by Kim M Watt
“Now what, Thompson?”
The cat looked at her, then pointed his nose forward, ears high and interested. Alice put the car in gear and they rolled off quietly, Thompson’s eyes catching the lights of the dashboard and glowing a ghostly green.
At the end of the road, Thompson leaned left, still pointing with his nose. They went left. Then right, onto the main road. Then straight on, the cat as sure and fixed as a figurehead, guiding the car out of the village and into the empty winter night.
16
DI Adams
“Adams?”
DI Adams looked up, a sudden nervous sickness in her belly. Dammit, this was bound to happen, and she’d brought it on herself. She was really terrible with breaking rules. She hated doing it, and it was surprisingly problematic for a career in law enforcement.
“Yes, sir?” she said to Detective Chief Inspector Temple.
He sat down in the chair on the other side of her desk, the one usually reserved for witnesses or complainants, leaned forward, leaned back, then crossed his legs awkwardly. “Care to tell me what’s going on? You were missing again yesterday, and rumour has it you’ve been up in Skipton.”
Damn. “Well, not Skipton exactly. Toot Hansell. Where that murdered vicar case was last summer.”
“Okay.” He watched her, and she tried not to fidget. He wasn’t huffing or growling or making any snide comments about southerners. That seemed ominous. “And?” he said finally.
“There were some things with the missing drivers’ case that made me think there might be connections,” she said carefully.
“I thought you closed the vicar’s murder. You rethinking the guy?”
“No, no. That was the right guy. But there was some other, um, stuff, that I noticed when I was up there. I thought I might be helpful on the missing persons, since I already had connections in the village.”
“Okay,” DCI Temple said again, and shifted in his seat, uncrossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees, then staring at them like he didn’t know what they were doing there. “So, are you, uh, settling in okay, Adams?”
Settling in okay? She’d been here ten months. “Um, yes, thanks. Fine.”
“Right. Only your behaviour lately is, ah, a little erratic, and, ah, I’ve been told that I may be a bit harsh at times.”
She started to answer, and he raised his hand.
“And, well, I know your transfer from London was due to work-related stress, and it has been brought to my attention that I may not be accommodating that as well as I could be.”
“Sir—”
“No, Adams, it’s fine. You lot have a different sense of humour, and I realise my jokes may have missed the mark at times.”
“My lot?” She was fairly sure he didn’t mean that as it sounded, but she still didn’t like it.
“Southerners.”
“Right.”
They stared at each other, and DI Adams wondered what, exactly, was going on. Then he said, “Right. So. You know where the, ah, support officer for this sort of thing is.”
“Yes.”
“And if you need some personal time, I’m sure it can be arranged.”
“Alright.” Personal time? Really? What was this?
“Good.” He nodded sharply, got up, took a step away then stopped short and turned back. “Oh, God, Adams, when I said you lot, I didn’t mean women. Christ. I’m not sexist.” He started off again, froze, and revolved slowly on his heel. “I also didn’t mean—”
This time she was the one who held her hand up, struggling to keep her voice level. The DCI had gone astonishingly red. “You meant soft southerners, sir. I know.”
“Yes.” He wiped his mouth. “Good.” He seemed to be looking for something else to say, but gave up and walked away.
DI Adams stared after him, then turned to look at James as he set a tea down in front of her. He was wearing a bandage on his wrist, presumably from the snake incident the previous day. “Um,” she said.
He shrugged. “I don’t know what the hell’s up with you and that village. But I had to tell him something, else you’d have been suspended.”
He walked away again before she could decide whether to thank him for covering for her, or to shout at him for discussing her stress levels with the DCI. In the end she just sipped her tea, looking again at the text that had dinged in just as the chief inspector had sat down.
Adams.
There have been some interesting developments. Call me.
Collins.
She looked at the tea, then picked up her jacket and headed for the door, thinking that she’d prefer a coffee anyway. She’d give him a call while she waited and see what he had to say.
