Chapter Thirty-Two

“So … investigation … progressing?” DCI Witherspoon’s voice was tinny and faint over the landline, like he was in a metal container underwater. The line crackled and spat. So much for technology, Hemming thought as he strained to hear.

“Can’t quite hear you, sir,” he said, locking eyes with Sergeant Jarral, who was making short work of a jelly doughnut. They were in the back room of the station house on Wednesday morning, waiting for Chief Constable McCrary to return from dealing with an incident involving a drunk motorcyclist.

Hemming rubbed his forehead wearily. Though his fever was down somewhat, he felt awful. He had dragged himself from bed and down to the police station—this case wasn’t going to solve itself.

“I SAID, HOW IS THE INVESTIGATION GOING—”

Wincing, Hemming held the receiver away from his ear. “Coming across loud and clear now, sir,” he said, rolling his eyes at Jarral, who was gobbling up the rest of his doughnut.

“What’s going on down there?” said the chief. “Is there some kind of interference on the line?”

“It seems to be gone now.”

“I have lads in Dublin looking into the lorry accident. Meanwhile, I’d like a progress report on the investigation from your end.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll send it along ASAP.”

“You all right? You don’t sound well.”

“Just a little congestion, sir.”

“You look bloody awful,” Jarral muttered.

Hemming glared at him.

The sergeant shrugged. “Sorry, but you do.”

“What’s that?” said Witherspoon.

“Sergeant Jarral said something. Sorry, sir.”

“Be sure to send me that update.”

“Yes, sir,” Hemming said, and rang off.

He looked out the picture window into the main room, where Constable Harris sat quietly in front of a computer screen, his smooth black hair shiny in the pale-green glow.

“Cybercrime’s the future, sir,” Jarral said, brushing powdered sugar off his shirt. “That’s where the big money is.”

“Perhaps, but murder will always be up close and personal.”

“Sir?”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“It’s probably not my place, but—”

“Out with it,” Hemming said. His head pounded, his mouth was dry, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl back in bed.

“Well, sir, Ms. Coleridge is not yet officially eliminated from our list of suspects.”

“That’s right,” he answered warily, knowing where this was headed.

“I was just wondering if it might be best to—”

“To what, Sergeant?” He knew perfectly well what Jarral was getting at but wanted to make him say it.

“Well, sir, maybe not socialize with anyone who’s still on the list of potential suspects.”

“Is that what you think I was doing—socializing?”

“Well, sir, I saw her coming out of your room last night—”

“I ran into her on the moors, completely by chance, and when she heard I was ill, she dropped off some soup for me. That’s the extent of it.”

“Yes, sir—sorry, sir,” Jarral said sheepishly.

“Look,” Hemming said, taking pity on him, “I don’t want you to think you can’t be frank with me. But I assure you there’s nothing untoward or unprofessional going on between us,” he said, knowing it wasn’t entirely true.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, but he still wouldn’t make eye contact.

A wave of dizziness swept over the detective, and he leaned on the desk to steady himself.

“You all right, sir?”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Shouldn’t you be in bed, sir?”

“The investigation isn’t going to wait,” he said, putting on his coat. “Sorry we couldn’t stay to see the chief constable,” Hemming said to Constable Harris as they went through the main room.

“Any message for him, sir?” he asked, looking up from the computer, his basset hound face serious. His voice was as dolorous as his face, with a slight Welsh lilt.

“Just that we’ll keep him updated.”

“I’ll tell him. Are you going to the bonfire next week, sir?”

“What bonfire?”

“Did you not know? We have a village fete every year, rain or shine, the Friday before Halloween—or All Hallows’ Eve, as some folks round here like to call it.”

“There are posters all over town about it, sir,” said Jarral.

“When the chief constable returns, tell him I think we should maintain a sturdy police presence at the fete—assuming we haven’t caught our killer by then.”

“Indeed I will, sir,” Harris replied, turning his attention back to his computer.

When they left the station house, the wind had picked up again and was blowing anything not moored down—leaves, sticks, discarded fish-and-chips wrappers—all whirling around in funnels, like miniature tornadoes. Hemming supposed that accounted for the bad phone reception.

“What’s the weather forecast?” he asked as they climbed into the car.

“Checking, sir,” Jarral replied. He had several weather apps on his phone—not unusual on an island where weather was a national obsession. “Looks dicey, sir,” he said, squinting at the phone. “Winds rising steadily, with gale force expected by tonight.”

As they drove, dry leaves rushing past the car as if in a hurry to be somewhere, Hemming thought about huddling in the ruins on the moor, sharing a thermos of tea with Erin Coleridge, as the leaves scattered around him like lost souls.