BURY ME DEEP an utterly gripping crime thriller with an epic twist (Detective Rozlyn Priest Book 1)

by Jane Adams

  “So you may wait and bide your time and then one day take it from me?” Treven asked him.

  He took a deep breath, ignoring Hugh’s protests and then he stepped away towards the door. “Come to me tomorrow, if you can ride. Or the day following if not. I have things to show you. Plans I have made that I would share with you.”

  He heard Hugh’s sigh of relief and was glad that the smoke and heat between them, together with the twilight, hid his face. Treven knew that he could never lie without it showing in his eyes.

  CHAPTER 38

  Rozlyn lost a full day. It passed in a fevered haze. The doctor came, gave her pills and went. Sometimes Ethan sat beside her and read aloud. The words permeated Rozlyn’s dreams, seeped down into her memories so that she was a child again and her grandfather’s voice imparted tales of great adventure.

  “Call me Ishmael . . .

  “Leave this place and don’t look back. Keep playing and keep your eyes looking forward, Euridice will follow you . . .

  “. . . Sir Knight, your honour doth enjoin . . .”

  “Treven was a man who knew how to touch the earth and read what was written there . . .”

  Most of all, she remembered the day of her parents’ funeral. After, she and her grandfather had walked together in the cemetery and the realisation had dawned, more poignantly than ever, that the two of them were alone and that death had torn from them a whole lifetime of promise. Rozlyn’s parents had divorced when she was nine. Life between nine and sixteen had been lived between two countries. Term time, she had lived her mother’s life and gone to school, first in an English village and then, from eleven, joined the throng of uniformed children in the nearest town. Oakham, almost drowning in history and tradition, with its castle that looked nothing like a castle, but that had, to the child Rozlyn’s eyes, more in common with a large barn and the collection of upside-down horseshoes, the rows of tiny shops and the formal school that took up half the town, filled with kids in blue uniforms.

  In the summer she had travelled stateside to her grandparents. New York sweltered in the heat and dust of traffic. Buildings blocked the sky, their tops shimmering in a haze that made them seem unreal. Manhattan was loud with a capital L. Loud and bright and brash and, in her grandfather’s neighbourhood, she went from being one of only a handful of black kids in her school to being one that was counted among the handful of almost white. Her accent was all wrong, the things she learned in school different from those of her peers. Life in a tiny English village and school in a small English town separating her culturally in ways that as a child she found hard to define and even harder to bridge. That as an adult still seemed to set her apart. In both worlds she had been a liminal being and that liminality had not diminished as she had grown to adulthood.

  She had friends in both places, often kids that, for one reason or another, shared that sense of being just a little outside of things. A little awkward, a little different. Though as the years passed and lives had gone in different directions those friendships had drifted. In her dreams Rozlyn thought now of those friends, most now settled with families and jobs that absorbed their time. The sense of regret, rarely acknowledged, that she had not accepted invitations to visit, responded to suggestions that they should speak more regularly or, for those old friends who lived more locally, that they should meet up for a drink now struck her forcefully.

  “Loneliness is not something we should seek out as if it were a vocation. Friendships matter.”

  Was that her grandfather’s voice or was it Ethan’s? Either way she both resented the insight and acknowledged the truth of it.

  She missed so many English summers that when she had turned sixteen and spent her first full season there, she had been shocked by the soft rain that fell so often in the evenings and the sudden cold that could blow up before a storm and the high blue skies with no tall apartment buildings to block the view.

  The Christmas before her sixteenth birthday, her grandmother had died. She went back for the funeral, grieving for the soft-eyed lady who had loved her so well and so intently. Who taught her to cook, whose little book of recipes Rozlyn still used. Who told her stories and, from one year to the next, kept Rozlyn’s artwork and hesitant attempts at poems pinned to the corkboard on the kitchen wall and who only took the pictures and the poems down when she had new treasures to replace them.

