by N. C. Lewis
"Anyone corroborate that—your husband?"
"I'm divorced. My husband was rather difficult. Controlling. That is why I came to Port Saint Giles, to get away from the memories. I live alone."
"And you've no inkling who would want to harm Miss Maureen Brian?"
Audrey Robin slowly shook her head. "I've absolutely no idea who might have killed her, but I hope you catch them soon."
Chapter 11
No one saw Cathy Wallace's tears.
It was the day after they discovered the body on the beach. She bent down over the sink in the fake pinewood bathroom and breathed in and out in short bursts. A nightmare she could no longer remember had jerked her from sleep, but it was the tune running through her head that kept her awake. What was it called? She didn’t know. But it made her cry and she couldn’t make the tears go away.
A hot shower might ease the sick feeling she felt in the pit of her gut. But she groaned when she opened the cracked plastic door where mould curled around the edges. There was grime and stink everywhere. Her dad hadn't cleaned up after himself. He never did when he came home drunk. Taking care of him was a lot of work, but she had promised her mum to look after him. Though Mum had done little of it herself while alive.
She closed the narrow shower door. She couldn't face that, would clean it till it sparkled like new after school. But not now. Too early in the morning. She shoved the door shut and opened the small square window that rattled and shook when the wind picked up. It shifted an inch on its rusted hinge. Cold air flowed in. Then Cathy looked in the cracked mirror of the medicine cabinet. More spots. She'd been up since dawn, and swore there were one or two more.
Cathy closed the lid on the toilet and sat down to think about last night. She'd met Belinda Yates. They sat on a bench on the pier by the lighthouse. Under the florid orange glow of a rusted streetlamp, they drank cans of cheap long-life lager. Six cans of the brew, bought by Belinda from the newsagent opposite the launderette. The owner knew she was underage, sold booze to all the school kids, and made a nice profit in the bargain.
They gossiped and laughed and shared the first can. Like blood sisters, they took sips in turn. Then each cracked open a second which they sipped like fine wine. Cathy wore red lipstick and painted her fingernails to feel more grown up.
After a short while the ale kicked in. Cathy let out a wild laugh. Belinda joined in. They giggled and chuckled without words being spoken. It was as if their minds had become one. Better than blood sisters. Very best friends who life would not split apart.
A frigid blast from the Solway Firth whistled across the pier. The wind howled as if to warn that rain would soon come to drench anyone outside. They drew their coats tight and raised their hoods, but did not move from the bench.
They huddled against the wind with their cheap brew and Cathy spun one of her fantastic tales. This time about a house in a country with a pond and a duck that laid eggs which hatched into children with wings. The children looked like angels but were devils inside. One child became Cathy. She lowered her voice to a whisper and glanced about to make sure no one was there. Then she told a gruesome tale of what one of the angel children did to the owner of Logan's Bakery. Mr Eye, Cathy called him in her tale, for his eyes roamed over the counter girls, peeling away their clothes as his tongue darted out. Belinda giggled with delight and urged her on to tell more.
When the story was over, Belinda said, "But you wouldn't really kill someone, would you?"
Footsteps shuffled along the pier. Through the dark, a broad shadow took form. A gang of schoolboys, all teens, appeared from the gloom. They slouched by and jeered and whistled and made rude gestures. But Belinda grinned. She yelled their names, and told each boy with delicious delight what she'd tell their mothers when she next served their crusty cobs from behind the counter at Logan's Bakery.
That shut them up fast. Everyone in school knew Belinda had no fear and would do what she said she would do. They pulled up their hoodies and scattered. Into the darkness they flew. The slap of their footsteps faded until all that was left was the quiet slosh of water against the barnacled pilings below.
"Stupid twits," Cathy mumbled under her breath. She knew every one of them by name, but didn’t have Belinda's confidence to tell their mothers. Her friend confronted problems. Cathy hid and made tales. And once again she knew that was the thing she liked about her friend.
"Nothing but boys," Belinda replied, the grin still on her face. "Harmless; not children, but not quite men either." She rolled her eyes playfully. "You ought to come live with me for a while. Elizabeth has an army of little monsters who are always up to no good. But I've never seen her raise her voice, let alone slap any of them."
