by Kim M Watt
“Understandable,” he said solemnly, then grinned. “No, more than that. Like they were all up to something.”
The smile came easily this time. “Do you mean your special friends on the sofa, or just in general?”
He laughed. “Well, I think Carlotta did actually grab my bum to make me get up, but I can’t prove it.”
“It must be terrible for you, being plied with cake and adored.”
“You didn’t do badly on the cake yourself.”
DI Adams glanced in the back seat at the well-packed Tupperwares. “Alright. Yes. The cake is wonderful.”
“Bet you never got that in London.”
“True.” But she’d never had to deal with the Women’s Institute in London, either. Or dragons. Although there had been worse things than dragons in London. She rubbed her forehead and wondered how many things she hadn’t seen, how many creatures had watched her pass from the shadows, and she’d never even imagined they existed. It wasn’t a nice thought. It made the skin crawl on the back of her neck.
“Sure you’re alright, Adams?”
“Yeah.” She dropped her hand, and watched the houses slipping past, quiet and grey and lit from within like Christmas lanterns.
“It’s probably a W.I. headache,” DI Collins said. “I get them too.”
The village shop/post office smelt of microwaved soup and gave them nothing further to go on. All the proprietor could tell them was that the mail had been collected as usual, even though it had been done by someone new, and no, the new driver hadn’t seemed worried or nervous.
“She was very nice,” he said, rocking back in his creaking chair behind the counter. He had tomato soup on his shirt. Well, hopefully it was tomato soup. DI Adams still harboured suspicions that this place was far too nice. It was the sort of village where people probably made sacrifices to ancient gods in their back gardens and danced naked under the moon to ensure a good harvest. “I even offered her a cup of tea, but she said she’d better not. I guess she was worried about keeping to the schedule.”
Or creeped out by you, DI Adams thought, examining the patchy shelves and the Christmas decorations that had seen many better days. He was probably harmless, but she couldn’t help imagining he did things like stir the tea with his finger, then lick it clean. He had that look.
Toot Hansell had held nothing back on the decorations for the cobbled village square. The little well in the centre was decked with sprays of holly and pine, and Christmas lights glittered on every lamp post. Someone had obviously ordered broad red ribbon in bulk, because even the rubbish bins were festooned with it. There was a big Christmas tree in the corner by the bookshop, daubed liberally with fake snow and crowded with oversized baubles and small Santa Clauses and faded rocking horses and tin men. It was also crowned with a bright red Wellington boot, for no reason DI Adams could see. She quite liked it.
They circled the village square clockwise, checking in at the hairdresser’s, where the young man dyeing an elderly woman’s hair purple, the elderly woman herself, and the woman playing solitaire on the front desk computer giggled a lot and were very eager to help DI Collins, if not DI Adams. He smirked all the way to the bakery with its little deli section, where DI Adams was given the last gingerbread man, which had a slightly wonky smile. He seemed slightly put out that he wasn’t offered anything, so she broke it in two and handed him half wordlessly as they went to try the greengrocer’s. There, they spoke to a big man with bright eyes and chapped red hands, who laughed on every second word. DI Adams thought he only needed a beard to be able to play Santa quite believably. But as friendly as everyone was, no one had seen anything out of the ordinary. No one thought either the usual postman nor his replacement had been acting odd.
In the dodgy pub, which looked almost appealing with a fire going and Christmas lights twinkling among the threadbare tinsel, they finally found some CCTV cameras. Well, one, overlooking the village square. The odds that it might show someone following the post van were ridiculously slim, but they didn’t have anything else to go on. However, a few questions put to the owner, who looked like he sampled his wares thoroughly and regularly, soon determined that the camera wasn’t actually connected to anything. So that was the end of that.
“I can’t believe there aren’t more cameras,” DI Adams said as they left the pub and walked to a small tea shop with faded yellow gingham curtains in the windows. They clashed wildly with a jumble of red and green decorations piled on the sills. “None even in the square.”
“Not exactly crime central around here,” DI Collins said, opening the tea shop door and setting a little bell jangling. “I can’t even remember the last time I was out here for work.” It was hot and stuffy inside the tea room, and smelt of boiled beef and cabbage. DI Adams wrinkled her nose. He sounded so happy about it. God, but it must be boring. What had he been worried about earlier – stolen turkeys? I mean, what sort of job was that, looking for stolen turkeys? She sighed and took a moment to check her phone while he spoke to the small lady in enormous glasses behind the counter. She had a pile of crochet in her lap, and it looked a lot to DI Adams as if she’d crocheted not just all the chair cushions, but most of the decor in the place.
She had another missed call from DCI Temple, and there was a voicemail this time. She went outside to listen to it.
There was nothing more to be found in the bookshop, the butcher’s, or the second pub, which was much nicer than the first. The menu sounded like it didn’t come out of the freezer, either.
“Is that everywhere?” she asked DI Collins.
“There’s another pub over by the church, and a little school on the way out of town.”
“This place has three pubs but no chemist?”
