by R. L. Nolen
He ducked to miss a low-hanging branch. Perhaps he needed to take a real break from the dating scene.
He came up short in his walk and found himself in a copse of trees between two street levels. On a night like this the lichen made the tree branches look like hairy arms. Something wrong with the picture jolted him—stopped his mind mid-thought—something out of sync with the dark stillness.
He turned slowly to take in the scenery, straining to hear any sound that might seem out of place. Every hint of noise reverberated. He picked out the sound of footsteps scuffling on the road below. He peered through the trees. Someone walked on the pavement heading away from him and toward the streetlight, their face in profile—the postmistress? What was she up to? Didn’t she live on the other side of the village? Why was she walking at night?
From the retaining wall, he jumped down to the road. A flush of adrenaline tingled into his core. This is where he had been earlier—Riverside, Mrs. Butler’s cottage. A slight movement caught his eye. He moved closer. The object was small, level with her door. Swaying in the breeze, with a white sock stuffed inside, a girl’s black shoe dangled from a string.
11:47 p.m.
Each house on the American woman’s street shared garden walls, which made it easier to get into the back gardens from the alley. The houses were close together in a single row.
On the opposite side of the street, a rock retaining wall kept the hill from tumbling down into the street. There were trees and plantings in which to hide and, above that, another street and more cottages with a clear view of her garden all around.
Charles lumbered slowly back and forth. He twisted his hands together until they hurt. For his trouble, he had left the American woman one more little something to remember her daughter by.
The temperature had dropped in the night and the wind had picked up. Sapling trees, just budding into spring greenness, slapped at him with every turn. He bent one until it snapped in his hands. He cracked the pieces into parts. Having to deal with the captive was just another interruption. He broke the parts into smaller pieces and stuck the bits one by one into the earth. He stood and ground the pieces deep into the loam with his heel.
Re-entering the street above the American woman’s house, he picked up the bags, chuckling at his ingenious disguise. No one would notice a binman collecting rubbish.
With a flourish, he tossed the stinking bags into Widow Purvey’s rear garden.
Tired, perhaps half-asleep, Ruth showered and put on warm pajamas. She checked Annie’s room where her mother was snoring and went back to her room. Her dressing table mirror had pictures of Annie stuck into the sides of the frame. Ruth took the latest school picture down. She sank to the floor, staring at Annie’s smiling face, so confident and self-assured. She held her stomach. Her heart beat heavy and sluggish as she thought about how she would miss Annie’s smile the most. Memories slashed like a raptor tearing into her chest with beak and talon.
She remembered herself at that age. She began then to feel awkward and ugly. Was it peer pressure to be perfect? Until recently, she had continued to feel that way. Maybe it was age that made it better. Small comfort that Annie had never had that struggle with self-image, at least not that Ruth knew of. She was the most confident of girls. But then again, as a mother, who could judge until Annie was grown and able to voice how much of a mess her mother had made her life? Wasn’t she guilty of doing the same to her own mother? Did all daughters do that?
The school uniform that Annie had worn in the picture still hung neatly in the closet where it had awaited that fated Monday morning five days ago—the same day the new shoes were to be debuted. Now, the green jacket would never grow too threadbare or too small. The outfit would hang there for a million Monday mornings, unless she was right and Annie was alive. But how would she get her back? What if she never got her back? Someone’s daughter had been found in the surf wearing her daughter’s clothes. They would never get their daughter back.
Would she give everything away? Would she keep everything and make her room a shrine? She didn’t know the answer. She never imagined she would ever need those answers.
20
Saturday, midmorning
Day seven
Jon leaned over his little fold-out table clutching his mobile. The cold air from outside bit into any exposed skin, but he couldn’t live in this little box of a home without that window open. A home from home for sure this is, roight! “Still holding, yes, thank you. Tell them Detective Inspector Jon Graham is calling from Cornwall.” He wondered if he should make another pot of coffee while he waited. A harried sounding woman popped onto the line.
“Records. Cynthia Reed.”
