by JANICE FROST
Zak ignored the question. He said, “My mum’s been talking to your mum. She said your mum told her you were having nightmares. Are they about what we saw?”
“I keep dreaming about it. What if he’d caught us, Zak?”
“He didn’t, did he? It’s stupid worrying about something that never happened.”
“I can’t help having nightmares.”
“You haven’t told them have you, about us going out at night like that?”
“No. I’m not stupid. I said I couldn’t remember. I’ll make something up, but I won’t tell them. Promise.” She crossed little fingers with Zak. Then, “What if he saw us, though?”
“He couldn’t have. It was too dark in the woods. We couldn’t see his face, could we?”
“What if he comes to my house?” Rowan said.
Zak looked shocked. “Why would he do that? He doesn’t know you were in the woods that night. I’ve just told you that.”
“No, not for me. For her.”
Zak stood up and took hold of the swing. He pushed it so hard that he had to jump out of the way as it swung back at him. “Don’t say that,” he said fiercely. “Nothing’s going to happen if you just keep quiet about the whole thing.” He took hold of Rowan’s swing and twisted the chains around tightly, then let them go, sending Rowan into a dizzying spin. Usually she laughed and shrieked when he did that, but today she felt scared. What was wrong with Zak? Why was he behaving like this?
As the swing came to a halt, Zak leaned close to Rowan. “If you tell anyone, I won’t be your best friend any more, okay?”
She stared at him for a moment. “Okay I won’t,” she agreed. She’d been tempted to tell her mum, but Zak’s behaviour was freaking her out. She swore she wouldn’t again, this time on her baby brother’s life, and Zak seemed to relax. All the same, Rowan thought it was a big secret to keep, and she wasn’t happy about it.
* * *
After saying goodbye to Rowan and choosing a couple of books at the mobile library, Zak pedalled home. He was surprised to see a car parked in the road outside his house. They didn’t often get visitors. Zak wheeled his bike around to the back of the house and locked it in the small shed in the garden. He could hear his mother’s girlish laughter as he pushed open the back door into the kitchen. His mother’s laugh was followed by a deep, male one and Zak stopped dead. Male visitors were almost unheard of in the Darby household. He left his shoes by the back door and crept into the hall. His mother and her visitor were in the living room. He wanted to stand and listen unseen, but his mother always seemed to know when he was in the house.
“Zak! Is that you, love? Come and say hello to Mr Gallagher.”
Zak shuffled into the room.
“Hey there, Zak. How’s it going?” Mr Gallagher asked in his deep, strange voice. He was Irish, his mother had told him, like Eoin Colfer, the man who wrote those Artemis Fowl books Zak liked to read. It wasn’t the first time they’d met, but Mr Gallagher had never been to their house before.
“Why don’t you call me Bran?” the man said.
Zak tried to look him in the eye, but found he couldn’t. He looked at his mother nervously.
“Bran’s just been fitting a new lock on the front door,” his mum said. “He was worried about us living out here on our own after what happened at Stainholme Abbey. You know — the murder.” His mother’s voice dropped when she said those last words.
“He didn’t need to. I can look after you, Mum,” Zak said, shooting a defiant look at Bran.
“Sure you can, Zak,” Bran Gallagher said. “But you’re at school during the day and your mum’s here all alone. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to her, would we?”
Zak stared at the floor, sullenly.
The smiles between his mother and Bran Gallagher made Zak explode with rage. “Tell him to leave, mum!” he blurted out before he could stop himself.
“Zak! That’s rude. Apologise to Bran.”
Zak stared at Gallagher, dismayed. A mocking smile played on Gallagher’s lips — or so it seemed to Zak. “No!” Zak said, and ran out the room.
His mother called him back, then he heard her apologising to Gallagher. Gallagher said, “It’s alright, Liv. The boy’s just used to having you to himself, that’s all. I’ll nip off now. Is it alright if I come back later?”
Listening from the top of the stairs, Zak felt his heart miss a beat. He heard his mother answer, “Yes, I’d like that.”
Zak went into his bedroom and closed the door. He kept thinking, “He’s coming back. Mum likes him and he’s coming back.”
