Deadly Thyme (3 page)

She was still at the beach. The policeman kept talking, but Ruth was trying to hold onto her daughter
’s words as she walked out of the house that morning. “I’m going with Dot, Mum! See you.” The flute-clear remembrance called to her like a prayer. She had been in the kitchen stirring oatmeal. She hadn’t even bothered to look up.

People from the village surrounded her
—bundled-up people, ready-for-anything people. Come fire or flood, they were ready, these people. Faces floated in. Faces floated out. Mouths opened and closed like fish. Words came and went like waves, coming close, closer, blending into sentences.

Ruth heard, “
… a description of your daughter.” Unclenching her jaw, her teeth clattered as she said, “Maybe she’s back by now. Let me go home.”

“But just in case we need it
…”

“Hair, umm, lighter than mine, blue eyes, dark lashes.”

Reed-thin Constable Stark scribbled notes.

“Did I tell you she
’s ten?” This panic is silly, an overreaction. “I’m sure she’s home. I hate being a bother.”

“No bother.”

Hands reached at her—pulled her up (When had she sat down?)—wiped damp hair from her face.

“But write down she
’s tall for her age, though slight of build.” It was Sally’s voice. “And quite independent. Ruth, what was she wearing?” Ruth became aware of warmth across her shoulders. Sally’s blanket. Sally, her neighbor and friend, whispered in her ear, “Yer frozen, m’dear!”

Ruth crushed the prickly wool to her face
. The scent of cigarette smoke was strangely comforting.

“What was Annie wearing?” Police Constable Stark asked,
for what must have been the second time. He was being patient, wasn’t he?

“I know the answer.” She stared down at her own cold
, wet feet, to think, to be certain. “Blue jeans, a yellow shirt … a pink jacket, I think you call them windcheaters … shoes.”

Sally
’s flannel-coated arm felt warm. Ruth turned her head. She studied Sally’s eyes. She could still breathe. Another question? Ruth faced the constable. He was waiting for her response. She couldn’t remember what he’d asked. “I’m sorry?”

“You were saying
—shoes.” The constable turned from her then. Ruth looked back into Sally’s eyes. “Black ones, Sally. Her new black shoes. I just remembered I told her not to wear them until tomorrow.” Her face burned. She couldn’t breathe.

Sally looked distraught. “Steady, luv.”

Ruth coughed. “Sally, tell me she’s home now. That’s why you’re here. You came to tell me she’s home. I’m so silly. All these folks getting worried over nothing.” Ruth clung to her bundled-up friend and studied her face. Sally’s sad face meant that she had not come to tell her that Annie was home.

God! This can
’t be happening. Don’t let this happen. Make him give her back.

A seagull
’s
cack, cack
sounded like a baby. Ruth swung around at the cry. Constable Stark stood bent over Dot. She heard the child blurt, “No, I ran down the beach for more shells.” The child’s young voice broke. Ruth looked down. She’s only been gone a little over half an hour, surely. How far could they have gotten in a half hour?

Stark stood up straighter. “So did you see anyone else here?”

“Yes!” Tears cleared trails through sand dust on Dot’s cheeks. “A few people up at the wall and a big black dog on the beach.”

Stark
’s voice came softer. “You’re certain you were separated from your friend for only a few minutes?”

She nodded, her face screwed up tight.

“That’s all right, Dot. You’re good at telling. You should be proud. Now then, what happened next? You turned back to join Annie and rounded this boulder.” The constable used his pen to jab the air over his shoulder. “What did you see?”

Pointing toward the base of the steps, Dot sobbed, “The sack, the shells were dumped out, the ones we found. She said she wouldn
’t drop them. And she’s stomped on them, looks like.”

Ruth followed the direction Dot had pointed. At the base of the cement steps lay a sad heap of shells
—limpets, cowries, and a few scallops in crushed pieces—along with the crumpled cloth sack that Annie kept her socks in normally. Her gaze followed the steps to the top. She knew the latched wooden gate opened into a dark alley leading directly out of the village. It had been too easy. And she could not say a thing.

3

J
on Graham rubbed his brow. He’d left London around two in the morning, fueled with plenty of coffee made strong enough to kill any notion of nodding into sleep. He didn’t want anything now but a shower. He could smell his own perspiration, instantaneous and copious immediately after the accident, but now cold and sticky beneath his jacket.

At the top of a distant hill, he saw the remains of a mine engine. He
’d done his research. The husk of darkened brick marked a tin mine, now a crumbly reminder of the past. The mines were closed. Economic hard times had hit the region hard, but the Cornish had pluck, and thankfully, a tourist industry. The land had taken a strange upward turn in value after the flood of ’04 and people were still clamoring for it.

