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) 📖

ever have those dreams where everything is just too real?” she asked. Then. “Forget it.” Rozlyn opened her eyes and turned the key, aware that Jenny was regarding her quizzically.

“Long day?” she asked.

“Not over yet.”

“Did you get lunch or did you forget again?”

“Guilty.” Rozlyn admitted.

Jenny shook her head. “I’m not your mother so I’m not going to lecture you, but you know what I’d have to say if I did?”

“Yes ma’am,” Rozlyn drawled. She smiled back then allowed her thoughts to drift back to Clara Buranou and her tawdry little bedsit. “You think she had any idea she’d end up in a place like that?”

“No. How could she? What are you going to do about her?”

Rozlyn sighed, knowing Jenny was right. She couldn’t just leave this. “Talk to Brook when we get back. Uniform can have her. But if Brook thinks he’s got bigger fish to fry, he’ll probably want us to hold off anyway. Taking Clara might alert others.”

“I suppose so. Any joy with the spear expert?”

“Couple of leads. Two collectors of antiquities, both of whom deny having anything stolen.”

“You don’t believe them?”

“I don’t believe one of them. There’s . . . something. I can’t get a handle on it yet.”

She thought about Ethan Merrill. Try as she might, she still could not shake the emotional impact of that dream or the feeling that it had some obscure significance.

* * *

Brook was getting ready to leave when Rozlyn arrived. Rozlyn briefed him quickly as to the progress of the day and their visit to Clara Buranou. Brook re-emphasised what Jenny had told her. They were shorthanded; Rozlyn would have to make her own arrangements. It was clear that Brook had his eye on the bigger prize and one insignificant little girl that could easily be picked up later was of little interest to him. After all, even if she decided to run away, just how far could she get with no friends and little money?

It was not a satisfactory argument, but Rozlyn was oddly relieved to have had that decision taken away, at least for now. Brooks’ suggestion that she organise something was an ill-disguised hint that if she wanted watch kept, she’d have to do it herself. Rozlyn knew from experience that trying to find unassigned officers at this time of the evening, for what was likely to be a really small return, was not on the cards.

* * *

In the briefing room, she added Clara Buranou’s name and address to the board and took her time to write a report on the girl and on Mark Richards. Translated into official language, there was little to tell. Most of what she thought or felt was mere speculation and therefore not the sort of thing that needed typing up. When she glanced at her watch she saw that it was five past seven. One more thing she wanted to do. Logging onto the Intranet, she ran Donovan’s name, cross-referenced to people smuggling and then to antiquities, unsure of which part of the picture she should be looking at. Half a dozen hits in all. Two in prison, one deceased. The imprisoned pair she checked for dates, but in neither case was their incarceration recent. She logged the three remaining and put in a request for files, then, unable to get any further, took herself off home.

* * *

That night she dreamed of Ethan Merrill. They were walking through a mist-covered landscape. A soft light illuminated both mist and dew-damp grass. As Rozlyn looked more closely, it seemed that the webs of a thousand spiders spread out across the landscape, their silvered filaments shining and shimmering in the diffused light, linking and spreading their delicate tracery as far in every direction as Rozlyn could see. She was reminded of the dream she’d had of Charlie’s funeral. Ethan Merrill spoke to her, his words only half heard and incomprehensible. There seemed to be a rhythm to the words, almost, but not quite, like poetry, and the language he used was sonorous and rich. And it occurred to Rozlyn, even though the words were strange, that the old man talked about the web spread wide beneath their feet and the vaster web that linked all things alive and dead and yet to be.

Rozlyn found herself straining to hear more. To understand the way of the wyrd described in the old man’s words. In her dream she wept with frustration at her lack of understanding; at the complexity of it all and at the strange and magical simplicity.

Rozlyn woke, bathed in sweat, the cold morning light just breaking through the gap in the curtained window, her body aching as though, in her sleep, she’d walked for miles.

CHAPTER 15

A car had followed Rozlyn back to Clara Buranou’s flat. When she pulled in at the side of the road, it passed her and the driver eased into an almost-too-small parking spot a hundred yards further on.

“Looks like we’ve got company?”

There were two men in the car. The passenger got out and leaned against the wing, glancing along the length of the thoroughfare before allowing his gaze finally to rest upon Rozlyn’s vehicle.

Rozlyn glanced at the female uniform seated in the passenger seat. “Quality of the car and cut of the suit, I’d say he’s one of Big Frank Parker’s minions. Frank likes his boys to be well dressed.”

The policewoman laughed, then asked. “Think it has anything to do with the Buranou woman?”

The Buranou woman, Rozlyn thought. She was used to the way her fellow officers depersonalised those they were involved with but, although she understood their reasons, she still didn’t like it. “I doubt it,” she said. “Whatever it is can wait until we’ve seen her anyway.”

She led the way into the house, aware that the man watched, but made no move, almost as though he expected Rozlyn