Twenty minutes later she was back in her car, winding her way out of the city, coffee jammed in the cup holder and half a sandwich in her free hand, wondering just how far this new sympathetic DCI thing could be stretched.
DI Adams pulled into the car park of a National Trust centre, stopped next to DI Collins’ car and got out. The dark was coming in fast, and there were no other cars around. The squat stone building of the centre huddled alone at the rear of the parking spaces, and she could see someone moving around under the yellow lights inside still. Otherwise, the place was empty, the rest of the village houses with their backs turned, as if shunning the walkers that must congregate here in better weather.
DI Collins was waiting for her, leaning against his car with his hands tucked into his pockets and his shoulders hunched against a nasty little wind.
"Collins," she said, folding her arms against the chill. Her city jacket wasn’t made for the cold up here. It wound in around the seams and clawed at her face.
He didn’t reply, watching her with an unnervingly sharp gaze, his usual smile absent.
“You said there were new developments? Some stuff I needed to see? Are you going to tell me about it, or have I driven all the way up here to get the silent treatment?”
He scratched his jaw. “What aren’t you telling me, Adams?”
“Right now, you’re the one who’s holding back information.”
“It’s my case, remember? My prerogative.”
“I know it’s your case, Collins. But you called me here. And I’m trying to help, but I can’t do that when I don’t know all the details.”
He watched her a little longer, and she uncrossed her arms, lifting her chin and scowling at him.
“I’ve had strange cases before,” he said finally. “An artist spray-painting sheep as some sort of living art project. The old guy who decided the government was controlling everyone through milk and started putting food colouring in all the cattle troughs so the milk would come out green and it would have to be thrown away. The woman that kept stealing black cats and releasing them into the wild so that they could, apparently, grow up to be panthers. There’s still a whole colony of them up near Aysgarth. Then there were those UFO enthusiasts coming to blows over rocks. Rocks. Not even meteors. Plenty of weird stuff. But this one – missing postmen, a missing DHL driver, and some big city cop poking her nose in because she suddenly has some vested interest in a village she hadn’t even heard of six months ago – nothing like this. So what gives?”
“What else has happened? You didn’t drag me up here for this.”
“Fire,” he said. “The vans were fire-bombed. Or so we thought, although we couldn’t find any accelerant.”
“And now something else, too.”
He hesitated, then sighed. “Now something else. Alice Martin’s house.”
“Alice? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. Didn’t even call it in. The fire chief told us. Said Ms Martin made them all tea.”
DI Adams smiled slightly. “That sounds about right.”
“It does. But now tell me, Detective Inspector Adams, why you’re concerned but not surprised, and why everyone was acting so strangely at my Aunt Miriam’s house the other day. Including you.”
DI Adams puffed out her cheeks a
nd wondered how easy it actually was these days to find yourself sectioned.
“Dragons.”
“Yes.”
“Large, fire-breathing reptiles with wings.”
“Well, not that large. Not these ones, anyway.”
“Like Game of Thrones.”
“Not so much. I get the feeling they may be perpetuating stereotypes, there.”
DI Collins raised his eyebrows slightly. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”
DI Adams sighed and looked longingly at the warmly lit windows of the National Trust centre. “Do you think they have coffee in there?”
“It’ll be closed,” Collins said, and pushed himself off his car. “But there’s a pub just down the road. Let’s go get a drink. I think I could use one.”
DI Adams rather thought that she could, too. She couldn’t feel her fingers, and there was a low, throbbing band of cold settled around her ears. She retreated to her car and put the heater on full blast as she pulled into the road behind him.
The inspectors pushed through two sets of heavy doors into the pub, the ceiling low above them and the old red carpet worn and not particularly clean-looking. DI Adams was having reservations about whether the coffee would be at all drinkable, but at least it was warm in here. There was an open fire burning and a rather ancient Labrador stretched out in front of it, belly up.
“Hi,” the young woman behind the bar said.
“Two coffees,” DI Collins said.
“Of course! Long black, flat white, latte, espresso …?” she trailed off, looking at him expectantly, and he made some small exasperated gesture.
