A Very British Witch Boxed Set Page 9

  “Good point,” Amanda agreed, liking Karl more by the second.

  “And the fact that Karl didn’t come into work that morning,” Scarlett added.

  “Friday.”

  “The day after the man disappeared. Then I heard him talking to Tarquin.”

  “Who’s that again?”

  “Tarquin Moretti,” Scarlett emphasized.

  “The bookstore guy?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “All right,” said Amanda, gathering up the dirty dishes and taking them into the kitchen. “Go on.”

  Amanda rinsed the dishes in the sink as Scarlett continued, lifting her voice so that she would be heard in the next room. “I didn’t even know those guys were friends.”

  “Sorry, speak up.”

  “Karl and Tarquin!” she shouted, a bit too loudly, fueled by a combustible mix of frustration and alcohol.

  Amanda turned off the water and rejoined her on the sofa. “Got it. You can use your inside voice now.”

  “I didn’t even know they were friends,” Scarlett repeated. “But I overhead them. A few words, at least. He said ‘she’.”

  “Karl?”

  “Tarquin. He asked Karl if ‘she’ suspected anything.”

  “She, meaning you?”

  “I think so. I think they were talking about me, because when they found out I was listening, they both shut up.”

  “That is suspicious,” Amanda agreed.

  “And then there’s the wheelbarrow.”

  “The what?”

  “Tim said that there were tracks at the crime scene.”

  Amanda frowned again. “Where they dug up the body?”

  “Correct.” Scarlett took another sip. “Wheelbarrow tracks. At the scene.”

  “And what does that say?”

  “I don’t know what it says, but I know what Tim said. He said I could have used the wheelbarrow to transport the body.”

  Amanda guffawed. “You?”

  “I didn’t, of course. But what if Karl and Ronnie did?”

  “Ronnie?” Amanda sounded alarmed suddenly, the laughter stopping abruptly. “What do you mean? He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Well,” Scarlett said cautiously, not wanting to lose Amanda’s support, “he has the exact same wheelbarrow as me. Or maybe he has mine. Remember, at the party yesterday? He seemed pretty shifty when I asked him about it.”

  Amanda was sitting up straight now and seemed defensive. “What are you talking about?”

  “The barbeque on Sunday. I saw my wheelbarrow leaning against his shed.”

  Amanda gritted her teeth, then exhaled, as if to calm her impulses. “Scarlett. Listen. I know you’re upset, but that’s my boyfriend you’re talking about.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, but you were there when I talked to him.”

  “Ronnie would never kill anyone.”

  “Neither would I. You said so yourself. But here I am, accused of murder.”

  “I’m not accusing you. And that doesn’t give you the right to go around accusing everyone else of murder.”

  “Not everyone.”

  “Just Ronnie. That’s random. Maybe you just hate him.”

  “No, I–“

  Amanda stood to refill her glass. “You know, so what if he has the same wheelbarrow as you?” Now it was Amanda raising her voice. “I bet a hundred people in the area have the exact same wheelbarrow.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “And from what you’re saying, Karl, Tarquin, and Ronnie are all guilty.”

  “No, I’m not saying that. You’re twisting my words. I’m just–”

  “What? What are you doing Scarlett? Because I know what you’re not doing: making sense.”

  “I’m trying to figure it out in my head.”

  “You’re drunk, girl. That’s what it is.”

  “They’re all acting suspiciously.”

  “You’re drunk, and you need some rest.” Amanda took the vodka bottle and put in back in the cupboard. “I’m going to bed. I’ve got to be up early. See you tomorrow.”

  And with that, Amanda walked out, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

  Scarlett felt tears on her cheek, and wiped them away, annoyed at herself and her roommate and everything. She stood from the sofa and took the vodka back out from the cupboard, and poured herself a small drink. She sat alone at the living room, staring into the shadows.

  +++

  Outside Scarlett’s apartment, Cliff watched it all from the shadows. From across the street he could see through the diaphanous kitchen curtains into the dining room and living room. Cliff had a keen sense of hearing, and he had caught most of the conversation, even from this distance.

  It was clear to him that Scarlett was now suspicious of Karl. True, she was drunk and talking out of her glass, but it was still cause for concern.

  He stepped away from the tree that was hiding him, and walked down the street, alone in the night. Cliff took his phone from the pocket of his jeans and dialed a number he knew by heart.

  When the call went through, the line was silent on the other end.

  “We still have a problem,” he whispered into the phone.

  +++

  Private Lounge, The Bicester Hotel

  Tim continued working on the case, not knowing whether or not the rug would suddenly be pulled out from under him in a jurisdictional dispute with the police chief over in Oxford. That was out of his control now. All he could do was get on with it, nose to the grindstone.

  The stack of photos on the table had grown smaller. He was pinning up on the corkboards hanging from the wall. He had asked the hotel staff to bring in more boards, and they were happy to accommodate him.

