Spoken Bones

by N. C. Lewis

  That surprised Fenella. But eager to hear what they'd found, she let it slip. "And what can you tell me?"

  Lisa flashed two neat rows of polished white teeth which gleamed even under the dull November sky. A Hollywood smile, Fenella thought, just like the crime scene techs on the television. Not that Lisa Levon would be out of place amongst film stars. Not with her looks.

  Lisa said, "Ever so smart."

  "Eh?"

  "Your new man Zack Jones. He's inside the crime scene tent. He is a fast worker, I must say." Again came the megawatt smile. "I attended to him personally."

  Fenella stared at Lisa. What on earth did she mean? And how was Zack Jones able to stay in the crime scene tent when Dexter got tossed out?

  Fenella said, "Any details on the victim's name?"

  "Miss Maureen Brian, seventy-six. Killed by a blow to the back of the head with a blunt instrument. Then was pushed or fell onto the bonfire where she was scorched by the embers."

  Fenella's neck became tense. She tilted it from side to side. It did not ease the stiffness. "Miss Brian was burnt to death?"

  Lisa shook her head. "The force of the blow would have killed her before the smoke and flames. We'll know more once the pathologist looks. But by the state of the body, I reckon she died late last night or very early this morning, say between midnight and 2 a.m. More than that, I can't speculate about."

  "DNA and fingerprints?"

  Lisa said, "It might take days, even a week or two."

  Fenella didn’t have that kind of time. It let things go cold. "Put a rush job on, can you?"

  "The labs are backed up." Lisa raised her hands, palms out. "I can't promise anything."

  Fenella said, "Did you find her handbag?"

  "Phone and purse. Seventy-five pounds and some small change."

  "Not a mugging gone wrong, then?"

  Lisa flashed a sad smile. "You're the detective; my job is to trawl through the bloody mess for clues." Theorising the reason for a crime was like maths to a pigeon for Lisa Levon. It made absolutely no sense. "If I live to one hundred, I'll never understand the criminal mind."

  Not to Fenella though. In the end it all came down to motive. Even the crazies had a reason. She folded her arms, speaking her thoughts out loud. "What was this seventy-six-year-old woman doing on the beach in the early hours of the morning? Why would anyone in this tiny seaside town take a blunt instrument with deadly force to her head?" And, she wondered, what secrets lay hidden behind the thin walls of the crime scene tent?

  Lisa shifted uneasily as if questions of who did it and why belonged to another domain. Not her world.

  "Dr Mackay is on his way. He's working locum in Carlisle." She glanced towards the main road. "Should be here soon."

  Fenella approved of Mackay. He was an old-school pathologist who spoke his mind and liked to visit the scene of a crime. He said it gave him a feel for the place. And Fenella liked that.

  Lisa said, "Suit up, Fenella, and come inside."

  Chapter 6

  Ten minutes later, Fenella stood in the crime scene tent. A sickening smell of burnt flesh and wood roiled her stomach. A thin mist hovered between the thin walls like an old-time London fog. It curled in a yellow haze and got into her eyes and up her nose. Even with a mask that filtered out the worst, Fenella had to cough. A terrible place for the living, she thought. A horrible place to die.

  She looked for the body, but couldn't see it through the haze and the sea of white-suited people.

  "This way," Lisa said.

  She followed Lisa through the tech-suited throng until she raised a gloved hand and Fenella got her first glimpse of Miss Maureen Brian. Her head turned away in revulsion. Her stomach churned in disgust. Yet, she forced her eyes to take another look.

  Dear God! What a stomach-retching sight.

  Fenella could watch a post mortem without missing a heartbeat. But crime scenes were more personal. They were the place where an actual human died. The harsh white light of the arc lamps exposed every detail. With sad eyes she took it all in.

  Her eyes made a slow pass over the stiff black corpse. Then she took in the image once more. Like an artist with only paint and a brush, each pass brought to life new facts. Until, at last, a bright image burnt deep in the grey cells of her mind. A new name and face added to her mind's memory banks of the innocent dead.