“They’ve got the fountain of youth over there,” he said, nodding to the little well. DI Adams knew there was a wooden winch system under its neat tiled roof, but it was hard to see much of anything beneath the weight of Christmas decorations it was wearing.
She looked pointedly at a very tall, very skinny man in an enormous puffer jacket tottering down the sidewalk in the company of a very small, very round man in an overcoat. Neither of them looked like they’d see their eighties again. “You sure about that?”
“Well, fountain of good health, then.” He beeped the car open. “We’ll drive the post route back, then you can go do something exciting with the rest of your day off. Like count paperclips or alphabetise your emails.”
Day off. Yep. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to have a lot of those. DCI Temple had wanted to know where the hell she was, because a patrol car had nabbed someone with a trunk full of electronics from the smash and grab. She was lead investigator on the case, and he needed her in the interview room. She’d put on a poorly voice and called him back, making up something about being hit with a stomach bug on her way to Chapel Allerton, and said that she was waiting to see a doctor, but couldn’t really go far from the nearest loo. It made her cheeks hot even thinking about it, but it was the first thing she’d thought of. He’d humph-ed and told her to get in first thing in the morning, and she’d thought she was in the clear. Then he’d told her to bring a sick note from the doctor. So she wasn’t quite sure how she was going to deal with that.
She took a last look around the village square, willing something to jump out at her, some place she hadn’t seen before, even just an upstairs window with some local busybody leaning out of it and watching everything. Cases had been broken open on less than that. Instead, she found herself staring at the Christmas tree at the other side of the square. It seemed to have grown legs.
She squeezed the bridge of her nose and looked again. Yes. There were five pairs of legs just visible under the lower limbs of the tree, and, as she watched, the branches at what would have been around eye level started to move. Was someone climbing the damn tree? But no - the legs hadn’t moved. The branches stilled, then moved a little on the other side of the tree, where more of the legs were, knocking a bauble to the ground. She nar
rowed her eyes at the legs. They were very sensibly clad, and the feet sported a mix of hiking boots and wellies in cheerful colours.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mumbled.
“Are you getting in, Adams?” DI Collins demanded. “Only the heater’s not doing much good while you’ve got the door open.”
She shut the door and started across the square toward the tree, setting off a sudden flurry of movement in the branches. She stopped and watched as Priya, Teresa, Rose, Carlotta and Pearl scattered, waving to each other and calling out goodbyes rather too brightly, Priya stopping to grab the fallen bauble and shove it somewhat haphazardly back into the branches before hurrying off. They were all walking with great determination, and Carlotta almost bowled Rose to the ground as they collided trying to go down a side street at the same time.
DI Adams considered grabbing at least one of them to find out what they were up to, but her head gave a warning throb at the thought of it. She turned back and climbed into the warmth of Collins’ silver Audi instead.
She watched the slow roll of the farmland unfurl around them as they left Toot Hansell, the fells turning deep purples and greens as the last of the light faded. DI Collins hummed to himself, tapping his fingers on the wheel, and the car was warm and peaceful, an insulated pocket in the world protected from interfering dragons and problematic, tree-spying civilians and suspicious chief inspectors. DI Adams drifted, not quite dozing, lulled by the purr of the car and the warmth of her seat.
“You want to keep working this?”
“Sorry?” She blinked herself upright.
“You seem to be the only person who might have a bit of insight, so it works for me.” He pointed at his phone, nestled in a cradle on the dash. “Put your number in there.”
“You’ve got my card.”
“Adams, I’ve got eight hundred and twenty-three cards at last count, and they’re all in my desk drawer. I’ll never find yours, and I don’t want to go back to the W.I. alone. Please don’t make me do that. Give me your phone number.”
She snorted. “You accuse me of having boring hobbies, and you count business cards?”
“Fine, don’t give me your number. But don’t expect me to call you with updates when I can’t find your card.” He grinned. “And you won’t have mine for when you have to deal with the W.I. again.”
“I can handle the W.I.,” she said, and picked up his phone. It wasn’t entirely a lie. But she still didn’t want him poking around this case without her about to run interference in the matter of dragons.
She looked up as she hit save, just in time to glimpse the lay-by flashing past, strung about with crime tape and looking dreary and uninviting.
“What the hell?” She twisted in her seat to look back, the damp and dying day making it hard to make much out.
“Ah, just walkers or busybodies,” DI Collins said, not slowing. “We’ve got plenty of both. But the techs have been through, and if they missed anything the rain’ll do for it tonight anyway. There’s nothing for anyone to mess up.”
“Right,” she said. “Of course.” And wished she’d been able to see just a little better, because it had looked awfully like the slim figure of Alice leaning against the wall, Miriam in some bizarre red and orange swaddling next to her, while two dragons prowled the shadows, barely glancing up at the car as it passed.
DI Adams leaned back in her chair and regarded the man on the other side of the interview table. Interviews were rarely as interesting as they looked on TV or in books. She’d never had the chance to match wits with a master criminal, and she had a sneaking suspicion that most police never did. The majority of criminals she’d dealt with were either belligerent or taciturn or overconfident, but always uncooperative, and often with a poor grasp of just how much trouble they were in. And usually fairly scared underneath. This one was ticking each box in turn.
