Foxglove Summer Read online

  ‘God, you’re beautiful,’ she said, and gave me a boozy kiss – on the lips thankfully, with no tongue. ‘I’d kiss Dominic as well,’ she said without slackening her grip. ‘But I don’t know how he’d take it.’

  I felt a shudder run through her back and she buried her face in my shoulder. I held her tight for a minute while she shook and then abruptly she pushed me gently back and held me at arm’s length. There were tear tracks down her cheeks, but she was smiling.

  ‘We need to get you properly drunk,’ she said.

  ‘Where’s Hannah?’ I asked.

  ‘Over there somewhere,’ she said. ‘With her cousins.’

  ‘What about Nicole?’

  ‘Still at the hospital, poor thing – running a fever,’ said Joanne, and there was definitely a touch of smugness when she told me that Hannah had come out of the experience much better than her friend. She then dragged me off by the arm in search of some alcohol – a manoeuvre that degenerated into a rough spiral movement which probably would have ended in us tripping over a table if Beverley hadn’t interrupted and presented us with a couple of bottles of her bootlegged scrumpy.

  Beverley casually put her hand on my shoulder and left it there.

  Joanne looked her up and down and gave me a grin.

  ‘Oh, you’re a lucky boy,’ she said. ‘You want to make sure you enjoy it while you can – and whatever you do, don’t let anyone, ever, tell you who you can fuck.’ And with that she lurched off back into the crowd.

  ‘Hail the conquering hero,’ said Beverley and held up her bottle to clink.

  ‘Sic transit Gloria mundi,’ I said, because it was the first thing that came into my head – we clinked and drank. It could have been worse. I could have said Valar Morghulis instead.

  Beverley took my hand. ‘Let’s see what the local food is like,’ she said.

  It turned out to involve a surprisingly large amount of pasta salad. While we were heaping our paper plates I saw a bunch of kids loitering under a canvas sunscreen by the parish hall and recognised one as Hannah. I did a quick scan and swiftly located Andy Marstowe, who wasn’t hovering but was definitely maintaining line of sight.

  I would have liked to have a quick word. But interviewing a key witness, never mind a child, without going through the SIO would have been a disciplinary offence – not to mention a serious breach of etiquette.

  Beverley decided, once we’d eaten, that we needed something to sit on. So we slipped into the dark resin-scented interior of the hall to see what we could scrounge up. The overlapping OS maps were still pinned to the cork notice board, with the last set of search areas still drawn in with chinagraph pencils on the plastic covering. I traced the route we’d taken from the Whiteway Head down to the River Lugg where Beverley had done her Arwen impression. Pokehouse Wood had been searched, so had School Wood – especially near where Stan’s stash had gone missing. And so had the ancient Iron Age fort of Croft Ambrey. The big question was, where had the girls been hidden for seven days? Looking at the map, I reckoned that Edmondson and DCI Windrow would be looking north of the ridge. I tapped the spot where, despite not being marked, I knew the Bee House was – they’d pretty much overlooked the whole area.

  Another visit might be in order. And if I could prise a little bit more history out of Hugh, so much the better.

  Beverley called my name, and I turned to find her trying to pull a stack of folding chairs out from underneath a shelf. She’d had to bend over to get a grip and I watched the play of muscle under the skin of her bare back until she snarled at me to stop mucking about and give her a hand.

  We carried the chairs outside where all but two were cheerfully taken off our hands and distributed amongst the needy, the infirm, and the somewhat sloshed.

  Just after five, Dominic and Victor turned up with a freshly dead sheep in the back of the Nissan Technical. I thought for a mad second that this was part of the case, but Andy and a couple of other men grabbed hold of it and manhandled it up the far end of the party field. After twenty minutes of discussion, the knives and skewers came out and I made sure I was about as far from the butchery as I could get. Dominic joined me.

  ‘It’s a country thing,’ he said. ‘They’re all desperate to prove that they’re not a bunch of soft townies.’

