Free The Crow Trap by Ann Cleeves Page A

the methodology, making it more complicated than necessary in an attempt to impress. Afterwards he made her stay for tea. Again she felt he was building up to some confidence, and when he suggested going for a drink, she insisted on leaving. All afternoon she had been uneasy about the two women left behind in Baikie’s.
    She drove back in the dusk. Now the track was so familiar she could take it more quickly. She knew the best line to take so the exhaust wouldn’t catch on the ruts and how to swing the car through the ford to stop the engine getting wet. On the dry stone wall by the wooden gate there was a ring ouzel, its collar crescent startlingly white against the gloom.
    From the top of the bank she looked down on Black Law and Baikie’s. Black Law was still and empty. All the animals had gone, even the dogs. Without a function the buildings seemed ramshackle and pitiful. In the garden at Baikie’s there was a line of washing left out, though it looked as if it might rain. Although from this angle she couldn’t see the windows a square of orange light spilt onto the grass. It should have been reassuringly domestic but she realized she was driving more slowly, putting off the moment when she’d have to face the hostility between the women inside, remembering, as she always did approaching the barn, Bella’s body in the torchlight.
    When she went into the house she was struck first by the smell of cooking. There was nothing usually organized about meals, no cosy gathering every evening to compare notes. Rachael had suggested a rota for washing up but even that was impractical. They ate at different times. Anne seemed to survive on scrambled egg and smoked salmon. It seemed she had a friend in the Craster smokery who kept her well supplied. And Belgian chocolates which appeared from nowhere. She was always generous about sharing them. Rachael occasionally indulged.
    Grace seemed suspicious of the gesture.
    Wandering through the living room Rachael saw that the table had been cleared of books and papers and was laid for dinner. For three. There was no sign of life. She called up the stairs, “Hello! I’m back,” trying to keep her voice normal, unworried.
    Anne appeared. She was wearing black jeans and a sleeveless top. When the fire had been lit for a while the cottage could get very warm but the top, cream silk, ANN CLEEVES seemed a strange choice. It was too dressy. Rachael wondered if she’d been entertaining a guest.
    “I cooked a casserole,” Anne said. “It’s all right. There’s veggie for you. There’s a bottle of white wine in the fridge.”
    So either someone had been there, or Anne had been out for supplies.
    She went on, “I thought, well, we’ve got to live here together, haven’t we? We might as well make an effort to be chums.”
    “Where is Grace?”
    Anne pulled a face. “Inconsiderate cow’s not back yet. I told her I’d be cooking.”
    Rachael went to the window. It was almost dark. “She did leave her route and her ETA?”
    “I suppose so. On the kitchen notice board Like a good girl.”
    This was a dig at Rachael who had been forced to nag her again about not leaving the details of her count. And there was a note in Grace’s tiny, angular writing, giving the map reference of an area beyond the burn and her expected time of return at 8.30. It was about that time now.
    Rachael relaxed a little. It was too early to panic. She went back to the window expecting to see Grace’s pale form emerge from the long bracken, like a swimmer from the sea.
    “Oh well,” Anne said. “I suppose the food will keep. But I’m going to open the wine. Do you want one?”
    “Not yet.” It seemed important to keep a clear head.
    At nine o’clock she went out with a torch and followed the footpath as far as the burn. She crossed it by the footbridge and began to shout Grace’s name, cupping her hands, then pausing to listen. A breeze had come up. She heard the burn, and the rustling of cotton