  The room he was working in was a small, private hotel lounge. It sported a few armchairs, two sofas, a desk, and a dining table that could be folded out or tucked away as needed. He used the desk, table, and walls as his workspace. The accommodations weren’t luxurious, but they suited him well enough as a base of operations. If necessary, he could bring people in for private interviews.

  During the busy season, the hotel used this room for small parties and business meetings. When things were slow, it was used as miscellaneous storage. When Tim had first taken it over last week, he found a few oddities, like point-of-sale cardboard cutouts sent by the breweries and intended for the hotel’s main bar. He had cleared those out, returning them to the staff so that they wouldn’t need to interrupt his work, or have any excuse to unlock the door without telling him.

  Tim heard a knock at the door.

  “Yes?” he called out, still working on the photos.

  “Room service.”

  He had ordered breakfast half an hour ago.

  “Leave it outside in the hall, please!”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Tim listened to the sound of the tray being set on the carpet. Utensils and dishes rang against each other as the tray jostled. Then he heard the sounds of footsteps and the squeaky wheel of a service cart recede into the distance.

  When it was silent, he opened the door and brought his breakfast tray inside. He had ordered a veggie omelet with toast and coffee. A small fruit salad with cottage cheese sat on a smaller plate.

  The private lounge that he was using had its own coffee station, but not much in the way of food. It had a cabinet with snack food, and he had eaten all the nuts last night, leaving the sweets alone. As a soldier, he prided himself on maintaining his weight and peak conditioning. The investigation cut into his gym time, and in the absence of workouts he needed to take special care with his diet.

  He had done some bodyweight exercises to keep his metabolism up, and to stay alert through the long night. Push-ups, sit-ups, planks, knee bends were all simple enough, and he used two dining chairs for dips. There was no pull-up bar, and he considered ordering one from the hotel service. Not that they’d have one, a small village hotel like this. Instead, he ended up positioning himself under the d
ining table with his hands gripping the edge of the tabletop and did some incline pull-ups. There would be time for his regular workout when the case wound down.

  Which could be any moment now, he mused.

  He was halfway through his breakfast, and on his third cup of coffee, when his phone rang. It was his supervisor again. He set down his fork, washed down his food with a sip of water, and answered it.

  “Tim Clarke here,” he said.

  “I’ve arranged it,” Wing Commander Gregory stated without preamble. It was his style to get quickly to the point.

  “What’s the arrangement?”

  “You’re taking the lead on this one. It’s your case.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “There’s one caveat.”

  Isn’t there always? he thought. “Yes, sir?”

  “When the case is solved, and I’m counting on you to solve it, but when the case is solved, all credit goes to the police department.”

  “I see.”

  Gregory continued. “This is the kind of case that makes or breaks careers.”

  “High profile.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t care about the credit,” Tim said, and it was true enough.

  He did care about what his supervisor thought, and cared even more about his career in the RAF, but whether or not the public at large knew what he was doing didn’t concern him in the least. Tim had spent most of his military career handling classified projects. He could keep a secret and was happy to stay under the radar. Especially on a case like this. If the media got wind of his involvement, there was nothing he could tell them anyway, so it was better not to stick himself out there. Plus, the last thing he wanted was to see his mug on the telly.

  “Glad to hear that,” Gregory said. “That’s the attitude we need.”

  “What made the police chief change his mind?”

  “It’s what you said, basically. They’re understaffed, but they also don’t want a murderer on the loose. That would make things worse and cause all sorts of problems for the department. So they know they can’t afford to mess this one up, and I told the chief that letting us handle things with our resources was the high-percentage play for him.”

  “Low-risk, high reward.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Very smart, sir.”

  “Don’t kiss my ass, Tim. I don’t need it, and it doesn’t come naturally to you.”

  “Duly noted,” Tim answered dryly.

  “I went to bat for you because I know you’re the right man for the job. Maybe the only man for the job. And I didn’t think the credit would mean much to you.”

  “What I care about,” said Tim, “is that a man died.”

  “Yes.”

  “A man who came to us.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line.

  Then Gregory said, “I hope you’re not reading more into this than there is.”

  “You mean,” said Tim, shading his tone with sarcasm, “that he was killed because he knew too much? That he knew what was going on at the base? That he had been tracking down hostiles for the last several years? No… I’m sure it’s entirely coincidental.”

  “Careful, Tim,” his supervisor warned. “This may be a secure line, but you’re talking from a public space.”

  “Don’t worry, sir. I swept the room for bugs before I set up shop.”

  “Of course you did. But take every possible precaution. Don’t do more than you have to, don’t say more than you have to, and for Christ’s sake, get this problem solved.”

  “Yes, sir,” he agreed.

  They both understood the ramifications if the true nature of their classified military operations in the town were ever made public. Most people believed the official story that played out in the press, the cover-up of all the strange happenings in this little village. The average citizen took comfort in consensus reality and didn’t question things more than they needed to. And when something happened that didn’t fit the narrative, well, that’s when men like Tim and Daniel Gregory were needed most.

