Cold Blood by Jane Heafield (great books to read txt) 📕

The sign at the mouth of the car park said Panorama, not Pandora. As he waited for a tractor to pass so he could turn into the car park, he again had to remind himself why this was a good idea.

If he went home, he’d worry about that upcoming talk with Joe, wouldn’t he? He still had a few hours until he had to pick his son up from school, so it wouldn’t hurt to hang around a little longer, ask another question or two. And this was the best place. Given that the crew had visited the local pub at night, they’d probably overnighted in the village. There were various homes that owners had converted into bed and breakfasts, but the Panorama was the only bona fide hotel in the area. Maybe he’d find the crew still there, or one of them had left a phone number when booking.

His phone buzzed with a text message. Once his car was laid up close to the fountain, he read it. Not Lorraine. It was from DC Hooper, who he’d tasked with acquiring information about the missing girl case in 2010. He’d forgotten about that.

Gave your number to a former tec Sarg Ford on case you mentioned, he said he will call you. Looked him up. Fired for misconduct, now works supermarket security. I think he thinks he can make a buck or two for his info, so be wary. Anything else?

Bennet’s reply said thanks and, no, there was nothing else. Of course there wasn’t, since the whole plan to bribe Lorraine with help had gone to pot. Hopefully the detective-cum-Asda-guard wouldn’t call.

The Panorama’s foyer retained timber framing bare brick, but paint had been applied to gloss it all up. The walls were hung with art depicting scenes from the ancient era of the house’s construction, but were encased in modern frames. The furniture was clearly pseudo-medieval, given how it was all within bumping and fingering distance. The patterned carpet was dull pink along the traffic line and bright red at the untrampled edges.

The reception desk was on the right in a large arched alcove, but empty of life. He rang a bell and picked up a leaflet flaunting some local attraction.

‘Hello?’ a voice said behind him. A middle-aged black woman with curly hair appeared in the corridor. So Gemma Bowler had managed to hang on to her job, but the years had been cruel. Way back, Gemma had been on crutches because of debilitating arthritis in both feet. Now she was in a wheelchair. She’d also picked up a thick forehead scar somewhere.

She wheeled around his legs and into the alcove, and spun to face him across the counter. She wore jeans and a white T-shirt with a picture of her hotel on it. ‘Visiting? Need a room?’

He’d met Gemma a couple of times in the Yorkshire Bank queue. She was a chatty lady who made friends easily. ‘How’s the detective fiction going?’

At first suspicion, then realisation. ‘Lee! How are you? That is you, isn’t it?’

‘Liam. Here I am. You still write detective fiction?’

She reached out to shake his hand. His was sweaty and he wiped it on his trousers first. ‘Oh, I gave that up for fantasy because the research is easier and I’ve always loved it. Although I did consider having my detective chase a mythical serial killer. I imagine there isn’t a police book out there that mentions a Bakhtak. That wouldn’t sell.’

‘Might get away with saying it once. Twice, no. Anyway, I don’t need a room. Not staying. I’m just in the area looking for some people. Lopers. Three of them, anyway. One is Lorraine Taylor, my girlfriend way back. Lived here. Did you know her?’

Gemma thought and shook her head. ‘I remember you saying you had a girlfriend, but I don’t think we ever met properly. It happens, even in a place of just a few hundred people. She left to live with you, is that right? Bradford?’

‘Barnsley. Over ten years ago, so it’s easy to forget. She was part of a four-person film crew that came to Lampton on Sunday. Did they stay here?’

Gemma looked a little unsure, until he added a teeny white lie: ‘I heard they stayed here.’

She remembered now. ‘Yes. Well, one of them. A man who said he was a director. I remember that, because we don’t get many directors. He was middle-aged, like fifty or so, if that helps. Oh, and he was black. A black man. I don’t know what they were filming.’

‘A documentary about a young girl who went missing here about ten years ago. He didn’t talk to you about that?’

She needed to think again, which puzzled him. Did hordes of kids go missing round here? ‘Oh. Yes, I know the story. I was on holiday that week she vanished. But no, he didn’t mention it.’

‘You were here back then. You could have given some insight into the way of life here in those days. Good filler for the documentary. Are you sure this director didn’t mention it?’

‘Terrible thing, that girl running away. The family was devastated. We kind of don’t much talk about it to people when they come asking. Reporters and tourists who know about it. Out of respect to the mother.’

He’d run face-first into a wall of protection around the tale of the missing girl, even though he’d stressed that he wasn’t here about that long-ago event. ‘And you didn’t ask this director what he was filming? You’re always one for chatting with strangers.’

‘No. But the way he was casually dressed when he went out that night, I thought maybe he was videoing birds or something. Night animals, maybe. A nature documentary. You can film that sort of thing alone, I thought. He had a camera bag, so that was what I figured. I didn’t really ask. We get all sorts in here and a lot don’t like to talk about themselves. I tend not to chat to my guests unless they look like