bastard, gods rest him.’
CHAPTER FIVE
There was a clatter on the caravan door.
‘I’m looking for Poppy Sinclair,’ a man’s voice called.
‘In here,’ Bob said.
A man almost as big as Bob in a worn-out brown suit squeezed through the caravan door. ‘DCI Hadley,’ he said, in a thick local accent. ‘This is DS Grant.’
The detective who’d been at the lake followed him in, ducking like he might hit his head even though he was a good foot shorter than his boss. Oh great, they were going to want her to talk about what happened and she really didn’t know whether she could. She folded her arms over her stomach, hoping she could keep her internal organs from sloshing around.
The two policemen stood there, hunched like bald-headed eagles. Bob got up and motioned for them to take his place around the fold-down Formica table where Mum had forced gallons of chamomile tea down her, like that was going to help.
‘Sit down, gentlemen. I’ll make myself scarce.’ Bob gave Poppy a quick reassuring wink before disappearing out of the door of the caravan.
The two policemen squeezed themselves onto the bench. Their jackets bulged over the edge of the fold-down table, and, in the case of the older guy, half his stomach as well. He rested his elbows on the surface – there was no room for them to go anywhere else – and sighed.
A shaft of light bled through the burgundy-coloured curtains, highlighting a column of swirling dust particles between them. The table was buried in stacks of books covering everything from ley lines to herbal medicine. One was entitled The Peat Bog Bodies of the Northern Europe – Murder or Ritual Killing?
‘ Anti-Druid propaganda! ’she heard Bob growl in her head. She watched the old detective’s eyes flit over the titles.
He grunted and then looked directly at her. ‘You’re Poppy?’
She nodded.
‘And you are?’ he asked, his gaze sliding to Mum.
‘I’m Meg Donoghue. Poppy’s mum.’
‘Sounds like you’ve had a bit of a shock, Poppy, but would you mind telling us what happened this mornin’?’
She didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to see lifeless eyes staring at her. She grabbed her mug of chamomile and wrapped her hands around it, trying to soak up the last of the warmth.
‘What made you go out to the lake? Must’ve been quite early.’
‘It was about half five. I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d go for a walk,’ she said, realising how weird that sounded. She’d watched enough police dramas to know that the person who found the body was always a suspect. Wait until they heard about last night; that really would put her in the frame.
The man smiled, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. When he’d walked in the door she’d thought he looked like a farmer dressed up to go to a funeral. Now she was a murder suspect, he looked more like a sly old fox who’d had one too many full English breakfasts. ‘I could never sleep in tents neither. Thought of all them creepy-crawlies.’ He shuddered. ‘And you headed straight for the lake, did you?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Did you see her right away?’
Poppy shook her head. ‘Didn’t know what it was at first. Just thought it was a shadow or something.’
‘Is that when you called for someone?’
‘I’m not sure. I think so. I don’t remember. I tried to get her out but she was too heavy.’ She could feel Beth’s body limp in her arms. Except she hadn’t been limp. That was why she couldn’t turn her properly. She’d already started to freeze up. Did that mean she’d been dead for a while? ‘Then Pete – the guy from the farm – and another guy helped.’
‘Did you know her?’
Poppy nodded. ‘I mean, no, I didn’t know her. But I met her last night. We talked for a bit. Beth. She didn’t tell me her surname.’
‘What did you talk about?’
She shrugged.
‘It would really help us to know what she was doing here, Poppy. She wasn’t registered as a participant,’ the younger
CHAPTER FIVE
There was a clatter on the caravan door.
‘I’m looking for Poppy Sinclair,’ a man’s voice called.
‘In here,’ Bob said.
A man almost as big as Bob in a worn-out brown suit squeezed through the caravan door. ‘DCI Hadley,’ he said, in a thick local accent. ‘This is DS Grant.’
The detective who’d been at the lake followed him in, ducking like he might hit his head even though he was a good foot shorter than his boss. Oh great, they were going to want her to talk about what happened and she really didn’t know whether she could. She folded her arms over her stomach, hoping she could keep her internal organs from sloshing around.
The two policemen stood there, hunched like bald-headed eagles. Bob got up and motioned for them to take his place around the fold-down Formica table where Mum had forced gallons of chamomile tea down her, like that was going to help.
‘Sit down, gentlemen. I’ll make myself scarce.’ Bob gave Poppy a quick reassuring wink before disappearing out of the door of the caravan.
The two policemen squeezed themselves onto the bench. Their jackets bulged over the edge of the fold-down table, and, in the case of the older guy, half his stomach as well. He rested his elbows on the surface – there was no room for them to go anywhere else – and sighed.
A shaft of light bled through the burgundy-coloured curtains, highlighting a column of swirling dust particles between them. The table was buried in stacks of books covering everything from ley lines to herbal medicine. One was entitled The Peat Bog Bodies of the Northern Europe – Murder or Ritual Killing?
‘ Anti-Druid propaganda! ’she heard Bob growl in her head. She watched the old detective’s eyes flit over the titles.
He grunted and then looked directly at her. ‘You’re Poppy?’
She nodded.
‘And you are?’ he asked, his gaze sliding to Mum.
‘I’m Meg Donoghue. Poppy’s mum.’
‘Sounds like you’ve had a bit of a shock, Poppy, but would you mind telling us what happened this mornin’?’
She didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to see lifeless eyes staring at her. She grabbed her mug of chamomile and wrapped her hands around it, trying to soak up the last of the warmth.
‘What made you go out to the lake? Must’ve been quite early.’
‘It was about half five. I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d go for a walk,’ she said, realising how weird that sounded. She’d watched enough police dramas to know that the person who found the body was always a suspect. Wait until they heard about last night; that really would put her in the frame.
The man smiled, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. When he’d walked in the door she’d thought he looked like a farmer dressed up to go to a funeral. Now she was a murder suspect, he looked more like a sly old fox who’d had one too many full English breakfasts. ‘I could never sleep in tents neither. Thought of all them creepy-crawlies.’ He shuddered. ‘And you headed straight for the lake, did you?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Did you see her right away?’
Poppy shook her head. ‘Didn’t know what it was at first. Just thought it was a shadow or something.’
‘Is that when you called for someone?’
‘I’m not sure. I think so. I don’t remember. I tried to get her out but she was too heavy.’ She could feel Beth’s body limp in her arms. Except she hadn’t been limp. That was why she couldn’t turn her properly. She’d already started to freeze up. Did that mean she’d been dead for a while? ‘Then Pete – the guy from the farm – and another guy helped.’
‘Did you know her?’
Poppy nodded. ‘I mean, no, I didn’t know her. But I met her last night. We talked for a bit. Beth. She didn’t tell me her surname.’
‘What did you talk about?’
She shrugged.
‘It would really help us to know what she was doing here, Poppy. She wasn’t registered as a participant,’ the younger
Similar Books
The Ghost of Fossil Glen
Cynthia DeFelice
Kaschar's Quarter
David Gowey
Dark Echo
F. G. Cottam
Taming the Dragon Collection
Jessica Ryan
Stone Cold
Cheryl Douglas
Holmes & Moriarty 02 - All She Wrote (MM)
Josh Lanyon
Emergency Echo
George Ivanoff
Love and Leftovers
Sarah Tregay
Seek
Clarissa Wild