Holly escaped back to her flat for a couple of hours. Once inside she shut the door and double-locked it, stood with her back against it and took a deep breath. Felt her pulse slow and her mind calm. She tried to work out what was happening to her. She’d never reacted this way to a case before. Usually she was the last person standing. Physically fit and mentally alert. Competitive. She could distance herself from the violence and grief she encountered. She’d trained herself not to get emotionally involved, to the point where her colleagues thought her heartless. Now she only felt clean and safe in her own home. Outside there was death and decay. And even here she realized she was haunted by a fear of dying. The image of the elderly woman with the smeared lipstick and rag doll, whom she’d seen on the Kimmerston pavement, stalked through her dreams. The brief moment of triumph that had come when she’d found the Hewarth boy’s name on the moth enthusiasts’ website had faded long ago.
She moved into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. Saw a mark on the worktop, got out the disinfectant and wiped it off. Opening the fridge to get milk, she saw a bottle of wine, was overcome by the temptation to undo the screw top and pour a large glass. Perhaps that would dull the anxiety, help her through the rest of the shift. She reached out for it, felt the icy bottle on her fingers and then changed her mind. Not even Vera Stanhope drank in the afternoon when she was on duty. With a flash of insight Holly thought pride might be her enemy, but it was also her saviour.
She took her tea into the living room. The rain had blown over and there were sudden bursts of sunshine. Outside all the colours seemed very sharp, as in a child’s painting. In the cemetery a young family was laying flowers on an old grave. The wind pulled at their hair and clothes as they walked back towards the road.
She tried to unpick the strands of her anxiety. What had happened during the day to send her rushing back to the safety of the flat? She was tired of course, but she’d learned to cope with exhaustion. She thought the news of Lorraine Lucas’s cancer had thrown her. Of all the residents in Valley Farm, Lorraine had seemed most alive.
Perhaps I’m having a kind of mental breakdown. Or a religious experience. Holly’s parents were religious. C of E, but on the evangelical side of the church. Hands in the air swaying and inspirational preaching. They’d been disappointed when Holly had shown no interest, but philosophical. ‘You might come back to it, darling. We’ll pray for you.’ Holly had made a comment to Joe once about the problems of being an atheist in a family of believers. He hadn’t said much and she’d wondered if he was a believer too.
Her phone rang. She was tempted to ignore it, but it was Vera.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’ve just called in at home to collect a few things.’
‘Only I’ve got something that needs digging into and you’re the best person to look into it.’
Vera was waiting for her in the station. By now it was evening and the big, open-plan office was nearly empty. Discarded Coke and Red Bull tins showed how the team had kept going through the day. Only Vera seemed to have the energy to carry on thinking straight.
‘I hadn’t realized how late it was – I sent most of them away a while ago, and Joe’s just sloped off. His missus calling in the three-line whip. He lets her get away with murder. Are you okay to have a go at this? We can leave it until tomorrow if you like.’
Holly shook her head. ‘I can make a start.’
‘No hot date then?’
Holly was surprised. Vera didn’t ever ask about her personal life. ‘No hot date.’
They sat in Vera’s office, and Vera told her about the relationship between Jason Crow and Lizzie Redhead. ‘Something about the woman has got under his skin. Something weird.’
‘I don’t suppose he’s obsessed with moths? Has a trap at the end of the garden?’
Holly had meant the question as a joke, but Vera took it seriously. ‘Well, that’s a thought. I forgot to ask. Something else to look into. But he’s more obsessed by the woman, I think. She’s got him trapped all right.’ Then Vera came out with a list of instructions, sharp and detailed. One after the other, so that Holly, making notes, struggled to keep up with her.
Later Vera came out of her glass fishbowl to chat. ‘I’ve had Lorna Dawson’s report. There are traces of soil in the wound to Randle’s head, so it seems Peter MacBride’s right about the murder weapon there. Must have been a spade. But it doesn’t match the sample taken from the vegetable garden close to the locus. It’s richer, and it contains animal matter.’
‘What kind of animal matter?’
‘Chicken shit.’ Vera paused. ‘And we know the O’Kanes keep hens. It looks as if we’ll have to go back to Valley Farm. Not tonight, though. Tonight we’re both going home.
‘I think I’ve found some interesting details.’ Holly tried to keep the excitement from her voice. She never knew how Vera would react to pieces of information. Sometimes stuff that Holly thought new to the case, Vera had already filed away in her giant brain. ‘I’ve been digging into the past of all the suspects and come up with some connections.’ She turned the computer screen so that Vera could see.