  When she'd seen enough, she turned her back and prayed they'd have an early breakthrough. Would they catch the killer through DNA evidence? A fingerprint or footprint or drop of the killer’s blood would do the trick. Amazing what you can work out from a soft footprint in the sand or a splash of dried blood.

  Fenella did a slow sweep to take in the full scene. Lisa Levon stood next to a white-suited figure. A man. She could tell by his stance, and he looked fit too. She strolled over to see what was going on and was surprised when he said," I'm Detective Constable Jones, ma'am."

  His handsome face stared at her through swollen eyelids. He looked green around the gills. Before Fenella responded, Lisa Levon placed an arm around his shoulder and said, "I gave him the okay to come in the crime scene tent. Can be quite a shock, the first time. How are you feeling now, luv?"

  He gave a weak smile.

  "First time, then?" asked Fenella. She wondered what Superintendent Jeffery would make of it all. Kittens. She'd have kittens. Her lips curved into a minuscule smile. "Better go lie down in my car, lad. The blue Morris Minor, you'll find it."

  "No, no. I can't," Jones replied, struggling to speak. "It's more the shock of it, knocked me for six. I still can't believe it!"

  The first time at a gruesome murder site affected police officers in different ways. Some threw up. Some went quiet; others burst out in nervous laughter. But Fenella had never seen a babbling response quite like this. She thought about her husband Ed. He was an artist just like Jones and fainted at the sight of a dead sparrow. Was Jones like that too?

  Fenella waited. Thunder roared in the distance. A scar of lightning streaked across the roof of the crime scene tent. Again came the booms and blasts and flashes of light so bright they drowned out the arc lamps. Raindrops smashed against the tent with the force of a demented heavy-metal drummer.

  Jones went to rake a hand over his chin, then recalled he wore gloves and stopped.

  "Ma'am. What I'm trying to say is that… I-I-I know Miss Brian. We were both in love."

  Chapter 7

  What the hell did she have on her hands here?

  Fenella tried to hide her shock but felt a vein pulse in the side of her neck. She twisted her head from side to side to ease the tension. How could Jones know Miss Maureen Brian? What was all this about love? The woman was forty years his senior, old enough to be his grandmother.

  "How on earth did you know Miss Brian?" Lisa Levon got in the question ahead of Fenella. Her voice crackled like sparks with hints of envy and rage. "I know you are a fast worker, but, my God, you've just got here from London. I mean, did you meet her on the train?"

  Jones said, "I know this sounds strange, even a bit woo-woo, but Maureen filled my life with a fresh joy." He stopped, took a gulp and went on. "She taught my art class at the Royal Academy, and is… was… one of a few folks who still use the old-style wet-plate collodion process to make photos. Art schools from all over the country sought her out to teach her method to their students. People even came from America to see what she did. And China too. It's a bit like the Welsh language. Not many people speak it, but those who do are enthusiastic."

  Fenella thought he sounded like Eduardo when he talked about his comic strips. There was a depth to Jones words her own unartistic mind couldn't quite grasp. A deep passion that lay beyond her sight. And there was something else, hidden between the words. She sensed it, but again couldn't quite grasp it, so she said, "Tell me about you and Miss Maureen Brian."

  Jones hesitated for a moment. He looked about as if he had just realised he was speaking to his boss. And in the heart of a crime scene tent with peopl
e in white suits flitting about like ghostly shadows. The pause drew out one, two, three beats. And continued through four and five.

  Fenella sensed his nerves, thought he might dry up for good. She felt she should say a few words to urge him on, but knew to keep her mouth shut and wait. She was good at the wait.

  Jones let out a breath and said, "Ma'am. It began with a project. Photos. I was in the last year of my master’s degree when I met her. And she agreed to review my research project. It was love at first sight for Maureen, and she made that very clear. I felt the same way." He stopped as if he had run out of words.

  Lisa Levon's voice rose to a half shout. "But she’s seventy-six… How is that even—"

  "Go on," Fenella said, raising a hand for Lisa to keep quiet. "Go on."