“However it comes.” He headed toward a booth, skirting the snoring dog.
The woman looked at DI Adams with an anxious smile.
“Make it two long blacks with milk on the side. Probably safest.”
“Great! I’ll bring it over.” She rushed to what was, DI Adams had to admit, a rather impressive machine. Hopefully she was as good with it as she was enthusiastic about it.
She followed DI Collins to the booth, peeling off her jacket, and sat down, luxuriating in the heat of the fire. Her fingertips were icy to the touch, and she rubbed her hands together, blowing on them gently.
“Adams, I rather thought we had a certain rapport.”
“Well, yes. We do. Of a professional sort.”
He snorted. “Yes, of a professional sort, Adams. This is why I’m disappointed.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“Dragons. Like in Game of Thrones.”
“Well—”
“Okay, fine. Not like in Game of Thrones. But dragons.”
“Yes.”
“I know I’m not some city cop, Adams, but for God’s sake, you work in Leeds now, not bloody London. Is it really a thing there, taking the mickey out of the country plods?”
“I never—” she paused as the bartender arrived with a tray, and they sat in awkward silence, DI Adams nodding and mumbling thank you as each cup and each little jug of milk was placed down. As soon as the young woman turned away she started again. “I never took the mickey. You wanted to know the truth, and this is it.”
“And you honestly expect me to believe there were two dragons sitting right in front of me in Aunt Miriam’s living room?”
She sighed. “I know it sounds unbelievable.”
“The problem is, I’m actually starting to think you believe it, which is even worse. Are you sure you’re not on mental health leave?”
“That’s really offensive.”
“You know what, you’re right. I’m sorry.” He leaned back in the booth, watching the sleeping dog rather than her. “That was uncalled for.”
“It was.” She stirred her coffee with more force than was necessary, slopping it onto the saucer.
“Which leads me to believe that you obviously are taking the mickey, and I’ve been wasting my time with you when I could have been following proper leads.” He glared at her, then poured some milk into his cup. “God knows what that bit of poor judgement’s going to have cost me.”
DI Adams scowled at him. There was no point even talking to him. He’d made his mind up, and nothing she said was going to make any difference. And, okay, she’d questioned her own mental stability at times, both in London and in her first encounter with Toot Hansell. But he had no bloody right to do it.
They sat with their coffee in silence, and she wondered if she should just go. She’d head to Toot Hansell and check that Alice and Miriam were alright, take advantage of the fact that DCI Temple wasn’t going to be checking up on her. Get the hell away from DI Collins and his sour face. Yes. That was the best option. She grabbed her coat and started to slide out of the booth, then Collins’ phone rang, startling them both.
“Wait, please,” he said, and she did, not quite sure why, perched on the edge of the bench while Collins answered.
“Yeah?” he said. Then, “Another one?” He dug in his jacket for his wallet, and DI Adams pulled her own out, dropping some money on the table.
“Where?” Collins asked. DI Adams followed him out the door and back toward their cars, shrugging into her jacket and turning the collar up against her neck. He said, “On the way,” then hung up and stood staring at his phone, his coat still over one arm. It was cold and clear, and the last of the daylight had been chased away. It felt like frost, the grass already sparkling softly under the lights of the pub, and when DI Adams looked up, she caught a glimpse of stars.
“I hope you get them,” she said, jingling her keys in her pocket.
Collins scratched his neck. “They took another van. M&S on flower delivery, coming back from Toot Hansell.”
“Huh. Going for anyone now, are they?”
Collins sighed, and said, “Come in my car. You city drivers are worse than the tractors.”
She gave him a measured look. “So you believe me?”
“Not even slightly. But the whole case is weird, so I don’t know. Let’s get your weird angle on it.”
“Are you using weird because you don’t want to say crazy?”
He groaned. “Adams, you’re talking about dragons. Now are you coming or not?”
She opened the car door and got in, shivering and wishing she’d asked for a takeaway cup for the coffee.
