Moonscorn

Chapter Eight

Jack Cold's car was a black Range Rover, and it muscled its way out of Whaterly with the authoritative air of all secret service departments. The sun firmly set, the last dregs of daylight being sucked into the creeping mist, they drove to the neighbouring village of Leppis Down. Calling it a village was perhaps giving it a little too much credit. When they arrived, Raven was surprised to see it actually had a pub, along with a cluster of houses that might have borne witness to King Henry VIII passing through to one of his country estates back in the day. There were also two streetlights and a rusty sign at either end of the road announcing they were entering the populace, and able to return to the national speed limit upon leaving. A decently sized waterfall chucked frothing water over the edge on its way to Whaterly.

Leppis Down was deathly silent.

The Range Rover pulled up outside one of the low, squat houses, barely managing to squeak onto the driveway and off the road. A single lamp was on in the front room. On the TV was the sound of Richard Osman talking contestants through another series of quiz questions.

"The double will be ready for her to go identify the body tomorrow," Cold told Raven. "As far as we know, this grandson of hers is the only blood relation she's got left. Take it easy and calm. If we need a repeat visit, we need a repeat visit." The door was open halfway. Cold paused. "And if you see anything, three taps on my arm."

"And if I don't know if I've seen anything or not?" Raven asked. "If I just... feel something?"

Cold thought for a moment. "Tap anyway. Because I'm like you on this one. I might not have seen anything, but I still don't like it."

They rang the bell. Raven pulled himself upright and straightened the shirt and tie he'd thrown on when they made a detour back to his room. He wasn't in disguise anymore. He wasn't 'undercover.' He was simply a man delivering awful news to an elderly lady, and he was going to do it with as much dignity and professionalism as he could muster.

There was the sound of a door opening behind the door. A few shuffled steps of slippered feet, and then the door was opened by a short lady with grey hair and a floral dress. She looked the two of them over, men in black suits with a big black car on the drive, and Raven watched a spark of life leave her eyes. "Taylor?"

Cold flashed police ID (fake but considering his position not strictly illegal) and bowed slightly. "Mrs Delia Purse?"

"What's happened to Taylor? Where is he?" She asked the questions but Raven saw that she already knew something had happened. He wondered how much she knew of her grandson's true identity. It was a hard thing to disguise, going out on the prowl as a great, lumbering wolf a few nights a month.

"We'd like to come inside and talk to you for a few minutes, Mrs Purse."

Delia Purse wouldn't be moved from her doorway. She repeated her question: "What's happened to Taylor?"

"Mrs Purse," Raven said. "We'd like to tell you what's happened to Taylor. But not here. We don't think you'd be, ah, comfortable. And we'd like you to be somewhere comfortable for us to discuss him with you."

Delia's eyes passed from Raven, to Cold, to Raven, to the car, to out past them into the street and across the small road where the tiny war memorial stood waiting to receive wreaths in a few weeks time. Then her shoulders sagged, her eyes turned down to the ground, and she turned and shuffled back into the house. "Come in," she mumbled.

Cold directed her from the kitchen, which she'd immediately gone to in order to put the kettle on. Raven took the honours and filled it up and flicked it on. He dug around for three mugs and, when the kettle had whistled its way and flicked its switch off, filled a teapot, put it on a tray with milk and sugar, and took everything through to the small front room.