Cathy marvelled at the easy way Belinda spoke with older folk. It was Mrs Collins to her or Mrs Elizabeth when she hung out at their house, while Belinda called her Liz.
Cathy said, "Like it at Mrs Elizabeth's place, don't you?"
"Love it!"
Cathy took a long sip from her can. "I still think a quick clip round the earhole would set those lads right about how to treat women."
"Oh come on! My dad was quick with his fists, and Mum was just as bad—that's how I ended up in foster care."
"I'm sorry." Cathy wondered why her mouth always ran ahead of her brain. Not like Belinda who spoke with maturity. Like a mother. So sensible. And Cathy liked that.
Belinda gave Cathy a quick hug, then said, "They are only a bunch of silly boys out for some teenage fun. In a year or two you'll be batting your eyelids at them. Anyway, it's not like they go about cracking old ladies on the back of the head and shoving them onto the bonfire." She pulled a tissue from her pocket, blew hard. "I'm so sorry about what happened to Maureen."
"Miss Brian?" Cathy knew who she was talking about but asked anyway. She didn’t like to think about what happened.
"Aye. I can't stop crying when I think about it." Belinda fished around in her pocket and this time pulled out a cloth handkerchief. "She was… lovely. I mean, I know what the police are saying but, it just had to be an accident, didn’t it?" She gazed at Cathy with watchful eyes. "It was an accident, wasn't it, Cathy?"
Cathy didn't like the way she stared at her. It made her feel uneasy. What did she know? So, she tried to spin a tale about Miss Brian getting drunk on a thimble of beer, and how, dizzy and dazed, she stumbled on a chunk of driftwood and cracked her head as she rolled onto the glowing embers.
"See," Cathy said. "It really was just a silly trip and a fall. An accident."
But the entire town knew it was murder, and when Cathy finished her story, the laughter stopped and the conversation turned sour.
"Bonfire Night," Belinda began, drawing out the two words as if they were poisonous pus. "Where did you go?"
"Nowhere."
Belinda just stared at her and didn’t say anything.
"Oh, that," Cathy said after five beats. "Well, you know how it is."
"No. Tell me."
Cathy crossed her fingers and decided to say nothing. She felt uneasy at the silence that followed until a childlike guilt urged her to speak. "I wasn't gone for long, was I?"
"Long enough to be seen under the pier with a mysterious man."
Cathy gulped a mouthful of lager, almost gagging at the bitter taste. She thought she had been careful, and anyway, she'd left overweight Belinda at the bonfire.
"Loo break. You know how it is."
Belinda sipped from her can, her eyes focused on Cathy's face like beams of white light.
"Who is he?"
"Drinking this cheap brew isn't good for me," Cathy said. "My bladder feels like it has shrunk to half its usual size. Belinda do you think that is normal?"
"You are still a child, Cathy."
"I'm sixteen and can get married."
"A child."
"Look who's talking."
"Tell me what happened."
But this time Cathy kept her lips sealed. She thought of her primary schoolteacher,
Mr Stanhope, and pretended to be a palmate newt. She always became a newt when she didn’t want to talk. She shifted on the bench as she wriggled deep into the dark weeds of the Port Saint Giles town square pond.
"Cathy, what are you doing?"
She didn’t answer.
"You're bonkers." Belinda's eyes never left Cathy’s face.
"I'm not."
Belinda lowered her voice. "He might be the killer!"
"Don’t be daft."
"Ah, so you did meet a man!"
"None of your business."
"Aren’t we best friends?"
Cathy shrugged and sipped from the can. "You know where I went."
"To the loo, you said, but you were seen under the pier with Mr Mysterious. Gorgeous. Name?"
"It's not what you think." Cathy put her lager can on the slatted beams beside the bench, then waved a hand vaguely. "Belinda, there is no Mr Mysterious; I went to pee."
For several minutes they sat huddled on the bench in silence as a wind picked up from the sea. It blew sharp gusts of chill which whipped up the water against the barnacled pilings so it sounded like voices roaring at a foul in a football match.