  For her parents, this time had been a revelation. Rozlyn’s mother and her father’s parents had always remained friends, even after the divorce. Grief drew her parents together once again and they rediscovered what had brought them close in the first place. For Rozlyn, watching their love rekindle had been at once wonderful and embarrassing. She caught them kissing in the kitchen, her mother pushed back against the table so that her buttocks pressed and deformed against its edge, her father’s hand fumbling at her mother’s breast. Rozlyn had been both shamed and exultant. She closed the door, hoping they would not know that she had seen. Later, she found it hard to sit at that place at the kitchen table where her mother’s body had been pressed. It seemed at the one time soiled and intimate and . . . she didn’t know what words to use, only that to touch that place discomforted her beyond any words.

  And then, she had been late home, not been with them in the car when it crashed on that wet road. And the dream was ended almost as soon as it had been restored to life.

  “There’s just you and me now, girl.”

  “I know. What do we do?”

  “We carry on. What else is there to do? You’ve got to go back and finish this year of school, then in the summer, we’ll decide if you carry on over there or come and study here.”

  “Will you come back with me, Gramps? I don’t want to be alone.”

  And so, finally, the worlds had begun to collide. Her grandfather living in her mother’s house and walking through the village street to the tiny post-office-cu-shop a couple of times a day, just because he liked to talk to the owners and then in the autumn, returning to the high towers and hazy skies to finish school in New York.

  And all through her memories and dreams Ethan’s words wove and wandered, the language strange and sonorous resolving itself slowly into words that she could understand . . .

  “I placed his treasure beneath the altar stone and gave orders that, when I too had fled my body, I should be placed beside these things as guardian. A Pagan thought of which Treven, child of ancient gods, would no doubt have approved. A sword, a spear and a brooch like a shield boss, enriched with red enamel . . .”

  * * *

  Rozlyn thought she dreamed, but this time she was in another place. She had returned to Mark Richards’ house and this time she knew exactly where to look. She stood beside the chantry wall and turned the object she had found so that the moonlight struck its gleaming surface. It rested in her palm, round and heavy and precious, though surely not so precious that it should have cost a man his life. She had been right in her guess. Charlie had hidden something here. Though not in the bird’s nest but in a chink between the stones, right next to that, where the mortar had been pulled free by the clinging roots of ivy. The bird’s nest had fallen away as soon as she had touched it and as she examined it in the light of her torch, she had realised at once that it had never belonged in that position. It had been shoved among the ivy, settled into place between the roots and leaves. Of course, Rozlyn thought, Charlie would have seen the bird’s nest, used it as a marker. He would not have hidden such a precious object where it could so easily be found. Instead, he had found that little gap between the stones, and pushed the brooch, wrapped in cloth, into it and placed the old nest into position. Such a simple deception, neat and precise. So Charlie.

  In the distance, she could hear the barking of the dogs. One let out a howl that chilled her blood and a man’s voice shouted.

  In her dream, Rozlyn turned and ran, the grass, wet with rain that was freezing fast now the clouds had been blown away and the night sky opened to draw heat from the sodden ground.
Her feet slid and she stumbled, falling to her knees. The cold and damp seeped through her trousers and the hand she put out to slow her fall dug deep into the earth. She scrambled to her feet and ran again, aware that the dogs were gaining.

  And then the challenge. A man shouted, a dog appeared from nowhere, teeth bared, snarling and growling, its entire body one mass of sprung muscle waiting to attack.

  A second man appeared beside it, with the second dog. Rozlyn stood still, knowing that dogs and men wanted her to move, wanted the excuse to attack. Then a familiar voice.

  “Inspector Priest. Well, this is a surprise. When the alarm sounded and Albert told me we had an intruder, I never expected it to be you.”

  Rozlyn drew a deep breath. Eyes still on the dogs, she forced herself to reply as calmly as possible. “No, well, you knew it wouldn’t be Charlie Higgins come back. He’s dead, isn’t he.”

  “Charlie who? I’m sorry Inspector, but I’ve no idea who that might be.”

  “Really. I’d have thought you might remember the man who stole from you. A brooch, wasn’t it, from the cabinet beside the window.”

