The Drop Pot Man by K Saunders
At first glance it appears to be a straightforward shooting accident…
After ten years with the Greater Manchester Police, Detective Inspector Clare Morell thought she’d seen a lot of baffling cases; but newly assigned to deep in the heart of the West Country, she finds herself in an unfamiliar world. There are shepherds and Romanys, who speak in strange tongues; a Lord Byron lookalike army captain and a lethal killer who just might be an ETA trained hit-man. The strange lowland heath in the beat where she now works triggers an old childhood fear and there is the growing sense that her new home is not only disturbing but somehow threatening…
And then… there’s Ellis.
Clare was standing in front of her bedroom mirror. She had changed into a Gap T-shirt – bought at the time when a friend had commented that their shade card ranged the full gamut from light khaki to very light khaki – and had put on a pair of close-fitting jeans. She slipped on an old leather jacket she’d not worn in a while and then sat on the bed to pull on the unusual boots she’d bought in Manchester’s Northern Quarter.
Her mobile rang. ‘Hi, I’ll be right down.’ It was Karen Garland. They were going to Winterstone Stables. Clare had not phoned: an old boss had once told her to always try and catch people off-guard, even if it meant a wasted journey.
A young woman, wearing a blouson and with her jeans tucked into boots, was standing on the steps to the flats. Clare did a double-take. She’d not seen Karen with her long hair loose before, and involuntary ran her hand through her own.
Perhaps it’s too short?
Karen looked her up and down. ‘Nice one, boss – We’ll do.’’
In the centre of the Old Barrack’s square was a 4×4, whose colour was difficult to discern due to the fact that the bodywork appeared to have been customised with what looked like an even coating of –
‘Is that shit?’ pointed Clare.
‘Don’t ask – it’s my brother’s off-roader. The inside’s clean.’ She caught the expression on Clare’s face, ‘Well, clean … ish. I thought it would be useful if we want to cut back over the old drovers’ road.’
‘I’m not entirely convinced that travelling around in a four wheel cow-pat is the best way not to draw too much attention to ourselves,’ grumbled Clare as she climbed in through the passenger door.
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