"Then I'll go to the police." Belinda toyed with her lager can. "They are asking for people to come forward with anything unusual. If I do, they'll want the pervert's name, so you might as well tell me and save yourself the trouble."
Cathy laughed. Her cackles rose until they sounded like the frantic screams of a herring gull. And then Belinda whined and charmed and cried about being best friends. Then she spat out spite. But Cathy wouldn’t say.
Belinda stormed off.
Cathy sat on the bench in the cold and dark and drank until she'd drained the final three cans. Then she got up and staggered home.
Chapter 12
The morning brightened. A dull sky gloomed through the open bathroom window. Cathy dabbed away the last traces of lipstick. It left a bright red smear on the tissue. She stared at it and wished she'd gone easier on yesterday's beer. A tune played in her head as she swatted away tears.
From outside the door came heavy footsteps. A fist pounded the bathroom door.
"You in there, Cathy?"
"Won't be long, Dad. Getting ready for school."
"Well hurry up, I need to dump a motherload. And for God’s sake, wear your uniform today."
She heard his footsteps shuffle away, and a moment later, through the thin walls of their plywood and corrugated-metal cabin, the sound of voices on the television.
"Dull with a light drizzle and a gentle breeze," said the weather reporter in an enthusiastic voice. "With a high of eight degrees Celsius; that's forty-six Fahrenheit for those who prefer old money."
Cathy ran the sink tap and splashed water over her face. It woke her up. Her thoughts drifted to Miss Maureen Brian. An accident, wasn’t it? That's what she'd told Belinda. And her friend lapped it up, believed every word of her story. Hadn't she? Sure, they'd fallen out, but that was nothing new. Belinda would come creeping back for more outlandish tales just like she always did. Best not say any more about Miss Maureen Brian and what happened on Bonfire Night. Her stomach turned over. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.
"Got some fried chicken leftovers from last night. Want me to warm up a leg for your breakfast?" The words, from her dad, came out almost musically, all singsong and treble so that Cathy knew he'd already fuelled his body with a hit and would be good until later that day. "Hey, there are two bags of fries as well. Feast time!"
The sharp bang of plates echoed from the kitchen. Then came the creak of the rusty microwave door. Cathy's stomach lurched. Sour vomit spewed from her throat. The vile stench tore at her nostrils as she doubled over to unload another splashdown. From the television, she heard the headline news, and moments later, the singsong voice of her dad.
"Poor sod. Beaten and pushed onto the bonfire and the stupid police haven't got a clue. Those buggers couldn't catch a fly trapped in a bottle."
The microwave pinged.
Cathy retched again. She fished about in the sink for the plughole, then wiggled her finger to unblock the drain.
"Breakfast's ready. Come on Cathy, hurry, else it will get cold." Her dad went quiet for half a minute. "Hey, did you hear that? Miss Maureen Brian was an artist?" The question mingled with the creak of the microwave door and rustle of packaging. "The newsreader just said her latest snapshots went for a pretty penny. Wouldn’t have to go out to beg and rob if I had a couple of those in my back pocket, would I, luv?"
Cathy's skin prickled. She wished he wasn’t so brazen about his thieving. Just like those teenage boys. Why couldn’t her dad be like a cat burglar in the movies? They worked under cover of night with a hidden daytime identity the police didn’t know about. Instead, her dad, the balding beatnik druggy known by every police officer between here and Carlisle, bungled his jobs in the glare of bright daylight and CCTV cameras. Still, he didn’t bail on life like her mum, and her dad put food on the table.
"Hurry up, Cathy, my arse is about to explode!" He spoke as if his mouth were filled with food. "The newsreader says there is going to be a conference at the town hall. Waste of taxpayers’ money. I tell you, there's more chance of me dumping right here on the carpet than the police catching Miss Brian's killer."
"Almost done."
Cathy wiped the sink clean, taking her time to get it all. Tears came as she hummed the tune trapped in her head. What is it called? No answer came. But her lips pursed, turning the hum into a whistle and she wasn’t sure whether that thrilled or infuriated her.
