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London. This was a bad idea. The book. The murders. Paul. He wanted to go back to normality.
    He smiled to himself as he dragged himself out of the past. Marco needed to be mentioned here. He was the first to reach Paul’s home that night, the one who had cuffed him. He was this backbencher local cop in the town that Wattson was really fond of, and he would hang around Wattson helping him with trekking around Walhalla. Richard had occasionally met him, and Marco had taken him along to all the dump sites. Quirky guy, but he was fun to be with. The arrest of Paul made him a local hero, and he was grateful to Richard for what went down that night.

Chapter 6
     
    Pulling himself out from those horrific memoirs of the murders and Paul, he returned to the little sign that read “Applecross” .He turned off his engine, and stopped in front of an iron gate. The sign outside suggested it was a bed and breakfast. He hoped he was at the right place, as all he could think of was crashing somewhere for 2 days straight. And he was hungry. End of the world hungry. He looked around. Across the street as told to him, there was Martha’s café, which was thankfully open. The little town didn’t have too many people about, but then it was past 10 in the night. He prayed he’d get a room at this hour. He couldn’t stand sleeping on the car seat anymore. He secured his car, double checked his windows and slung his backpack over his shoulders. He could hear a faint music from the kitchens followed by the alluring smell of soup. His stomach grumbled loudly. He struck the bell twice – funny little thing hanging from the door. He looked around. The moon shone with an exceptional brilliance tonight. He could make out the grapevines circling the door and up the house. It could almost resemble a picture from those old time movies – bungalows, huge windows and creepers. He rang the bell again. He could make out low voices and a TV blaring inside. He hoped he wasn’t going to be turned away as a fugitive- even though his unshaven face and dirty clothes did give him the look. He heard feet shuffling and the clang of utensils, and thankfully, the door opened. A short plump woman stood staring at him. She strained her neck to look behind him, as if checking to see if there were other criminals that he brought along with him. After a silence that seemed to stretch forever, he cleared his voice and greeted her. Martha was still unsure as to what to make of this man standing at her doorstep when half the town was asleep.
    “Are you looking for someone?”
    Richard didn’t exactly know how to respond to the question. He stared at her for some time, and stammered, “I’m new in town... just arrived…”
    “Figured as much!”
    “Err... well…” he just couldn’t recall the name of the gas station owner, which would be utterly rude to start off with. Joe. That was the name, he recalled, relieved.
    “Joe said, I could get a room to stay here…”
    “Ahh..!! Joe did talk of a new guy in town... Here for a few days?”
    Richard nodded, as he was ushered in. He was mildly surprised at not being questioned any further- how trusting are these folks to let a guy just walk in the middle of the night? Martha served coffee and sat on her couch to scrutinize the city guy in front of him – of so like London, with the expensive clothes, gelled hair and that car. He just kept looking all around him, searching for the fancy LCDs or coffee machines maybe?! She had no idea how to handle these people – but she never turned anyone away from her door. Besides she could spare a room for the seemingly harmless fellow, she chuckled.
    “Something amusing, Mrs. Lanson?”
    “No… I’m sorry I didn’t even ask your name..?”
    “Rich... Rick Hal… Rick Hold!”
    “My! I’ve never seen anyone stammer so much with their name ...” Richard shifted uncomfortably in his chair- he had always been lame at lying, surprising for a writer certainly. He just