Chapter 18
‘Knife in the turnip! Knife in the turnip!’ I shriek, barging into Hunter’s apartment a few minutes later, turnip in hand. ‘Look! There’s a knife in the turnip!’
‘There’s a what in the what?’ yells Hannah, jumping up from the sofa and coming running towards me, closely followed by Stevie.
‘Er, nothing,’ I say, quickly putting the turnip behind my back. ‘It’s nothing. Just a . . . just a joke between me and your dad.’
I shoot Hunter what I hope is a meaningful glance, and he heaves a weary sigh as he gets to his feet.
‘Hannah, can you give Rosie and me a few minutes to chat?’ he says, patting his daughter on the head as he approaches us. ‘Maybe go and do some drawing in your room?’
‘Ooh, yes,’ says Hannah. ‘I was going to do another one of Rosie, wasn’t I?’
She scampers happily off, and I produce the turnip from behind my back, holding it up so Hunter can see the knife still sticking out of the top of it.
‘Er, there’s a knife in the turnip,’ I say again, more quietly now I know Hannah’s next door. ‘See?’
‘So I gathered. That’s not a knife, though,’ says Hunter, matter-of-factly as he takes the turnip and examines it. ‘That’s a dirk.’
‘A . . . dirk?’ I look at him suspiciously, wondering if he’s winding me up again, like when he tried to tell me the hotel was haunted.
Which I’m starting to think it is.
‘Aye. A dirk. It’s a kind of ceremonial dagger.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, that’s absolutely fine, then,’ I reply, a little hysterically. ‘If I’d known it was just a dirk, I wouldn’t have bothered you.’
I reach for the turnip, but he holds it up just out of my reach, even when I stand on my toes.
‘Calm down,’ he says. ‘Where did you find this?’
‘On my bed. Right in the middle. And before you say it, yes, I’m sure I was in the right room, and no, I definitely didn’t leave it like that myself.
Wait, don’t do that,’ I add with a gasp, as he takes the knife – sorry, the dirk – and pulls it out of the vegetable.
‘You shouldn’t touch it; it might have fingerprints on it. ’
Hunter stares at me impassively.
‘I don’t think they’re going to mobilise Scotland Yard over a turnip, Rosie,’ he says bluntly. ‘You’ve got some funny ideas about how the police work, do you know that?’
‘Oh, come on, Hunter, don’t give me that.’ I fold my arms defensively across my chest. ‘It’s not just a turnip, is it? It’s a turnip with a kni— with a weapon stuck in it. Even you have to admit, that’s a pretty clear message, isn’t it?’
I pause, waiting for him to come up with some kind of joke about turnips, and the kind of messages they might hold, but he just walks silently over to the sofa and sits down, still looking thoughtfully at the knife; which I just can’t bring myself to think of as a ‘dirk’.
‘OK,’ he says, after a silence that seems to go on forever. ‘The missing clothes was one thing, but this . . . I can see why this would upset you. It’s . . . well, it’s not very nice, is it?’
‘Not nice? That’s one way of putting it,’ I reply, incensed. ‘It’s an outright threat, Hunter, and it proves beyond doubt that someone’s been going into my room. You can’t possibly think I did this myself by mistake, can you?’
‘No. No, I don’t think you did it yourself, and I don’t think it’s a mistake, either,’ he replies, in a soothing tone, which I can imagine him using to speak to Hannah when she’s mid-tantrum.
‘I do think there’s a possibility that it’s supposed to be some kind of practical joke, but—’ he holds up a hand as I start to protest this ‘—even if it is, it’s not funny, and it has to stop. Right now.’
‘Oh. Right, well . . . good,’ I reply, surprised he isn’t trying to argue with me, or convince me I’m wrong.
‘I’m glad we’re on the same page. It . .
. it really scared me, Hunter. Whoever did this must hate me.
I just don’t feel safe knowing someone’s going around stabbing turnips just to get at me. ’
Hunter holds up the turnip in question again, and we both stare at it, as if it might start speaking and reveal all the answers.
‘Leave it with me,’ he says at last. ‘I’ll speak to Dante. This is really his domain more than mine.’
‘Um, yeah,’ I reply, sitting down beside him on the couch with a soft whump. ‘Sorry, I should probably have gone to him first. It’s just . . . well, you’re the only one I trust.’
‘And you can trust me, Rosie,’ he says, his face serious. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of this. And I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. You’re safe here, I promise.’
For a second, I think he’s going to reach out and hug me; I even raise my arms slightly in anticipation of it, but just as he leans towards me, there’s a loud bang, and Hannah comes bursting back into the room, making Hunter and I spring guiltily apart.
