Deadly Thyme (33 page)

40

Perrin’s Point Incident Room

The incident room had been scrubbed of its former fishy smell. Come to find out, the development had stalled. Apparently, the economic disaster affecting the entire world had reached even the deepest of pockets in Cornwall. Funny how the bigger picture can take years to trickle down so far. There was talk of things looking up in America, and the political-television talking heads were taking this to mean this “hope”—whether real or imagined—would affect the rest of Europe eventually. At present, unemployment roiled on this side of the great pond.

The building  had been
renovated to look much as it must have for a couple of centuries, with brick, crumbling stucco, and purposely aged gray board. According to the notice board, the new “old” façade was to attract the buyer looking for a bit of history to live under, but with all the latest in electronics and appliances. Even the open sheds along the side of the building facing the waterfront contained barrels artistically placed, as they must have been in past centuries to hold salted herring. Now the sheds were parking spots and the barrels collected rainwater to syphon to well-placed garden allotments for future residents.

Inside, plaster looked as if it were still drying. Electrical outlets were operational in some areas
, and in others wires sprouted from holes in the walls. Small portable heaters sat here and there to take the nip out of early morning or late night chills. One side of the room was lined with partitioned cubicles used for interviews. When Jon entered, there were only four officers present, their pasty faces and dull eyes glued to their computers. What happened to the dozens of officers considered the brightest and best combined to form the murder investigations team that Trewe was heading?

“Haven
’t I called a morning meeting?” Jon asked, amazed. For the moment, at least, he was in charge of the Murder Investigations Team.

“Yes, sir. But when you weren
’t here by nine, the others went for something to eat,” one of the officers ventured, quickly looking away.

Noting the name and rank of the young man, Jon said, “Sergeant Bickers, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sergeant,
call, text, tweet—I want them back here immediately.”

Within ten minutes the room had filled with officers. Jon used that in-between time to get the names of the three officers who were present when he arrived. He called the meeting to order. “While I don
’t expect I can fill your DCI’s shoes exactly, I cannot believe you would have done the same were he available to address you this morning.”

Heads nodded sheepishly, murmurs
of apology could be heard from all around the room.

Jon held a hand up to an ear, “Sorry, didn
’t quite catch that. Did you say you would be here next time I call a meeting?”

“They will be, sir.” Stark stood up from his desk. “The men are exhausted, sir. They
’ve been working almost round the clock since Tavy’s death.”

“Right
, and I don’t want to hear about that again. First, I expect you to make time for breaks. Take it in shifts if you need to. No one can function properly without sleep. I won’t have it. Anyone here who has not slept in more than twenty hours is dismissed to find a place to sleep. I won’t have zombies working for me. That’s ridiculous. DCI Trewe is in hospital. I don’t want any others to join him. I need every man I can find. We have more on our plate than ever with Tavy’s death. And I’ll tell you right now, I think there is worse to come. So, those who need sleep are dismissed; please report back in eight hours.”

Seven of the twenty-two officers left. They really did look dreadful. Constable Bickers was one of them
—the man could barely move. As the door closed behind them, Jon turned to the remaining men. “Right. There is something I will share with you that I believe you need to know. Tavy was dying of cancer. He may not have had the strength to fight off an attack, which might be the reason there were no signs of defensive wounds. His computer was used after his death. Several threatening emails and notes to police officers were left in Tavy’s documents file. As most of you know from reports and interviews, Tavy would have been the last to write such garbage. DCI Trewe received a note taped to his door yesterday morning, and it certainly wasn’t Tavy’s ghost who put it there. I want anyone who receives anything, even the slightest hint of a threat, to report the action to me. I want all such documents to be kept and compiled.

“Second, it may be
—though it is not supposed to be—common knowledge or even a matter for discussion, and though there is no official word, I believe that the body found in the surf was not that of Annie Butler.”

The room buzzed with
exclamations of shock. The officers stood or sat up straighter, their eyes suddenly sharp.

Jon continued. “There is no official word on this line of thinking as yet
, so it’s hush-hush. I want each of you to be more diligent than ever in discovering places where a child could be kept alive, hidden, fed, etcetera. Think—along the cliffs, whatever. We won’t call out the troops until the DNA is conclusive. Most importantly, this is not to be discussed with residents or even other police teams. I do not want the killer to be aware that we suspect such a thing. It would put him on his guard and possibly cause more harm to the girl, if she is still alive. Any questions?”

After fielding several questions and seeing that each man had his assignment, Jon reviewed what notes there were and studied the china board
’s scribbling and diagrams. He noted the photos that were there—one photo in particular. Half an hour later, he was still at it when Perstow interrupted, “Sar, we’ve got the interview room ready.”

“What have you found out so far from the interviews?”

“Some villagers are working themselves up to hysteria because of Tavy’s death. He seemed to have lived a peaceful life. No conflict.”

“Not a bit?” Jon asked. In a village where everyone knew each other and everything, conflict was inevitably the main course on the everyday menu.

“A true gentleman was the general opinion—considered Tavy polite but not talkative, kept himself to himself but always ready with kindnesses. He was a regular evening fixture at the Spider’s Web. The regulars at the Nap saw him for the occasional lunch.”

“Yes, they knew him, treated him like one of the regular lads.”

