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) 📖

excavation had been a casual affair, more of a treasure hunt to entertain guests at an elaborate house party. They’d turned up an eighteenth-century brooch shaped like a bird and a load of pottery, the earliest dating from the medieval rebuild, but rumours and legends of a hoard of gold being hidden there had come to nothing. The writer of the book commented that it was hard to find an historical site in the county that didn’t bear such a legend and they were only relieved that the house guests had quickly bored of their game and gone back to their charades.

Rozlyn thought back to the altar stone so carelessly removed from its mount. It compared so strangely to the careful and considered excavation she had seen at the Theadingford dig. No one there would have cast an artifact aside with so little concern. She’d willingly bet that the 1920s lot would never have troubled to move such a weight, but had Donovan Baker? He was at that time still a professional, the excavation being dated when Donovan Baker was at the height of his career, before his status as expert witness or conscientious professional had been challenged. What had been so important that he’d cast his training and his expertise aside? Was Donovan Baker also a would-be treasure hunter? Did he know some truth behind these all-too-common rumours?

Rozlyn needed to know more about Donovan’s fall from grace. He must have fallen fast and he must have fallen hard.

Headlights rounding the corner told her that the key holder had arrived, none too pleased at having his weekend interrupted.

Rozlyn calmed him down, promised to lock up herself and assured him that this was too important to wait — the very murder case could pivot on his cooperation. Then she made her way up to Charlie’s landing.

Only two weeks and yet so much had changed. Charlie had been removed from his small corner and his world collapsed behind him. The tubs of plants had gone, not just from his door but outside his neighbours’ too and the steel doors that prevented vandals from entering his little flat had been sprayed with graffiti. Rozlyn knew that it was fresh; the tag a familiar one, “byo” being a local with the facility for marking his domain that the average tomcat would have envied.

The landing stank of drink and piss.

Rozlyn let herself in, glad that the power was still connected. She shut Charlie’s door, careful to pull the metal shutter closed before she did so, not wanting to advertise her presence inside, then made her way swiftly to the sideboard and withdrew the drawer that Jenny had searched. The flat already had that faint smell about it that indicated damp and neglect. Rozlyn thought about Mrs Chinowski. She had no one now. Charlie was gone and so was Clara Buranou. What would she do? Rozlyn sighed, knowing that she would have to ensure that Charlie’s dependents had someone to take his place. She couldn’t just walk away.

Rozlyn sifted through the neatly arranged bills and papers. Jenny had put things back as close to Charlie’s order as she could and the cuttings, because of their size in their plastic folders, had been put back beneath the rest. There were about twenty of these clear wallets, their edges pierced so that they could be fastened in a ring binder. Charlie had filed roughly two clippings in each, back to back, cut precisely and, where the clipping had removed them, the date and newspaper recorded carefully in Charlie’s neat round hand. Most were meaningless to Rozlyn, though she found one which talked about the new crime initiative on the estate and another which advertised Rozlyn coming to talk to the residents. The clipping she wanted was easily identified.

Mark Richards posed for a picture at the top of the steps leading to his grand front door. He’d had a garden party to raise money for a local charity and some of the more prestigious guests stood with him, dressed in their summer finery.

“Are you our Mr Thomas Thompson?” Rozlyn asked the photograph of Mark Richards. “Did our Charlie realise this, confront you with it? Though, why should he, you provided him with the cash he needed. Why would Charlie care that you bought houses under an assumed name? Or was it because of what Clara told him? I can’t see Charlie wanting any part of that.”

Rozlyn scanned the names beneath the picture. Most meant nothing, though she could recall having heard them in other connections. “Or did he clip this out because of you?” One other name stood out. On the right of Mark Richards, chatting affably to a female guest, was Donovan Baker.

One more thing to look at. Rozlyn went through to Charlie’s bedroom and opened the small wooden wardrobe. Two identical pinstripe suits. He’d been wearing his third when his body had been found. At first she thought she must be mistaken. No sign of a tear or a snag that might account for her find in the chantry, that little scrap of fabric that she had tucked into a plastic bag and kept in her pocket. Rozlyn sighed. So much for that idea. She was suddenly horribly deflated.

And then she saw it. The tiny rip in the sleeve, now carefully mended in black and pale cream thread using a technique her grandmother had called invisible darning. She doubted Charlie had done this; Charlie was always clean, but frayed sleeves and little snags were part of his standard uniform. She placed the fragment of fabric against the now camouflaged hole. It matched. “My God, Charlie, what did you think you were doing, going there?”

Was it enough for a search warrant?

Rozlyn shook her head. Not on its own. But it was a start.

She found a black bin bag in Charlie’s kitchen and packed the suit inside, then left, locking the door carefully