I. and dragons, and, as far as she knew, that was no one’s area of expertise but her own?
“I told you last time,” she said. “Cold case. Tenuous connection, but you never know.”
“Tell me about this cold case, then.”
She scowled at him. “Shouldn’t you be concentrating on driving?”
“I’m a right good multitasker, me.”
“Well, that’s just bloody fantastic,” she mumbled, and braced herself against the dashboard as the DI braked for a couple of sheep ambling across the road.
She was saved from concocting a plausible cold case by the fact that just past the wandering sheep they encountered a whole sea of woolly backs blocking the road. There was a small red car on the far side, with a confused-looking young man behind the wheel and a woman leaning out the window taking photos. The young man kept trying to nudge his way into the increasingly anxious flock, and DI Collins put the window down, waving and bellowing at him to stop. The young man apparently took that as an indication to hurry, so he leaned on his horn, setting it off in long blats. The sheep panicked, surging and jostling between the two cars, and DI Collins said a few choice words about tourists, then turned the engine off and opened the door.
“What’re you doing?” DI Adams asked.
“Need to get the silly animals off the road before anyone drives into them.” He opened the boot and she watched him in the rear-view mirror as he pulled a pair of old and very dirty wellies on.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, and settled back to watch. A moment later there was a knock on the window. She glared at him as he beckoned her out. “No. Absolutely not.” He beckoned again, looking impatient. “No! I’ve only got my normal shoes!” She pointed at them.
He opened the door. “I’m not going to make you wade through a bloody lake, Adams. I just need you to walk back to the top of the rise and flag down anyone before they run into this lot. There’s a high vis jacket on the back seat.”
“Oh. Right.” She climbed out, grabbed the jacket and picked her way through the sheep droppings up the little hill. She stood there shivering in the cold grey day, half watching for cars and half watching DI Collins pushing his way through the sheep to scold the driver of the red car. Country policing. Couldn’t pay her enough.
All of which meant that it took them rather longer to get to the crime scene than either DI was particularly happy with, but eventually the sheep were back in a field (DI Collins grumbling that he really didn’t care whose field it was, so long as the bloody road was clear), and they were moving again. This time DI Collins did have the dashboard light on, and he was driving fast enough to have no desire for conversation. DI Adams didn’t think she could have talked anyway. She was too busy trying not to get whiplash.
They pulled into the side of the road just before a lay-by, tucking the car in tight to the dry-stone wall. DI Adams had to climb out the driver’s side. The tech van and the marked car belonging to the officers that had been first on the scene were parked beyond the lay-by itself, and the lights on the marked car painted blue and red swathes across the dim day. Cars slowed to a crawl as they went past, occupants gawping at the black and yellow crime scene tape. The Royal Mail van huddled alone in the little gravel parking area, the doors open as the techs crawled through it. The back was empty, devoid of parcels and letters, and there were scorch marks across the doors and the roof where the paint was raised in tight, burned blisters. There were long, angry scratches on the doors that looked like they’d been done by a knife. Or claws. Beyond the stone walls, fields ran green and muddy under the fells, and sheep watched them incuriously. Across the road, the hills climbed up toward a broken-down stone hut and a copse of trees made ghostly by the rain. There was no village nearby, no farmhouse spying on them. Just fields and sheep and damp greyness, and it felt unutterably lonely. DI Adams shivered, then went to inspect the van more closely.
“Any of this ringing any bells with your cold case?” DI Collins asked, making her jump. She’d been taking photos of the scratches with her phone.
“I’m not sure.”
“Come on, Adams. Give me a hint. Was your case about missing postmen? Or is it the failed fire-bombings and the Freddy Kruger marks there that’ve got you interested?”
She stepped away from the van hurriedly, pocketing her phone. “Some elements are kind of related.”
He frowned at her. “I’m letting you ride along from the goodness of my heart here.”
“No, you’re letting me ride along because you have no idea what’s going on.”
He spluttered as if he was going to make an excuse, then gave her a startlingly infectious grin, opening his arms wide to take in the damp day. “Go on, then. Give me something. Anything!”
DI Adams grinned back. She couldn’t help it. But the smile faded as she looked at the van again. “I really don’t think I can help. This is the same place the other van was found, right?”
“The very one.”
“No signs of struggle in either case.”
He said, “None,” even though it wasn’t a question.
She paced around the van, examining the muddy gravel, then crouched down. “Someone had a cigarette. Look, ash.”
