Read Online Tyack & Frayne Mysteries 01 - Once Upon A Haunted Moor by Harper Fox - Free Book Online
Authors: Harper Fox
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thoroughfares in this part of the village. That meant he’d ducked out somewhere, over the hedge or into someone’s house. Or perhaps, by a stretch of the imagination Gideon could no longer make, he’d just nipped out of Sarah’s to pick up a paper and was back there now, finishing his tea.
The idea was so appealing that Gideon turned and began to retrace his steps. He had to at least check.
His route took him down the alley behind Bill Prowse’s street. The rain was thickening to fog now, precursor of a proper Bodmin blanket if the weather stayed calm. The climate here was so mild that late roses were drooping from trellises in some of the gardens and back yards. Uneasily Gideon thought of boats cutting the water, of windows and badly spelled wheels. That was a hell of a way for Lee to do business, wasn’t it, forming such vague symbols into places and names – and both of them wrong, so far as Gideon could make out. Yet the Truro people had said Lee was very good, that he’d given solid leads in cases like this...
It occurred to Gideon that in both cases he had himself provided the words to Lee’s pictures. Wheal Catherine, Prowse. Gideon had begun to hope that he’d been helping Lee’s intuitive processes along. Maybe he’d just misguided him, brought him down to earth too soon.
Prowse . Gideon sighed. No roses in that garden. Unlike his neighbours with their autumn chrysanthemums and lavender, Bill seemed to take pride in making his little yard garden as much of a wasteland as possible. The lawn was long dead, the patio slimy with moss. No roses at all, not even blue and green ones, which now Gideon came to think about it were weird colours for a rose, unless...
He took a couple of steps back and looked up. Unless they were wallpaper roses, clearly visible through an upstairs window. Faded but lurid still, the ki nd of thing a child would register, in a bedroom easily accessed via a wall and the sun-porch roof. The monster in the garden. The monster sees the window – sees the roses, blue and green...
For the first time in his career, Gideon entered a house unannounced. There’d never been any need: even Ross Jones would politely answer his knock and offer tea before Gideon busted him yet again for his dope crop. This time he grabbed the sun-porch door, shoved it open so hard that it bounced off the inside wall, and strode in.
Bill Prowse, his missus and two of their kids were foregathered in the living room. They all jumped violently at Gideon’s entrance. They looked guilty as hell, but that didn’t mean much – with the Prowses, either they’d just stopped doing something underhand or were just about to start. Even the toddler looked shifty. “Right, Bill,” Gideon said, planting himself between the family and the blaring TV. “I know I’ve already asked you about the night Lorna Kemp disappeared. But I want you to tell me again – right now.”
Bill just gaped at him. He was a huge man, once strong but now run to fat on a diet of pasties and chips. He spent most of his days where he was now, sprawled in front of the TV. Mrs P, the sole family breadwinner, stepped in as usual. “Will’m!” she barked, shooting out a hard hand to crack her husband on the ear. “You heard him! Switch that damn TV off and tell him what he wants to know.”
“I’ve already told ’un,” Bill said sullenly, obeying as far as hitting the mute button on his remote. “I were here all night, right in this chair. I watched ’Stenders, Holby City, Nick Knowles on the DIY – ”
“Right,” Gideon interrupted him. “Nick Knowles can’t give you an alibi, can he?” Bill had gone through this before. Now his list of his evening’s viewing sounded odd to Gideon, a bit too carefully rehearsed. “Mrs Prowse, you were at your sister’s?”
“That’s right. I left him here to watch the kids.”
The kids. The little one had glazed over without the TV’s stimulus, but Darren, Bill’s eldest, and at 12
The idea was so appealing that Gideon turned and began to retrace his steps. He had to at least check.
His route took him down the alley behind Bill Prowse’s street. The rain was thickening to fog now, precursor of a proper Bodmin blanket if the weather stayed calm. The climate here was so mild that late roses were drooping from trellises in some of the gardens and back yards. Uneasily Gideon thought of boats cutting the water, of windows and badly spelled wheels. That was a hell of a way for Lee to do business, wasn’t it, forming such vague symbols into places and names – and both of them wrong, so far as Gideon could make out. Yet the Truro people had said Lee was very good, that he’d given solid leads in cases like this...
It occurred to Gideon that in both cases he had himself provided the words to Lee’s pictures. Wheal Catherine, Prowse. Gideon had begun to hope that he’d been helping Lee’s intuitive processes along. Maybe he’d just misguided him, brought him down to earth too soon.
Prowse . Gideon sighed. No roses in that garden. Unlike his neighbours with their autumn chrysanthemums and lavender, Bill seemed to take pride in making his little yard garden as much of a wasteland as possible. The lawn was long dead, the patio slimy with moss. No roses at all, not even blue and green ones, which now Gideon came to think about it were weird colours for a rose, unless...
He took a couple of steps back and looked up. Unless they were wallpaper roses, clearly visible through an upstairs window. Faded but lurid still, the ki nd of thing a child would register, in a bedroom easily accessed via a wall and the sun-porch roof. The monster in the garden. The monster sees the window – sees the roses, blue and green...
For the first time in his career, Gideon entered a house unannounced. There’d never been any need: even Ross Jones would politely answer his knock and offer tea before Gideon busted him yet again for his dope crop. This time he grabbed the sun-porch door, shoved it open so hard that it bounced off the inside wall, and strode in.
Bill Prowse, his missus and two of their kids were foregathered in the living room. They all jumped violently at Gideon’s entrance. They looked guilty as hell, but that didn’t mean much – with the Prowses, either they’d just stopped doing something underhand or were just about to start. Even the toddler looked shifty. “Right, Bill,” Gideon said, planting himself between the family and the blaring TV. “I know I’ve already asked you about the night Lorna Kemp disappeared. But I want you to tell me again – right now.”
Bill just gaped at him. He was a huge man, once strong but now run to fat on a diet of pasties and chips. He spent most of his days where he was now, sprawled in front of the TV. Mrs P, the sole family breadwinner, stepped in as usual. “Will’m!” she barked, shooting out a hard hand to crack her husband on the ear. “You heard him! Switch that damn TV off and tell him what he wants to know.”
“I’ve already told ’un,” Bill said sullenly, obeying as far as hitting the mute button on his remote. “I were here all night, right in this chair. I watched ’Stenders, Holby City, Nick Knowles on the DIY – ”
“Right,” Gideon interrupted him. “Nick Knowles can’t give you an alibi, can he?” Bill had gone through this before. Now his list of his evening’s viewing sounded odd to Gideon, a bit too carefully rehearsed. “Mrs Prowse, you were at your sister’s?”
“That’s right. I left him here to watch the kids.”
The kids. The little one had glazed over without the TV’s stimulus, but Darren, Bill’s eldest, and at 12
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