  ‘You’re not going to help Victor, then?’

  ‘I worked six months on a pig farm,’ said Dominic. ‘I have nothing to prove – trust me.’

  It can take a surprisingly long time to roast a sheep, especially when you have too many cooks. But, by seven thirty, authentically greasy chunks of mutton were being distributed along with a choice between stone ground wholemeal bread or Morrisons’ best buy plastic white. I took the wholemeal and the last dollop of English mustard scraped from its jar.

  By that time someone had turned up an amp and a deck from somewhere and we were treated to ten repetitions of Robin Thicke’s ‘Blurred Lines’, because it was Hannah’s current fave, before she was bundled off to bed by her father, her mother having gone to sleep in a folding chair with a bottle of beer in one hand and a contented smile on her face.

  As it grew darker and the air began to cool, the focus of the party tightened around the bonfire, bottles of spirits made their appearance and I was handed a plastic cup with a quadruple measure of Bacardi which Beverley confiscated and handed on to someone else.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said, and drew me away from the fire. ‘I’ve got other plans for you.’

  When she steered me out the front and down the lane towards the cowshed I reckoned my luck was in – which just goes to show that Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle affects everything, including my love life. Instead of bed we ended up in the Asbo, Beverley driving, and heading into the evening.

  Maybe she doesn’t like the cowshed, I thought.

  Less than fifteen minutes later we turned into the car park at the Riverside Inn, which would have suited me fine. Only, instead of going inside, Beverley dragged me down to the edge of the river. There she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me – hard. I felt her breasts push against my chest and behind them her heart beating with a frightening urgency.

  She let go with one arm long enough to untie her halter and then guide my hand into the waistband of her skirt. I pushed it down slowly, letting my palm slide inside her knickers and down the smooth skin of her thighs. Her fingers fought with the belt and the buttons on my jeans and I nearly lost my balance when she grabbed hold of me and gave me a couple of experimental tugs.

  I was acutely aware that we were less than five metres from a busy gastro-pub but unless the patrons came out with searchlights and dogs there was no way I was stopping on their account.

  We reached the inevitable stage where at least one of you has to do something undignified to get all the way undressed. Beverley let go of me and stepped out of her skirt – laughing as I scraped off my shoes and hopped around getting my jeans off over my feet. My socks stayed on – they always bloody do. At least I got my shirt off without losing any buttons.

  It was while I was bending over to pull my socks off that I realised what was coming next. I looked at the river and noticed then that the water was climbing up the wooden slats that lined the embankment, half drowning the bushes that had been planted along the river’s edge.

  Beverley slipped her arms around my waist and buried her face in my shoulder, the whole exquisite length of her pressed against me.

  ‘It’s going to be freezing,’ I said.

  ‘Not while you’re with me,’ she said.

  I thought of the three sisters of the Teme.

  ‘Aren’t we sort of trespassing?’ I asked.

  ‘Nah. There’s nobody home,’ she said. ‘At least nobody who’s got an opinion about it.’

  It was about then that I probably should have become really suspicious. But, looking back, had you told me then what I found out later I would have carried on regardless.

  Letting go of me, Beverley stepped down into the wate
r without hesitation or even worrying about her footing. The river foamed around her ankles, visibly rising as I watched, to cover her calves and then her knees. When she reached the middle of the river she turned back to face me. She was black and silver in the moonlight, a woman made of shadows and curves. Her eyes were hidden but her smile was a pale crescent.

  ‘Aren’t you going to join me?’ she asked.

  ‘What are you planning to do?’

  She put her hands on her hips.

  ‘What do you think we’re going to do?’

  Still I hesitated.

  ‘You know you can pose on the beach all you like, Peter,’ she said. ‘But sooner or later you’re going to have to get wet.’

  So, because one of us had to be practical, I scooped up our clothes and dumped them in the back of the Asbo. Then hid the keys under the leg of one of the picnic tables. By the time I was ready, the water was roiling around her thighs.

