Deadly Thyme (18 page)

24

J
on flipped open his mobile, punched in 999, and explained what had happened and where he was and what was needed. Then he punched in another number. At the first ring Peter Trewe answered and Jon said, “Jon Graham at Sergeant Perstow’s house. At the rear in the garden. The caravan. Mrs. Butler—”

“What is it?”

“I’ve called emergency services. Someone’s set fire to my caravan and Mrs. Butler’s hurt.”

“I
’m on my way. Is Perstow there?”

“I
’ll check.” Jon banged on the Perstow’s rear door. The door jerked open as if Perstow had been standing all this time on the other side.

“Mr. Graham?”

Jon yelled into the phone, “Yes, he’s here.”

Trewe
’s voice sputtered from the mobile. “Detective Inspector, have you any idea why Mrs. Butler is there?” A car’s wheels ground to a halt on the gravel drive. A disheveled Trewe raced around the corner and knelt beside Mrs. Butler.

Jon wondered how Trewe had arrived so quickly. The backyard became a surreal scene recorded in slow motion and lit by the flames. He called out, “Here!”

Trewe was trying to bring Mrs. Butler around. He muttered loud enough that Jon could hear, “Perstow didn’t tell me he was going into the tourist business, keeping caravans in the garden. A true holiday spot in the making.”

“S
ar!” Perstow careened from his house to where Mrs. Butler lay near his patio.

Trewe yelled to Perstow, “Ambulance, man! Where
’s the ambulance?!”

With an exclamation, Trewe knelt to pick up Mrs. Butler.

“Don’t touch her.” Jon grabbed Trewe’s arm.

“Don
’t tell me what to do.” Trewe yanked his arm away. “We need to move her farther from the flame. If there’s compressed gas canisters, there’s danger of explosion.”

“But we
’ve got to do it right.” Jon looked down at Ruth’s face bright in the light from the fire. Her breathing was shallow. There was blood coming from her ear. “And no, I have no idea why she is here. She was being attacked.”

Perstow huffed toward them. “S
ar! The ambulance will take her to a clearing so she can be airlifted.”

Trewe checked the pulse at her neck. “I hope they hurry. Look, you brace her neck the best you can and I
’ll pick up the rest of her. We’ll move her around to the front of Perstow’s house, away from the flames.”

Jon noted the
contusions on Ruth Butler’s hand. The flesh was beginning to turn dark where blood seeped close to the surface of the skin. He ever so gently laid her hand across her stomach to keep it from further damage. Working together, the two men picked her up. As they came around the cottage, a fire crew passed them dragging water hoses. An ambulance drew near, the crew already scrambling out. The emergency team crowded around, bending over her, blocking his view until she was whisked away.

Jon overheard Perstow
’s wife yelling, “If this is what one must put up with having a caravan in the rear garden, then someone best remove the caravan!”

A disheveled Trewe lurched toward him. “Mr. Graham, there must be a reason Mrs. Butler was
at your caravan.”

“I can
’t think of one.”

“The fire
’s out now. Take a look, make sure nothing is amiss aside from the obvious fire damage, if you would.”

It took him a moment to observe his heavily scorched personal effects, his
ruined books, and what was left of his tattered clothing. The monitors were melted or smashed.
Damn, and Trewe had seen them
. The copies of the VHS tapes he hadn’t reviewed, the flash drives, and the DVDs were gone.

When he descended the two steps to the ground, Trewe said, “Come with me, Mr. Graham. We
’ll make sure nothing else befalls Mrs. Butler.”

The hospital was an uncomfortably silent one hour and six minutes
’ drive.

Inside the hospital Jon leaned against a wall, staring at the swinging metal doors which led to A and E. “Accident and Emergency is busy for this time of night.”

Next to him, Trewe crossed his arms. “Not necessarily.”

Somewhere close by, a phone rang. Metal trolleys loaded with boxes rolled down the hallway. Despite a cheerful demeanor of pastel-colored wallpapers and framed watercolors, the cavernous corridor gave Jon a dread feeling of being swallowed up. He hummed a tune to himself.

“My caravan is wrecked.”

“I was there.”

“The other person, who was in fact going to beat Mrs. Butler more before I interrupted him, must have set the fire. You’ll be coordinating an action team to investigate?”

“In process of being assembled as we speak.”

“Area’s cordoned off?”

“Have done.”