“Cynthia, love, has anyone ever told you you have a lovely voice?”
“What do you want, Jon Graham?”
“Now my dearest love, we agreed—no grudges.”
“You are such a cheeky bastard.”
“But you can’t help but love me, right? So check this for me. I need to know if there are any samples or DNA profiles from these cases.” Jon read off the case numbers.
“You do realize it is Saturday morning?”
“Yes, and any help you give me will not go unrecognized. It is urgent.”
“Not go unrecognized? Why, whatever could you mean?”
“Cynthia.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’ve got my mobile. You are an angel.”
After a little while, he couldn’t sit doing nothing. He took off for the village. Most of the investigation’s activities were taking place at the larger Treborwick police station and in the incident room they’d set up in an abandoned fish cannery warehouse building above the beach. He decided first that it wouldn't hurt to check on Sergeant Perstow, so he stopped by the three-room Perrin’s Point police station and entered through the back door. The tiny police station officially closed at noon during the off season, so the sergeant might be alone. Silence prevailed, as did the odor of burnt coffee and plaster dust.
Someone muttered a curse, a metal file drawer slammed, and there was a rustle of shuffled papers. Jon poked his head around the office door. Perstow bounced forward in his seat, flung an arm out, and knocked a lampshade out of kilter.
“A pleasant surprise, sar. Come in.” Closing a folder, the smiling sergeant reached to straighten the shade, his face red.
“Interesting office,” Jon said. “Who’s your decorator?”
“First floor’s being converted into more efficient office space—new wires, the filing to be kept up there.” Perstow pointed to the ceiling. “I can’t imagine what it will be like hauling my girth …”
“Oh now, you want to say you're fat, but you’re not what you’d call obese.”
“P’r’aps. I’m fat enough, and know my limits.” Perstow shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe anyone would make him climb stairs on a daily basis. “Used to be a police house, this did. And in here was the holding cell.”
“Now holding you?”
“Yes, sar.”
Jon shifted some papers so he could sit on the straight, wooden prisoner’s bed. “Long night last night, too?”
“Cream-crackered.” Perstow rubbed his face. “As can be understood, what with the discovery a certain gentleman made in the wee hours. Do you always wander so late?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” Jon leaned his aching head against the rear wall. “I had your official Cornish cider yesterday afternoon, so I did take a nap soon after.”
Perstow threw his head back and laughed. “They used to throw a dead rat in the barrel, sar—claimed it made the cider more potent. It is still tapped from the barrel. How’d you come to drink it?”
Jon recited the details of his dining experience with Tavy. He went on to recount his later experience with Mrs. Butler on the cliffs, including the sinister person who looked as if he would push her from the edge. “So now it’s your turn. Tell me about Mrs. Butler.”
“Sech a
tragedy to happen to a fine, quiet lass. From all accounts, never bothers a soul, bless her heart.” He shook his head.
“The loss of her daughter is horrible. How did the father take it?”
“No father living. But the woman’s been on her own for ten years.”
This surprised Jon. “The shoe. It was only twenty minutes earlier that I was in front of her house, and no shoe hung from that branch then. I saw paper inside the shoe and didn’t dare dissect it. Trewe holds me suspect enough; I don’t need to touch anything. Was it a note?”
“I made a copy. See if you can make anythin’ of this.”
Jon took the note handed him and read, “Little Annie Blue, / Has lost her shoe. / What will poor Charles do? / Why, give her another, / To match the other, / And then she will die in two.” Jon pondered aloud. “Misquoted Mother Goose, it should say—besides the obvious filling in of names—‘And then she will walk in two.’ This doesn’t fit the context; the girl is already dead. This shoe makes a complete pair. Mrs. Butler identified them as her daughter’s. But this poem, the way he’s written it, indicates she isn’t dead yet.”
“P’r’aps she wasn’t dead when he wrote it.”
“Wasn’t there something about the identification? Mrs. Butler insisted on viewing the body. Claimed it wasn’t her daughter afterward.”