“We got a sample,”
one of the techs said, and she felt heat rise in her cheeks. Great. Now she looked like the big city cop telling the locals how to do their jobs.
“Of course. Sorry.”
The tech shrugged and went back to photographing the interior of the van, in case anything shifted when it was towed. Not that there was much in there to shift, unless some mail materialised out of the headlining.
“There was no ash last time,” DI Collins said.
“No. So I imagine it was the postman who stopped for a smoke. Which means it’s not connected to the kidnappers. Attackers. Whatever.” She rubbed the back of her neck and sighed. “I’ve got nothing. I’m sorry.” And she meant it, too. Not just because she wanted to point the suspicion away from dragons. Because it was a case, an interesting case, and it felt good to be looking at something beyond the typical robberies and assaults and domestics that lay on her desk in Leeds.
“Well, we’ve got a pattern,” DI Collins said. “And we’ll make sure tomorrow’s van has an escort.”
“They won’t take it, then.”
“Which is something.” He rubbed his hands together, huffing white breath on the cold air. “Come on. We’ll go chat to the good people of Toot Hansell, see if that gets us anywhere.”
“We will?”
“We will, Adams. You’ve got nothing else to do, right? No sewing circle or clay-pigeon shooting meet to get to?”
“Um. Right.” Bollocks.
“You know Toot Hansell, then,” DI Collins said. He was driving more slowly now, which was something. She had enough to worry about with the spotty rural phone reception out here, meaning she had a missed a presumably angry call from DCI Temple which would need dealing with at some point, as well as the fact that she was going to have to face Toot Hansell in the company of an inspector who had no idea what was really going on. She didn’t need to worry about the possibility of a head-on collision with a tractor as well.
“A little. Just from the case in the summer.”
“Of course, the poisoned vicar. Yes, it sounded like it was all very exciting.”
“I guess I stepped on your toes a bit there.”
“I was in Corfu, sipping cocktails and swimming in crystal clear waters. No toes were stepped on. Although, my aunt was one of your main suspects for a while.”
“Oh, you’re kidding me.” That was just spectacular, that was.
“Not even slightly. Miriam Ellis.”
DI Adams pinched the bridge of her nose. At least it wasn’t Alice Martin. “I see.”
“Yeah, it’s a small world up here.” The car came up over a rise, and Toot Hansell unrolled before them, glittering with light in the greyness of the day. “Shall we see if she’s home? She makes a mean mince pie.”
DI Adams tried to think of any reason that would make sense as to why a mean mince pie sounded like a terrible idea right about now, and she couldn’t come up with a single one. Other than the fact that it came accompanied by at least one member of the Toot Hansell W.I., and possibly dragons.
They pulled up outside Miriam’s, behind a Smart car and an ancient, rust-pocked Rover, and DI Adams got out carefully. There was a good head of smoke coming from the chimney and warm light painting the rose bushes outside the living room windows. Miriam was home, then. That was unfortunate.
DI Collins ambled up the path with a long, slouching stride, and gave the front door a cheery knock. An explosion of yapping greeted it, and DI Adams had flashbacks of last summer and that horrendous scene in the churchyard.
DI Collins frowned. “I wonder when she got a dog?”
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound very happy.”
They waited. The dog kept barking.
DI Collins knocked again. “Maybe she’s gone out.”
“We should go, then.”
“Give her a chance to answer. That dog sounds completely hysterical.”
DI Adams didn’t feel entirely calm herself. “She might be hiding. I got the feeling that I made her rather nervous.”
“Surely not. Such a friendly person as yourself.”
DI Adams scowled, and reached past him to knock on the door again. The dog sounded like it was having conniptions.
“It looks like she’s home,” DI Collins said. “She wouldn’t go out and leave the lights on like that.” He stepped off the path and stopped. “Adams,” he said.
The concern in his voice seized her chest, squeezing. Was it the dragons? Had he seen them? Worse, had they done something? Was Miriam bleeding out in a scorched armchair as they pounded on her door? Had she been wrong? Were the dragons really no different than the creatures in London? She hurried to stand next to him, her mouth horribly dry.
The living room window was crowded with women of a certain age, all peering out at them with varying levels of alarm on their faces. There were also two rather scaly faces, one looking much more worried than the other. DI Adams let out a shivering breath and glanced at DI Collins, who had raised one hand in a nervous sort of greeting.
“Looks like we’ve interrupted a W.I. party,” she said cautiously.