  Tim knew more than anyone that if the truth ever got out, it would not only shock locals, but the world at large. He was not about to let that happen.

  Not on my watch.

  “With no loose ends,” his supervisor added for emphasis.

  “Understood, sir.”

  Chapter Seven

  Bicester Vintners, Bicester, England

  Scarlett was reading again in the quiet shop. Someone knocked on the glass door. Without looking up, she called out. “It’s open!”

  The door didn’t open.

  Kids, she thought, and kept on reading.

  Another knock. Irritated, she glanced up, surprised to see no one outside.

  She set the book aside and went out to see if she could catch the kids running off. Stepping outside, she saw Cliff standing there, just out of view of the window and the door.

  It startled her.

  “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, catching her breath.

  “Yes, dear,” he said pleasantly, teasing her.

  “Was that you at the door?”

  “It’s me at the door now.”

  “I mean knocking. I heard knocking. We have these obnoxious teenagers who–”

  He was grinning. “Made you look.”

  “Well, you’re a mischievous one, aren’t you?” she said, all aflutter again.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  That was the last thing she wanted to hear. She turned away from him and went back inside, letting the door swing behind her.

  She didn’t hear it shut.

  “Mind if I come in?” he asked.

  Scarlett took her customary place behind the counter.

  “We reserve the right to refuse service to any customer for any reason,” she stated, quoting policy.

  “Fine by me.” He stepped inside, and the door closed behind him. “I’m not a customer.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Oh, just looking.”

  He was standing by the door, just looking at her.

  “Were you searching for anything in particular?” she asked.

  “Found it,” he said, still looking at her.

  “I’m not for sale.”

  “I’m not buying,” he said. “Just looking.”

  She scowled. “Could you possibly be more annoying?”

  “Dunno,” he said, “but I could certainly try.”

  He wandered off down one aisle. She watched him, wondering what in the world he thought he was up to. He pulled out a bottle of merlot from the shelf, studied the label, then tossed the bottle high in the air.

  She heard herself gasp.

  The bottle nearly hit the ceiling, missing by inches, turning end over end.

  He caught it deftly in one hand by the tapered neck, and she saw a second bottle spinning in the air, then a third.

  Cliff walked casually to the counter, juggling three bottles of red wine as if they were bowling pins.

  “What on Earth do you think you’re doing?” she exclaimed, horrified, as though his mere presence wasn’t already stressful.

  He wasn’t even looking at the spinning bottles, but straight at her as he approached. “On Earth, I think I’m juggling.”

  Cliff was grinning now, toying with her, and clearly enjoying himself.

  She wasn’t enjoying it one bit. She didn’t mind the attention, but she hated cleaning up spills. This little stunt of his was a disaster waiting to happen.

  “You break it, you bought it,” she said, quoting policy again.

  “Fair enough,” he said, letting one of the wine bottles drop past his hands.

  She gasped again.

  The bottle flew back up, as if it had bounced back up off the floor.

  Impossible.

  She peered over the counter, to see nothing but his feet on the floor. Somehow he had kicked the bottle back up with one foot.

  Clever trick.


  “Stop that,” she said, trying not to sound impressed.

  “Are you not entertained?”

  He increased the difficulty, tossing one bottle behind his back, another under his leg, and changing up the pattern of rise and fall.

  “No,” she said, and laughed against her will.

  He brought each of the bottles to a soft landing on the countertop in front of her.

  “Then I’ll stop.”

  She scowled at him, playing along now. “Are you going to buy those?”

  “Should I?”

  “After that display,” she said, “they’re probably undrinkable.”

  “Care to put that to the test?” He had a devilish look in his eye now.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have a drink with me.”

  “I’m working,” she answered, meaning to refuse him. “I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

  “Pity,” he remarked. “That’s all I ever do.”

  She rang up his order. “I can’t sell those now, so you’ll have to pay for them.”

  “In kisses?”

  “Cash or credit.”

  “My kisses do me credit,” he said. “Care to check my score?”

  “You’re not going to score tonight.” She tallied the total. “One hundred thirty-seven and twenty-three pence.”

  He showed her his empty hands and turned out his pockets. They were empty, too.

  “Can you pay or not? We don’t take kisses.”

  He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, then prestidigitated a credit card.

  She smiled. “Tricky bastard, aren’t you?”

  “Always.”

  He kissed the card and handed it to her. “One kiss should cover it.”

  She swiped his card. “Let’s see if your card is as good as your game.”

  The charge went through without a hitch, and she handed it back to him with the slip to sign.

  “Do you need a pen,” she asked, “or do have one up your sleeve?”

  “Afraid not.”

  She gave him a pen and he signed. She bagged his purchase and handed it to him.

  “See you tonight then?” he asked.

  “I didn’t agree to that.”

  “But you were going to.”

  She studied him, considering his offer. “Are you always this cocky?”