The phone did not stop ringing. Why did no one answer? Jon jingled coins in his pocket. The noise wasn’t helping jangled nerves. The cracks in the granite floor spelled “do” in crooked capital letters. He wondered if it were irrational to think the imperative was meant for him. The phone went quiet. He glanced at Trewe. “Coffee? I’ll get it.”

“Machine
’s over here.” Trewe led Jon to an automatic dispenser.

Coffee, tea or hot chocolate?
Too bad the answers to all of life’s question weren’t in multiple-choice format. Jon put his coins in the machine and pressed the selection button. “Seems you have everything lined up.”

“Seems some things are out of my hands.” Trewe mashed the button for his choice while Jon fed in more coins.

Jon saw his investigation slowly sink into the oblivion of the lost causes file, which would in this case be located beneath the rubbish bin. Trewe would suspect that all was not kosher with Jon Graham and his holiday in Cornwall story.

With disposable cups of black coffee in hand, Jon pointed out that he would like to wait where they could watch when Ruth would be wheeled out. He resumed his former spot against the wall. “I
’m assuming Perstow told you I followed Mrs. Butler the other night. She has a habit of wandering at night.”

“He failed to mention it.”

“Apparently, someone else was following her, too.”

“Do say.”

Jon couldn’t tell if the man was being sarcastic or actually wanted him to report his movements. Surely Trewe wished to know. He repeated his story of taking Tavy for a drink and learning of the woman’s nocturnal rambling. The more he thought about the shadow figure, the more convinced he became that the shadow figure did not have Mrs. Butler’s best interest in mind.

When he finished, Trewe glared and pouted without a word for some minutes
before finally saying, “Sounds as if Annie Butler wasn’t the only intended victim, or because of her daughter, someone has targeted Mrs. Butler. I don’t know, but I’m taking no chances. She will be guarded now.”

A rolling cart burst through the door to A and E.
Mrs. Butler was trussed from head to toe in bandages and sheets. Her golden brown hair was splayed across the pillow. Her cheeks were as pale as the bedding.

Coming along behind, a short, red-headed man brushed past, intent on his chart.

Jon stepped forward. “Excuse me, you were attending Mrs. Butler?”

“Yes.” The man
’s eyes finally left his chart as if noticing Jon for the first time. “Family should be notified.”

“Her mother is on the way. It
’s bad then? Dr.—”

“Mr. Matzelle.”

A Mister? A rank above god in heaven. What was he doing making hospital rounds?

The doctor closed the chart with a metallic click and eyed Jon. “And you are
—”

“Detective Inspector Jon Graham. This is Detective Chief Inspector Peter Trewe, Devon-Cornwall CID.”

The doctor sighed. “There’s been a serious injury to the woman’s hand. But the main concern is her head. With an injury of this nature …” His expression was grim.

Trewe asked, “Her injury is consistent with being hit with a heavy object?”

“The injury to the head, yes. The hand was crushed possibly with a boot.” The doctor paused, staring at them over his glasses. “Now, if you will excuse me.” He started down the hall away from them.

Jon did a quick sidestep to block the doctor
’s path. “There was a lot of blood.”

“
The cut was superficial, but head wounds bleed copiously. Why CID? Is there a criminal investigation?”

“Yes.”

“Then is this official? This questioning?”

Trewe stepped forward. “You said other injuries?”

The doctor held up one hand. “Nothing of a sexual nature. She was likely unconscious when the contusions occurred.”

Jon was shaken by that. “You mean she was unconscious before the beating?”

“That’s what we believe. As I said, the head injury is what we need to watch. She’s not responding as well as we had hoped. When the brain gets knocked about in the skull, there’s risk of closed head injury—bruises to the brain. But there’s also the hand; one bone may require surgery as soon as she comes around.” He craned his neck to look around Jon. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

This time Trewe stopped him, “Is she able to answer questions yet?”

“We can’t be sure she’ll ever be able to speak again,” the doctor snapped. “People die from this type of head injury. You might want to save your questions.” With that, he nodded curtly and sidestepped past them and into the next room.

Jon shook his head. “What could she have ever done to have this happen to her?”

Huffing, Perstow joined them. “Mrs. Butler’s mother is here. She’ll be spending the night with her.”

Trewe sighed and turned to Jon. “It
’s late. We’ll discuss this tomorrow. There is one thing I think you should be aware of.”

