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) 📖

“Can’t you get a warrant for Richard’s house?”

Rozlyn laughed. “On what grounds?”

“I suppose you have a point.” Ethan reached out and touched the spearhead. He moved his hand so suddenly that Rozlyn jumped. “It’s older,” Ethan said softly. “Far older than the dig site out at Theadingford. And now I look at the real thing instead of those tacky little pictures, I can see just how fine the workmanship really is. That’s what fooled me, you see. In the pictures, you lose the detail but this really is exquisite.”

“I’m sorry to sound crass,” Rozlyn said. “But would it be worth stealing? In monetary terms, I mean.”

“Oh yes, but you’d have to convince the buyer of its authenticity. To get the best price for this, you’d need the provenance.”

“I thought black market dealers weren’t too bothered about that sort of thing?”

“To get the best price for anything you need its story, Inspector Priest. The story is what separates the good from the wonderful. Without that provenance, most buyers would think as you did, that this has to be a copy. A wonderful piece of work, but nevertheless, not the real thing. With provenance, this is not only wonderful it is close to unique. You’re looking at something as precious as any object that came out of Sutton Hoo and, I’d place it at a similar date. Sixth, Seventh century, perhaps.”

“You’re kidding me?” Rozlyn had been certain that this was a fake. “Pity in a way, I’d been looking forward to meeting the guy that made it. He sure knew his stuff.”

Ethan nodded. “He did indeed. The devil of it is, though, we have no context. No idea where it came from or what else lay with it.”

“You mean, there could have been more objects like this?”

Ethan frowned, but avoided the question. “Your murder victim. It was a single stab wound, to the chest?” He asked as if it was a question but Rozlyn had the odd sensation that he merely sought verification.

“Why do you ask?”

“And . . .” Ethan closed his eyes and lifted the spear from the blotter. “He was lying on the ground.”

“How do you know that?”

Ethan smiled. “Sometimes,” he said, “when I touch an object, I can . . . sense things. Know things about it.”

“Right.” Rozlyn said. She stared at Ethan for a moment, somewhat taken aback, shaken by the reference to the very skill Rozlyn tried to hide. “Look,” she said. “I have to be going now. Thanks for your help, I’ll be in touch and maybe you’d like to tell me where you were . . .”

“When your Charlie Higgins was killed? In Edinburgh, I’m afraid. I spent three days there last week and returned last Saturday morning. Don’t worry, Inspector, I’ll give you a list of names and addresses, you can check my story.”

“I’ll be doing that.”

They both turned as the door opened and Cassie entered carrying more tea.

“You’ll stay?”

“No, I’m sorry, I have to be getting back.”

“Oh. But we’ve got biscuits?” Cassie said.

She sounded so disappointed that Rozlyn had to smile. “Sorry,” she said. “Maybe another time.” She took the spear from Ethan’s hands and packed it back into the evidence bag and then her pocket. It dragged at her coat, felt heavy and hard as it swung against her leg. Heavier than she recalled it being. “I can see myself out.”

Jasper hissed as she passed but Rozlyn barely heard him. Her brain buzzed and her fingers fizzed with something like a static charge. She felt cold inside.

Recovering the spear head, she had touched Ethan’s hand and, just for the merest instant, her mind had been flooded with the image of Charlie’s death. She had seen it; been it. Had been both Charlie lying there on the ground anticipating the blow a split second before it hit and the other, that invisible assailant, thrusting down at the helpless man. And Rozlyn had felt it, the flood of anger surging through the assailant’s mind until it was all he could conceive and, still cramping her ribs so that she could not breath without the fire of it in her lungs, the pain as the spearhead pierced her flesh and touched her heart.

CHAPTER 25

By the time she got back to base Rozlyn had recovered enough to tell herself it was just imagination. Her own tiredness had led her to give in to the suggestions that Ethan had made so that she had taken those thoughts on board without really . . . without really what?

In the end she pushed the memory aside, decided that the ache in her ribs was due to indigestion and that Jenny was right when she said Rozlyn should eat more regularly. She was probably a prime candidate for an ulcer — yes that was it — and this was all down to stress and not taking better care of herself. If she didn’t watch it she’d be swilling beers like Brook and have the belly to go with the haggard expression.

In the incident room she noticed that a description had been added to Clara Buranou’s, together with a description and a possible link back to Thomas Thompson. As yet there seemed to be no response to the enquiry she’d made about Donovan with her contact in Art and Antiques.

She was reading the description of Clara and wondering if there was anything to add when Brook came in.

“Any trace yet of our mysterious landlord?” Rozlyn asked.

Brook shook his head. “Our Mr T. Thompson is still elusive,” he said. “We’ll see what immigration come up with and meantime keep digging locally.”

Rozlyn nodded wondering what, if anything, she should tell Big Frank. “You ever come across anyone called Donovan?” she asked Brook.

“Yeah,” Brook told her. “Folk singer or summat,