by George Mann
Elspeth had cocooned herself in the blanket and buried her head in the cushions, managing another half-hour’s sleep before the constant beeping of her phone had finally forced her to get up. She’d zapped the coffee in the microwave, freshened up in the bathroom and stumbled out to her car, having read the five messages from Peter interrogating her about her evening.
She turned onto Heighton High Street and then swung in by the shops, relieved to find a spot for the Mini on the hill. She fed coins into the machine and pinned the ticket to the windscreen, then hurried over to Lenny’s.
Peter was waiting for her inside, a smug look on his face. She bent down to kiss him, and then dropped heavily into the chair opposite. Thankfully, he’d already bought her a coffee.
“You smell like a vineyard,” he said, laughing.
“I feel like one too,” she said, not even sure what she meant.
“Good night, then?”
“Great night, actually,” said Elspeth. “Daisy’s a lot of fun, and an amazing artist. You should see some of her portraits. I really think she could make a go of it.”
“And good wine, too?”
“Well, there was that. And singing.”
“Oh God, save me,” mocked Peter. “Seriously, though, I was worried about you. She’s still a prime suspect in Nicholas Abbott’s murder, and you weren’t supposed to go getting that closely involved. I thought they taught you this at journalism school, or something.”
“This wasn’t about journalism, or the story, or even really about the investigation,” said Elspeth. “It was about me, and a young woman who needs a friend. She’s been through a lot. She told me about her upbringing, how her parents had both been killed in a car crash when she was seventeen.”
“Christ,” said Peter. “That’s tough.”
“There’s definitely something going on with her. She said she’d been feeling not quite herself the last few nights, and her boots in the hallway were covered in mud… but I don’t know, my opinion might not count for much, but I just can’t see it. I think it’s more that she’s a bit alone in the world, and it’s getting to her, is all.”
“You do have a tendency to see the best in people,” said Peter. “It’s one of your defining qualities.”
Elspeth grinned. “You say the nicest things.” She sipped her coffee. It was like liquid bliss. “How was your evening?”
“Just what you’d imagine. I spent most of it at the station, working with the team to plot out all the possible leads, seeing what connections, if any, we could draw between the two deaths.”
“And?”
“There’s very little to tell. Patel’s off to speak to Thomas Abbott again today, to see if he can get a sense of the man’s movements over the last few days. As far as we know he had no connection to Stroud, but that temper…”
“You didn’t tell me how he’d been killed,” said Elspeth.
Peter lowered his voice. “It’s not for public consumption, all right, but he was battered to death with a marker pole from the dig. Whoever it was made a right mess of him.”
Elspeth pulled a face. She could imagine. “Do you have any idea who you’re looking for?”
Peter rocked his hand back and forth in a tentative gesture. “It’s an open book at the moment. We’ve been trying to get prints off the weapon, but the killer must have worn gloves, and it’s such an isolated spot up there that no one saw them. The TV crew had left a time-lapse camera set up on the site, but the killer must have seen it and taken it with them. We’ve got people looking for that, too.”
“What about the Walseys?”
“Arguing amongst themselves as usual,” he said.
“Any luck with Sally and Christian Jameson?”
“No. Not really. There’s nothing to place either of them at the scene, although their alibis are pretty thin. It’s clear that Christian thought the man was a pain in the arse, but without any evidence it’s a big leap to put him in the frame for the guy’s murder. I suppose they might have been working together, but again, there’s nothing to suggest it.” Peter shook his head. “Sally did seem rather cut up about the Abbott murder, but I’m not sure what the connection is yet. It still feels like a hell of a coincidence that two people would be murdered, a day apart, in an otherwise quiet village with one of the lowest crime rates in the area. It can’t just be a coincidence.”
“Three unexplained deaths,” said Elspeth, quietly.
“What’s that?” said Peter.
“Three deaths in unusual circumstances. I saw Iain and Carl Hardwick yesterday, about the fayre, and it’s just something that Carl said.” She poked an errant strand of hair back behind her ear as she leaned forward. “Back in the 1640s, when they first buried Agnes Levett. Soon after, there followed three unexplained deaths, and people said they’d been hearing Agnes’s voice. What you just said, about it not being a coincidence. Carl said something similar about those historical deaths. I can’t help wondering – both of these murders have happened within a couple of days of the witch stone being moved and Agnes Levett’s grave exposed.”
“You’re not suggesting her spirit has returned to wreak vengeance, are you? I can’t very well take that to Griffiths as my working theory,” said Peter.
“Maybe not,” said Elspeth, “but you know as well as I do that there are more things in this world than can be easily understood by the likes of us.”
Peter looked thoughtful, as if her words had struck home. “Is that a quote?”
“I’m paraphrasing Shakespeare. Badly. But okay, let’s say these deaths have got nothing to do with Agnes Levett. What if someone’s trying to make it seem like they do?” She drained her coffee and looked over at the queue, then felt crestfallen when she saw the length of it. She’d have to get another coffee at home, before setting out for her train to London. She had no idea how she was going to get through another night out. Not to mention the work she still had to do en route.
