Deadly Thyme

by R. L. Nolen

  Jon adapted his well-used reserved look, “Oh?”

  “Went missing yesterday morning just before seven.” He glanced around at the monitors. “Did you happen to notice anything?”

  “Sorry.” Jon studied the man’s face, then said, “No … No, I shouldn’t be so cagey, what with your taking me in, so to speak. I … I have footage of the girls on the beach. I’m sorry to say the cameras aren’t state of the art, so there isn’t much to see.”

  “You saw …” Perstow sat back as if he’d been slapped. “I’ll need to see it.” He added a “sar” as an afterthought.

  “Here, I’ve archived the footage to these drives. You can look through them. Believe me, if even the slightest hint was on them, you’d have seen them right away. There isn’t a thing. My super will get the experts on them. Trust me. The footage shows nothing, past the girls arriving on the beach, no one else, a lot of shadows. If I hadn’t arrived when I did, and with DS Browne here getting food poisoning—”

  “How is he?”

  “He’ll be fine, with a few days’ rest. But what I was going to say is I’m here to complete the assignment.”

  “And the missing girl will not interfere?”

  “She doesn’t have anything to do with my investigation. I’m only interested in Trewe. We must know the source of this money.”

  “Oh! Aye. The money.”

  “And—” A clap of thunder like a gunshot made Jon duck. He’d have to speak softly, as noises seemed to carry through the caravan’s walls. “And he’s never said anything to you about his new-found wealth?”

  “Never.” The tragic look that overcame his face under other circumstances might look comical. “I’d like to know, too. Our chief inspector seems to be a chap with worries.”

  “Odd. Very odd.”

  “DCI Trewe is certainly more on edge about the missing girl than anythin’, though.”

  “How on edge?”

  “He said, and I’ll quote, ‘the girl’s American. The implications! International scandal. The newspapers. Bad for business, worse than the foot and mouth ever was in ’01.’ At least, that’s what I remember he said. But … it was the way he went on.”

  “A coldhearted beast.”

  Perstow shook his head, “Oh no! I wouldn’t say it like that. But I’ve never heard him quite as bad, sar. He’s desperate, pulled in a profiler. The profiler said that there is a forty-four percent chance the child will be dead in the first hour, and the best chance of bringing her back alive is within the first three hours. The way our Chief Inspector went on … Where’s the mercy in him, I ask meself. It was as if there was something else botherin’ him.”

  Like nine hundred thousand somethings, Jon thought. “Keep me informed, as you are able. It is imperative you let no one know about me. I’m your cousin, on holiday, remember. And your wife must play along. She will, right?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “I must concentrate on DCI Trewe, not a missing girl investigation. Hopefully, she’ll show up with a good story and nothing amiss.” Jon didn’t believe it for a moment. The man in the dark car would not have been barreling out of the village quite so fast if there had been nothing to hide. He set his cup down with a definitive thud. “In the event the girl’s body is found, the police will saturate this place. I’ll have to make my presence known. If it comes to that, it would be expeditious to drop my investigation momentarily. Meanwhile, I’ll send the footage in an anonymous package to DCI Trewe. I can’t help but think it is the proper thing that he get it.”

  “I’ll follow your lead, sar.” Perstow nodded, eyes averted, as if he was well aware of his standing and didn’t want to step beyond his bounds by getting chatty with a DI.

  Jon had taken an immediate liking to the fellow but wondered about him a little. He seemed too nice to be true. The heaviness of an impending storm added to the burden he carried inside himself. He hoped against hope the girl would be found soon.

  Outside, the storm pounced, but inside the caravan, Jon and Perstow sat hunched, intently viewing the archived footage from the beach. Blue-white light from the monitor flashed across their faces and danced shadows around the caravan. Outside, the wind moaned and shoved against the tiny abode.

  From the upper corner of one of the live monitors—one automatically controlled by computer at the monitoring station so any motion had it zooming or panning and focusing on minute detail—a large black dog darted into view, stopped, stared toward the camera, turned and took off.