  She noted the slight frown, knew she had hit her mark but his reply was smooth. “I have nothing missing, Inspector. As Albert told you, that item has gone for some conservation work to be done. I like to keep my collection pristine.”

  Rozlyn shifted position. Her back and her head ached abominably, the world swam. She could feel the sweat break out on her forehead and her whole body was slick with it. She swayed slightly where she stood. What was going to happen now? She felt too ill to care. Besides, she was dreaming, wasn’t she? When did dreams ever make sense?

  “You don’t look too well, Inspector.”

  She could hear the distaste in his voice.

  “My people will escort you back to the house. I think that’s best.”

  “So you can do to me what you did to Charlie? Though I’m forgetting. You can’t. You lost that weapon back at the dig site, didn’t you. That pretty spearhead. You’d have to make use of something else from your collection.”

  The dogs were snarling, their handlers allowing them to close the gap. She could feel hot breath and spittle on her hand.

  “No, Inspector,” Richards said steadily, though she could hear the anger in his tone. “I’m taking you back to the house so I can call your colleagues in the police and report you. As I told you before, I have some friends in some very high places. You’ll be out of a job before you can say . . .” he paused, drew a little closer, leaned in, “Charlie Higgins.”

  It was as though everything suddenly became very clear. She knew beyond doubt that once he had her inside the house that would be it. She’d turn up later, dead in a ditch somewhere, stabbed in the back or with a bullet hole in her head. The two men with the dogs stood stony faced. They’d say nothing.

  Richards was smiling now and Rozlyn’s first thought was that she had to get away. Her second that she wanted to wipe that smile from that arrogant face. She hit out with the torch, catching him beneath the chin. He stumbled back.

  In the split second of confusion that followed, she turned and ran, knowing she could not outpace the dogs, but knowing that she had to try — or she would be as dead as Charlie Higgins.

  Behind her, she could hear Richards cursing. She could also hear the shouts of the handlers and . . . the howling of the dogs. What was going on? She dared not look back but it was clear that something wasn’t right. The dogs no longer snarled — they yelped and whined as though something scared them far more than the shouts and threats of Richards or his men. She ran harder, her muscles screaming and her breath rasping in her lungs and throat. This time, Rozlyn was not alone. Running beside her was a man, tall and strong and battle hardened. A man that turned as the dogs and handlers made up ground and threatened to surround them once again.

  What the hell? Rozlyn leaped for the wall, scrambled to the top and paused briefly to look back. She saw a shadowy figure fighting with a sword, his hair and cloak streaming out behind him and a cry of victory on his lips as he laid into both dogs and men. The man she had seen, or thought she had seen, standing by the half-imagined watchtower back at the dig. She was certain it was him.

  Rozlyn dreamed that she dropped from the wall and ran, as she had run the night before, back towards the car, the familiar weight of the spearhead in one pocket of her coat. The round brooch, enamelled in red and set with a crimson stone, rested heavily in the other.

  CHAPTER 39

  It was well past midnight when DCI Brook hammered on Ethan’s door and was duly admitted. On being told that Rozlyn was asleep upstairs he asked for no permission but opened the door and stomped up the enclosed staircase and then stood at the top of the stairs wondering which room to try. Two uniformed officers had followed him and, by the time Ethan had arrived, his tiny landing was somewhat overcrowded. Ethan pointed to the door.

  “She’s not well,” he said tetchily. “And I don’t like people bursting into my home.”

  “I didn’t burst in, you invited me,” Brook told him acerbically.

  “I didn’t invite you upstairs.” He took a deep breath. “She’s in there, but you’ll clear out as soon as you’ve satisfied yourself. I’m expecting the doctor.”

  A door further along the corridor opened and Cassie looked out, rubbing her eyes.

  “What’s going on, Ethan?”

  “Nothing. It’s all right. These are colleagues of Rozlyn’s. They want to see her.”

  “What’s up with her?” Brook asked, ignoring Cassie.