* * *
A barrage of excited squeals sounded from the room outside Jim Neal’s office. PJ was surrounded by a group of other officers, all slapping her on the back and calling out their congratulations. Neal smiled. He was pleased she had passed the exam. He liked PJ, more so now that she no longer fancied him and was able to address him without becoming a stuttering, blushing wreck. She would be a good addition to the team. The fact that PJ and Ava were good friends was an added bonus. There was no change in PJ’s rank, but now she was a detective constable Neal could assign more professional tasks to her. And, of course, she’d be out of uniform which opened up other possibilities. Neal got up and made his way out to congratulate PJ.
“Well done, Detective Constable!” he said warmly. “And welcome to the team.” A beaming PJ thanked him and invited him along to her celebratory drink in the Crown after work. Neal nodded. He would go along for an hour, just to show his face. He always turned down invitations to birthday drinks and the like, using his son Archie as an excuse, partly because he wasn’t keen on socialising and partly because he feared losing control under the influence and behaving unprofessionally. There were some who believed that socialising with the team helped with bonding and teamwork, but Neal wasn’t one of those. Too many times he’d seen senior colleagues lose respect because of their drunken antics.
“When you’ve finished celebrating, I’d like to see both of you in my office,” he said, nodding at Ava and PJ. They followed him in.
“Ava, I’d like you to bring PJ up to speed on the Cameron case. I know she’s been involved peripherally but now that she’s a detective . . .” He paused, letting PJ savour the word, “we can make more use of her.”
“Yes, sir,” Ava replied, clearly pleased at the prospect of working more closely with her friend.
“As you know, DI Saunders is helping Hammond Bell with his investigation into the theft of chemicals and machinery from Ridgeway Farm. Given that this theft occurred the same night and in such close proximity to where Ewan Cameron’s car was found, we can’t rule out that the cases are linked. Cameron might have had the misfortune to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He might have witnessed someone or something that put him at risk, or he might have been killed for an entirely different reason. We need to start looking for patterns.”
PJ kept nodding solemnly. “We’ll get them, sir,” she said earnestly.
Neal suppressed a smile and Ava snorted.
“What is it? What did I say?” PJ said.
“Five minutes in the job and you’re already sounding like a TV detective,” said Ava. PJ reddened. “Never mind, Peej. It won’t be long before you’re a jaded old pro like us.”
“Speak for yourself,” Neal retorted. He was taken aback when they stared at him. He wasn’t known for being flippant.
“Find out as much as you can about David and Rhona Pine’s past history, DC Jenkins, and Ewan and Laura Cameron’s too. Find out who Cameron and Pine associated with at the art college and arrange for anyone who remembers them well to be interviewed. Oh, and while you’re at it, see if you can find out why Ewan Cameron lost his job in Edinburgh. Laura Cameron mentioned something about a breakdown when I spoke to her up there but I’d like to hear what his former employer has to say. And see what you can find out about everyone’s movements in the past couple of months. Have the Pines been out of Stromford lately? How m
any times has Ewan Cameron been here? Check credit card statements and whatever else you can think of to get a clearer picture of what they’ve been doing and where they’ve been going.”
“A friend of my mum’s taught at the art college years ago, sir. Should I speak with her?” PJ asked. Of the three of them, PJ was the only one who was Stromford born and bred. Her presence on the investigation would be a plus in more ways than one, Neal realised.
“Absolutely. That’s just the sort of thing that can be really useful to an investigation. Just be careful that you don’t reveal any more than you have to. We don’t want our hard work compromised by gossip.”
As Neal spoke, PJ wrote busily in her notebook, nodding as she did so. Now she looked up and beamed at Neal. “Yes, sir!”
“One more thing, Detective Constable,” Neal said. “No need to do everything on your own. There’s a whole team of people out there who can assist.” He indicated their colleagues in the workroom. “Make sure you tap into their skills and expertise as well.”
“I’ll get right on it, sir. Thanks for your confidence in me. I won’t let you down.”
