Sleeping Dogs Lie by Oliver Davies

Author:Oliver Davies [Davies, Oliver]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-07-23T16:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

MILLS

I drove back up the hill to McKenzie’s farm, parked outside the gate, and walked through. There was no sign of him, or his dogs, in the yard, so I made my way to the house and knocked on the old, wooden door. It was a nice-looking house, with flowers growing outside the front door, the smell of lavender wafting up, and bees buzzing around. I heard barking inside the house, which was quickly shushed, then the door opened, and McKenzie greeted me. He wore only a t-shirt with his jeans, was drying his hands on a tea towel, and his hair was damp and scattered around his head. There was a brief flicker of surprise on his face at the sight of me, but it quickly passed and was replaced by a welcoming smile.

“Inspector! Do come in.” He stepped back, letting me into the house.

Like in the Ewell’s house, I entered through a muddy boot room with shoes stuffed under a bench, muddy boots in the corner, and a row of coats hanging on the wall above. He led me through to the kitchen, which was in the middle of the house and had a fireplace on the back wall flanked by two windows. A cosy armchair was positioned in front of the fireplace with a footstool and side table that had a book abandoned on it. The dogs were under the kitchen table, watching as I walked in, but they didn’t stir from their spots. They laid their heads down as McKenzie appeared behind me.

“I’m sorry for springing in on you like this,” I said.

He closed the door behind us and walked over to the kitchen counters, dropping the tea towel on the side.

“Not to worry,” he replied, flicking the kettle on and grabbing two mugs. “I expect you don’t have much time for waiting around. Strike while the iron’s hot, so they say.”

“That they do,” I remarked, looking around the room as he made tea.

I had expected something of a tattered bachelor pad from a single young man living alone, rather like my own place had been at his age, but I was very much mistaken. The kitchen was clean and organised, with a huge shelf of books on one wall with everything from cookbooks and animal care to history and fantasy, neatly arranged. The floor was scrubbed clean, a rug spread out under the table for the dogs to sleep on, family pictures here and there, potted plants, and a scented candle burning on the table. It felt very homey, nothing like the lonely picture I had imagined for him.

“You caught me at a good time,” he said, carrying one of the mugs over to me. “Do you take sugar?”

“No, thank you. And did I?”

“I just came in from sorting out the sheep. Needed a break.”

He smiled happily and joined me over by the window that looked out into the garden. There wasn’t much to see out there, apart from some rows of vegetables and an old rope swing hanging from the tree, which I imagined had been there since he was a boy.

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