Deadly Thyme (22 page)

Jon stared at his coffee. He hated sweet coffee, but he
’d have to drink it. “I’d be interested in hearing about these things.”

“The
re’s the bunch of twigs found tangled in the string around her neck.”

“Twigs?” He swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. “What kind?”

“Forensics called in some local plant specialist.” He paused. “As it turns out, we needn’t have called a specialist. Perstow fancies himself a gardener and smelt of the twigs. Common thyme.”

“Common thyme,” Jon pondered aloud.
He felt his chest tighten as the implications hit him. The world around them ground to a halt as the center of the universe rested in that moment. Plants and herbs with the body, the shoes—this confirmed his suspicions beyond a shadow of a doubt. He took a sip of the coffee and had to hold his breath to keep from gagging.

“Yes,” Trewe said
, “and stranger yet, the twigs had had blooms, possibly when they were stuck in the string.”

“Isn
’t it too early to bloom? And how’d they know there were blooms? Hadn’t the waves and water taken care of that?”

“Experts could tell there
’d been blooms. The wild thyme that is common to this area is
not
blooming yet, but Perstow saw thyme in bloom in Mrs. Butler’s back yard. I suppose with the sun and the walls reflecting the heat …”

“The killer had to have had access to her yard.”
His mouth went dry. “She isn’t safe.”

“
What’s that?”

“
Tell me, was the body identified by the mother?”

Trewe nodded. “
They shouldn’t have allowed it. I gave those officers some thoughts to take home when I heard about it.”

“But what did she say about the body?”

“That it wasn’t her daughter, naturally. There wasn’t much to recognize. But she did identify the clothes and the shoe as her daughter’s.”

“The famous shoe. What about DNA?”

“Mitochondrial results aren’t conclusive enough, so we’ve ordered a nuclear DNA result. Takes weeks. Meanwhile, the blood type matched Mrs. Butler’s.”

That didn
’t answer Jon’s questions about what he suspected was a series of murders, but it would be a long, hard road to convince Trewe. “I have a question for you. How could a person change their name? I mean, how could they—say, if they were wanted by Interpol for terrible crimes—how could they change their name and hide their identity so well they could assimilate into local society or village life without notice? People are naturally suspicious of strangers.”

“They
’d have to have money, lots of money. They’d have to be someone coming into a new area, with all the trappings of wealth, and a history—even an invented one which made sense or that no one questioned. Ever.”

“Yes.”
Exactly like you,
Jon thought. He rubbed his chin, saying aloud, “Police work has come down over the years to cleaning up, clearing away, and playing games with evil, hasn’t it?”

“Aren
’t you the philosopher this morning?” Trewe took a sip of his own coffee and smiled as he looked pointedly at Jon’s cup.

29

J
on set his awful coffee aside. “How can I help? What would you like me to do, sir?”

Trewe gathered a small stack of what looked like handwritten notes and handed them to Jon. “Mrs. Butler was receiving these
, each with a handful of wildflowers, on a regular basis. We need a translation, if you’re not doing anything.”

Jon gathered the notes. “If this is Gaelic, there ar
e likely books in the library … local historians … the Internet.”

He glanced up. Trewe was gone.

Most villages and smaller towns had only a mobile library, but the village of Perrin’s Point had a library. Unlike the Tudor Revival architecture of most of the rest of the village, the library was a square tank of a building made of yellow brick and few windows, and ugly as a bald goose.

As he made his way down a narrow alleyway to the building
’s entrance, a large black dog appeared out of nowhere, almost knocking him down. A second’s panic later he realized the creature was Chelsea, the dog that discovered the child’s body. He gave the hairy head a pat. “Good girl.”

The dog stared at him and sat down, barring his entrance.

“Right! Now, go home!” He snapped his fingers and pointed away from the door, a move he’d seen on a doggy training show. “Move, Chelsea!”

No response. The dog must not have seen the show.

“Come now, let a man past.” With the toe of his shoe, Jon nudged the dog carefully. In response, it turned its woeful eyes up at Jon’s face. Jon backed away. “Sorry.”

The creature rested its head on its paws and heaved a sigh.
When Jon attempted to pull the animal away from the door, she planted her feet causing her already massive weight to exceed that of a small house. Jon decided to try something else: “Are you hungry girl?”

