by Kim M Watt
“No?”
“No.” Priya peered around the inspector’s shoulder. “Look, there they are now!” She waved, and DI Adams turned to see Teresa, Carlotta, and Pearl all waiting at the corner of the square. They waved back enthusiastically, and the inspector sighed again.
“Right. Well.” She wanted to say behave yourselves, but that would be like telling her mum and aunts to behave. It seemed like a bad idea. “Enjoy your coffee, then.”
“Thank you.” Priya started toward the shop, then turned back. “Can we get you something, Detective Inspector?”
“No! No, thank you.” She gave the four women a smile, then stooped to pick up her empty cup and the food. She might be coffee-less, but there was no chance she was going back in to face the baker. She didn’t want to imagine what sort of state he’d be in with the W.I. actually on the premises.
God, she wanted that coffee now. Or sleep, preferably. Her vision had gone back to normal after the churchyard, no more blurry edges or that weird sense of her eyes sliding away from, well, whatever, but the whole incident had left her with a horrible headache, which the sleepless night hadn’t helped.
Then there was that thing late last night, when she’d gone to see what Miriam was up to. She could have sworn she’d heard other voices in the garden before she got there, but she hadn’t seen anyone except Miriam with her pixie food. One of the voices, though, had sounded like the commanding one that had shouted for Walter in the graveyard. She’d never seen him, either. She should have seen him, but maybe he’d hidden behind a gravestone or something. She had been kind of busy being knocked over by the dog. She thought. There had been something off about the timing, the way the dog ran past and then she fell, but her mind kept sliding away from it, the way her eyes had from the church steps. And Miriam’s garden earlier in the day. And the bridge. The bridge in London. Your eyes wanted to slide then, too. And your mind.
“Shut up,” she said to the car, and rubbed her eyes. There was no point thinking about it. About that. She’d been overworked, under-rested, running on caffeine and adrenaline. She’d got the kids back. It didn’t matter that there had been all that confusion over who (what, her mind suggested unhelpfully) had taken them in the first place. She was in a better place now, anyway. She’d taken time off. Done some work on herself and her stress management techniques. Had the MRIs, just to be sure. She was fine. And Leeds was far less stressful. Not so many bridges, either, her mind added.
“That is entirely enough of that,” she told herself firmly, and opened the car door. Air would help. She hadn’t had enough sleep, was all. And it was the deathly quiet of this place, no distractions. Her mind was just up to unpleasant tricks, seeing connections where there were none. Nothing else to it.
The early morning air was cool against her skin, smelling somehow newly minted, as if the trees had brewed it up just for her. No hint of exhaust smoke, no stench of stale beer or chippie grease or just the packed mass of humanity that makes up a city. The greens of Miriam’s garden, and those of her neighbours, were slowly emerging from the washed-out colours of the night, and the one streetlight at the end of the lane went off, leaving the sleeping houses tranquil. It was a place untouched, rolled back in time to when there were wild places still, and the world felt unworn and possible.
DI Adams breathed deep, and thought that there might actually be something to this country air thing. She swung her legs out of the car, thinking that a bit of a walk and a stretch in the thin light of the new day seemed both decadent and sensible, and put her foot on something that squidged. She closed her eyes, said something rude about country living, and looked down, expecting to see a cow pat under her boot.
It wasn’t a cow pat.
It was a rabbit.
It was a very dead, very cooked rabbit. Its skin was still on, but the fur was singed away, and its lips had been baked back from its teeth in a horribly cheerful rictus. She stared at its eyeless sockets and contracted limbs, then stepped past it and got slowly out of the car. The rabbit was lying on a neat collection of several large green leaves, as if being artfully presented at one of those trendy eateries that always seem to disdain plates. And there were some flowers next to it, some sort of wildflowers maybe? God knew what they were exactly, she wasn’t a botanist. She looked at the house, but there was no face at the window, no spying rabbit-roasting woman. She nudged the tiny corpse with her toe and said something anatomically incorrect about what the donor of this meal could do. Then she snapped a couple of pictures on her phone and got back into the car. Sod the countryside.