“‘Poor lass. The DNA will prove the truth, whatever that might be.”
“Yes, you’re right, of course.”
Perstow held out more notes. “And these emails …”
Jon glanced over them. “Charles. The same as on the note in the shoe. He’s a bold one. What’s he playing at giving us his name?”
“I s’pose. But we don’t have his last name, and a bit o’ worse news.” Perstow’s face had tragedy written all over it. “There ain’t a Charles or a Charlie, or a Chuck, or even a Chas, in the entire village, nor the next village over, nor in the next hamlet. If there’s a Charles nearby, he goes by another name.”
Lack of sleep caught up with Jon in one terrible rush. He took a turn around the cramped office, which had been a holding cell. This was just another closed-in place. Air … he needed air. How did Perstow stand it? Even with a lamp, it was dark. The walls were mustard yellow. Puke yellow. The pain in his bum from the wooden bench matched his pounding head. “I observed the postmistress walking away. Word is she’s not a pleasant person, but she’s no Charles. Maybe Charlene.”
Jon saw a fleeting smile passed over Perstow’s face, and then his open face grew stern, as if he was reluctant to say anything bad about anyone.
“Her’s from Devon originally. Been here a long while, but never has been o’er friendly. Her companion, Thomas, is nice enough for two, p’r’aps. You sent the tapes to London?”
“Yes.”
“The DCI will murder me for certain when he finds out about the video footage.”
“Out of your control. I’ll take care of it. This morning I’m talking to Trewe about being added to the team.”
“I already know, sar. He received a call from a Superintendent Bakewell.”
“Good. Then I’m in?”
“As I understand it, sar. You are an observer, which means you can’t be officially involved in the case in your capacity as Detective Inspector.”
“Better than nothing. Tell me what we have so far.”
“Every grain of sand collected near the pile of shells where the girl disappeared was sieved. The top six inches were scraped up. Every shell and scrap of material was categorized and submitted to intense scrutiny. They scraped spittle and gum from the rocks. They’ve done everything but remove the stone steps leadin’ up from the beach. All that and nary a scrap to neither find nor convict.”
“This murder, it could have been a random thing.”
“Random murder in a village this size?” Perstow looked surprised.
“I suppose every loony within the region has been questioned?”
“Oh dear Lord, it’s not as if we’ve been sittin’ on our arses, is it?” Perstow stood. “Coffee ’ud wake you.”
Jon shook his head. “I’m so filled with coffee and tea, I slosh.”
Perstow left the room and came back with a steaming mug that he placed on his desk before he sat down again.
Jon studied Perstow. The man seemed most at ease when behind his desk. “Perstow, I’ve parked across the street. I need a small job. I was sideswiped by a dark car at precisely the time of the kidnapping. I’d like you to authorize having the dark paint smear on my car analyzed. We might get a make and model from that. Whoever it was, when I backtracked the likely path of the car, it could just as well have come from the alley above the beach where the girl was taken. So it might tie into the investigation.”
“It does sound like it, sar.”
Jon reached for the cup of pens on Perstow’s desk and picked up a thin, silver tube. “What’s this?”
“A penlight.” Perstow pushed his girth back in the chair. “Find it comes in handy at the oddest times.”
Jon reached to return the torch.
“No, sar, keep it. Please. I have more than one.”
“Thank you.” Jon stuck it inside his jacket pocket. “Can you give me any insight into Trewe? What should I watch out for?”
“Never volunteers anythin’ personal, our DCI. He is what you’d call a closed trap. And even more likely to be with an observer, sar. That’d be you. Only watch yer p’s and q’s. He’s one for ‘by the book,’ our DCI.”
“The preliminary inquest into the death of Annie Butler—I’ll be there, of course.”
