BURY ME DEEP an utterly gripping crime thriller with an epic twist (Detective Rozlyn Priest Book 1) JANE ADAMS (fox in socks read aloud TXT) 📖

Rozlyn left, Foulks’s name on her reserve list should she be unsuccessful elsewhere, but if the housekeeper was to be believed, the man hadn’t even been in the county for the past six weeks. It was always possible, of course, that a theft and murder had taken place on his property and that the housekeeper had merely tidied up after it, so as not to inconvenience her employer . . . somehow, Rozlyn couldn’t see it.

Besides, she had the feeling that Ethan Merrill fancied Mark Richards for ownership of the spear and, having nothing to contradict that, Rozlyn was prepared to give that notion its head.

She was within a half mile of Richards’ place when Jenny called her on the mobile. Irritated at having forgotten, she groped about on the passenger seat for her headset, her attempts to position it almost landing her in the hedge as the car swerved on the narrow road. She was still cursing and muttering as she pressed the button to take the call.

“You OK?” Jenny asked. “You sound out of breath.”

“Yes, I’m fine. What’ve you got for me?”

“Well, I found the old man. Mr Bishopson.”

“And?”

“He’s in a home over on Westbury Close. The Larks, they call the place. Local authority, but it seems nice enough. Old Mr Bishopson won’t be much help to us, I’m afraid.”

“Why’s that then?”

“Gone gaga,” Jenny told her. Rozlyn winced. “Senile dementia. Tends to wander off if they don’t watch him. That’s how Charlie got to know him, apparently. The old boy’d got out one day and Charlie Higgins found him wandering, brought him back. He’s been visiting about once a week ever since. Brings little bits in for him; apparently the old man likes chocolate and lemonade and he’s no family to provide the extras.”

Extras. Chocolate and lemonade. Rozlyn shook her head at how pathetic that sounded, thinking about the extras she had provided for her grandfather; wondering if he actually noticed them anyway. “OK, so what about the cleaning lady. Any joy on that front?”

“Um, sort of. You were right, she’s not from social services. They knew nothing about her. They remembered Mrs C, though. The home help they appointed refused to go back after the first couple of months. They sent another and she lasted a week.”

“Don’t tell me, she kept them in the hall?”

“At first. Yes. Then when they got into the flat, she stood over them and nagged. Nothing was right. She managed to reduce the first one to tears three times before she finally threw in the towel and the second just decided she wasn’t going to be . . . what was it . . . oh yes, treated like a skivvy.”

“Rings sort of true, from what I’ve seen of Mrs C,” Rozlyn mused. “Did they remember Charlie?”

“Um, yes. Said he came around to discuss things after the second home help struck out. He tried to persuade them to try again, but, no go. The woman I spoke to . . . Mrs Marriot, one of the supervisors, she said what a nice man Charlie was and she was sorry they couldn’t help. That was three, nearly four months ago.”

“So, this Clara Buranou?”

“Was definitely someone Charlie found.”

“You have an address?”

“Not on the electoral register, so, like you said, I had to knock on a few doors. I found her eventually. Mrs C was right, she’s in a bedsit on Mortimer Street but there was no one home when I called.”

Mortimer, Rozlyn thought. A mile, maybe, from the Queen’s. Close to the University and, until the Uni had instituted its latest building program, known for its cheap student lets. “Well, I think we’ll have another go later.” She was pulling up outside Mark Richards’ place. Estate, she thought. That was probably the word for it, rather than mere house, or even residence. “Thanks, Jenny,” Rozlyn said. “I’ll get back to you on Clara Buranou.” She signed off, tucked the phone into her pocket and removed the headset then sat for a moment surveying Mark Richards’ domain.

High walls surrounded what must be a substantial chunk of land. Rozlyn had followed the wall for the last several minutes until she’d reached the gates. The iron gates were closed and an intercom on the wall indicated that she would have to request entry.

“Rich bugger, aren’t we?”

Rozlyn drove the car as close as she could to the gates, but still had to get out of the car to use the intercom. She buzzed three times before getting a reply.

“Yes?”

“I’m here to see Mr Mark Richards.”

“You have an appointment?”

“No. I’m a police officer. Detective Inspector Priest. I’d appreciate a few minutes of his time.” She was aware as she spoke that cameras mounted on the high gate posts swivelled to stare down. Rozlyn resisted the impulse to wave.

“One moment.”

Somewhat more than a moment passed before the voice returned. “You have identification, I take it?”

“Of course.”

“Then you may enter.”

“Well, whoop de do,” Rozlyn muttered beneath her breath, her paternal grandmother’s favourite indicator of annoyance coming naturally to her lips. She returned to the car and drove through before the guardian of Mark Richards’ privacy changed his mind, then followed a long, tree-lined drive up to the house. It took a full five minutes. Rozlyn was suitably impressed.

The house itself was neo-Georgian, the gold of local stone, visible as she glimpsed the side view of the house, faced at the front with smooth, pale limestone. A man stood at the head of a flight of steps. He was dressed in knife-creased grey flannels and a dark blazer. His well-trimmed hair was white and sparse on top and Rozlyn placed him in his sixties or even a little older. Could this be Mark Richards?

As Rozlyn approached, the man