‘Look, Rosie,’ Hannah says, handing me a piece of paper. ‘I finished my drawing. What do you think?’
This time, the drawing depicts a perfectly round person balanced precariously on top of what looks like a very large, very deformed, dog-type animal.
The person’s legs are the same blue as the denim of the jeans I was wearing earlier, but there’s a huge pink blob at the top, which I guess is supposed to be . . .
‘That’s your bum,’ says Hannah happily. ‘Daddy told me all about it.’
‘I, um, told her about what happened on the beach,’ says Hunter, looking uncharacteristically embarrassed. ‘With Bex, and the ponies.’
‘And my bum,’ I add, kind of enjoying his obvious discomfort.
‘No! I . . . well, I . . . I might have mentioned it in passing.’
He’s actually blushing now.
This would almost be fun, if it wasn’t happening because I flashed everyone on the beach. And also because of the whole turnip-and-dirk thing, which, to be totally honest, makes it hard to laugh at anything, really.
‘Er, I think I’ll go and try to catch Dante now, actually,’ Hunter says, getting quickly to his feet. ‘I’ll take Hannah with me. D’you want to wait here for us?’
‘Um, if that’s OK with you?’ I reply. ‘I don’t exactly fancy the thought of going back to my room on my own, when there’s—’
Hunter shoots me a warning glance, his eyes flicking down towards his daughter.
‘When there’s so much fun I could be having here,’ I finish instead. ‘Isn’t that right, Hannah?’
‘Oh, tons,’ replies Hannah. ‘Have you ever played Minecraft before? Because I can teach you when we get back, if not.’
They head for the door, Hunter carrying the turnip in one hand and the dirk in the other.
I notice he leaves Stevie behind, though, and I can’t help but feel reassured by his doggy presence because, silly though it might sound to be freaked out by a turnip, of all things, I am, nevertheless, fairly freaked out by this particular turnip, which I guess is never going to make it into that soup Ian insisted on giving me the recipe for now.
Shame.
I feel safe here with Stevie, though; and with Hunter, too, when he gets back. The question is, though – just how safe am I going to be once I head back to my room on my own?
* * *
By the time Hunter and Hannah get back, I’ve given up on pacing the living room floor and have set up camp in the kitchen instead, where I’m busy making a sauce to go with the pasta I found in the back of one of the cupboards.
‘Wow. What happened in here?’ says Hunter, standing in the doorway, still with the turnip in his hand. ‘Have I been robbed?’
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ I reply, looking up from the stove. ‘I wanted to do something to keep my mind off . . . well, things . . . while I was waiting for you to get back. I hope this is OK?’
‘Aye,’ Hunter says, running a hand through his hair as he gazes around at the gleaming surfaces of the little kitchen, which betray the fact that it was slightly more than just a quick tidy-up. ‘Aye, this is just fine by me. You really didn’t have to do all this, though, Rosie.’
‘Oh, it’s no problem,’ I assure him, dishing the pasta into bowls. ‘I like cooking. And cleaning, actually. It’s quite therapeutic.’
I hand him a bowl of pasta, hoping he won’t figure out the real reason I decided to cook dinner, which is that I wanted to try to delay the moment when I’ll have to go back to my room on my own, knowing that the turnip stabber might reappear at any moment.
‘You’re not having any?’ he asks, watching as I take the second bowl to Hannah, who’s playing Minecraft in the living room, before returning to clear up.
‘Oh. Well, it’s your food,’ I say. ‘I didn’t like to just help myself to it.’
‘Och, come on, Rosie. You cooked it, and you cleaned the kitchen – I think we can spare you a wee bit of pasta in return,’ Hunter replies with a grin. ‘This is really good, by the way,’ he adds through a mouthful of food. ‘I didn’t realise you were such a good cook.’
‘It’s just cheesy pasta.’ I shrug, dishing up a bowl for myself. ‘I have a bunch of nephews and nieces who’re permanently starving when I babysit for them, so it’s good to have something quick I can make for them.’
‘Well, you’re welcome to cook for me and Hannah any time you like,’ Hunter replies, sitting down at the little kitchen table. ‘Especially if it’s always as good as this.’
‘So, did you speak to Dante?’ I ask, taking a seat opposite him. ‘What did he say? Did he have any ideas who might have access to my room?’
Other than Dante himself, obviously. And presumably literally everyone else who works here.
‘Ah. Right. Dante. I couldn’t find him,’ Hunter admits, rubbing his head bashfully. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie. I looked everywhere – that’s why I was gone for so long – but there was no sign of him. It’s his night off, mind; he’s probably gone to the pub in the village.’