The stout, balding sergeant pushed back his chair as he stood and leaned to grab a folder which he then stuck under an arm. “I must check on Her Indoors. She’s feeling a bit teasy ’bout things—scared. If you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course. Cheers.” Jon wondered what the folder contained as he watched Perstow leave the room and head toward the back door and his push-bike. He didn’t want to say too much, but soon after his arrival, Jon had heard Perstow’s stunning young wife asking her husband, “Just how long must I endure that as a garden?” The door had slammed shut and he hadn’t caught the rest, but he’d wondered if it foretold trouble. The woman had a tongue in her head. Later she’d turned friendly enough, a little too, but then, he was used to ladies lavishing attention on him. He didn’t pay too much mind, and instead went out of his way to avoid her.
He wasn’t a blinking idiot.
Just as Perstow exited the back door of the station, Jon heard the front door open. He waited a moment but didn’t hear anyone call out. He was supposed to be alone in the building. He called out, “Hallo?”
Footsteps approached until Trewe filled the doorway of the cell/office. “Not much to holiday sightsee in here.”
“Perstow has filled me in. I understood you received a directive.”
“I did, and I’ll repeat what I said before: I don’t need your help.”
“I don’t mean to take over.” Jon stood at attention.
“Directive received, I will obey, naturally. You may tag along. Don’t expect I’m dancing in daffodils about it. Where’s Perstow?”
“Went to see about his wife.”
“The fellow’s never about when you need him—has a wife from hell. That’s what happens when you marry a younger woman, take my word for it.”
Jon liked Perstow. What was it like married to a woman with the tongue she had? The surprising thing was Trewe had revealed something of a personal nature.
Trewe’s lips stretched in a thin line in what Jon supposed was a smile. “We go back, he and I.”
“Perstow?”
“No, your super, Thomas ‘The Big Guy’ Bakewell.”
Thomas? The Big Guy? He had heard only one person ever use Bakewell’s given Christian name and he had gone away with a toad in his ear for it. “I’m surprised. I’ve never heard him mention you.”
“Oh really? Well, I’m not too surprised, considering. So have you found the s
ecret biscuit stash in here yet?” Trewe asked.
“No, sir.” Jon wondered what had he meant by the word considering.
“In the cupboard by the coffee machine,” Trewe said. “Perstow’s wife keeps him on a diet, but who can change an old dog’s habit? I think I spotted a package of chocolate digestives earlier. I’ll make a new batch of coffee, if you like.” He grabbed a mug from a cabinet in the hall. “We’ve the place to ourselves, at present. And you, young sir, want to get into a murder investigation, by hook or by crook.”
“Sergeant Perstow has been showing me the file.”
“Good. His job is here, of course. It’s a mess with the plaster dust and all. The major incident room was previously a warehouse being made ready to convert to flats. There’s enough room for the team to set up several computers with HOLMES II at the ready. But the activity and noise is endless. Here you can get a quiet read of the files. The interview room is still in one piece, so we may utilize it, private as it is. Just a word between you and me, Perstow needs to put a lock on that pumpkin shell of his and show up for work occasionally. And where is his illustrious community support officer, PCSO Trethaway?” Trewe asked, fishing around on Perstow’s desk. “Never mind, here’s a note from Perstow. Hmm.” He read silently. “Some sort of crisis with Mrs. Trethaway’s son and his car.” Jon noticed the knowing smile sneak across Trewe’s face.
Just then, the back door burst open and Perstow popped in, his face red. “Oh gov,” he was addressing Trewe, “the calls … I came back to leave you a note.”
“Calls? The pertinent number for the missing girl is to the incident room.”
“Not about the girl’s death. A man …” Perstow was out of breath, “… about registering his gun.”
“Patrick?”
“That was his name.”
“He say when?”
“No.”
Trewe turned to Jon. “He’s attempted to register that rabbit gun four times this year. Always when he knows something will prevent it. As if he cares about rabbits munching his sprouts or guns being registered.” In the hall just outside the door, Trewe took a package of biscuits out of a cupboard and re-entered Perstow’s jail-cell office. “Likely looking for someone to talk to. Have you turned out someone’s file cabinet onto your desk, Mr. Perstow?”