DI Adams waited until she felt that it was a reasonable sort of hour for country folk to be up. They got up early, didn’t they? Wasn’t that one of those country living things? James had messaged to say that he was on the way, but he wouldn’t be here for another hour or so, and she quite frankly didn’t fancy waiting any longer. Every time she looked out the door the bloody rabbit was staring back at her sightlessly, and it was downright unnerving.
She got out of the car again, picked the rabbit up gingerly by one charred paw, and marched to the house. She didn’t bother going around to the back door, just walked straight through the gate and up the path to the front, then looked for a doorbell. There didn’t seem to be one, which was just typical. She banged on the door with her free hand, her it’s the police so open up if you know what’s good for you knock. There was no response, and she hit the door again, harder this time, using the side of her fist, and she was mid-knock when it opened, revealing a wide-eyed Miriam who jumped back with a squeak.
The inspector dropped her fist hurriedly, and Miriam stared at her, wiping her hands anxiously on a tea towel.
“Um, good morning, Inspector?” she offered. She was dressed, after a fashion. She still had that terrible sarong on, but the souvenir Cancun T-shirt had been swapped for one of those long-sleeved, scoop-necked things that you always saw in stores that sold incense and crystals.
DI Adams thrust the rabbit at her. “What is this?” she demanded. “What is this?”
“It’s, well, it’s a rabbit?” Miriam said, looking bewildered. She was still wiping her hands like Lady Macbeth.
“I can see it’s a rabbit, you—” The inspector stopped and took a deep breath. She wasn’t going to shout. Shouting meant things were getting out of control again, and they weren’t. They weren’t. Anyway, she was already starting to doubt the woman had anything to do with the rabbit. She looked too confused to be faking. “I can see it’s a rabbit, Ms Ellis. Why was it outside my car door?”
“Outside your car door?” Miriam repeated blankly.
“Yes. It was outside my car door. With flowers. I stood on it. On the rabbit.” It was surprisingly difficult to keep her voice level. “Why? Why was there a rabbit and flowers outside my car door? And how? How did it get there? I didn’t see anyone, and I’ve been watching all night.” She sounded plaintive to her own ears, and swallowed hard. This was no good. She needed caffeine.
“Oh dear,” Miriam said, wiping her hands on the cloth with a little more enthusiasm. “Oh, oh dear.”
“Oh dear? That’s all you can say?”
“Yes. I mean, no. Oh dear.”
“What? Oh dear what?”
“I, well – oh dear.”
“Ms Ellis! Do not say oh dear again!” DI Adams jabbed the rabbit toward Miriam as she spoke, with rather more violence than she had intended, and the well-cooked body tore free, leaving her holding the leg. Both women looked down as the carcass landed on the hessian doormat with a meaty thud. There was a moment’s silence, then the inspector said wearily, “Oh, bollocks.”
“Come in,” Miriam said. “I’ll make you a cuppa.”
“What about the rabbit?”
“Bring it in. No point wasting it.”
She turned away, and the inspector followed her through the house and into the quiet warm of the kitchen, gingerly cradling the dead rabbit.
“It’s a village custom.”
; “Dead rabbits.”
“Yes. A mark of respect. It means that we accept you. Like a welcome present.”
“A dead, burned rabbit left outside my car door is considered a welcome present.”
“Country customs.” Miriam gave the inspector a little smile, but DI Adams didn’t return it. She didn’t feel like smiling. A dead rabbit was a mark of respect? A welcome present? What sort of backwoods horror show was this?
“What happens if you really like someone?” she demanded. “A dead cow by the back door?”
Miriam gave a little hiccough of laughter and glanced at the oven. DI Adams followed her gaze, and her stomach rumbled. She knew it was a risk, eating or drinking anything, particularly as Miriam was about as close as she had to a suspect, but she’d gratefully taken the tea the woman had made. And whatever she was baking smelled amazing, all spices and rich brown sugar sweetness. She rubbed her forehead and wondered if things might start making more sense if she had something to eat. The rabbit lay on the draining board, staring blindly at the ceiling, and answering that question pretty firmly in the negative.
