Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
CHAPTER ONE
Thirty-four-year-old Sergeant Keya Varma turned up the volume of her car radio and enthusiastically sang along to Katrina and the Waves’ Walking on Sunshine, playing on the local Corinium Radio station.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves of an avenue of tall, green-leafed beech trees, creating pools of light on the tarmac road.
It was mid-June, but summer had come slowly to the Cotswolds this year. After some fine weather in April, May had been a disappointing washout, and even the beginning of June had been damp and grey. But now, as the summer solstice and Midsummer’s Day approached, the sun was shining, and the temperature was finally rising.
Keya sped along in her police Ford Focus, with its distinctive blue and yellow markings, to the wonderfully named villages of Lower, Little and Great Rollright on the northerly edge of the Cotswolds, to meet members of the Rollright Trust.
Spotting a car pulling out of a lay-by up ahead, she slowed down and parked beside the busy country road, which was a cut through between the A436 and A3400.
Using the rearview mirror, she adjusted her flat black hat with its black and white chequerboard band, before picking up her pen and notebook. She checked her phone, but there was no signal at this high point of the Cotswolds.
She had arrived at The Rollright Stones, an ancient monument dating back thousands of years.
When she’d first been contacted to provide advice in her role as the Cotswolds’ Rural Engagement Officer, she’d been surprised to learn of a stone circle in the same vein as Stonehenge in her area. But as she emerged from a small coppice beside a field of green stalked wheat, she gazed disappointedly at a ring of irregular shaped stones, none of which was more than a metre tall.
It was a far cry from the one time she’d visited Stonehenge. Its huge rectangular rocks, some of which balanced on top of others, left visitors marvelling and wondering how the ancient druids had created the sacred monument without modern-day cranes and lifting equipment.
“Sergeant Varma?” called an authoritative male voice.
She turned and watched as a man and a woman approached along the track beside the wheat field. Both were of retirement age, but they made an odd couple.
In spite of the balmy weather, the man was wearing a tweed suit and a brown trilby hat, and he marched along despite his slight stoop. The curly, grey-haired woman, who scuttled to keep up with him, was painfully thin. She was wearing a plum-coloured skirt, which reached to her calves, and a pair of solid walking boots, with thick red socks poking out of the tops of them. She was carrying a wicker basket.
“I’m Dr Reid,” the man announced as he reached Keya and held out his hand.
Keya shook it and found the doctor’s grip firm but the gesture fleeting.
“Chairman of the Standing Stones Heritage Committee, and this is our secretary, Dora Potts.”
“Hello,” Dora replied, smiling at Keya. “It’s awfully kind of you to meet us like this.”
“It’s what she’s paid to do,” snapped the doctor.
“Yes, of course, Silas,” Dora muttered, glancing apologetically at her companion.
“Right. Summer Solstice. The bane of our committee’s existence,” began Dr Reid.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Aurora?” Dora suggested hesitantly.
“If she can’t be here on time, she can’t expect to have a view,” declared Dr Reid as he removed his hat and fanned his reddening face.
“Cooee. I’m not late, am I?” a voice called, and Keya turned towards the edge of the wheat field and watched a brightly clad woman emerge through a metal kissing gate.