“So you have no idea how the stolen goods got in your car?”
“Nah. S’not mine.”
“Even though your fingerprints are all over it.”
“Well, I, like, looked at it when I found it, right?”
“Right.” She sighed and checked her mug. It was empty. She’d told DCI Temple that she hadn’t seen a doctor in the end, but had gone home and self-medicated with over-the-counter stuff, which had sort of got her around the sick note problem. He hadn’t said anything, just scowled at her and muttered something about soft southerners as he walked away. She didn’t know if that meant he believed her or not.
“You know, if you told me who else helped you with the smash, I could probably get the charges down to possession of stolen property.”
She waited while he worked it out. His lips were moving like he was playing her words back to figure out what they meant. She checked her phone, but there was nothing from DI Collins. Which was a good thing, of course. She was struggling to keep her mind on things today. She was sure it had been Alice and Miriam and the dragons in the lay-by the afternoon before. Of course, it could also have been walkers out with two big dogs, given the poor light and the rain, and the fact that she had expressly told the W.I. and the dragons to stay out of things. Because that had worked so damn well last time.
“But,” the man said, “I didn’t know it was stolen. So, like, how can I be guilty if I didn’t know it was stolen?” He grinned triumphantly, revealing startlingly white teeth.
“That will not work in court.”
“Well, but, like, it might have been a present.”
“Of tens of thousands of pounds of electronics?”
“I got friends.”
“Sure you do,” she said. “What’re their names?”
“There’s, like, Mike, and—” he stopped. “Hey. You’re trying to trick me!”
“And somehow failing, which does not bode well for my day.” She got up. “I’ll let you think on it a bit longer. Decide by this afternoon, or I’ll charge you with the whole damn lot.”
“That’s not fair!” he wailed as she walked out and nodded to the uniformed sergeant.
“Pop him back, can you?”
“Will do.”
“Cheers.” She checked her phone again as she walked back to her desk. One message from DC James Hamilton, asking her if she knew anything about voodoo, because he’d just found chicken feathers and bones all over a garage where he was looking for witnesses on an assault case. Then a second message saying to ignore the first, as it seemed the guy kept snakes. Then a third in all caps asking her to call animal control, followed by a fourth that was quite unfriendly, and said that she should keep her volume up, else what was the use her having a phone? It ended by saying he was going to A&E to get his hand seen to.
She flicked the computer on and stared at the emails waiting to be answered and the files waiting to be completed, and decided she needed coffee. Paperwork might be easier than people — and certainly easier than dragons — but she still couldn’t face it without coffee.
Her phone vibrated as she picked up her coffee, nodding to the barista. She checked the display and pushed out the doors onto the street before she hit answer, her stomach tight but her shoulders suddenly looser. Here it was. She’d been waiting for the call without even realising it. It had been inevitable.
“Adams,” she said.
“Hello, Adams. How’s big city life?”
“Fantastic. How’s the country treating you, DI Collins?”
“Call me Colin, it’s fine. Or Collins, since you have such an aversion to first names.”
“And did you have a reason for calling me, Collins?”
“I did, as it happens – oh, move over, you numpty.”
DI Adams regarded the hurrying winter crowds on the streets, piled with shopping bags and flushed by Christmas lights, not a sheep in sight, and thought she was rather happy being where she was. “You alright there?”
“Yeah, yeah. Bloody tractors.”
“And your reason for calling?”
“Ah, yes. Of course. No
more missing postmen today.”
“You’re calling to tell me no postmen have gone missing today?”
“Well, it’s a change from the last two days.”
“That’s super. Shall I expect a call tomorrow for another thrilling update?”
“It’s a possibility, Adams. It’s a possibility.”
He sounded far too amused with himself, and DI Adams sighed. “Well, thank you for that. Valuable info.”
“Ah, but I haven’t got to the good bit yet.”
“There’s a good bit? What, the milkmen are still all there as well?”
“Oh, haha. A nice little jab at country living.”
“Collins, I’m working.” Or should be.
“Alright, alright. Just received a call that someone’s found an empty DHL van parked at the start of a footpath about a kilometre from our favourite lay-by. Doors open, no cargo, no driver. Scorch marks on the roof.”
DI Adams felt her heart give that familiar, welcome uptick as the adrenaline kicked in. “I’m on the way.”
“I thought you were working.”
“I’ll call you when I’m closer.” She ended the call without waiting for a response and checked her pockets. Good thing she kept her car keys in her jacket instead of in her bag. She wouldn’t be able to use the sick stomach thing twice.
“Adams! What’s keeping you?” DI Collins’ voice was hollow over the Bluetooth.
“Your damn country roads. Far too many sheep and horses and what have you.”
“Don’t know about the what have yous, but we do have plenty of the others. Where are you?”
“Not far from the lay-by where the postmen were taken, coming in from the A59.”
“Right, then. Straight on past it, turn left at the next lane you see, next right, and you’ll see us in no time.”
“Got it.”
“Don’t get lost. I know it’s tough without street signs.”
“I imagine I’ll just about – what the hell?”
