Deadly Thyme Read Free Page A

foursquare church tower showed well against the verdant green hills. There was a gap in the hedgerow , and the sea view flashed past again, closer this time. Jon observed striations of deep amethyst in the pale gray water.
    His mobile sang out its own beat , and he switched his satellite music over to the phone.
    Superintendent Bakewell ’s voice blasted, “Well, Jon, hope you’re getting on with that little trip to the south. How’s the weather?”
    “I haven ’t actually arrived. The sky is only partly cloudy this morning. Maybe it’ll clear before long. You’re up early, sir.”
    “What is your scheme of action for today?”
    “I’ll settle in and get the lay of the land. Then tomorrow when the shops and local savings and loan are open—”
    “Hold on. You don ’t have tomorrow, you have today.”
    “Are you seriously telling me I have one day in Cornwall?”
    “Your man should have all the particulars in order for you. You’re to be done and dusted by day’s end and back in London by tomorrow. See you then.”
    “Super, the officer assigned to this nearly died.” Nothing ’s as dangerous as a half-cooked micro-dish of fish.
    No reply.
    “Sir?”
    Jon was listening to phone air, so he disconnected. “One day here? He ’s daft as a brush . ”
    It was a distasteful mess when one got right down to it, having a DCI involved in scandal —with the officer’s savings account suddenly filled with riches (and with no explanation, according to the anonymous bank official’s complaint). Direct questions would create more problems, the Higher Powers decided. So for the general morale of the police force, the investigation would be kept low-key. And because broadcasting such an investigation would alert the DCI, and he would likely find a way to hide the money.
    Jon had one day to play catch -up and come to a conclusion. But he intended to stay until the job was complete, so Bakewell and his “one day command” could jolly-well stuff it.
    He reached to switch to the radio again. Being Sunday, not many people would be out and about. His assignment demanded he act as any other tourist, and that meant getting in and out without anyone taking much notice.
    Just as his Mini swung into a blind curve, a dark blur of a car shot out straight at him.
    In the second before Jon swerved and rammed his car up against the hedgerow, he heard the ear-splitting squeal of two vehicles make paint-scraping contact. The car sashayed as the tires slid across a muddy verge. It stopped short and sudden. Earth ’s longest minute was over, and then silence. He took that first, deep breath, and another breath, remembering then that it was okay to unclench his fists from the steering wheel. He set the handbrake and switched off the motor.
    And then he thought with regret, So much for a quiet entrance into the village.
     

     
    8:00 a.m.
     
    Shit!
    Charles rammed his car forward to get away from the car he ’d just sideswiped. It would take some time for the other car to shift round and come after him. The grumming hum of his car assured him that the car could carry him away. If it would only go faster.
    Some miles later, he zigged left into a narrow lane and rolled to a stop in a dip of land behind some trees to wait. The adrenaline rush subsided , but the pain in his stomach remained. What next? This girl, this bold chit of a girl, had stood up to him, challenged him, like the others. His gut burned when he thought about the others. He’d naught to do but implement damage control. Unless—unless he could talk her into helping him.
    He tugged on the rearview mirror. Blood dripped where he had bitten his lip through. What else? He imagined his wide eyes were those of a stranger caught in headlights before the car’s wheels thumped over him. He must calm down.
    He exited the car and opened the boot, reaching in for the girl, holding his breath so he wouldn ’t have to smell her. Still as death, yet a pulse. Why did this have to