Perstow nodded. “He apparently always ordered the same thing. And he attended their weekly music fest. He really went in for the music, did Tavy.”

Perstow continued with a recap of interviews with the regulars at
the Spider’s Web. Two ancient fishermen came in every afternoon as Tavy did, rain or shine. Tavy would share a table with them and listen to them tell their stories of life on the sea.

“That fits in with what we saw of his interests when we were in his house
,” Jon said.

Perstow went on, “
As for the irregulars—that is, people who fancied an hour or two at the pub four days out of seven—there were several. Those who knew Tavy included one woman, of dubious past and present reputation, and four old pensioners who claimed he never said much to them. But then, according to the dubious woman, ‘Them four never said much to nobody, so what would they know?’

“According to Mr. Sonders, the pub
’s regulars were DCI Trewe, his son the dairy farmer, and myself. There was the magistrate, along with his wife; two local gentlemen farmers escaping the late afternoon tedium (or the wife); the postmistress and her erstwhile live-in, both carrying the local gossip; and the librarian, a single lady who kept herself to herself. The librarian would read a book while having a pint or two. She seemed to take special care to say a word to Tavy every day.”

Jon noted the first person to be interviewed today was the person who would have had the most contact with Tavy
—Harold Sonders from the Spider’s Web.

Obviously ill at ease,
the Spider’s Web’s sonorous, flame-topped publican stepped into the portioned cubicle farthest away from the computers and phone lines. He looked different without his apron. His polyester yellow-and-brown-checked suit looked as new as the eighties, the material having acquired an oily sheen of age.

Sonders shook hands all around before Jon asked him to have a seat. “This is not an interview, Mr. Sonders, so I won
’t take up your time with the list of dos and don’ts. If you’ll be sure and sign the paper acknowledging you understand you were taped, that will be all of the formality we’ll go through. Remind me if I forget, won’t you?”

“I
’ll do it, Mr. Graham. Find the killer an’ ye’ll be needin’ ta remind
me
to keep from doin’ the same to ’im as he done to my friend.” Mr. Sonders wiped his eyes, his voice slowed to a low growl. “I’m that spun out.”

“We understand. Tell me about Mr. Tavish.”

Mr. Sonders suddenly rallied. “Tavy—’is name has auways been Tavy to his friends an’ acquaintances.” He snuffled, wiping his sleeve across his nose.

“I
’ll remember. Did you ever witness trouble between Tavy and anyone else?”

“Nae. Quiet, but took guff off no one.”

“Did anyone give him trouble then?” Jon asked.

“He was a humble man, kept
himself to himself.” The poor man’s florid face appeared as though it would disengage like a space shuttle from his thick stump of a neck. His white shirt collar was obviously buttoned too tight as he kept tugging at it.

Jon believed there was something he was holding back. He would reword the same question and ask it again later. He wondered how to put the man at his ease. Perhaps he should tell him to take his tie off, but to do so would call attention to the fact he
’d noticed, thus putting the man in a more awkward position of admitting he might have been wrong to dress up. This might be the most exciting and out-of-the-ordinary thing ever to happen to him. One could always hope.

“Any gossip around about him?” Jon asked.

“Never.”

“You knew him well?”

The man almost burst a seam. “What do you think?”

Jon wasn
’t having it. “Just answer the question.”

Mr. Sonders took a deep breath. “I kn
owed ’im. I loiked ’im.”

“Had you noticed anything out of the ordinary before you saw the dog coming to the pub Saturday last?”

The man shifted in his chair, pulling at his crotch. “Could not say. Tavy auways come round about four o’clock. I can juse imagine ’im now, in the corner.” He rubbed his eyes. He might have been crying, Jon couldn’t tell.

Perstow leaned forward, “Had you noticed him talking privately with anyone the week before he stopped coming?”

“Ace … Thursday last, over by the window.” Mr. Sonders tried to wave his thick arms, but the coat wouldn’t allow it. “Fellow’s back ’us turned. Don’t remember anythin’ sketchy, nor who it may ’uv been.”

“You didn
’t overhear anything?” Jon asked.

“Nae.”

“Do you think he was aware he had terminal cancer?”

“Cancer?” Mr. Sonders sat back as if he
’d been slapped. “Cancer? What cancer? I didn’t know.”

“Would he have told you?”

“If he didn’t tell me, he wouldn’t ’uv tol’ anyone.” Mr. Sonders’s eyes grew shiny. “Poor, poor Tavy.”

“What
did
he talk about … lately, I mean?” Jon asked.

“He auways had a
tale about ’is dog—trained to save drownin’ volk was Chelsea. Once, I saw ’er leap in to grab a chile an’ pull ’er to shore. ’Cept the chile wasn’t drownin’, was she? She an’ her mum were not well pleased. Tavy had the dog trained professional. So ’er would know not to go after a chile havin’ a dip in the surf.” Mr. Sonders leaned forward rubbing his round chin. “Don’t know who’ll be taking Chelsea?”

Jon shook his head. He could see the man wanted the dog. And now he knew why Chelsea
’d gone to check the body in the surf. The dog could sense the body’s presence. And she had been trying to get his attention to save her master when he’d gone to the library that day. More fool he. “Perhaps the great-nephew will be looking for a home for the dog.”