Chapter 13
That same morning, Fenella stood at the whiteboard in Incident Room A and breathed in the aroma of coffee and aftershave. She held a cup of the hot brew in her hand and kept her face blank as she watched the team amble into the room. No rush. They'd done this a hundred times before. A stroll to the coffee pot, pour, and take a seat. Familiar sights and sounds. The scrape of a chair against the tile floor. The soft slosh of coffee as it poured into paper cups. The glug of the tea urn. And the hushed voices. Everyone keen. They knew it was a big day. The first full day of the hunt.
Good, a full house.
For several minutes, she sipped and watched. Stragglers shuffled into the room, but her core team were in place. They had arrived even before she first walked into the room. Earp leaned backwards, sipping his cup. Jones opened his laptop and fired it up, then took a gulp from his small coffee cup. Dexter prowled three walls of the windowless room and stopped at the coffee pot to pour. His third.
Sound came from the hallway. People poured into the room. The last-minute rush. They snatched up coffees and hurried to find seats. Within a few seconds, it was standing room only.
Fenella's lips quirked at the corners but she stifled the grin. Now was not the time for showboating. Still, she felt good about this one. And word had flown around the station that if they didn't crack it, the big guns from Carlisle would come in. Now everyone saw it as a chance to stick it to headquarters. Show the big shots what a small-town police force could do.
Fenella smiled when Tess Allen came into the room and pushed her way through the throng. She nabbed a seat on the front row when its owner got up for a tea. Fenella liked Tess. The press officer was a whizz in front of the camera.
The quiet murmur rose to a buzz. Fenella knew the noise. It sounded like the fast beat of bee wings. A high-pitched drone which hummed as though it were a wild beast about to attack. The best investigations started this way. Anticipation mixed with excitement and adrenaline. This is why they signed up for the job. She hoped they'd get a quick result, because the buzz didn't last. It would be gone in a day or two. After weeks of hard slogging, interest would fade. Even the best detectives got jaded at the edges. Chasing down dead ends did that to you.
As she considered her opening lines, Constable Crowther walked into the room. Looks tired. How is his wife?
Then she noticed Constable Phoebe. He stood next to the tea urn, arms crossed
and as still as a statue. He'd found Miss Brian's body. She was a good friend of the wife. His body language told Fenella everything, and she made a mental note to make time to pay him and his wife a visit. Take them a meal and have a quiet talk with the wife. Get her view on Maureen Brian. Two birds with one stone. Useful. And she'd have a quick chat with Dexter about Phoebe's family. Godfather to their daughter, isn't he?
The buzz grew louder. If the beast wasn't fed, it would sting.
It was time to begin.
Fenella let out a slow breath and tilted her neck from side to side. The tension eased, her mind kicked into high gear, and she waved for Tess Allen to join her at the front. Then she pointed to the gruesome crime scene photograph of Miss Maureen Brian. It hung at a sharp slant, pinned by magnetic force to the whiteboard.
"What do we know?" Fenella's question stilled the room. The quiet tick of the clock and glug of the tea urn rang out like shouts. "Miss Maureen Brian, seventy-six, killed late Bonfire Night or early the following morning on the beach, a fatal blow to the back of the head. Nasty." She stopped, took her time to make eye contact with each person in the room. "Then the poor luv was shoved onto the embers of the town bonfire where she died." She paused. Faces looked, expecting her to continue. "I want the person who did this. And so do you."
Fenella walked two paces towards Tess and touched her arm. A signal. She'd passed the baton for the moment.
Tess placed her hands on her hips, legs planted wide and said, "I needn't remind you that Superintendent Jeffery will be all over this one."
There was a long murmur. The entire station knew Jeffery was under pressure from the bigwigs in Carlisle. And that meant pressure for Fenella. Her boss had the patience of a gnat and the focus of a lion on the kill in protecting her career. If Fenella didn't get the perp, she'd be tossed off the case. Jeffery wouldn’t bat an eyelid about that.
Tess said, "There'll be a press conference at the town hall at eleven. The superintendent would like a big turnout, so if you are free, it would be great if you showed up. There'll be lots of media. This case is growing like a snowball. Our focus is on Cumbria radio and local television. We are asking for anyone who knew Miss Brian to come forward. And there'll be politicians on the stage as well."