“All right, so someone who’s aware of the old story is using the excavation as a trigger to murder people. They’d still need a motive,” said Peter. “It makes no sense that they’d just randomly select people to die.”
“Who’s to say that they are random, in the mind of the killer?” said Elspeth. “All I’m saying is that could be your link. The story. And if it is, it suggests another person is going to die.”
“Great,” said Peter. “Just what I need.”
“I’m sorry, just trying to help.” She reached over for his coffee cup and took a long swig.
He watched her with amusement. “No, you are helping. It’s just, if that’s true, it means we could be looking at anyone. It doesn’t necessarily allow us to narrow the field.”
“And nothing at Abbott’s or Stroud’s houses has suggested anything useful?”
“Not yet. The SOCOs are still analysing fibres from Abbott’s house, but I’m not holding up much hope.” He sighed. “Even the Carrion King case seemed simple compared to this one.”
They lapsed into thoughtful silence.
“Look, let’s get out of here for a minute. Take a walk,” said Elspeth.
“All right,” said Peter, frowning. “Is everything okay?” He got to his feet.
“I think so,” said Elspeth. “It’s just, this doesn’t seem the right place to talk, you know?”
He nodded. “I know just the place. Come on.” He took her by the hand and led her out onto the High Street. She followed as he led her down a narrow passage between two buildings – a bank and a chemist – which opened up onto a small area that had once been the back yard of the bank, but had now been converted into a small public garden.
“I had no idea this was here!” said Elspeth.
“It’s new. The council have just finished renovating it. It was too small for a car park, and too out of the way for an office, so they decided to create a few flower beds and a seating area for the public. I’ve been waiting for a chance to show it to you.”
“I love it,�
�� said Elspeth, taking a seat on one of the benches. Peter sat down beside her, and Elspeth took his hand in hers. She gave it a gentle squeeze. “Talk to me about the promotion,” she said. There, she’d said it. She studied his face carefully, looking for some sort of sign, some giveaway as to his true thoughts.
Peter rubbed his other hand over his chin. “Ah. So that’s what this is about.” He sighed. “There’s really nothing to tell. It’s just something that’s been mentioned, is all. And really, is it for me? Big city life? You know what that’s like. Would I really fit in?”
“Of course you would. If you wanted to.” She felt something flip in her stomach. The thought that he might actually be considering going…
“That’s just it,” he said. “I’m not sure that I do want to.” He looked at her, holding her gaze in silence for a moment.
“But you’re unhappy here?” she asked. She swallowed, her throat dry.
“No, no. It’s not that. Look, I’ve lived here all my life. You’ve been out there, seen the world for what it is. I’m just a local boy who chose to stick around. It’s just… the Carrion King case. It gave me a taste of something bigger, I suppose. And it felt good. I don’t mean all the death, all the horror of it, I mean putting an end to it. Helping people. Saving lives. Seeing justice done. I just… I think I can do more.”
“I’m sure of it,” she said. How could she say anything else? He was right. He did have more to offer than chasing after burglars and car thieves. “But isn’t that what you’re doing now? Griffiths isn’t breathing down your neck, is she, about the Abbott murder?”
“No, you’re right. Not yet. She’s letting me get on with it for now.” He took his hand from hers, rubbing his chin. “I suppose it’s a bit of a test. That’s why I’ve got to be seen to play everything by the book. You understand, don’t you?”
“Perfectly.”
He looked at her again, and she could tell he was working himself up to another awkward subject. “What about you? Aren’t you tempted by all that stuff that Abi was talking about? Launch parties and publishing jobs? The Carrion King case has done that for you, too, hasn’t it? Opened up new possibilities?”
Elspeth couldn’t meet his gaze. “I suppose so,” she said. “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it. But I’m happy here. I’m finally starting to feel at home. I’m not looking for more, not at the moment.” And yet, she was still going to the party with Abigail that night, and was still going to meet with Simon, the editorial director. She didn’t want to tell him about the meeting, though, because she didn’t want to scare him into making a different decision of his own. If he thought she was going, would that push him into taking a transfer? And if so, what did that mean for the two of them? They’d barely been together for three months – what right did she have to expect him to stay for her if he wasn’t happy?
“Then we’re both worrying about nothing,” said Peter. He didn’t sound convinced.
“All right,” said Elspeth. “But let’s make sure we talk about it, okay?” He nodded. Her phone trilled, and she fumbled for a moment to find it in her bag. She looked at the screen: Abigail. Perfect timing.
“Hang on, it’s Abi.” She accepted the call. “Hi, Abi.”
“Hiya. Just wondering what time you’re getting in today? I’ve taken the afternoon off so I can meet you, and we can get glammed up at my place.”
Elspeth wanted to groan. Just the thought of going out again seemed like torture. She’d promised, though, and she didn’t want to let Abigail down. Plus she supposed she really should meet this Simon character that Abi kept talking about, just so she knew what she’d be turning down. “My train’s due in at three.”
“Okay, perfect. Bye!”
The line went dead.
She looked at Peter, feeling a little guilty.
“You go and enjoy yourself,” he said. “I’m tied up here, anyway. Look, there’s one last thing. It’s about the case…”
“Go on.”
