Detective-inspector White looked his phone for the umpteenth time. Where was Peters? He'd been gone three hours now and White's stomach kept rumbling. He felt almost ill with hunger.
To distract himself from thoughts of a bacon butty – he still hadn't managed to dismiss the image after Peters had brought it up – he made another circuit of the monument, pausing at the entrance to listen for any sign of activity. Nothing yet, but that didn't mean there wouldn't be. It was approaching mid-afternoon already.
His phone chimed and he jumped, unaware he could get a signal all the way out here. He thumbed the inbox to find a message from Beryl. What do you want for dinner? He sat to text back, needing to rest the phone on his knee to type with two fingers on the on-screen keyboard. Doubt I'll be back for dinner. Put something in the oven for me. His stomach rumbled again. He could just go a slice of Beryl's meat pie with a few potatoes right now.
A sudden tapping alerted him and he stood, the phone still in his hand as he searched for the source of the sound. It continued long enough for him to find a thrush crushing the shell of a garden snail against a flat chunk of grey flint and he relaxed, watching it pick through the fragments to extract the gastropod. It regarded him with one beady black eye for several seconds before flying off.
White sighed and returned to the stone he'd been using as a seat, pulling out his phone again to laboriously type his daily activity report.