The M&S van sat with its back doors open, trapped by spotlights that bleached the trees of colour and made the night beyond the lay-by impenetrable. DI Adams, realising she needed either sleep or caffeine, had the unshakable feeling that at any moment a trio of tap dancers would come bobbing out into the light, feet clattering on the tarmac. She pinched her nose and got as close to the van as she could without getting in the way of the techs. She could see the now-familiar scrapes on the doors, although the black paint made the scorching harder to see. She could smell it, though.
DI Collins slouched out of the light, one hand raised to protect his eyes, and came to stand next to her. “Thoughts?”
She raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything.
“Dragons, huh?”
“Fire damage but no accelerants. Gouges on the doors inconsistent with any tools we’re familiar with, unless we want to bring Wolverine into the equation. No fresh tyre tracks or other evidence of anyone being here but the driver.”
“I thought your dragons were nice. What’re they playing at?”
She studied him, trying to gauge if he was joking or not. She couldn’t tell. “I don’t think it’s the dragons I know. But I imagine where there’s one dragon there’s others, and they might be less friendly.”
DI Collins snorted. “Here be dragons.” He left her and went to talk to the tech making notes by the front of the van.
DI Adams moved out of the way as a tech crouched by the back doors with a camera, and stood with her hands in her pockets and her feet planted solidly on the cold ground, rocking gently. She didn’t know how to do this. She didn’t know how you solved crimes with mythological beasts as suspects. You couldn’t knock o
n doors, or fingerprint them, or put them in an interview room. You couldn’t arrest them. She sighed. She fancied arresting someone. Anyone would do, it didn’t have to be related. And if a chase was involved, even better. She sighed again and rolled her shoulders, listening to them creak and crack. Fat chance of that, for the moment.
A car purred up the lane, moving at a decent clip considering the flashing lights and spots and tape strung about the place. People normally slowed down for that sort of thing. The two inspectors turned to watch it pass, the light show flooding the interior, and after a moment DI Collins wandered over.
“Adams,” he said, “Did that look like my Aunt Miriam in that car?”
“I rather think it did.”
“And Alice Martin.”
“I think so.”
He rubbed his cheek. “Was there a cat?”
DI Adams smiled faintly. “At least it wasn’t a dragon, right?”
Collins took his phone out and frowned at it. “Should I call her?”
“Why not? They might just be taking the cat for a drive, but it’s worth asking.”
He gave her a sharp look, and she shrugged. He was going to have to make his own mind up. She’d done all she could do. Although the cat was both new and intriguing.
He looked back at his phone, flicking through the contacts, and DI Adams heard the whine of another engine. It was revving wildly, running in far too low a gear, and DI Collins looked up as they heard the crunch of metal on stone, then the scream of a car sliding along a wall.
“That doesn’t sound good,” DI Adams said, taking a step back from the road. The scraping had stopped, the painfully shrieking engine approaching fast, and one high-beam light sprung at them out of the dark, the other presumably smashed. “Run!” she bellowed, and sprinted for the wall.
The van came careening into the lay-by, snapping the crime scene tape and skidding on the gravel. DI Adams, heart roaring in her ears, flung herself up and over the closest wall, hearing the snarl of metal on metal and the shouts of the others. A couple of the techs were crouching beside her, their breathing ragged and panicked, but neither of them seemed to be hurt. She motioned them to stay where they were and jumped up and back over the wall again, knocking a section of the loose stone on top flying and stumbling as she landed. She kept her feet, though, and ran for the van where it had come to rest after bouncing off the M&S vehicle, facing the wall with its remaining headlight dead. Adrenaline chased the cold and the weariness from her, leaving the night clear cut behind, every detail etched on her senses. The smell of burning rubber where the driver had tried, too late, to stop; the ever-present country scent of animal waste; the long shadows thrown by the one remaining spotlight; the still-moving back doors of the new van, hanging open; the glitter of broken glass; and DI Collins’ voice, hard but not angry.