  Monday, daybreak

  Rain and hail bulleted across Ruth’s front window and the glass was rattled by inconstant wind. In those first few seconds of awareness Ruth wondered why she wasn’t in her own bed, why she was sleeping in her big easy chair. Then came the heart-stopping memory of Dot’s voice asking, “Where’s Annie?”

  Movement under a blanket on her couch caused Ruth to sit straight up. “Annie!” she whispered, heart beating wildly. Sally’s curly red hair spilled from under the blanket. Ruth fell back, hope dashed. Dear Lord Jesus, bring her back and I’ll be a better Christian. I promise.

  She must have drifted into sleep again, because when a knocking woke her, the window was a dull rectangle. Here it was, another day, and no Annie to get up for school. Getting her up was usually quite a chore, as she liked to stay up long hours reading by flashlight. Annie was unaware that her mother knew, and that her mother used to do the same thing.

  In the corner of the dining room, the computer’s new-mail icon flashed. Ruth sat up, smelling bacon. Another knock-knock, and she was at the front door.

  Even in the drizzling rain, the local magistrate stood immaculate and stiffly upright. His sloping nose hooked over smiling lips. A poised fedora held his gray hair firmly in place.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Butler. I heard at the post office your daughter has gotten herself lost. I hope I might have misunderstood. Perhaps I misunderstood.” Mr. Malone’s umbrella dripped water in a neat circle all around him, turning the gray slate of the porch black. He stepped forward. Bushy gray eyebrows hung over his black-rimmed glasses, eyes hidden in shadow behind thick lenses. Mr. Malone gave talks on the local history to visiting groups of tourists. He volunteered at the library. He let it be known that he knew everybody.

  “Thank you for coming,” Ruth murmured.

  “Of course,” Mr. Malone said. “I’ve heard that your daughter is a polite young lady. Polite.”

  Ruth reached out and touched his sleeve. “Come in.”

  “Oh!” Mr. Malone stepped away from her. “Don’t mean to intrude. The wife instructed me to bring you this soup she made you. Good soup.” He held out a large canning jar. “I like it, anyway. She says it’s an old family recipe. Yes. Mustn’t stay. Mustn’t.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your Annie will come back to you, I’m sure. Take heart.” Mr. Malone paused a moment, as if he was about to say something else. Then he touched his hand to his hat in a haphazard salute. “The wife and I will be thinking of you. Our prayers ’re with you. With you.” He made a stiff, miniscule bow, turned, and went gingerly down the two steps to his car.

  Ruth called out to him, “Tell Liz thank you.”

  “She’ll say you’re quite welcome, I’m sure.” He waved and squeezed gracefully into his Bentley. The grand silver car moved smoothly down the one-way road toward High Street, which was the main road in and out of the village.

  Ruth leaned against the closed door. Mr. Malone was not a comfortable man. She took the jar of soup into the kitchen, where Sally was wiping the counter. A plate of congealed fried eggs sat on the tiny table where she and Annie usually sat to eat. The eggs were from the night before when hunger drove her to stuff food into her mouth. Rubber. Salty rubber. A few bites had been enough. She must have forgotten to clean up after herself. How had that happened?

  Sally put her arms around her and pulled her into a motherly hug. “Hungry?” she asked.

  Ruth’s stomach rebelled. “No.”

&n
bsp; Sally, an expert at argument who had a temperament to match her fiery red curls, gave Ruth a look.

  “I wouldn’t mind tea.” The British panacea had become just as much her own. As she turned to leave the kitchen and its heavy smells of food, she heard Sally say softly, “Bless yer heart.”

  Ruth went to the computer. She had an email from someone named Charles. The subject line said: Tell me you love me!

  That was what the man on Annie’s phone had said. She sat heavily as her knees gave way. It was her fault, hiding as she had all these years. She was missing her parents, and the thought tore into her heart. Her parents—she needed them now.

  Tell me you love me. He had said it on Annie’s cell phone. How had he gotten her email address so quickly?