“When you talked to Lee Stroud up at the dig, did he say anything that might be useful?”
Elspeth cast her mind back over the conversation. “No, I don’t think so. He mentioned there’d been some deaths – that’s the first time I was aware of that part of the story – and said that it was nice to have someone take him seriously for once. He said he only wanted to help, and that they shouldn’t go stirring things up, that people like Agnes Levett don’t rest easily. He talked about echoes of the past, and everything coming around again.”
They stood, and kissed.
“If he wasn’t one of the victims, I’d say he would have been our prime suspect,” he said. “But nothing’s ever that easy, is it?”
“Nothing is, no,” she replied.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It was mid-afternoon before Peter got away from the station again, having mooted Elspeth’s idea about the killer being inspired by the exhumation of Agnes’s bones to recreate the story from the legend. This had gained some traction amongst the team, although there was still the question of motive, and so they’d set to work researching the original legend online – as far as they could – and attempting to identify potential candidates from amongst the villagers and suspects.
The problem was, they kept coming up short. There was no one amongst the notable figures they’d identified in the village with more than a speeding ticket to their name, except Thomas Abbott, who had a previous for ABH after getting into a fight in the pub one night with another local man. It hardly identified him as a cold-blooded killer. Hugh Walsey, too, was thought to have been involved in some shady dealings, perhaps relating to tax fraud, but again there was nothing concrete, and he’d never been convicted of anything, related or otherwise. They’d even managed to get hold of someone from the Krakow police force to run a search on Petra Walsey, formerly Nowak, but they’d come back with an instant negative. She was as clean as they come.
So, while Patel went out to Thomas Abbott’s place, Peter decided to have another word with Daisy Heddle to see if she had any connection to Lee Stroud, and whether she had an alibi for the night of his murder.
He was still concerned that Elspeth had put herself so completely into Daisy’s orbit. Even she’d been forced to admit that there was something going on with the woman, and if Daisy did turn out to be a killer, Elspeth would have spent a drunken night on her sofa, completely exposed. He didn’t even like to consider what might have happened.
Luckily, she’d had a good time, and she was fine. Maybe he was being overprotective, and maybe he should trust her judgement more. If he could only get to the bottom of what Daisy was hiding. Every instinct told him it would help to unpick the tangled morass of secrets and relationships that comprised the village of Hallowdene.
He’d called at Richmond’s looking for her, drawing sour looks from both Sally and Christian. They’d told him that she’d already finished for the day, having done the early shift, and directed him to her cottage down the road. Daisy was at the door within moments, looking up brightly, although her face fell when she realised it was Peter.
“DS Shaw,” she said, levelly. “What can I do for you?”
He wondered if she were expecting someone else.
“Just some follow-up questions, if you have a few minutes?”
She released her hold on the door and beckoned him in. Her hands were covered in paint, and she was wearing denim dungarees that clearly served as overalls; mandelbrots of various different colours were spattered down her front. Her hair was tied back from her face. She was wearing a small gold ring through her pierced eyebrow.
“Excuse me for a moment,” she said, brandishing her hands. “I’d better just clean up.”
She went through to the kitchen and ran the tap for a minute, leaving him hovering in the hallway feeling awkward. The house reminded him of a Hobbit hole – small and cosy and full of things. He felt too big inside, like a giant who’d accidentally wandered into the wrong children’s story.
She reappeared a moment later, still drying her hands. He couldn’t help but notice that the bandage had gone, and the wound on her palm looked like a ragged tear, as opposed to a cut she might have acquired from an open tin of beans. It had clearly started to heal, the skin puckered, red and scabrous, and it obviously hadn’t been deep enough to require stitching.
“Working on a new piece?” he said.
“Yeah.” She cocked her head. “Actually, you might like to see it,” she said, with a shrug.
“I’d like that.”
She led him up to the studio and indicated the canvas on the easel. “Here. It’s early days, but it’s starting to take shape.”
He took a step closer, trying to make sense of the gossamer shapes, the dancing of the white paint over the red and brown of the background. Then he noticed the eye, staring out at him, and the face seemed to resolve around it. It was Elspeth, looking intently up at him, a cheeky smile on her slightly parted lips.
He stepped back, unable to take his eyes from the picture. “That’s incredible,” he said. “How long have you been working on it?”
“Just a few hours,” she said. “I took the reference pictures last night. You mustn’t tell her you’ve seen it, though. She knows I’m doing it, but I still want it to be a surprise.” Daisy looked pleased with herself.
And she has a right to be, thought Peter. “These are all yours?” he said, stooping to look at some of the other stacked canvases.
“Yeah. I’m hoping to try to exhibit some of them, some time.”
He looked up, seriously impressed. “I’m as far from an expert as you can get, but Ellie was right – you’ve got a real talent.”
She looked faintly embarrassed. “Ellie said she might do a piece for the local paper, try to get some attention.”
“Then I’m sure she’ll see it through, just as soon as the fayre is out of the way and all the excitement has died down.”
“Ah, yeah. The ‘excitement’. I heard about poor Lee.”