Chapter Twenty-One

They emerged from the hut to find the rain slacking off, but the wind had picked up. It sounded like a freight train rushing across the moors, increasing in speed and volume as it hurtled toward them. The wind made Erin’s eyes water, nearly sucking the breath right out of her, but she wanted to laugh from joy as she stood in front of the crumbling stone ruins with the vast, grand sweep of Yorkshire before her. She loved this landscape like no other, and it made her giddy.

She immediately felt guilty. Winton—poor Winton! She hoped he was all right.

“Do you want to call them back?” she asked Hemming.

“No, I just need to get back to town.”

“Where is your car parked?” she shouted, straining to be heard over the din.

“Over there,” he said, pointing across the moors in the opposite direction from her car.

“How far?”

“About a mile,” he shouted, staggering back as a blast of wind nearly knocked them both off their feet.

“Can you give me a lift? Mine’s over two miles in the other direction.”

“All right—we have to move, though!”

The wind was blowing straight at them, so the mile hike to his car felt more like five. They arrived, panting and exhausted, still damp from the rain. Erin wanted nothing more than a long, deep bath, but she had something else in mind. Climbing into his old Citroën, she admired the car’s interior, with its red leather seats and broad steering wheel with the single spoke.

“This car has great character,” she said as she buckled her seat belt.

“Tell that to Sergeant Jarral,” he said, shaking the rain from his hair. “He thinks it’s a pile of junk.”

“No appreciation for quality,” she said as he pulled out into the deserted street. Roads in North Yorkshire were rarely crowded, and this time of year, with a storm hovering over them, it would be possible to get all the way to town without seeing another car.

When they reached her car, she turned to him. “Do you mind waiting just to make sure it starts? I’ve been having some trouble, and I’m afraid it’s the alternator.”

“Of course,” he said as she jumped out and climbed into her Sunbeam. Looking back at him, she saw he was trying to make a call on his mobile. She sat in the driver’s seat for a couple of minutes, then got out and went back to his car.

“It’s dead.”

“Is the engine turning over at all?”

She shook her head. “I’m just getting a clicking sound.”

“There’s no time to troubleshoot it. I’ll drive you to town, and you can sort it later.”

“Right,” she agreed, sliding in beside him. Erin felt a little guilty about her deception, but mostly she felt exhilarated. Now she just had to launch the second part of her plan.

“I managed to get through to Constable McCrary,” he said. “Mr. Pettibone is all right. Shaken up, but not seriously injured, it seems.”

“Oh, good.”

She looked out the window as the moorland gave way to farm fields, little cottages nestled in vales, and running brooks snaking through the countryside.

“My place is in the other direction,” she said, trying to sound casual and unrehearsed. “Why don’t you just—”

“Take you to the station house?”

“Well, it would be more—”

“Convenient?”

“Of course, if you want to drive all the way to—”

He gave her a sideways glance. “There’s nothing wrong with your car, is there?”

“It’s an old car, and—” she said, flushing, but he cut her off with another look. They drove for a while in silence; then he spoke.

“Look, I admire your persistence, but you can’t just worm your way into a police investigation.”

“I’m not—”

“I’ll let you come inside, but you must promise to behave yourself,” he said as they pulled up in front of the station.

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

He turned off the engine. “Don’t say that. Not now, with all that’s happened.”

“All right,” she agreed. It was plain from the way he looked at her that she wasn’t just a nuisance—he wanted to keep her safe, not because it was his job, but because it mattered to him.

She hopped out of the car as if she were on springs. “Come on,” she said, “Let’s go in. I promise I’ll be good.”