“Ms Ellis. Miriam. I need you to tell me what’s really going on here.” DI Adams leaned over the kitchen table, confidential, woman-to-woman. It wasn’t an approach she was particularly familiar with or good at, but desperate needs and all that. “I’m not a bad person. I’m not trying to persecute anyone or get innocent people in trouble. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of what’s going on. But you need to be honest with me. So let’s start with how the rabbit got there. Because I know it wasn’t you. I never saw you leave the house.”
Miriam sighed. “I told you. I think a friend of mine must have left it there.”
“So what’s this friend called?”
“Walter.”
DI Adams frowned. Miriam had barely hesitated over the name, but she looked distinctly uncomfortable, and she was playing with the tea towel again. “Walter? Was he at the church?”
“Yes. I mean, no! No, I didn’t mean Walter. I meant – I meant Melvin.”
“Melvin.”
“Yes. Melvin. Melvin, um, Melvin Walters. That’s who I meant.”
The inspector sighed and took a sip of tea. It was good tea, strong and lightly sugared. Not poisoned, as far as she could tell. “Miriam, you’re not helping yourself.”
Miriam had been avoiding looking at her, staring at her hands instead. Now she risked a little glance up. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know who left the rabbit. But I do have a feeling that it might have been a friend of mine.”
“So tell me his name.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” DI Adams could feel a tic starting just below her eye. Jesus. She hadn’t even had that in London.
“He’s a very private individual.”
DI Adams wondered briefly if banging her own head against the table would help matters. “So why would a very private individual leave a dead rabbit outside my car?” And when? she wanted to scream. How did I not see him?
“He’s, um, very eccentric. And traditional. He absolutely would have meant it as a welcome gift. And in case you got hungry, you know. He’s always very concerned that everyone has enough to eat. I think he’s seen some shortages before.”
Great. So her mysterious rabbit donor was old enough to have lived through rationing, and he’d still been able to sneak up on her. That was just fantastic. “He couldn’t have left a packet of biscuits?”
Miriam appeared to think about it. “Not really, no.”
“Okay.” The inspector rubbed her face, feeling tiredness collected in the corners of her eyes like dust. “Tell me about Walter, then. From the graveyard.”
“I can’t.”
“Is he a very private individual too?”
“I don’t really know him,” Miriam said, and this time she looked like she was telling the truth, although her cheeks were still very pink.
“What about the belladonna?”
“What about it?” She sounded nervous.
“Why do you have it in your garden?”
“It’s a native plant. I try to encourage as many traditional plants as I can.” There was a tremor in Miriam’s voice, and she pushed her hands into her lap, not looking up from her tea.
“It’s a highly poisonous traditional plant.”
“Yes, but, but I’m, but I—” Miriam stopped, and the inspector watched in astonishment as her face went from over-rouged to pancake-white. “Oh-my-God-you’re-going-to-arrest-me-the-vicar-was-poisoned-and-it-was-belladonna-ohmygodohmygodohmy—”
The inspector clapped her hands together in front of Miriam’s nose, hard, and the older woman jerked back with a gasp. “Calm down, Ms – Miriam. I didn’t say that.”
“But it was! It was, wasn’t it? Oh, God, and now you think I did it! I’m going to go to prison, and there’ll be no local produce, and I’ll have to wear orange, and someone will make me join a gang, and—”
DI Adams got up and searched through the cupboards until she found a bottle of rather ancient-looking Cointreau behind the vinegar in the pantry. She splashed a generous measure into the bottom of a glass, reflecting that if Miriam were the murderer, she was an exceptionally good actor. She put the glass in Miriam’s hand and helped her lift it to her lips, which finally interrupted the breathless monologue regarding what horrors jail was going to hold for her. Miriam took an enormous gulp, and promptly descended into a coughing fit, spraying DI Adams with sticky alcohol.
“Fantastic,” the inspector said with a sigh, and went to find a cloth.
By the time she’d cleaned herself off, Miriam had calmed down enough to finish the glass. “More?” DI Adams suggested.