At the southern tip of England, Cornwall was a rugged triangle of man-tunneled rock, like a hardened wedge of Swiss cheese. In bygone days, pirates and smugglers found myriad hiding places in coves and abandoned mines. Lawlessness permeated Cornwall
’s history like brandy in a Christmas pudding.

As Jon crested another ridge, he slowed the car.
Perrin’s Point was perched below a steep hill on three sides and had a harbor leading to the Celtic Sea.

Perhaps it was for the best the other car had disappeared, Jon thought. His presence would remain unremarkable. He lowered his window and breathed deeply of the briny air. Lovely. He could hear a commotion down towards the beach, people yelling. Early Sunday sunrise service on the beach? There must be a celebration, or something like.

The car descended, twisting into the lane’s tight curves. The village lay cradled behind jutting arms of rocky shoreline, the stretch of bay reaching into the village. The tide being out at the time, boats of all sizes and colors lay lopsided all over the sand, moored by long ropes anchored at the shoreline.

He slowed to look for High Street and then looked down at his map for the address of the local police sergeant who had agreed to house him on the
q.t. Jon was supposed to be a cousin visiting from London on surfing holiday.
I wish
. It sounded plausible, as the sergeant had indicated he owned a surfboard or two that he could lend.

He made a right turn onto a picturesque lane with quaint, painted cottages fronted by slate porches. It was unbelievable that
three slabs of stone, two standing upright and the third as a “roof,” could withstand time and storms without toppling over. The lane narrowed even more. Now he was looking at the rear of buildings, dodging dust bins. The backs of homes or shops pressed forward along both sides of the road.

He slowed the car to a crawl and one-handedly poured a cup of hot coffee from his thermos. Good thing his cup had been empty during his accident earlier. The road curved
and dipped. A wall sprang at him. Both feet slammed on brakes. The car ground to a burring halt.

He mopped at spilled coffee before reversing and maneuvering the car back round the way he had just come.
It was then he saw the signs warning drivers to take another route.
Ta, very much
.

He studied the map again and turned it around. Ah, here was his mistake
. He was to turn
left
at the top of the hill, then drive to the cliff lane and turn right. His cheap, internet-purchased satnav had done him even worse in past escapades, so he hadn’t even taken the blasted thing out of the console.

He
poured a bit more coffee and took a sip. The taste reminded him of his office, which would be brimming with activity just now. He’d been in the police for ten years and worked out of the Regional Crime Squad’s London base at present. A specially selected detective sergeant from the Bristol RCS completed Jon’s team. Detective Sergeant Thomas Browne was a good man. It was too bad about the food poisoning—he was still in hospital.

According to the bank official, Detective Chief Inspector Peter Trewe
’s deposit account had jumped from £2,000 to £982,000. A special trace on the money dead-ended at a corporation with one member of record: Peter Trewe. Something didn’t add up.

Their mandate was to find the source of the money and make sure nothing embarrassing oozed from the bottom of any mess to make its way into the public forum.
Keeping things quiet wasn’t easy, with increasing public scrutiny and information handed round like bowls of spaghetti.

Jon
’s sergeant had been careful to keep the surveillance secret. This was not an easy thing to do in a small village. Once, an old lady with a stick, chasing a cat from her rear garden, surprised DS Browne while he was keeping an eye on Trewe. They were watching to see if he had a secret means of acquiring more money, such as with stolen or smuggled goods. He told the old lady he was bird-watching and produced a birder’s manual. She took a stick to him and chased him down the street anyway.

Having had some setbacks on the job recently, Jon was determined to find answers here
. He had to recover his reputation, especially with fellow Detective Inspector Bennet. Their two desks shared proximity at the London office. He could picture Bennet’s sneer. “Couldn’t find the source of the money could you? Worthless prat. Screw around on the job. Screw around on women. You never could stick with anything. Pun intended!”

Jon had chatted up the wrong girl, as it turned out
—Bennet’s cousin.

Nobody
’s perfect.

Another gulp of coffee
, and he turned at the signpost. The narrow lane turned tricky with sudden twists, and what was left of his coffee sloshed across his shirtfront. He set the coffee in a holder.

A wooden stake in front of a gray cottage read “Frog
’s Turn.” This was it. Yellow flowers edged the front of Sergeant Perstow’s home. Sergeant Perstow and Constable Stark manned the tiny Perrin’s Point Police station. Working through intermediaries, DS Thomas Browne had driven a caravan down from Bristol and parked it in Perstow’s rear garden. The tiny home on wheels contained everything required for living and a huge bank of flat-screen monitors required for watching. With his sergeant in hospital with food poisoning, Jon would stay here. He hated confined spaces, so this would be no picnic. He’d have to think positive thoughts to be able to sleep in such a stuffy, cramped, closed-up space.

Positive thoughts,
Jon thought.
Boy Scouts, camping, adventure. Right!