  “The doctor says it’s some kind of flu, but she’s been very bad. How did you know she was here, anyway?”

  “Call it an educated guess,” Brook sneered. “Mark Richards reported an intruder last night, reckoned they came back tonight and assaulted his security guards. Beat one of them badly enough to need hospital. His place is only five miles from here and Rozlyn didn’t go home last night.”

  “Oh? Well, take a look, but I think you’ll agree that Rozlyn isn’t in a fit state to get out of bed, never mind assault anyone.”

  “According to Richard’s people, the intruder wasn’t alone.” Brook said.

  * * *

  The sound of their voices had permeated Rozlyn’s consciousness. She felt cold again, though she knew that she was hotter than ever, her body burning with a dry heat that had Ethan worried and determined, despite Rozlyn’s hoarse protests, to call the doctor out again.

  She turned her head as the door opened and Brook flicked the light switch, filling the room with an unbearable brightness. Rozlyn groaned and hid her eyes.

  Brook sniffed. “You stink, you know that?” He approached the bed and lowered his head over Rozlyn, his body blocking out sufficiently enough of the glare for Rozlyn to try and focus on him.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Been on a little trip, have we? Small excursion to see Mr Mark Richards?”

  “Don’t know what you mean.”

  “No? Well he can’t prove it was you last night, but we’ve got a pretty good description from tonight’s little escapade. Who’s your friend, eh? The red-haired bloke with the fancy sword.”

  “The what?”

  “I thought,” Ethan said mildly, “that you said they’d been beaten. Surely, if someone had a sword . . .”

  He let the query hang upon the air and Brook swore, then cast himself into the low chair beside the bed. “What the hell’s going on? I’ve had the bloody Chief Super on my back because someone higher up is biting at his bum.”

  Rozlyn smiled weakly. “Richards reckoned he had friends in high places when I disturbed him the other day.”

  “Aye, well fuck ‘em.” Brook frowned. “My office, tomorrow. You can’t drive, I’ll arrange a car.” He struggled out of the nursing chair. Standing, he seemed to fill the room, broad shoulders and height obscuring the door. “Tread on some interesting toes, don’t you? You got something against the rich and famous.”

  “O
h, not in particular. I just don’t like assholes.”

  Brook considered. “Wondered why you were never my number one fan,” he said. “Tomorrow, then, and I want the full story, no political omissions.”

  “Would anyone like some tea,” Cassie asked from the doorway. “We’ve got biscuits.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Ethan approved. The doorbell rang again. “I’ll get that, Cassie, it’s probably the doctor.”

  “I’d better tell the Chief Super it wasn’t you, then,” Brook sneered as Ethan left.

  “Not me what?”

  “Traipsing about the countryside with a bloke carrying a sword?”

  Rozlyn’s heart beat an odd rhythm, but she managed to shake her head and keep her voice steady. “Sorry, can’t help.” She frowned. “What the hell time is it?”

  Footsteps on the stairs heralded the arrival of the doctor. He glanced at the uniformed officers and Brook and ordered them from the room. Brook hovered in the doorway. “Really sick, is she?” He sounded disappointed, Rozlyn thought.

  “It’s not life threatening,” the doctor said cheerfully, “Actually, I think the fever’s beginning to break. Your skin’s damp. Better than yesterday afternoon.” He turned his attention to Brook and it was clear that he must have been briefed by Ethan. “Better, but certainly not fit enough to be anywhere she shouldn’t. She’s barely capable of making it to the bathroom on her own and that’s just next door.”

  Rozlyn watched as the doctor ushered her visitors out of the door. She could hear Brook talking to Ethan, could catch the odd word but that was all. Rozlyn closed her eyes. She heard the shop door open and then close, the bell jangling until Ethan reached to still the sound. She wondered if Brook and co. had passed Jasper the guard cat unscathed and found herself hoping not. The doctor hemmed and hummed as, Rozlyn had found, doctors seemed to do, then told her he was pleased with her progress and went on his way.