  Jones shook his head. "We both fell in love"—his voice trailed off but there was no hiding his passion—"with pictures captured by film. Not any film. Old-style collodion positive images. They are like black-and-white photos with a hint of brown. They were the love of Maureen Brian's life, and mine too."

  Fenella said, "So, Maureen Brian was an artist who took black-and-white photographs?"

  Jones shook his head. "More than that. She taught her process, yes. But she was also active in historical groups. Building preservation. We are… were about to write a paper on the history of the young girls who helped work lighthouses. Maureen was to travel northern England and the Scottish borders to take photos of those that still exist or the places where they once stood."

  "So, she was famous, then?" Fenella asked.

  "In the circle of those who use the wet-plate collodion process, she was a legend." Jones looked back to where Maureen Brian's corpse lay and shook his head. "One of life's genuine good people. Unique and graceful. Ma'am, killing Maureen Brian, well it's like stamping out the sun. Who in their right mind would want to do that?"

  Fenella took it all in without comment as the rain splashed against the roof of the crime scene tent. A picture of Maureen Brian began to take shape. It was still dim around the edges but bright in the centre. And she too wondered who would want to put out this light.

  Chapter 8

  The frigid air made Fenella gasp. She had just left the crime scene tent with Jones at her side. Rain fell in icy drops, hard as shards of ice. Yes, it was only day one, and she'd been at the crime scene for only a short while, but she could not shake the image of the battered body from her mind, and it drove her crazy that the rain might wash away any evidence.

  There were so many questions and a long list of known contacts to work through. They would start with close friends and widen the circle from there. A clear image would grow with time. But that was the thing. It would take time. She let out a second gasp, this time from frustration, and went over her mental checklist.

  Officers rushed to set up a tent, but the gusts of wind slowed their efforts. A line formed by the hot dog van. The man who served the food moved as though time would soon run out. Even though he worked fast, the wall of odd-sized umbrellas moved as slow as a sludge-filled stream. Then Fenella saw Earp and Dexter. They huddled under a large golf umbrella and spoke in quiet tones. When she walked over, Dexter shifted his umbrella over her head.

  "There you go, Guv. Keep you dry."

  Fenella caught a whiff of sour whisky on his breath. They'd have words later, of course, but for now she said, "Earp, go and have a word with the gawkers."

  Despite the rain, the crowd had swelled. Fenella scanned the faces and wondered at the speed at which bad news travels. A man in a clown's wig held two wood batons under his arm. An upturned top hat rested by his feet. Ready to perform and ready for donations once the rain eased. He'll do a nice trade, Fenella thought. Then she saw the girl in the orange jacket, face so pale she looked like death or a Goth but for the short skirt and Doc Martens. And the large man with the huge face and feral eyes remained where she'd last seen him, now with his hood up.

  Fenella continued to speak. "I want the names of those who were on the sands this morning. And find out what time they closed the beach last night."

  Earp was off before Fenella finished her sentence. Keen, she thought, and experienced. "Dexter, go with him. Jones, with me."

  Dexter didn’t move. In part because he still held the umbrella over her head. Tiny bullets of frigid rain splashed against his face. But still he did not move, jaw set firm, as though the weather were a mirage.

  "Guv. A Mr Noel O'Sullivan found the body at seven forty-five this morning. He made the call from his mobile phone and said there was no rush because he knew she was dead."

  "Responding officer?" Fenella asked.

  "Constable Phoebe arrived six minutes after Noel O'Sullivan's call. He looked around the crime scene and then called for backup." Dexter let out a slow breath. "He's as pale as a ghost, ma'am. He knew Miss Brian."

  Fenella said, "How did Constable Phoebe know Miss Brian?"

  "Through his wife," Dexter replied.

  "They were friends?"

  "Maureen is the godmother for one of his boys." Dexter rubbed his chin. "And I'm godfather for his daughter. I guess we must have met at some do or other, but I don't recall."

  Fenella saw the sharp glint in Dexter's eyes. Maureen Brian's death was personal. He'll be like a dog at a bone now. Good! She glanced at the sky with its thick sheets of clouds and hoped the rain would leave them a bite to chew on. A forensic clue to place their investigation on a solid path.