When PJ left, she seemed to take the life out of the room with her and for a few moments, Neal and Ava sat in deflated silence. “I’m so pleased for her. She’s a gem, isn’t she, sir? She’s going to make a great detective,” Ava said. Her own personality and enthusiasm soon filled the vacuum PJ had left. Neal felt a sudden need to assert his authority.
“I hope so. The last thing we need is another loose cannon on the team.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. He was referring to Ava’s ‘lone wolf’ behaviour on their first case together, when she’d gone behind his back in pursuit of her own agenda. In their more recent case, she had proved herself capable of working cooperatively, of respecting his authority and decisions in a crisis. He was being petty firing this kind of criticism her way. He could tell his words had stung. Neal saw her struggle not to make some sarcastic retort. He felt admiration for his sergeant and shame for his own behaviour. But he didn’t apologise. Why did it always have to be this way between them? One step forwards, two steps back. Neal sighed. What was it his gran used to say? “One step at a time makes for good walking.” Not at this rate, he thought, sourly.
“Grab your coat,” Neal said, looking at his watch. “One of our PCs on a door-to-door trawl of Stainholme village reported that a neighbour heard kids’ voices at gone midnight in the lane at the back of Olivia Darby’s cottage the night Cameron died. Faye Wellings mentioned Darby, as I recall. It’s probably not relevant but I’ve arranged to speak with Olivia Darby and while we’re in Stainholme, we can call on the Pines again.”
* * *
Ava kept him waiting. Hands in his pockets, Neal stood by his car in the station car park. A frisky wind was blowing, stirring in Neal a sense of open spaces, vacant lots, sea salt and memories of all the times he’d walked the streets of Edinburgh with Myrna, their coats flapping and the cold stinging their faces. He’d spent a lot of time waiting for Myrna in his teenage years. Once he had thought he would have been prepared to wait forever if she’d have him. Then she fell pregnant with Archie and it was her turn to wait. She bided her time until she had given birth to their son and then she was gone, off to pursue her singing career. Myrna had been Neal’s first love. After she’d left, he’d idealised her for a long time, until one day he’d accepted that if she had stayed, things would never have worked between them. It had been some time now since Neal had thought of Myrna with more than a faint stirring of nostalgia.
Ava appeared out of nowhere and asked if he wanted her to drive. Neal shook his head. He resisted asking her where she’d been and didn’t look at his watch. They had a forty-minute drive ahead of them and Neal guessed that Ava wouldn’t be in the mood for talking. He was wrong. It seemed that it wasn’t in her nature to bear a grudge — but of course, he knew that. Still, she stuck strictly to business.
“Olivia Darby is Faye Wellings’s friend, isn’t she? She lives alone with her young son. Do you think it was her kid the neighbour heard? Not many kids that age would be out at that time of the night, would they?”
Neal thought of Archie. His son was afraid of the dark and slept with a night light in his bedroom. “No. Unless he waited until his mum was asleep, then gave her the slip. Can’t think what he’d be getting up to. Someone was with him. A friend, perhaps? The neighbour claimed she could hear two voices, both of them kids, so unless they were accompanied by an unspeaking adult, there’s a good chance they were up to some mischief.”
“Not necessarily,” Ava replied rather too quickly. “Ollie sneaked out after curfew once to see if he could spot some comet or other. Or was it a planet? He was only about ten at the time. Maybe you should ask Archie what he gets up to when you’re asleep.”
Neal wasn’t sure if this was a retaliatory dig. He let it go.
They arrived at Stainholme village just as a large delivery lorry was reversing into the street from a side road running alongside the village shop. Neal drummed impatiently on the steering wheel.
“For god’s sake, Merry, jump out and direct him. How he ever got an HGV licence, I don’t know.”
Ava did as instructed and there was a further delay as the grateful driver wound down his window and engaged her in conversation. Ava glanced over at Neal and then smiled at the driver. Two can play at that game, Neal thought and gave two impatient beeps on the horn. Ava waved the driver off and strolled back to the car, scowling at Neal.
* * *
In response to Ava’s knock on the door to Olivia Darby’s cottage, the door opened a crack and a woman’s face peered out over the security chain. “Oliva Darby?” Ava said.
