Half a mile up the road, a figure sitting on the wall had him slowing to a stop.
The young, shaggy-haired guy didn’t move when Flynn stepped out of the car. In the open, noise from a nearby house caught his attention, and his gaze roamed beyond the guy to the glow of a bonfire at the back of a large house.
“What are you doing sitting out here in the dark?” he asked, shining his torch beam beside the guy to illuminate him.
He squinted against the glare. “I saw flashing lights.” He tipped his head the way Flynn had come. “Wondered what was going on.”
“Do you live here?”
He shook his head. “Just visiting.”
“But you’re staying here?”
He turned, pointing over his left shoulder. When Flynn moved the beam of the torch, it landed on a small tent at the far end of the field.
“Do you know the people having a party?”
“It’s an artist’s retreat. They’re staying in the house. I just prefer to be out in the open.”
“Have you seen anyone around here this evening who shouldn’t be here?”
He shook his head. “Are you a copper?”
“Yeah.” Flynn frowned at the odd question before remembering he wasn’t in uniform. Pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, he held out his ID to show he wasn’t merely out joyriding in a police car. “PC Grainger,” he said. “You are?”
“Silas.” He paused before offering his last name. “Thorn.”
“You haven’t seen anything unusual this evening?”
“No, why?”
“I’m going to speak to the rest of your group.” He hopped over the wall to take a direct route rather than continuing to the driveway. “Come with me, please.” Striding through the grass, he reached for his radio and told the sergeant he was having a quick chat with the neighbours.
The wind changed as he approached, sending smoke from the bonfire rushing at him. It also carried the out-of-tune voice of the woman swaying beside the bonfire with a guitar in her hands. Apparently she kept forgetting the words but kept up a steady stream of strumming and giggling with the odd line of lyrics thrown in.
“Silas!” she said, pausing her singing but continuing with swinging her hips so her flowing white skirt swished around her legs. “Did you find a friend?”
Silas ignored the question and took a seat on a sturdy log beside a smiley middle-aged woman.
Flynn held out his ID, which got everyone’s attention. “PC Grainger,” he said.
“Did he really call the police on us for having a tiny little party?” The singing lady set her guitar aside and spluttered a laugh. “He’s such a grump.” She swung around to a man with a neatly trimmed silver beard and flat cap, lounging in a deck chair. “Didn’t I tell you, Roland? I said he was looking murderous when he left earlier. I’ll bet he claims it was the neighbours who complained about the noise, and not him.”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” the man replied. “There are no neighbours to complain.”
“Nobody made a complaint,” Flynn said. “There was an incident down the road, and I wanted to ask if you’d seen anything suspicious or anything out of the ordinary.”
“What kind of incident?” the lady beside Silas asked, running a hand over her frizzy blond curls.
“A break in.”
“We haven’t seen anyone all evening,” the guitar lady said. “I’m Saffron, by the way.” She stepped forward and offered her hand. “This is Roland…” She tipped her head towards the man in the deckchair and then at the two people seated on the log. “That’s Martha and Silas. Best of friends, we are!” She shrieked with laughter and finally released Flynn’s hand. “We actually just met a week ago, but we’ve bonded over our common enemy.” She lowered her voice and leaned close enough that the bulky string of beads around her neck whacked against Flynn’s chest. “Gideon runs the retreat, and he’s a little set in his ways.”
“Is he here too?” Flynn asked.
“Inside,” Roland said, pushing his cap up. “He told us not to stay up late – as though we’re a bunch of kids.”
“He’s not so bad,” Martha said. “He’s a very talented artist. We’re lucky to learn from him.” Her eyes met Flynn’s. “Are the police here always so casually dressed?”
