Chapter Nine
Langham’s dinner was going down a treat. Steak and chips with peas and half a grilled tomato on the side. “Did you notice anything about that woman?”
“Which one, the waitress?” Oliver drew his eyebrows together. “Nope. She looked like any other young girl to me. Why?” He speared a chip with his fork then stuck it in his mouth.
“Not her. She was fine. I meant the old woman in The Running Hare.”
Oliver swallowed. “I sensed something about her the minute she appeared from that doorway in the bar—you know, the first time we saw her.”
Langham cut into his steak. Pink juices seeped out onto his plate. “She was angry, possibly hurt that we were leaving. What did you sense about her?”
“I got the idea she’d been up to something. Like she’d been doing something before we’d turned up. Her face was red, if you remember, and it looked like her hair was greasy, but thinking about it now, it could just have been wet. When we went back to get our bags, her hair was dry, clean.”
“Hmm. So what are you suggesting?”
“I don’t know. She could have been washing her hair in the kitchen when we got there—assuming that was a kitchen she’d come out of. Maybe she was flustered at seeing us, hence the red face. And she said she’d forgotten we were coming, remember? Old people get like that. Forgetful. But she definitely dried her hair while we were gone.”
Langham nodded. Remembered her chest. The spots.
Oliver went on, “So why did you want to know whether I noticed anything about her?”
“She had dots of blood on her chest, and it’s bothered me ever since I saw them. I didn’t see them when we got the keys off her, but in our room, she lifted her hand to her neck, and it drew my attention. Coupled with what you’ve just said, about her seeming to have been up to something…” He shook his head. “A copper’s crap. Ignore me.”
Oliver gave his dinner his full attention. Langham ate the last piece of his steak. Oliver stared through the restaurant window, down the street in the direction of the cottage with the high hedge. Langham resisted turning around to see what was going on. He’d uphold his side of the bargain and pretend nothing untoward had happened there. And if Oliver hadn’t told him someone was dead, he wouldn’t know exactly what had occurred anyway, just that a policeman had visited the premises.
“The old dear in that cottage,” Oliver said. “She’s pressing me. It hurts to deny her.”
Shit.
“Hurting how?” Langham asked.
“Making me feel bad. She needs my help—our help—and knows I’m preventing her from speaking to me. She doesn’t understand why, I can feel it.” He jerked his head at the window. “There’s a copper coming over here. Fairbrother might have told him you’re in the village.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Although he’d wanted to help, had felt he needed to, now that an officer might well be coming over here to ask him, it bugged him. It was different, wasn’t it, offering help as opposed to being asked or told to. “He might not be coming over here for that at all. Fairbrother thinks we’re staying at that bloody pub, and I haven’t told him otherwise. Haven’t looked at my phone since I texted him. So eat your dinner, ignore the spirit.”
Oliver continued to stare down the road.
“And,” Langham said, “giving her cottage your attention isn’t going to help, is it? A tether, that’s what you’re making it, something that links you to her. Stop looking, stop giving her something to grab on to.”
“But she’s found me anyway. Makes no difference what I look at now. I just need to concentrate on keeping her out.”
Langham let air out slowly. “Fair enough.” He ate some chips then cut his tomato up. The seeds oozed and settled on his plate like snot. His stomach churned, and he pushed his plate away, no longer hungry.
A scream rent the air. Langham jumped up and took stock of the dining room. The large group of diners had left. A married couple were eating on the opposite side, darting their heads back and forth between him and the dining room door. Langham glanced at Oliver apologetically and rushed towards where the scream had come from—somewhere out in reception. He burst through the doorway, met with the scene of the blonde receptionist crumpled in a police officer’s arms, her legs bent at the knees as though they’d given way, the officer clearly struggling to hold her up.
“Here, let me help.” Langham strode across the foyer and took the woman into his arms. “I’m a detective, by the way,” he said to the officer. “I’ll show you my ID in a second. Let’s just get this lady settled.” To her, he said, “Is there a back room, love? Somewhere I can take you?”
She nodded, her cheek rasping on his shirt. “The d-door behind the d-desk.”
He jerked his head at the officer and led the way to the room. It held a sofa against the back wall, a coffee table in front of it, a few magazines scattered on top. Langham lowered her to the sofa and sat beside her, keeping one arm around her back. Whatever had her screaming had shocked the life out of her. She’d gone pale and looked like she could barely think straight.
“What’s happened?” Langham stared up at the officer while fishing in his pocket for his ID. He showed it, then, when the man seemed satisfied, tucked it away. “Is this to do with what’s going on over the road?”
“The young lady here is related to the deceased at the address I’ve just come from.
