‘Were you calling about something in particular?’ continues Stephen.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I was. You’re going to laugh about this, I’m sure, but I think I should tell you the whole story first. There’s a large tree up on a hill near my cottage. Beautiful views, but the hill is extremely steep, too steep for me to walk up every day. The tree’s been there for hundreds of years. Could even be a thousand years old …’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Detective, but is there a point to this story?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m getting to it.’
Stephen sighs as the detective continues. Stephen really doesn’t like long-winded stories, especially ones that don’t catch his attention straight away.
‘Yesterday morning, while I was having my morning coffee, I saw something hanging in the tree, so I went to look. I climbed up the tree and—’
Stephen almost spits his coffee out as he takes a sip. ‘I’m sorry, but did you say you climbed up a tree?’
‘I did.’
‘You could have led with that little gold nugget of information. Anyway, my apologies. Please, continue. Consider me intrigued and a little confused.’
‘It was a scarecrow,’ says Graham bluntly, not bothering to backtrack. ‘In the tree,’ he adds in case Stephen has forgotten what they’re talking about.
Stephen furrows his brow, slowly lowering his cup to the desk without checking if it’s steady. ‘A scarecrow?’ he asks. ‘How strange. They aren’t known to hang in trees. Usually, they hang out in wheat fields.’ He lets go of the handle of the cup. It topples off the desk and onto the floor, splashing hot liquid over the bottom half of his legs. He barely reacts, just ignores it. It’s not that hot.
‘Exactly my point,’ says Graham. ‘Anyway, after climbing the tree and bringing the thing down, I assumed some local kids had strung it up there to mess with me or as a prank. It was wearing an old overcoat. I put it in my locked garage, ready for the next time I had a bonfire, but the next morning - this morning - I woke up and it was back up in the tree. The lock on my garage hadn’t been broken and there’s no way the keys had been used because I keep them on a hook in the cottage and the doors are always locked. No one broke in.’
Stephen breathes in deep through his nose and then lets it slowly out of his mouth. His brain is doing that thing again when he can’t find the words he wants to use in the rightorder. ‘That’s … perplexing,’ he finally says. He closes his eyes against a wave of dizziness.
‘Indeed.’
‘Are you sure you weren’t drunk?’
Graham bursts out laughing at the man’s bluntness. ‘It’s a strong possibility, but I certainly wasn’t drunk this morning.’
‘Have you ever sleep-walked before?’
‘Never.’
‘Do you think you may have early onset dementia?’
Graham laughs again. ‘Unconfirmed,’ he says. ‘But that’s not all. There’s more to this story. There was also a drawing of the tree from a hundred years ago in the pocket of the overcoat along with a poster of a missing teenager called Sophia Hammel from ten years ago. I left the thing hanging in the tree this morning, so I don’t know if there’s anything else in the pockets. I’m not climbing up a tree for a second day in a row. My body’s already in clip as it is. I spoke with some of the local residents and no one seemed concerned. They said it was merely a prank by some local kids in the run up to Halloween. I also found out that a young lad called John Hammel hung himself in the tree a hundred years ago.’
Stephen rubs his forehead as a dull ache takes hold. ‘Hmm, so the fact you’re aching proves you did in fact climb the tree last night. You didn’t dream or imagine it.’
‘It would appear so.’
‘And this John Hammel is related to the missing teenager, I presume?’
‘Yes. A distant relative. I spoke with someone in the village yesterday but I was unable to confirm whether Sophia had actually gone missing. Her father seems to be the head of the village committee.’
‘Have you spoken to Mr Hammel?’
‘No. Not yet. I was … I was rather hoping you might fancy a trip to Wales to assist me in my investigation. I’m sure I could solve this case on my own, but I wouldn’t mind a little help.’
Stephen’s ears prick up and he sits straighter in his chair, clutching the phone tighter. The spilled coffee is now cold against his skin and it’s probably staining the carpet, but he doesn’t care.
Detective Williams has just given him what he’s been searching for. He wouldn’t have called Stephen if he didn't deem it serious or if he wasn’t in dire need of help.
‘I have a couple of questions, Detective.’
‘Okay …’
