even before he’d opened his mouth to say hello, he was up, striding across the vestry, heading for the young woman who might be wearing the same violet colour as her eyes, only it was impossible to be sure because he’d already taken her in his arms, was far too close to focus on what she was wearing, and she was smiling up at him …
Dream on, Harry. He hadn’t moved from his desk, was still staring stupidly across the room, and yes, she was wearing violet, a large, loose sweater over tight black jeans tucked into long boots; and that was a very unclerical thought he was having about those boots on bare legs.
‘You didn’t come,’ she said, one hand on the doorframe, the other holding the door ajar.
Harry leaned back in his chair. Five seconds it would take him to cross the room, kick the door shut and put the fantasy into action. ‘The other love of my life turned up with a bottle of Irish,’ he said. ‘After an hour, driving really wasn’t an option for either of us; and I hope he’s been suffering all day as well.’
‘DCS Rushton?’ she asked, as her cheeks glowed a little pinker.
‘The very same.’ Would it be five seconds? He could probably do it in four, if he leaped over the desk.
‘How was he?’ She stepped forward, collecting her stick from where it had been leaning against the doorframe, and allowed the door to fall shut.
If he leaped over the desk, he’d be sick.
‘Terrified he’s going to be forced into early retirement before the case is solved,’ he said. ‘At a complete loss to know what to do next. I told him I knew just how he felt and the two of us poured each other another drink.’
Her smile faded as footsteps approached outside. Harry waited to see if they were heading for the vestry but they continued on down the path.
‘I need you to tell me what’s been going on here,’ she said. ‘It’s important.’
Harry sighed. He really, really didn’t want to get into all that now with Evi. All he wanted to do was step forward, pull her away from that door and …
She let her head fall on to one side, looked him directly in the eyes. ‘Please,’ she said.
‘OK, OK.’
In as few words as possible, he filled her in about every weird thing that had happened to him since his arrival in Heptonclough: the whispered, threatening voices; his constant sense that he wasn’t alone in the church; the smashed effigy that bore a remarkable resemblance to Millie; and his own personal favourite: drinking blood from a Communion chalice. When he’d finished, she was silent.
‘Can I sit down?’ she asked, after a moment.
He pulled a chair in front of the desk and she sank into it, a frown of pain creasing her forehead. Then she looked up at him. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘Can’t answer that one in a hurry. Does any of it make any sense?’
She shook her head. ‘Not really. But I think I’m getting closer to finding out who Ebba is. That’s why I came up. My laptop’s in my bag. Could you get it, please?’
Harry retrieved Evi’s large, black leather bag from where she’d left it by the door and put it on the desk in front of her. While she pulled out and switched on the slim computer, he brought a chair round the desk so that they were sitting side by side. Evi opened up a window and turned the screen so that Harry could see it. It was a page from a medical reference site. His eyes went to the title at the top.
‘Congenital hypothyroidism,’ he read and turned to her for confirmation. She nodded.
‘Once Tom had Joe’s drawing to jog his memory, he was able to give me a very detailed description of the girl,’ she said. ‘The goitre is what really gives it away, though.’
‘What is it, exactly?’ asked Harry, who’d been scanning the text beneath the heading, unable to make much sense of the medical jargon.
‘Basically, a shortage in the body of the hormone thyroxin,’ said Evi. She was just inches away from him. He could smell her sweet, warm scent, too delicate to be perfume, maybe soap, body lotion. He had to concentrate.
‘Thyroxin is produced by the thyroid gland in the neck,’ she was saying. ‘If we don’t have enough of it we can’t grow properly and we can’t develop as we should. The