Miriam grimaced. “No, thanks. It’s horrible stuff.”
“Does the trick, though.”
“I guess.” She took a deep breath. “Are you going to arrest me?”
DI Adams shook her head. “No, I’m not going to arrest you. But something’s still off about your story. You definitely know more than you’re telling me, and that doesn’t make me very happy.” She tried to give Miriam a meaningful glare, but the woman was sponging Cointreau off her top and missed it. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me about Walter? Or your mysterious friend, since he’s apparently so harmless?”
“I can’t,” Miriam said apologetically. “I really would help if I could. You’re very nice.”
DI Adams tried to remember the last time she’d been described as “nice”, and thought it was probably back when she still wore pigtails and purple bobble hair ties, if at all. “How about how you knew the vicar was poisoned, then?”
“Oh, small village.” Miriam waved a little vaguely, and DI Adams sighed. Probably PC Ben Shaw telling his wife. It was how these things tended to work.
“And the W.I. stalking shopkeepers?”
“What?” Miriam’s hair was bushed out around her face and her eyes were red-rimmed from coughing and tears, and there was no mistaking the confusion in her voice. DI Adams had an idea that she didn’t look an awful lot better herself.
“Never mind. You really need to think about your friends, Miriam. You’re putting yourself in a bad position, and if they are innocent, well, you’d only be helping them in the long run if you told me the whole story.” The inspector waited for Miriam to respond, but when all she got was that same wobbly smile she finished her tea and got up, putting the mug in the sink. “Thanks for the tea.”
“That’s okay. Are you sure you don’t want some breakfast?”
DI Adams glanced at the rabbit, cold and rigid on the draining board, and shuddered. “No thanks,” she said. “I seem to have lost my appetite.”
She was halfway to the door when her phone rang. She answered it with an apologetic smile to Miriam. “Yeah?”
“DI Adams? Ma’am? Ah, it’s PC Ben Shaw. There’s a Situation at Alice – Ms Martin’s house.”
She could hear the capital “S” in his voice. He sounded like he was trembling with exci
tement. “What sort of situation?”
“You’d best come over, ma’am. I think the murderer’s been here.”
“On my way.” She hung up and shoved the phone back in her pocket, then shook a finger at Miriam. “Stay here.”
“Is Alice okay?”
“I’m sure she is.”
“Am I under house arrest?”
“No, but your cake’s burning.” The DI headed for her car as Miriam gave a yelp of alarm and ran back to the kitchen. She spun the car around with a snarl of loose gravel and headed for the road to Alice’s, checking her rear-view mirror as she went. Yep. Miriam was running across her garden, no doubt heading for some secret local footpath, her coat half on and her hair wild. DI Adams hoped she’d remembered to turn the oven off. And that the secret footpath would take longer than the road. She gunned the engine and took the corner with a squeal of tyres.
16
Miriam
Miriam couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually run anywhere. She was fairly certain she wasn’t really built for jogging, and when she did exercise she much preferred swimming. She’d been quite good at it in school. But it wasn’t helping her much here, unfortunately. She slowed to a walk, readjusted her sarong and pressed a hand against the stitch in her side, trying to slow her breathing. The Cointreau had made her head a little swimmy, but she kept going, and decided that if she did have to go to prison, she’d become one of those prisoners who did weights all the time and got all muscly. Although that probably still wouldn’t help with running. Which made sense. The jailers would hardly want to encourage prisoners to become good at running.
The sunlight had crept down from the fells while the inspector had been talking to her in the kitchen, and now it washed across the valley, drowning the village in soft, clear light. There were heavy clouds slouching on the horizon, and it felt like it would rain before the day was out, but for now the sun was strong and bright, and rendered the landscape in luminous shades of green. The beck sparkled next to the path in the light filtering through the trees, and the smell of damp earth and wild garlic crushed under her bare feet rose around her. She wished she could stop, just for a moment, to watch the world wake up and the day come in. But the stitch was gone, so she broke into a clumsy jog again, thinking that she should have stopped to put on her flip-flops on the way out the door. She’d already stubbed her toe twice.