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

news seemed to be all about road closures, job losses, and the effect climate change would have on visitor habits. The big talking point at the latest meeting, this last Saturday, was that an old mobile paraffin van, eons ago used to sell paraffin for villagers’ lamps door to door, had been sold at auction in London. Wow.

At the bottom of the minutes from each meeting was a hyperlink to an audio recording called KEY ADDENDUM, but clicking this brought up a login screen. Based on this secrecy, the Key Addendum files were probably notes from an additional summit, Keys only, not for mortal eyes. Sandra was probably one of the Keys. He disliked her already.

Where the hell was Gemma? Through a pair of batwing doors he could see another room with the back door open to expose the rear garden. He pushed through the doors, into a small sun room with three sofas, a TV, and large windows boasting a fine view of the countryside. There was a wall leaflet holder, from which he took a single copy of everything.

Upon reaching the back door, he saw Gemma in the garden, soaking plants with a water pistol. There was a single iron gate at the bottom of the garden with a track running away from it through a field. He allowed a moment to chill before calling her name.

Gemma whirled her wheelchair around at Liam’s voice and gave a big grin. She came his way, rumbling over the threshold ramp and into the sun room.

‘Good to have you back at the Panorama. Couldn’t wait to see me again, eh?’

‘Of course.’ He shook the mass of leaflets at her. ‘And a bunch of your freebies, if you don’t mind.’

‘Go right ahead. Tea?’

‘That would be nice.’

Once alone, Bennet grabbed a sofa and ran through the leaflets, ignoring local attractions and seeking hotels. He called the first he found, the Brockhampton Heights. It was answered by a woman who laughed, said something to someone nearby, and then introduced her establishment. How professional.

Liam said, ‘Hi. I’m looking for my friends. They’re on a trip, but there’s a personal problem. They’re film-makers and there’s four of them. I need to speak to them, so can you confirm they’re there? I don’t want you to alarm them by telling them I’ve called. I’ll come down when I find the right hotel. My friend sometimes uses the fake name Donald Ducke at hotels.’

It was a long shot in more ways than one. Years ago he’d had a case in which a man had called a hotel and asked if his sister and her boyfriend were there. Yes they were, and down he went. The sister turned out to be the caller’s wife, the boyfriend exactly that, and Bennet’s team found the illicit lovers sliced up in their hotel room. That hotel had gotten the message that giving out details to strange voices on the phone was a big no-no. Would this one be as cautious?

He killed the call ten seconds later, just as Gemma returned to the sun room. She put his tea on the table.

‘No luck?’

‘The Brockhampton Heights guarantees anonymity.’

Gemma nodded in recognition. ‘That’s Julie’s place. I could have told you you’d get no success there. Here, let me help.’

She slotted her wheelchair next to his seat and got her own phone out. Fifteen minutes later, they’d called all the hotels, motels, guesthouses and bed and breakfasts within about ten miles, and gotten a mix of answers. Some careful owners, bless them, had refused to answer questions. Some had outright said they had no film-makers as guests. One landlady did have a director staying with her, but he was sixty and worked for the BBC. Others had claimed they had no idea of their guests’ employment. In the end, the list hadn’t been whittled down at all. Only seven had outright said no, even those couldn’t be discarded. The film crew could have checked in separately or as a group of partying stockbrokers.

‘Let me ask you something,’ Gemma said. ‘Why didn’t you tell any of them you’re a detective? I know it’s not police business, but…’

Oh, how he’d wondered the same thing. On official police business, or pretending to be, he wouldn’t have hit any of today’s brick walls. Hotel owners would have been happy to help. Hell, he had a bunch of detective constables under his command and wouldn’t have had to make a single phone call. And none of the Lampton lot would have been so antagonistic.

‘It’s not police business and it wouldn’t be right to make people think it is.’

‘That’s very honourable, Liam. You’re a good man so–’ Gemma yelped as a fox appeared near the back door. Seeing the humans, it turned and fled. Gemma wheeled to the door and shut it.

‘Isn’t a fox that comes out in the daytime rabid?’

Gemma laughed. ‘I don’t think so… what are you staring at?’

Bennet was staring past her, at the back door. At something on the handle. Without a word, he left the table and headed through the lobby, to seek similar on the front door. He didn’t find it. And that was unnerving.

24

When Bennet returned to the sun room, Gemma saw something had changed in his face. She asked what was wrong.

‘The front door doesn’t have one of these,’ he said, tapping the back door’s handle keypad. ‘You said you had to give the director the code to get out on Sunday night. Why didn’t you say he left out the back, across the fields?’

‘Didn’t I? I’m sorry. There’s a path into the fields. That’s why I thought he was filming a nature documentary.’

‘You didn’t think it strange that he wanted to go out the back way late at night?’

‘Not really. My backyard leads into the fields and people like the walking trails. I have signs promoting it, and the landowner, Mr Crabtree, doesn’t mind as long as they stick to the track and pass through his land without stopping. I’m sorry, did