“Yes?”

Trewe glanced at Perstow with something like hatred, and then the icy glare fell back upon Jon. “I was given video footage and still photos of the scene of the crime and told they came through natural channels which were presumed at the time to be CCTV footage. Now I discover a caravan loaded with monitors I assume were not smashed before this evening. Yesterday I asked about a photo Mrs. Butler found taped to her door, which I suspect came from you.”

“It did.”

“I want to see you in my office at noon tomorrow, Mr. Graham. You can rest assured a call will be put in to Superintendent Bakewell this evening.”

“Yes! in the sea of life enisled,

With echoing straits between us thrown,

Dotting the shoreless watery wild,

We mortal millions live
alone.
”

– Matthew Arnold
–

25

Sunday morning, 9:13 a.m.

Day eight

C
harles made his way down the hospital’s corridor carrying geraniums from his hothouse. He moved to within a few doors of the room where the American woman was. He’d had his chance and didn’t know it until it was too late.

The hissing sound in his ear pulled him aside into the shadow of another room
’s doorway.
“Can you not see the room is guarded?”

“Yes!”

“Well? What are you going to do about it?”

“All I
can
do: keep walking as if I am visiting someone else.”

“
Fool!”

The man shoved off from the doorway, just as it opened, and an old woman stuck her head out. With his head lowered,
Charles marched down the hall without turning. Through clenched teeth, he said, “I’ve been successful in some things, mother.”

“
Not in the important things!”

“There
’s not enough time in a day.”

“
What is time?”

“I know.” He sighed. “I love you.”

He paused, listening. He said again, more insistently, “I love you.”

Silence.

His eyes burned. Would she never say it? He found an exit door and left the hospital more upset than when he entered. As he stepped into the cool morning air, he slammed the flowers down into a privet hedge. Driving up the road, he counted slowly to calm himself. His mind filled with conflicting thoughts and feelings: one, he should have stayed there, two, he could have waited for his opportunity, three, he did the right thing.

“
No, you never did anything right.”

In the privet hedge outside the hospital, a young wasp, wings still untried, fell dead
—then another, and another. The liquid cyanide slowly evaporated from the broken vial. An empty syringe lay on the ground amongst broken flower stems. Fourteen wasps, just beginning their insect life on this earth, jerked spasmodically in the last throes of insect death.

In the hospital room, Jon timed Mrs. Butler
’s breathing—in, out, in, out. Beneath the blanket, her chest rose and fell as the wall clock ticked. The machine clicked in rhythm to the red light blinking—off, on, off, on. It was maddening.

He stood and stretched, checking her mother who was sleeping sitting up in another chair. She stirred
and mumbled something. He bent over her and whispered, “Mrs. Thompson, do you want tea? Coffee?”

“What? Oh
no! I’m fine. Thanks, such a dear.” She went back to sleep.

He left the room to find something approaching caffeine that might be drinkable, and wondered for the millionth time why Mrs. Butler had been near his caravan
the night before. What connection did she have to whoever had torn through his things? Video equipment, video footage, and all the archived copies of everything were gone. And just as importantly, the files of the other missing girls had disappeared.

Another thought made his blood run cold. What was his own connection? Why had he been the one to find objects connected with the child
’s disappearance? Was it merely coincidence or was it someone else’s plan? Had he in some way been led to the body and the shoe? If so, why had the victim’s mother ended up battered nearly to death at his caravan?

Was
some psycho toying with them all, as a cat does a mouse before the fatal blow?

Had Mrs. Butler been in danger all along, the killer following her until he could corner her in Perstow
’s rear garden? Or what if the killer knew the caravan was his? Perhaps in the dark the attacker thought Mrs. Butler was Jon. She’d been dressed in jeans and a heavy coat. Had he seen the killer on the cliff Thursday night, and had the killer seen him clearly enough to want to make sure Jon wouldn’t recognize him again? And if so, was there some identifying mark or mannerism to give him away?

Or had Mrs. Butler, out of curiosity,
stumbled upon someone ransacking the caravan? So many unanswered questions. What a muddle.

If only she would wake up.

What would he do about Trewe? Confront him about the money and then let the cards fall where they may? After all, it isn’t likely the man would deny having the money. The bank records were clear. On the other hand, the detective chief inspector had done absolutely nothing suspicious in all the weeks of observing him. But since Trewe found himself with an officer from Complaints on his doorstep, he more than likely has shut down any wrongdoing. What a conundrum—a double muddle.