             
He swung the Mini round the house to the rear and his tires crunched on the gravel drive. At the bottom of the garden next to a dilapidated garage sat the caravan, white and dented in places like a discarded tissue box, a tiny, enclosed box of a place. So much for positive thoughts.

Treborwick, police station and CID office

Sunday, midmorning

DCI Trewe possessed the scariest eyes Ruth had ever seen. They were ice-blue and predatory, a wolf’s eyes. The detective chief inspector’s skin stretched thin across his prominent cheekbones and angular chin. From a distance, Ruth had imagined his face rakishly handsome, not the cadaverous aspect in front of her.

Ruth refused another offer of tea from Sergeant Perstow. She was shaky enough. She could not absorb the fact
that her daughter was missing. Missing meant disappeared. Gone. Things like this didn’t happen to people like her.

“This is bad.” The sturdy, unsmiling Sergeant Perstow sat very still next to Ruth. He seemed as wary of Detective Chief Inspector Trewe as she was.

“Perstow, you’re upsetting Mrs. Butler.” Trewe angled his chair around to rifle some sheets of paper on a nearby file cabinet.

“Sorry, lass.” A deep shade of red flushed
up from Perstow’s neck.

“Please.” Ruth shook her head. Nothing could upset her worse than she was already.

Trewe nodded. “I’m very sorry. Do you feel up to a few questions?”

“Of course. I want her back. Safe.”

“A little girl called Dot was with your daughter this morning?”

Ruth stared at the red pen Trewe twisted between the fingers of one hand. “They often take walks.”

“Does she often disappear?”

“No! Nothing like this has ever happened. She wouldn
’t worry me like this.”

“Does she carry a mobile?”

“She isn’t responding. I’ve called dozens of times; it goes to voice mail. I’ve texted her. Nothing. Now I’ve resorted to texting her friends and their moms. They’ve put out a bulletin with their social media. They’re out looking for her.” Ruth heard her hysteria rising with each word.
I want to snap out of thinking that he found us.
Dear Lord, what am I doing here? Should I tell the police? No, I’m panicking. Dear God, bring Annie back. Make this go away.

“There has been an attempt to locate your daughter
’s mobile signal, Mrs. Butler. But they believe the mobile’s been turned off. You’re on the telephone at your house?”

“Yes. I have a land line.”

“We’ll post a constable to listen in the event she rings your house. You have your neighbor—”

“Sally
. Her name is Sally. Look, I’m sorry. I don’t want to sound like a panicked … a panicked … you know … I want to help. I do. I want to help. I …” Ruth suddenly realized she could not stop repeating herself.

Trewe swung around. His chair hit the wall.

Ruth jumped into the immediate present.

He asked for details of every activity Annie had been involved with in the past three weeks. He had Perstow take notes and write a more detailed description of Annie than Ruth had given Constable Stark earlier. Ruth concentrated on getting every detail that she could think of. He wanted a list of Annie
’s friends. She had brought a recent photo.

Trewe looked at the photo. “What kind of friends does she have?”

“Good friends. I like them. I like their parents. They’re great.”

“Does she have
a boyfriend?”

“What?” Ruth tried to understand exactly what he meant. “A boyfriend? She
’s only ten. Yes, yes, I know she knows about things.”

“Things?” Trewe
’s eyes betrayed nothing but ice.

“The facts of life, but she isn
’t interested in the opposite sex, from what I can tell. She wants to play soccer—I mean, football. You call it football, sorry, I should know that by now. Boys are the farthest thing from her mind, except as friends. She has a lot of friends.”

“D
oes she have any close friends who are boys?”

Ruth shook her head.
Why does he go on like this?

Trewe kept on. “Is there any reason to believe she may have been experimenting with anything?”

“What do you mean by anything?”

“Drugs.”

“Of course not! She is ten, not seventeen!”

Trewe
’s expression didn’t change.

Ruth took a deep breath and started over. “I know kids are at an iffy age at ten, but Annie is different
. She’s … How to describe it? … She’s transparent. I can tell when she’s lying.”

             
“So she lies occasionally, does she?” Trewe tapped his pen on the desk.

             
“Don’t all kids?”

             
“I’m sure. But you think you could
tell
if she were doing something she shouldn’t?”

             
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Ruth stared at Trewe
’s hands. What were the police saying? Do they think she ran away? That she was involved with drugs and boys? Were they crazy?

A glance passed between Perstow and
Trewe. He nodded and looked at Ruth. “Mrs. Butler, we’ll do everything in our power to get your daughter back to you. You must allow us to do our job.”

“She did not run away, she does not do drugs, she ha
s no boyfriend and no enemies. Does that answer all your questions?”

“
Sergeant Perstow will take you home, Mrs. Butler.”