  “Sally,” she called out, “could you phone the police?”

  Ruth stared at the computer screen. A tap at the front door made her jump. She got up and swung the door open to find no one there. Looking down, she found a nosegay of wildflowers on the wet doorstep. She glanced up and down the street. A few cars swished by.

  A card tied around the flowers with brown string read “Fel neidr yn y ddaear. Sorry for your loss.” Her stomach tightened. She tossed the flowers on her hall table and stared at the card.

  The night before—after the call—she’d dressed warmly and headed outdoors into a moonlit night, mainly trying to figure the direction Annie might have gone if she had left the beach on her own. She walked to the cliff overlooking the bay. The moonlight sparkled dimly upon the waves. Silver-lined storm clouds were amassing where horizon met sea. She had paused long enough to listen to the surf before heading home again.

  “Here we are, luv.” Sally brought Ruth’s tea in the duck mug. “The police are on their way.”

  Ruth smiled her thanks. Dearest Sally. The funny mug had given Annie a laugh. Sally knew things like that. When the tea is drained, sip by sip, the duck figurine is revealed. The words on the outside of the mug read, “Who’s at the bottom of the well?”

  A child’s mug.

  The phone rang. Ruth set the mug down and jumped up to answer it.

  “Hello!” She listened. Nothing. “Hello?” She heard breathing. “Hello?” No response, just the sound of someone breathing, listening to her.

  “Annie?” she said, unable to stop the desperate keen of her tone.

  The caller hung up.

  Shaken, Ruth stared at the phone in her hand. That was the second time she had answered the phone and known someone was listening to her frantic questions. The day before, she had let it pass as a mistake. Now she knew it had been no mistake. She shivered. Things were getting more horrible by the minute.

  7

  Even with the rain, more visitors dropped by. Sally deflected some of them so that Ruth did not have to face them all.

  The postmistress, a large-boned, rough-faced busybody with a strong West Country accent, stopped by. “Andrew tol’ me the child was missin’.”

  She gave Ruth the creeps. Something about her wasn’t right, but it occurred to Ruth that today it wouldn’t be so bad if the postmistress passed the news of Annie on to everyone who dropped in to post a letter or buy stamps, as long as she didn’t embellish as usual.

  She told the postmistress there was no news and thanked her for dropping by.

  She sat at her computer staring at the email.

  “Mrs. Butler?”

  She jumped to her feet and turned to see the wolf-eyed officer from yesterday enter with a woman police officer trailing behind.

  Detective Chief Inspector Peter Trewe’s salt and pepper hair had an untamed massiveness to it, as if it had absorbed half again its own volume with the rain. “Did you ring the station? Have you heard anything? Has she returned?”

  “No.” Ruth gulped back a sob. She fell to her seat.

  “We didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Last night there was a phone call. He used Annie’s mobile. He told me to tell him I loved him. Then this morning I opened my email. Look!”

  DCI Trewe bent over Ruth’s computer. “Is this it?”

  “It’s a repeat of what he said last night.”

  “I’m going to forward this to a safe computer where it can be opened and examined. We’ll find out who sent it. There are ways. We can’t just go marching to the ISP demanding names without justification according to the Data Protection Act. If it’s important to finding your daughter, we’ll do it. I’ll let you know. We will triangulate the mobile call from last night.”

  “Another call came in on the home phone this morning. I could hear him breathing.”

  “How do you know it was a him?”

  Ruth looked down. “An impression.”

  “I regret some people take advantage of this kind of situation. Do you know of anyone who would do that to you?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Will you let us know about any of these types of communications?”

  “It was the second one of those.”

  Trewe caught her glance as he handed her another of his cards. “You’ve been remarkably calm through this.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I don’t mean anything is wrong. Just an observation.” He turned and indicated the other officer in the room. “You’ve met WPC Craig?”

  “Yes.” Ruth nodded to the woman police constable, who had her notepad at the ready.