“Yes.” Ignoring Ava she looked at Neal. “Are you Inspector Neal?”
“Yes. And this is Sergeant Merry. Would it be alright if we came inside? This shouldn’t take long.”
Olivia slid the chain off and opened the door. She led them into a long, low-ceilinged kitchen with exposed timbers and a flagstone floor. An old-fashioned mangle rested on one of the kitchen tops. Pots and pans and kitchen utensils, as well as some items with no clear purpose hung from hooks on the whitewashed walls. There was a milk churn and a well bucket containing dried flowers, brass weighing scales and a copper kettle. Yet it managed to be tasteful rather than cluttered. Neal would have been surprised if there had been anything other than an Aga in the kitchen.
“Wow!” Ava said. “You’ve got some pretty cool bits and bobs in here, haven’t you?”
Olivia smiled. “I’m afraid I’ve got a bit of an obsession with antique kitchen paraphernalia — well, antiques in general, really. They’re all around the house.”
“Where do you get them from?” Ava asked. Neal wondered where this was leading. He had been to Ava’s cottage and knew that her taste in décor was nothing like this. Was she thinking of branching out? More likely she was just making conversation to put Olivia Darby at her ease.
“Oh, you know, boot sales, junk shops, that kind of thing. I’m pretty handy at restoring things too.” She pointed at the rustic-looking kitchen table painted a duck-egg blue. “Bought that for ten quid from a charity furniture shop, stripped it down and painted it. D’you like it?”
“I love it. It’s such a pretty colour. I paid a bloody fortune for my table. It must be great to be so creative.”
“Thank you. But something tells me you haven’t come here to admire my kitchen.”
“You’re aware that a man’s body was discovered not far from here, at Stainholme Abbey ruin last Monday morning?” Neal said. It wasn’t really a question. Olivia Darby would have to have been living on another planet for the past few days not to have heard about a murder that occurred practically on her doorstep.”
“Yes. Poor man. I take it you haven’t arrested anyone yet, or you wouldn’t be here asking questions. How can I help you?” She sounded genuinely surprised to be on their radar.
“We had a call from
one of your neighbours — a Mrs Jean Bryce?”
Olivia made a face. “Yes. Jean’s my nearest neighbour. She lives just down the lane and her garden backs onto ours. What did she have to say? I expect it was something about Zak. She’s always complaining about him and his friends making too much noise when they’re in the garden. She confiscated his football when he accidentally kicked it over the hedge a couple of weeks ago. Don’t tell me she’s suggesting Zak had something to do with the murder?”
Neal smiled. He rather liked Olivia Darby’s forthrightness. “Not exactly. Apparently she’s something of an insomniac and was lying awake at two in the morning last Monday, reading, when she heard some voices coming from the lane outside her house. She thought one of them sounded like Zak and that the other voice might have been a girl’s.”
“Oh. That’s impossible. Zak was tucked up in bed asleep. It couldn’t have been him. In fact, I’m having a hard time believing any child that age would be out at that time of the night.”
“Mrs Darby,” intervened Ava. “Could Zak have slipped out without you hearing him?”
“Absolutely not. Do either of you have children?” Neal nodded. “Then you’ll know how unlikely that is. Parents sleep with one ear open.”
“But it is a possibility, isn’t it?” Ava persisted. “Unless you were awake all night he could have crept out while you were asleep.”
Olivia shook her head. “No. I told you, I would have heard something.”
She was unlikely to be moved on the issue so Neal changed tack slightly. “What about Zak’s friends?” he asked. “Can you think of any girls he’s particularly friendly with who might have been in the lane that night?”
“Only Rowan Pine.” Neal and Ava exchanged a look. “But what kind of parent lets their kids go strolling down country lanes in the middle of the night? Not the Pines, I’m sure.” Olivia deliberated a moment. “Except maybe travellers. You could speak to Ham Bell about that. I know he has problems with poachers from time to time. And there was that business with the theft at Ridgeway Farm.”
Neal nodded. “If you could find a minute to ask Zak, please? It might be better coming from you as his parent.”