  ‘Get a move on,’ she called. ‘Or we’ll miss the surge.’

  Oh, the surge, I thought, the rainstorm over the Brecon Beacons that was nothing to do with her.

  Sometimes it’s you . . . Sometimes it’s exceptionally heavy rainfall in your catchment area, she’d said. It can be tricky telling the two apart.

  I cautiously stepped into the water – it was freezing and the footing was uncertain. I carefully felt my way towards the middle where Beverley waited, one hand outstretched towards me. She was still wearing her bracelets.

  By the time I reached her, my legs were so numb with the cold that when she touched me her hands felt hot and feverish against my skin. She kissed me again and this time I kissed her back.

  Then she leaned back, drawing me down onto the water that was supporting us in such an unnatural way that Archimedes would have given up natural philosophy and retired to the country to become an olive farmer.

  I felt it suddenly – the storm surge at my back – there was nothing of people about it, nothing human, it was the smell of morning rain and the gritty touch and scrape of red sandstone. It was the laughing roar of water as it cuts its way through the bones of the earth.

  Beverley locked her legs around mine in the darkness.

  ‘Trust me,’ she whispered, and drew me down into the water.

  10

  Intelligence Led

  I ended up floating in the sunlight. Beverley was asleep with her head on my shoulder and one leg cocked possessively over my groin. I yawned and wondered where we were – we’d definitely gone with the flow the night before – but I was careful not to wake Beverley, not least because we were still doing that weird buoyancy thing and I wasn’t in a hurry to start sinking.

  Straight up was blue sky and the dark leafy ends of overhanging branches. If I twisted my head I could see the arches and piers of a bridge that we must have just passed under. Occasionally a vehicle crossed in a flash of metallic reflection and engine noise.

  My memories of the night before were already coming apart in my mind. I definitely remembered grabbing some serious air while going over a weir, Beverley’s legs locked around my waist, her hips grinding into mine, whooping as her dreadlocks whipped around our heads and we twisted like a dolphin in the moonlight before crashing back down into the drainage basin and slowly sank beneath the surface.

  I was sure that that had really happened, but it faded even as I grabbed at it.

  I tightened my grip on Beverley – who was definitely real – and basked in the warm afterglow of someone who’s just had their brains banged out by the partner of their choice.

  It couldn’t last. And soon I felt my shoulders scrape along a gravel bank. We pivoted around in the current and beached where the bank had eroded into an alcove. Beverley sighed and rolled herself on top of me, arching her back to look around.

  ‘Where are we?’ she asked.

  ‘Somewhere downstream,’ I said, and took the opportunity to cop a feel.

  Beverley twisted around until she could see the bridge.

  ‘Oh,’ she said in a surprised tone. ‘I thought we’d go further.’

  ‘Where are we, then?’

  ‘Just past Leominster,’ she said, and twisted back to look down at me, her dreadlocks hanging down and dripping water on my face and chest. ‘Eight or nine miles,’ she said and kissed me. I was firming up nicely again and I would have been happy to see if we couldn’t add a couple of kilometres to the total – or maybe just shag where we were, I was easy – but Beverley broke off with a sigh.

  ‘I think we’d better get our clothes back,’ she said, and stood up.

  As soon as we lost skin contact the water around me turned cold as ice. I leapt to my feet screaming, and stared at Beverley who stood glistening, naked and unconcerned on the bank.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘Give me some warning next time.’

  ‘Woke you up, though, didn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘How are we going to get back to the car?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Beverley as she climbed up the bank ahead of me. ‘I know where we can get some help.’

  For a moment I was too lost in admiration to speak, but by the time I’d joined her at the top I’d recovered enough to ask her how far the help was. All I could see was clumps of trees and the metalled track that led up to the main road.

  ‘That’s the A44,’ said Beverley, pointing to the road. ‘Down there and to the left.’

  ‘Just a quick stroll down the road,’ I said.

  ‘Ten minutes tops,’ said Beverley.