  “Mrs. Butler, we’ll put a stop to this. Rest assured. Anything you consider worrisome in the way of phone messages, we’ll consider harassment. Ring the number on my card the minute you receive another.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice broke. She cleared her throat. Oh, to banish this weakling inside her. Should she tell? Yes, she must. “I’ve got to tell you the rest.”

  At that moment Sam Ketterman stepped into the room from the kitchen. Ruth sucked in what she had been about to say. It was getting to be a regular feeling, this jumpiness. Sam was not a stranger. She’d known him almost from the time they had come to Cornwall. He was a solicitor. Why had he entered through the rear door? Sally stood behind Sam, making faces at his back.

  Sam glared at Trewe. “I’m sorry. Am I intruding?”

  “Mrs. Butler called us, sir. And your business here?”

  “Pardon me. I didn’t realize … Detective Chief Inspector, I am Ruth’s solicitor. Is there any progress?”

  “By progress, I assume you’re asking after Annie Butler?”

  “Exactly so.”

  Trewe turned to Ruth. “Mrs. Butler?”

  “Sam, I did not ask you to come.”

  Sally intervened. “Sam, there’s tea if you’ll come be my company in the kitchen.”

  Sam looked from Trewe to Ruth and then shrugged. “Thank you, Sall.”

  Ruth stared at their departing backs. Sally was being kind under the circumstances. She hated when he called her that.

  Trewe sighed and stood up. “We are doing our best, Mrs. Butler. There are forty-eight officers from the Devon-Cornwall area helping with the search. Two special officers from the Bristol Regional Crime Office are here. We’ve had few leads.”

  Their best hadn’t produced her daughter. Ruth nodded. She couldn’t ask more of them.

  “Mrs. Butler, you mentioned there was something else?”

  “It isn’t important.” She choked against the lie. She cleared her throat and picked up the flowers with the odd note. “Do you know what this says?”

  Trewe looked at the note. “Welsh. My gran would have known just what it meant. If you’d like, I’ll take this with me and get someone who knows the language to look at it.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Anything else?”

  She couldn’t say it, but yes, there was heaps more—tons more.

  “Don’t give up hope, Mrs. Butler. Let us know about any problems. Will you do that?”

  “Yes,” she said. In that moment, she thought Trewe actually sounded kind, despite his fierce looks. She studied his face for a mom
ent. She had to tell him the most important thing of all—the one thing that may in fact be impeding Annie’s quick return. Could she trust him? “Can I say something for your ears alone?”

  He nodded for Constable Craig to step across the room.

  She drew the chief inspector aside and whispered, “Ruth Butler is not my name.”

  8

  The detective chief inspector’s eyes went wide. He cleared his throat. “If you are in this country using an alias, you will be asked to leave.”

  Though he had whispered, Ruth glanced at Constable Craig who was watching without expression. She looked back into the icy eyes. “Please wait and hear me out.”

  He didn’t respond but he was still listening.

  “Could we step into another room?”

  He studied her face for a moment before nodding.

  They stepped from the open living area to the hall where she could close the door. She kept her voice to a whisper. “The day after graduating high school, I married. I was pregnant with Annie and thought I was doing the right thing. And … and it wasn’t horrible in the beginning. Then when Annie was seven months old I noticed the bruises and took her to the doctor. There was a criminal investigation. My husband’s family had connections with the county’s visiting judge and my husband was found innocent of the sexual abuse the doctor discovered.” She rubbed away hot tears. “I ran away to my parents’ home, but he dragged us back, locked us in, began systematically beating me.”

  Trewe cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. “Mrs. Butler—”

  “Let me finish. Please. I escaped. One night … he was passed out drunk. A neighbor took us to a women’s shelter. She believed me. From there, they hid us. By night we were shuttled between Texas towns and then sent to Houston. Months passed like this. I couldn’t contact my own family in any way. He would have found us. He knows people, you see. The Women Helping Women organization helped me change my identity. He is a sexual predator of the worst kind, and he was not convicted. That made him free, and me in violation of the court order to allow him visitation.”