Her tail dusted the walk.
Jon turned and walked back to his car. A half bag of leftover crisps was all he found. He grabbed it and walked back. She was still there.

“Here
, girl. Here, Chelsea.” He stood away from the door and knelt, emptying the greasy paper to the walk. The brute cocked its head sideways as if to say, “Humans do odd things.” Then she lumbered over and made the twelve or so crisps disappear like the end of yesterday. She acted starved. Where was Tavy? He couldn’t imagine the old man would normally let his dog wander the streets barring entrance to county buildings.

He stepped past the dog and entered the library. Chelsea slowly ambled away. Jon shook his head and turned to his task. When he showed the librarian the inscriptions, the soft-spoken woman told him she couldn
’t read Welsh properly, but there were plenty of language references available. She pointed him in the right direction.

With stacks of books to keep him company at a quiet desk in a corner, he worked for an hour, referencing and cross-referencing. He sat back and rubbed his eyes. The notes were not meant to harm but to warn
. Did the person who wrote them know something? Why did this person not come out and say it plainly? What were they afraid of?

Despite the tide of opinion in some circles and efforts to explain evil away with platitudes and reason, no one could explain it away. Evil manifests itself in innumerable forms in any environment
, no matter how bucolic. Evil had affected the village and all the surrounding area. The very nature of a peaceful environment made shattered peace all the more traumatic.

He stacked the books into a wall surrounding his notes.

Years in the force had him desensitized, to a point. He could usually witness the effects of evil without emotion, but today raw emotion swept him into an anger he hardly recognized. In those moments of fury, he wondered if he should give up the job and call it a day—call it a lifetime.

He
’d often thought of advancement in the police ranks, but it was crimes like this one, involving a child, that made him wonder if his temperament wasn’t best suited to do just what he was doing. Some people wanted a desk job, but even an hour at this desk in the library had him tapping his foot to get away. A regular desk job would probably kill him. Take the super in his role as a liaison between policing agencies: he worked hand in hand with Policy Authority Inspectors, HM Crown Prosecution Service Inspectorate, HM Inspectorate of Court Administration, HM Inspectorate of Probation, and HM Inspectorate of Prisons in their process of drawing up a joint inspection scheme and associated framework. The job kept Bakewell busy writing reports and contributing to the content of the AMIC website. Bakewell had become the hand watching the hand watching the hand of various agencies of police where they intersected with the public. It was a desk job.

However, where
was
the public in all this framework and scheme drawing? The core purpose of police officers was the prevention and detection of crime, not drawing up frameworks for schemes. The higher the rank the more obvious the politics. Policy had become more and more about finance, soothing grievances, and reaching targets.

He didn
’t want that. He wanted to be in touch with the people he had to work with and with the public. The death of the girl had affected him deeply, eaten him up with cold anger, the kind that grew colder, harder, and more determined with each day.

As he closed the last book, a voice coming from above his head startled him out of his thoughts.

“Halloo, sir! Halloo!”

Jon looked up to see an older man with thin hair slicked to his head peering at him over the top of the wall of books on Jon
’s desk. Jon backed away slightly at the overwhelming scent of aftershave.

“I
’ve seen you about and would love to make your acquaintance. My name is Quentin Malone. Local magistrate. Local.” The man extended a hand over the books. His long jowls quivered and bloodshot eyes squinted when he flashed a toothy smile.

Jon grasped the hand before him. “Mr. Malone. Jon Graham. This is a fine library you have here.”

“Oh! Not mine. Not mine. Only do the odd job, volunteer you know. Love the old books, the feel of the place. Wonderful place.”

“I meant, for a village this size, to have a library.”

“Ah yes, of course, of course, I see what you mean. Yes well, just thought I’d introduce myself. I heard you were a policeman. A policeman from London.”

“I am.”

“Yes. Well, so the local Bobbies can’t do it on their own when murder hits the village, eh? They call in reinforcements? Even more than there already are?” Malone cocked his head to the left when he asked a question.

“I
’m here on holiday. I’ve only recently made Detective Chief Inspector Trewe’s acquaintance.”