Jon made his way back through the claustrophobic corridors to Mrs. Butler
’s guarded room. He nodded at the tall, thin constable standing outside. There were no other beds save Mrs. Butler’s. It was surprising Trewe had arranged to have her in a private room. Her poor mother could do with a bed instead of the chair she had slept in.

A doctor was bent over Mrs. Butler. He straightened when Jon neared. The quiet form on the bed
murmured something he couldn’t hear. She was still asleep. One cheek was swollen, the skin around both eyes was bruised dark brown, and yellow-green streaks connected the swollen cheek with her nose. Her head was wrapped. It hurt to look at her. This fragile woman had taken a beating.

She was still beautiful.

Stop,
he thought,
don’t think like that.
He couldn’t stop his heart doing a triple flip-flop.

The doctor left and from beside the hospital bed Jon watched Mrs. Butler, lying so still in the bed. Machines beeped. The room smelled of antiseptic and laundry soap. Jon sighed, shook his head and went to sit on a chair in a darkened corner, his head in his hands. She had not regained consciousness. Who could have hurt her? Was it his fault? Why was she
at his caravan? Over twelve hours had come and gone. If she did not come to by this evening, the neurologist would do further tests to determine if there was a bleed in her skull forcing this lack of response.

Jon scooted his chair closer to the bed. He couldn
’t sit. He stood and leaned over her. Any response would be preferable to this human shell bound and bandaged, hooked up to beeping machines, with tubes splayed like wheel spokes from her form. At least she was breathing on her own.

Everything was undone. Nothing was safe any longer. Nothing. Ruth floated sideways, turned over, reac
hing with both hands to grasp … what? … something she was forgetting … She had to remember. Oh yes, the past. She wanted it back, wanted it back more than anything in the world. She longed for it so much she could taste it. It was bitter. Her past was not her imagination, and she was not hysterical.
Don’t lie.
No, she was intolerably honest. Her thoughts twisted obsessively as she tried to figure things out. Somebody was a killer. Hysteria hadn’t produced a murderer, and she hadn’t imagined the dead girl’s body. There was another mother out there, missing her daughter. So what did this real, flesh-and-blood killer look like? What kind of work did he do when he wasn’t killing? Had she spoken to him today?

She was flying. A face closed in. This was what the killer looked like. Jesus wanted her to forgive
. I know,
she thought,
but I can’t.

She fell a long way and landed on a cloud. Her head throbbed. It took a long time to think of anything besides the smoke and the heat. The smell hurt her nose. Smoke and lava flowed as frightened villagers ran for their lives, their homes engulfed in flames. She watched. Her skin hurt. She needed water. Her mother
’s face loomed over the mountain and spoke, “Buy the Pink Lux Shampoo. Run, the volcano is dangerous.” She ran into the smoke. There was a man blocking her path. He smelled like breath mints. A curtain moved between them. She pulled it aside and saw a lion in a corner, baring claws. What? A child! She jumped between them. She swung her arm to hit the lion, and a tearing pain shot through her and made her sick to her stomach.

She woke up, not recognizing anything. Why was the clock upside
down? And who put her in shackles? “Where am I?”

Jon bent over
Ruth. Her eyes had opened and she mouthed something he couldn’t make out. His face was no more than ten inches from hers.

Ruth
’s eyes opened wide. “Scary face.”

Jon backed away. “Oh! Thanks! Now it
’s back to the ego shop for repair. I’m happy to see you awake. You gave us a scare.”

“He had a scary face,” she whispered through dry, cracked lips. “He called me
…”

“What? Mrs. Butler, what did you hear?”

“Why can’t I be still?” Her voice was barely audible. She winced with a spasm of pain. “Everything floats. Make it stop.” She opened her eyes. Closed them. “Make it stop,” she whispered.

“Make what stop?” he whispered back.

“The world.” Her eyes opened and sought his. She stared at him for a moment. Her mouth formed a lopsided smile. “You’re no angel.” She closed her eyes again, and before Jon could react, she began breathing deeply—asleep.

Shaken, Jon stared at her for a moment.

A rough voice whispered, “Mr. Graham! What happened?”

Jon hadn
’t heard Trewe enter the room. “She was awake briefly.”