Page 47 of His Worst Crime

“Is it that obvious?” Jaume asked, smiling.

“Yeah, I’m afraid so,” she laughed, immediately blushing across her pale, freckled face. “Though come back wearing your uniforms next time and I’ll let you drink on the house.”

Jaume grinned back.

“Jaume, we’re on duty,” Ramon warned.

“Spoilsport,” the barmaid shot at him, smiling wickedly. “And here I was thinking I could convince you lot to give us a Full Monty for charity.”

“So we’re here about the—“

“The stud break-in?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Is it such common knowledge?”

“Last census, this village mustered eighty-seven souls, many of them out-of-towners. The attack on Simon Howard, and Davey’s scarpering was the biggest event this village has seen since the millennium bug. I wish I could tell you that I’m our burg’s Sherlock Holmes, but I’m afraid it isn’t rocket science.”

“Well, yeah, you’re right. Do you know where we can find Owen?”

She nodded towards a window nook not far from the door, where a slumped figure was staring at an almost-empty pint on the table before him.

“Take him a pint of his regular, and it might help unseal his lips.”

“Which is?”

“Here, Raven’s Doom,” she said, already pouring the pint. “Just don’t let on I said anything, and….” She leaned forward, so that her face hovered just a few inches from Ramon’s and Jaume’s. “Be gentle on him. He hates himself enough as it is.”

“Thanks. Oh, and we were supposed to meet a police liaison officer here, from the North Yorkshire Police? An officer Beaton?”

“Oh, Clive? He’ll be along eventually. He isn’t the most punctual of souls. But he likes to stop in here for the odd cheeky half at midday.”

As they carried their drinks across to Owen’s table, Jaume murmured at Ramon, “Remember that name, Raven’s Doom. I want to try that as soon as we’re off duty.”

Ramon just shook his head, instead trying to work out what approach to take with Davey’s brother. Owen looked up as they approached the table.

“Excuse me,” Ramon said. “The barmaid told me that Raven’s Doom is your brew? She poured me this one by mistake.”

Owen nodded at them.

“Thanks, mate.”

If he thought it was odd that the barmaid would pour a beer instead of a Coke by mistake, he said nothing, just finishing off his old pint and pulling the fresh one toward him.

“You coppers? Spanish coppers? Look, I told the last lot, I’ve got no idea where Davey nor Ned are.”

Although there was a visible family resemblance, Owen was taller and slimmer than Davey. His nose was more prominent, and his blond hair, which he wore down around his shoulders, was straighter.

“We’re from the Mounted Unit of the Catalan Police,” Ramon said. How did everyone here know they were police? Was it that obvious? It wasn’t as if they were even in uniform. “We’re—“

“So this is about Davey? Listen, I told you guys, I’ve got no idea where he is, and I had nothing to do—“

“Just listen,” Ramon interrupted. “Davey’s been in an accident. He’s in hospital in Barcelona… in a coma.”

“Oh shit!” The defensiveness Owen had shown up until that point seemed to crumble. “What happened? Is he OK?”

“He was hitchhiking. He’d accepted a ride in a lorry which turned over. He’s stable, but it’s too soon to say…”

“Oh no…” Owen leaned both elbows on the table, his beer forgotten, and put his head in his hands. “Not little Davey, poor kid.”