Free Deadly Thyme by R.L. Nolen Page A

could find some answers to his own investigation and leave.
    He spent the rest of the day wandering the village and its back streets. As the sun was setting he found a shortcut to Perstow’s cottage on his maps. It meant taking a path that led along the top of the cliffs. The sea foamed below him as he took the slippery turns. Seagulls lifted away from the cliff wall below him and hung in the air at eye level. He thought he saw malicious intent in their beady little eyes. A breeze carried the faint odor of something long dead, something the seagulls were working on, no doubt. The first of April and already greening vines twisted through a thorn hedge on the land side.
    A ringing from his pocket and he had his mobile open and at his ear, “Jon Graham.”
    “Jon.” Bakewell ’s voice. “You are not back. I’m not surprised but a bit disappointed.”
    “Things have taken a turn.”
    “I’m following the news of the missing girl. It’s all over the telly. Seems there is a suspect—an American. His picture and name are on the news. I’ve received the email attachment of video footage. Not much to go on. I do think these should be handed over to Trewe. Use Perstow, he can make a perfunctory visit to the CCTV monitoring station and use it as an excuse. I’ve sent some files on Trewe’s service record to you. What’s Trewe been up to that you know of besides the search for the girl?”
    “To and from work is all, really boring stuff. After reading Sergeant Browne ’s reports I’ve decided I’m going to have to speak to him to get more details.”
    “Which means another day?”
    “Yes, sir. I sent you VHS tapes that I have not viewed because I have no VCR. As to the missing girl, I had a run-in on the way into Perrin’s Point with a car. In the other email I sent you footage that shows the car coming and going.”
    “You think it has to do with the girl ’s disappearance?”
    “Must be a reason for not stopping after hitting my car. And ,” Jon hesitated. “I’ve been doing some internet research.”
    “Oh?”
    “Missing young women from other regions found dead in Cornwall.”
    Bakewell gruffed, “Another matter. This girl didn ’t go missing from Wales or Devon. And hasn’t been found dead.”
    Jon ’s grip tightened on the mobile. “Even so—”
    “You ’re investigating Trewe, not the whereabouts of teenaged girls.”
    Jon swallowed what he wanted to say. He respected Bakewell , but he found his implication offensive.
     

     
    Tuesday , 11:59 a.m.
                 
    Charles stared at his wristwatch, a gift he gave himself. The just-baked bread from the steaming dishes of food at a nearby table had his mouth watering. He had only meant to stop briefly but now considered ordering. Had he the time? Would it seem strange he was eating alone? Better food here at the pub than what he would get at home. A cheddar and prawn jacket potato would be good.
    He watched the regulars and wondered if they were pretending not to notice him.
    The girl behind the bar burst out laughing at something one of the men must have said to her. She waved a mug. “Chris, you would-na sed sech a thing.” Her face went rosy and she giggled at his murmured reply. She deposited the mug in the dumbwaiter where it clinked against the others. She slid the tin door shut.
    Charles held his head up and went to the bar. With a nod to the girl, he pointed to the mugs hanging from the ceiling.
    The girl asked, “Which one is it then? Fourth one back, I remember.” She reached up to the ceiling beam, counted the handled glasses and mugs hung from hooks, and pulled down the one she wanted. “Fancy that. Has yer initials on it.” She rinsed it. “The usual?”
    He nodded.
    She handed him his bitter, took his money, and left to collect used glasses from empty tables.
    He carried his drink back to a table. Sitting heavily, he willed himself to relax. Filthy mortar outlined the painted stones in the wall at his shoulder.