Sergeant Flint might be perched in the tangle of honeysuckle above the door.
Michael attended to his cracker for another moment, before replying without looking at me. “I heard them say his name—they were looking through his pockets while you were unconscious.” At the thought of hands searching the dead man’s pockets, the crackers, which had so recently gone down my throat, threatened to come back up. I took a swig of my beer. “Kenneth Kersey,” Michael said, and watched me.
At first, my mind was too full of horror for the name to register. After a moment, it sounded vaguely familiar, and after that, a door creaked open to reveal the storage closet of my old life, and the name floated down from a top shelf.
“Kenneth Kersey,” I repeated. “Communications director for Power to the People—the wind-farm company. He’s their mouthpiece…” At that word and the image of what had happened to him, the crackers made good on their threat. I got to the loo just in time.
Chapter 6
I took two deep breaths before I stepped back into the kitchen. Michael stood up when he saw me. “Everything all right?”
“Oh yes, everything is ducky.” Ravenous all over again, I sat down and set in on the crackers and beer—crunching covered the worry that had started nibbling away at me. Michael sat, too. “I’ve seen him, of course—Kersey. But I didn’t recognize him, not the way we found him. Rupert’s had arguments with Kersey,” I said. “Public arguments. Rupert called him an insufferable ass.”
“Well deserved, I’d say.”
“You knew him?”
“I know enough.”
“Kersey was an ace at double-talk,” I said. “He would say how much the company cares about the environment, while at the same time they were planning to run roughshod over hundreds of acres of important habitat.” I took another cracker and began breaking it into pieces. “But why was Kersey here—so close to Marshy End?”
Michael kept his eyes on the table as he replied. “Kersey could’ve been on his way up to the wind-farm site, don’t you think? We’re not too far off the road.”
“Maybe he was meeting Oscar Woodcock—managing director for Power to the People. They could’ve been spying on Dad—trying to find something to discredit him.”
“I don’t see Woodcock as the spy type,” Michael said.
“Are you defending him?”
“I am not,” Michael said, his eyes flashing. “But we can’t jump to conclusions—at least not publicly. Woodcock will use any misstep to his own advantage.”
I narrowed my eyes. “How do you know so much about him?”
“It’s my job to know as much as possible.”
His job, my job. “The thing is,” I said, “this could be a sticky situation for Dad, and he doesn’t need that. Word will get round, and when they realize just who Kersey is, the police may want to talk with Rupert.”
“Most likely. It’ll be a routine matter, of course, but still, he needs to be aware of what’s happened before they speak to him.” Michael looked round us. “Was Rupert here?”
I took in our surroundings—tile counters neat and tidy, plates in a line on the rack. I got up and opened the fridge. A small carton of milk—expiry date two weeks out—and half a block of Dad’s special indulgence, double Gloucester cheese, were its only contents. I stepped on the pedal of the rubbish bin and the lid flipped open. I lifted out an empty Jaffa Cakes wrapper—those soft biscuits with a dab of marmalade and covered in chocolate were the best tracking device possible when it came to my dad’s whereabouts. I nodded miserably. “Yes.”
“Here’s what must’ve happened,” Michael said, sitting up and brushing crumbs off his lap. “Rupert stopped by Marshy End on his way to Cumbria. Kersey came by looking for him—but Rupert had already gone. Kersey left Marshy End and met with someone else along the river. Whoever did that to him.”
I liked that—it made good sense.
“First order of
Michael attended to his cracker for another moment, before replying without looking at me. “I heard them say his name—they were looking through his pockets while you were unconscious.” At the thought of hands searching the dead man’s pockets, the crackers, which had so recently gone down my throat, threatened to come back up. I took a swig of my beer. “Kenneth Kersey,” Michael said, and watched me.
At first, my mind was too full of horror for the name to register. After a moment, it sounded vaguely familiar, and after that, a door creaked open to reveal the storage closet of my old life, and the name floated down from a top shelf.
“Kenneth Kersey,” I repeated. “Communications director for Power to the People—the wind-farm company. He’s their mouthpiece…” At that word and the image of what had happened to him, the crackers made good on their threat. I got to the loo just in time.
Chapter 6
I took two deep breaths before I stepped back into the kitchen. Michael stood up when he saw me. “Everything all right?”
“Oh yes, everything is ducky.” Ravenous all over again, I sat down and set in on the crackers and beer—crunching covered the worry that had started nibbling away at me. Michael sat, too. “I’ve seen him, of course—Kersey. But I didn’t recognize him, not the way we found him. Rupert’s had arguments with Kersey,” I said. “Public arguments. Rupert called him an insufferable ass.”
“Well deserved, I’d say.”
“You knew him?”
“I know enough.”
“Kersey was an ace at double-talk,” I said. “He would say how much the company cares about the environment, while at the same time they were planning to run roughshod over hundreds of acres of important habitat.” I took another cracker and began breaking it into pieces. “But why was Kersey here—so close to Marshy End?”
Michael kept his eyes on the table as he replied. “Kersey could’ve been on his way up to the wind-farm site, don’t you think? We’re not too far off the road.”
“Maybe he was meeting Oscar Woodcock—managing director for Power to the People. They could’ve been spying on Dad—trying to find something to discredit him.”
“I don’t see Woodcock as the spy type,” Michael said.
“Are you defending him?”
“I am not,” Michael said, his eyes flashing. “But we can’t jump to conclusions—at least not publicly. Woodcock will use any misstep to his own advantage.”
I narrowed my eyes. “How do you know so much about him?”
“It’s my job to know as much as possible.”
His job, my job. “The thing is,” I said, “this could be a sticky situation for Dad, and he doesn’t need that. Word will get round, and when they realize just who Kersey is, the police may want to talk with Rupert.”
“Most likely. It’ll be a routine matter, of course, but still, he needs to be aware of what’s happened before they speak to him.” Michael looked round us. “Was Rupert here?”
I took in our surroundings—tile counters neat and tidy, plates in a line on the rack. I got up and opened the fridge. A small carton of milk—expiry date two weeks out—and half a block of Dad’s special indulgence, double Gloucester cheese, were its only contents. I stepped on the pedal of the rubbish bin and the lid flipped open. I lifted out an empty Jaffa Cakes wrapper—those soft biscuits with a dab of marmalade and covered in chocolate were the best tracking device possible when it came to my dad’s whereabouts. I nodded miserably. “Yes.”
“Here’s what must’ve happened,” Michael said, sitting up and brushing crumbs off his lap. “Rupert stopped by Marshy End on his way to Cumbria. Kersey came by looking for him—but Rupert had already gone. Kersey left Marshy End and met with someone else along the river. Whoever did that to him.”
I liked that—it made good sense.
“First order of
Similar Books