  ‘Stark bollock naked?’ I asked.

  ‘If you like, you can stay here while I fetch our stuff,’ said Beverley.

  Across the road there was a rather tasty regency cottage with cream walls and a red tiled roof.

  ‘Should we just ask them?’

  ‘Come on, come on,’ said Beverley and pointed. ‘Civilisation is that way.’

  Despite the fact that it couldn’t have been much more than six o’clock in the morning, the sun was hot enough to quickly dry the water off our skin. Fortunately, out in the countryside pavements hadn’t been invented yet. So at least we were walking on grass.

  ‘After you,’ I said.

  ‘No, no,’ said Beverley. ‘It’s only proper that the woman walks two paces behind her man.’

  I set out down the verge, gingerly watching where I stepped.

  Beverley said something I couldn’t make out.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Beverley. Then, ‘Have you been doing a bit of training recently?’

  I squared my shoulders – I couldn’t help myself.

  As we walked away from the bridge a middle-aged white man came out of the cottage and was climbing into his car when he stopped and did an actual double-take when he saw us.

  ‘Morning,’ called Beverley.

  ‘Morning,’ said the man and then, noticing me, nodded. ‘Nice day for a walk.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Beverley.

  Unlike Beverley, you can see when I’m blushing, although the worst bit for me was when we reached the roundabout and the morning traffic picked up.

  I tried to remember which offences you got prosecuted under. I was pretty safe from the Sexual Offences Act (2003), because the test for that is whether your intention is to provoke distress, alarm or outrage. Same with the Public Order Act (1986), because I was not intentionally looking to distress, harm or harass anyone – quite the contrary. Now, if I was a total bastard of a police officer I could probably get me on ‘outraging public decency’ and, judging by the erratic behaviour of some of the oncoming traffic, causing a breach of the peace.

  ‘There it is,’ said Beverley from behind me. ‘To your left.’

  I looked and saw, through the trees that marked the start of the next field along, a scatter of angular shapes and bright colours. It was Travellers of some kind, and when I spotted the signpost to the Leominster Enterprise Park I finally got myself orientated and realised that this was the fairground I’
d seen from the terrace of Leominster nick.

  I picked up the pace – I wanted a pair of trousers before some passing motorist put us both on YouTube.

  There’s no such thing as a single fun fair. The different rides are owned and operated by different families, each of who chooses which pitch they’re heading for next. Each of the families decorate their rides and vehicles with a different livery, each has its own reputation and own history – some dating back centuries, some who drifted into the life during the last recession and never left. They say that if you’re in the know you can walk into a fair and work out who’s there by checking the colours. Unfortunately, I’m not in the know. But Nightingale had told me that a few of the families are part of the great informal mesh of agreements that link horse fair to showground to winter camp to the old ways and byways of medieval Europe.

  This looked more like a staging area than an operating fair. I made mental note of the names, Wilson, Carter, Spangoli, Reginald. There were a lot of late Victorian steam rides aimed at the nostalgia market and a couple of genuine steam road locomotives. The nearest was a huge beast of black iron painted crimson and forest green – the name Faerie Queen emblazoned on the side of its canopy.

  A middle-aged white woman in an Afghan coat jumped down from the Faerie Queen’s footplate and looked me up and down.

  ‘Cor,’ she said. ‘I bet you don’t get many of those for a fiver.’

  Beverley stepped up to my side and smiled at the woman, who responded with a look of wary recognition.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Beverley. ‘We’re looking for a bit of assistance.’

  The woman nodded. ‘We were told you might turn up,’ she said.

  Who by? I wondered.

  And assistance we got – in abundance. Beverley was ushered off to one caravan while I was taken off to a modern Sterling Eccles by a guy called Ken, who for all he was wearing his hair in a ponytail might as well have had ex-Para written across his forehead. Inside he found some cast-offs that would fit me and made tea while I put them on. Ken worked the steam yachts in the summer but migrated to Ibiza in the winter where he had a job as a bouncer.