  She stared at the crime scene tent and wondered what they would find. She knew forensics was hard, and processing crime scenes was hard. They would be meticulous and make pages of notes. But crawling in the damp ash-laden sand in a tent filled with the stench of death was not glamorous. Not like television where the techs’ suits were always white and clean. It was hot and sweaty and uncomfortable, and most of all, a team effort.

  She hoped they would find something they could use, but knew she couldn't rely on it. Without a forensic clue, it was down to good old-fashioned policing—identify and eliminate. Not a quick process. Fenella glanced back at the sky and thought the rain might get worse. Better do a bit of old-style face-to-face, she thought. And she'd start with the person who found the body.

  She turned to Dexter and said, "Jones and I will have a quiet word with Mr O'Sullivan. See if we can get his statement while it is all fresh in his mind."

  "He is in Constable Phoebe's patrol car," Dexter replied. "Keep the umbrella, Guv." Dexter turned to leave but stopped and pointed at the main road. Then he swore.

  A truck engine growled. A blur of red and green eased through the sheets of rain. It came to a stop close to the hot dog van. Port Saint Giles locals knew those colours well. The logo of the town square television news station. A mauve and black minivan followed—the Port Saint Giles news radio station van. And behind it, a dark-green, beat-up Ford sedan.

  Fenella sighed. They'd barely got a start at the crime scene and now the media were here. It was only a matter of time before the BBC showed up. But it was the battered, low-slung green Ford sedan she watched as the vehicles cut their engines.

  Rodney Rawlings owned the Ford. He was a reporter for the Westmorland News, a local paper that sold in towns across Cumbria. Years of work on the town news beat had made his head tough and soiled his liver. He drank hard, chased stories like a fox, and foxed around women like a dog. No one dared mess with Rodney. He knew where the skeletons lay.

  Thunder rolled across the dark sky. It shook loose more pellets of icy rain. Not that it dimmed the thrilled hum of the crowd. Their necks craned to watch as the crews burst from their vans. There was a brief beat of chaos as the journalists glanced around like bees on the hunt for honey. A voice yelled, "They are over there, by the crime scene tape."

  The pack ran towards the detectives, their very microphones buzzing like bees.

  "An update please," said a slim woman. She had bleached hair and Botoxed lips and a nose which turned up at the tip. Fenella knew her from lunchtime televisio
n news. "Can you give a word to our viewers, to help calm their nerves?"

  "Stand back," Constable Crowther said. He stepped between the reporters and the detectives and waved his arms. "Do not cross the police tape. Stand well back, please."

  A scruffy man in a ragged duffel coat pushed forward. "Tim Tarrant, Port Saint Giles radio host. We'll broadcast live from the scene all morning. On air in half an hour. What have you got for us, Inspector Sallow?"

  Fenella would have ignored their questions but for a ratty-faced man with sharp eyes who shoved his way through the throng. He nodded at Constable Crowther, then ducked under the crime scene tape like a snake slips out of its den.

  Rodney Rawlings said, "Got anything for me Fenella?" His voice rattled with the hollow ring of a smoker. "A nice bit of juice that we can slap on the front page."

  Fenella said, "What I can tell you is that this was no accident. First signs suggest a vicious attack."

  "Name?" The question came from the slender woman with bleached hair and Botoxed lips. "Can you give us a name?"

  "Miss Maureen Brian, aged seventy-six. A local woman. We ask anyone who knew her to contact the town police station. We are trying to trace her family."

  Rawlings rubbed a hand over his chin and said, "Is there a link?"

  Fenella frowned. Was there another angle to the death? An angle she hadn't picked up on yet? An angle that had brought the media scurrying like an army of scavenging ants?

  "Link?" she didn't like to ask.

  Rawlings peeled his lips into a grin. He liked to be one step ahead of the police. "Miss Brian sat on the Lighthouse Restoration Board." He paused a beat. "Chaired by Chief Constable Rae. Any thoughts about Mr Shred? Is Maureen Brian's death linked to Hamilton Perkins?"