“Bloody hell,” he said. “It’s like stumbling into a nest of tea-bearing squirrels. You never want to deal with all of them at once. They’re so hopped up on cake and biscuits that they can’t focus on anything.”
DI Adams snorted. “Unless you’re Alice Martin.”
“Oh, God. Alice Martin. Don’t leave me alone in there, Adams.” He walked back to the door, and DI Adams took a moment to compose herself. Since he had neither screamed nor mentioned anything more – or less – terrifying than the chair of the W.I., he probably hadn’t seen the dragons. He probably thought the glass was a bit misted up, hard to see, and it probably even made his eyes hurt if he looked at it for too long. That was how it had been for her before she realised she was seeing dragons. She stole a look at DI Collins. On the other hand, he could be pretending he didn’t see them, thinking that she couldn’t see them. She sighed. No wonder this place gave her a headache.
The window was emptying, and Miriam had vanished. DI Adams went to wait by the door, while the dog’s barking grew even more hysterical.
8
Miriam
“Oh, it’s Colin,” Miriam said.
“And Detective Inspector Adams,” Alice pointed out.
Mortimer hoped Beaufort wouldn’t offer the inspector a rabbit again. She hadn’t seemed to appreciate it very much last time. He looked up at the women crowded above him and the High Lord, all peering out the living room window at the visitors waiting by the door. He had a feeling that none of this was going to be appreciated by the inspector, actually.
“Well, it can’t be an official visit,” Miriam said, fiddling with the curtain. “Why would it be an official visit?”
“Miriam, it’s Detective Inspector Adams, who has specifically told us to stay out of things,” Alice said.
“Ah. Yes. That’s a good point.”
“We should go,” Mortimer said, trying to see past his own breath, which was steaming up the window, then wondering why he was worried about seeing out. He was probably best not to. He certainly didn’t want the rather large man Miriam had called Colin seeing in.
“We should all go,” Priya said.
“How?” Gert demanded. “Out the bathroom window?”
Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat. The knocks sounded impatient, and Primrose was barking herself hoarse. Mortimer could hear her clawing the door frantically.
“I was thinking more out through the kitchen, if Miriam brings them straight in here,” Priya said. The ten women and the dragons turned to look at the cups scattered across the coffee table and collected on side tables, the napkins and cakes and biscuits, cardigans and handbags and scarves. “Or we wait really quietly in here with the door shut and Miriam takes them to the kitchen.”
“That might work,” Miriam said dubiously.
“Of course it won’t work,” Alice said. “They’re police officers, not vacuum cleaner salespeople. Jasmine,
is your dog ever going to stop barking?”
“Primrose is a very good guard dog,” Jasmine said.
Alice muttered something unfriendly under her breath.
“Well, we can’t just leave them out there,” Beaufort said. “It looks suspicious. Mortimer and I’ll lay low, and you can just say you’re having a meeting. A perfectly normal, Christmas meeting.”
“It’s the only way,” Alice agreed. “Go answer the door, Miriam.”
“Oh, can’t you? DI Adams makes me so nervous.”
“It’s your house. And your nephew, for that matter. Go answer the door.”
“Oh, Alice—”
“Miriam, pull yourself together, honestly.”
“Now, there’s no need for arguing,” Beaufort began.
“Beaufort, shush,” Alice said sternly, and Beaufort stopped mid-breath.
“Beaufort, I really think we should go, at least,” Mortimer said. “It’s too risky.”
“Mortimer, calm down. We may learn something if we stay, and it’s highly unlikely this other police officer will even notice we’re here.”
Mortimer thought, rather gloomily, that knowing his luck this Colin would not only notice, but arrest him for making exploding baubles that weren’t even his. He sighed heavily, then hurriedly patted out the smouldering bit on the bottom of the curtains.
“Is someone going to answer the door?” Teresa asked. “It’s getting awkward now.”
“Well, I guess anyone can answer it now,” Mortimer said, and raised a paw to DI Adams and Colin as they stood on the path, staring in the living room window.
Outside, Colin raised his hand in response, a bemused look on his face, and Mortimer went the grey of cold porridge.
“Jasmine, please get your dog under control,” Alice said from the hallway, and Mortimer poked his head around the living room door anxiously. He was starting to think Colin hadn’t actually seen him, as the big inspector hadn’t started shouting or reacted at all, but had just gone back to the door to wait. So either he wasn’t going to make a fuss about dragons, or he had just been waving at everyone in general. Hopefully the latter.
