Cruel Truth (Detective Kelly Porter #13)
Chapter 1
Sometimes the surface of the lake appeared more like glass than the finest tumbler of crystalware. Today was one of those days. It was so still that a summer pond-skater plonking its fat feet on the miniscule veneer could be spotted from metres away.
A waddling duck searched for discarded bread crusts from the tourists who’d sat all day at the nearby Faeryland café.
Surrounding the little inlet were undulations of fells, brown and purple from different heather species, as well as from the glaring rays of the burning sun, giving the impression that all moisture had been sucked from the land.
A ripple of movement sent swells towards a colourfully painted rowing boat which was face down at the water’s edge, in the reeds, solitary in its misery.
The boats for rent were painted in bright hues of red, orange and green and they gleamed and boasted from the water’s edge, all in a little row like Christmas decorations in a box. They were given names. Theodosia, Romany, Sprite.
This one was called Water Nymph.
The hills in the distance cocooned Grasmere inside its own suspended time and space. Stone walls and pathways looked like little scribbles across the fields, drawn by the hand of a child. The nearby café was closing for the day.
A grey squirrel darted from behind the Water Nymph suddenly but he hesitated.
There was something unusual about the smell.
The rodent sniffed and looked about warily.
The aroma didn’t belong near his favourite café, where the staff gave him bits of leftover cake and provided bowls of water.
This was his patch. He charmed the tourists as he nibbled the seeds he found on the ground after people had dropped local artisan bread covered in them.
Sometimes he got too close, and he took treats straight out of the hand of a visitor.
He knew who to trust.
But whatever was under the Water Nymph wasn’t part of the ordinary construct of a summer afternoon at the Faeryland café.
The day had been another scorcher. Grasmere had hosted crowds of people sharing picnics and frolicking in the water.
A place Wordsworth called ‘the loveliest spot that man hath ever found’.
Rydal Water, next door, and the smaller sibling of the pair of lakes, was connected by a grassy vale ridge with a bridge and a forest, and was less busy, but then she was better at hiding.
The squirrel wasn’t concerned with the weather, though, or the lay of the land. Despite having better shelter under the canopy of the Rydal woods, he preferred scavenging here. His main concern was just which intruder had disturbed his patch.
Until he found out, he decided to sit next to the Water Nymph, on guard because his innate sense of danger warned him that a predator had wandered into his territory.
A few flies landed on his face, just next to his nose. He twitched it to get rid of them, but they kept coming back. More numerous with each passing minute.
He moved away and realised that they were less interested in him and any spare crumbs he found for supper, courtesy of the day’s customers, and far more interested in whatever was underneath the rowing boat.