In Cold Blood: A British Murder Mystery (The Wild Fens Murder Mystery Series Book 3) by Jack Cartwright

Author:Jack Cartwright [Cartwright, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Chestnut Press
Published: 2022-07-02T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Mr Cross?” Freya said, holding her ID up for him to see. Unlike Garland, Cyrus Cross filled his doorway. Naturally, the property was far smaller, and the doorway was of a more standard size, but still, the man was a giant, and his hands were of enormous proportions. “Detective Inspector Freya Bloom, and this is DC Chapman. We’d like a word if–”

“Where’s the other one?” he grumbled, cutting her off.

“If you’re referring to DC Nillson, then I’m afraid she’s busy elsewhere,” Freya said. “May we have a few minutes of your time?”

“You found him?”

“No. No, not yet. But we have officers searching for him. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I was wondering if perhaps you know of somewhere he might be.”

He looked between them, as if deciding whether or not he should trust what Freya said.

“It’s in Jason’s interest,” Freya added.

He didn’t step to one side, as Garland had, nor did he offer a sweeping invitation. Instead, he turned and limped back toward the lounge, grumbling to himself.

Chapman looked at Freya with raised eyebrows, and rolled her eyes, shaking her head at the man’s poor manners.

“You get used to it,” Freya whispered, then steered her inside.

The house had a classic farmhouse feel – exposed timber beams, open fireplace, and even, noted Freya when she leaned into the kitchen, a flagstone floor, Aga, and copper pans that hung from the mantle. It had been well maintained and decorated to a high standard. It had the type of finish that Freya considered was only achievable with time. Time to manage the upkeep. Time to spend on those smaller areas of the rooms where the spiders like to build webs. Time to scrape the few drops of paint that dripped onto the door handle. Time that was usually only afforded by the rich and the retired.

The Christmas decorations stank of habit, of ritual, of all the things Freya wanted to hate but was jealous of. She imagined Mrs Cross, every year asking her husband to fetch the decorations down from the loft, which would be neat and tidy, so she could put them up almost exactly as they had been the year before, and the year before that. From the old Christmas tree to the mangy, old tinsel on the mantelpiece. It all stunk of happiness, and memories.

Despite the quality finish of the house, there was an overlaying of temporary disarray. Coffee mugs and plates were stacked beside the kitchen sink, a sweater hung over the back of a chair, and, in the lounge, where Freya found Cyrus Cross seated in his armchair watching her every move, a newspaper lay sprawled on the couch, a blanket had fallen to the floor, and a large pair of men’s muddy shoes had been kicked off beside the fire and left there to dry.

“Are you alone, Mr Cross?” she asked.

“Cyrus,” he gruffed. “Call me Cyrus. You can spare the formalities.”

“Okay. DC Nillson mentioned in her report that you live with your wife. Is she around?”

His eyes darted around the room, noting the few items that were out of place.

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