“I see. Well. If you need anything, anything, or would like to know the best tourist spots, you can count on my help. Like to help out the tourists. Like to do all I can. Time on my hands. Pensioner, you see. Only volunteer here one day a week. If you wish to visit with me in my office, you
’ll find it at the combined county courthouse. Or come by my home. You’ll find the local history quite fascinating. I’ve always fancied I know a little something about the history of this part of the world. Ask away! Ask away!”

Malone pressed into his personal space but Jon would not give an inch. “I
’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Malone.”

The pear-shaped man moved away a pace. “Do come round. Don
’t feel you’re interrupting me. I’m available. Pleasure to meet you. A pleasure, to be sure.” With one last shake of the jowls and a quick wave of his hand, the effusive Malone walked with jaunty quick steps to a stack of books which he set about replacing on a shelf.

Looks the part of dapper country magistrate, dressed and pressed in tweeds as he
is,
Jon thought.
Funny, the vanity of some men—the way he wears his hair. Yes, I would like to know something more, Mr. Malone, but not about history. The present is what I’m most interested in.

It was then he realized his notes were turned so anyone leaning over the stack of books could read them.

Monday, late afternoon

Ruth left the hospital with a reminder to “mind your health” and with many a “thank you” from the staff. Though she tried to say her own thank yous, she was still outmatched in that department. So with final “cheers” and “taras” from the staff, she was released to her mother’s care.

A police constable
had taken them home.

The door of her cottage home opened as they stepped across the stoop. Ruth
’s heart skipped a beat, but no, it wasn’t Annie at the front door.

Sally greeted her with a hug. “How are you now, my duck?” Sally asked, her red hair floating around her face like a blaze.

Ruth held up her plaster-bound right hand. “Hurts like the dickens.”

“Ah! You
’ve picked up some Texan since your mum arrived. Look, table’s set. I’ve warmed some stew. That’s it then. I’ll be leaving. Ring if you need anything—I’m on the phone.”

Ruth was grateful, but when her friend left, she collapsed on the sofa. Every square inch of her house brought another remembrance of Annie, only now they seemed to be hitting her painfully by two
s and threes. Her home couldn’t have felt more desolate.

Despite
her mother’s protests, she couldn’t rest, so instead wandered around the house checking things, touching things. If she stopped, the sadness would catch hold and she wanted to avoid feeling anything.

She checked her email and found several poems that had come in before the last three days. Whoever was sending them must have known she was in the hospital. All of the emails were disjointed and confusing. She forwarded them to the police
, but only after she printed them out and saved them on her computer. She reread the most recent:

As time would birth events

in their separate spheres, two people

meld in death when their worlds collide.

Hopeless love

becomes sorrow’s guide

in the monstrous eternal

of such return.

There is no place to hide

For such as this

would our hearts burn.

No place to hide? She shivered.
The poems she received were nothing compared to the one entitled “ An Ode to the Stupid Police.” Either someone or a group of someones in the village was getting their jollies from sick persecution, or there really
was
a madman loose. Trying to one-handedly wrap her shawl tighter, she went to sit close to her mother on the couch.

“I can
’t believe you don’t have a TV in the house, honey.” Her mom’s voice held a thin whine, “I don’t know how I would have raised you without one. Funny, I never thought about that—but you thrived, didn’t you?”

Ruth rested her aching head on the back of the couch and listened to the clicking sound of her mother
’s knitting needles for a moment before she answered. “We had television when we first came, but it took a lot of my time that I could use for work. I kept it for Annie. But honestly, now we both find television boring. I didn’t want to pay another license fee for it.”

“A license fee? What in the heck is that? You know I
’ll pay.”

“No, we
’re fine.” She saw her mother’s hurt look at her sharp tone. “Sorry.”

“I feel so blasted cut
-off from the rest of the world without it.”

“You said
‘blasted.’ It sounds so foreign coming from you.”

Her mother chuckled, “Well, it
’s not really cussing coming from me, either.”

She patted her mother
’s leg. “Don’t worry. I’ll get a paper. We do get news here.”

She hoped to set her mother at better ease than she could muster for herself. Should she tell her about the constant stream of news on the
Internet she kept online at all times? If she did, her mother would want to get on the computer, and then she would accidently see the emails. It would be just another thing for her mother to worry with.