Spoken Bones

by N. C. Lewis

  They ushered Audrey out the main doors with strict orders not to return until she felt better. So, this morning instead of her routine drive to work, she made a snap decision to visit Maureen's home. She'd never been invited inside but went anyway.

  She pulled into a potholed car park. It was used by dog walkers and runners to access the beach. A sparse place off the tourist path with only a dozen parking spaces and a single whitewashed bench which faced the sea. Audrey felt a tinge of joy when she saw the small wicker-framed trash bin. There’d be rubbish on the beach, for sure. The voices would keep quiet if they saw any mess.

  For a moment, she waited. Her mind worked slow these days. All that medicine. Still, it gave her time to think about the plan. Only a single sheet of paper written neatly in her own hand. How could it wield so much power? She patted her coat pocket. The envelope was secure.

  She switched on the car radio. It played the press conference from the town hall. Audrey listened. The superintendent of police was speaking. She reassured the public that everything would be done to catch the killer. The politicians all agreed, and the audience clapped and cheered their applause.

  Audrey stared out of the windscreen at a large woman in a blue duffel coat with a ratty terrier trotting at her side. The dog turned its head, opened its mouth, and Patrick's voice, soft as mice, came scurrying out.

  "Turn yourself in. The police will find you."

  Audrey blinked, took off her glasses, then rubbed her eyes. Of course the dog didn’t speak. And it wasn’t her ex-husband’s voice. Just her mind playing tricks again. Now, though, she had the feeling that she was being watched. Her eyes tracked the blue duffel coat and terrier until they dipped out of view. With an anxious flick of the switch, the voices in the radio died. Keep to the routine so you can think clear enough to stick to the plan.

  For a long while she sat very still. Her head did not move as she stared at the bland beach with the dark sea shimmering below dreary clouds. Her eyelids fluttered down, and she was back in the ambulance. The smell of hot dogs, onions, and antiseptic filled her nostrils. Rain drummed a soft rhythm against the roof. The slender woman detective with the grey hair was talking, watching, and listening to her answers with a concentration that reminded her of Patrick.

  Her husband's focus had been as intense as corked wine in the months before he demanded the divorce. She tasted the taut bitterness as his work dragged him home later each night. Looking back, she suspected those late evenings at work were when he slept with his new wife. They'd wed days after the decree absolute. The twin babies were born inside the year.

  Audrey tensed, mind back in the ambulance. The grey-haired detective was speaking as the doors swung open. The grizzled black detective who smelled of sour rum climbed in. What had she told him?

  Apprehension clutched like a tight hand against her throat. She took a deep breath, holding it in until she remembered—home-brewing on the cheap. “Detectives! Nothing but a nosy old maid and a bloody drunkard. Catch the killer? The only thing they'll catch is a cold. Politicians are bloody liars!”

  Audrey laughed, relaxing at the sound of her voice. For a long while she savoured her secret revelation.

  Outside in the car park, other dog walkers were starting out towards the beach. An elderly man in tight green shorts and a mop of bleached white hair jogged to the bench, did push-ups, and sped away. Retired with no work to go to. Just the freedom to exercise when he wished. No crumbling cottage. No repairs that sucked money from your purse before payday either. On an assistant librarian's salary, Audrey did not know if she'd be able to retire. Finances were meagre enough. How would she live on a state pension?

  Maureen Brian retired to a good life. Even her bloody black-and-white photographs sold for high prices at auction. She didn’t have to count the pennies, did she?

  A watery sun peeked from behind the low clouds. It blazed streaks of feathery yellow across the sand. The sea glistened as if covered in frost. Audrey's hand, steady, reached for a black bin bag. She kept a stack on the passenger seat.

  May as well pick up rubbish along the way. Do another good deed to clean up the environment. And it will keep those voices at bay.

  Audrey stepped from the car, and again she had the distinct sensation that she was being watched. Clusters of clouds swamped the sun's feeble yellow rays, and November's gloom returned. She put up her hood and walked a half mile along the flat sand. A stiff breeze slowed her progress and the black bin bag remained empty. No human debris on this stretch of the beach. Then she saw the large dune that led to a rickety garden fence. She climbed through a dense strand of marram grass, taking care to avoid the grey-green tufts of spiky leaves. At the top she peered through the slats of the fence. The Seafields Bed and Breakfast stood like a run-down Roman fort.

  As she watched the dark building, a memory stirred. There was Maureen. The retired artist threw her head back and laughed. Then she twirled and jumped between a gaggle of excited children. She was showing them something. How to make play swords with marram grass. Then she vanished like a ghost. Where did she go?

  Again came the laugh as the children found her kneeling low between the tufts. The kids giggled like a flock of common gulls. Elizabeth's flock, she recalled. Audrey joined in too, but it was Maureen and Elizabeth Collins who doted on children.

  Elizabeth had magical powers with youngsters. The woman loved to take care of children who came from difficult homes. They'd arrive at her house as tight as clamshells. Like a good witch in a fairy tale, she'd get them to open up through spells cast by her cooking, easygoing style, and the constant chant, "You are somebody. Who do you choose?"

  Maureen's power was more mysterious to Audrey. She didn’t have words to explain. A kind of charismatic empathy for human need. Or a deep connectedness with the soul. Yes, that was it: empathy and connectedness. Audrey felt she had neither.

  Lost in remembrance, she didn’t hear the engine or the slam of the car door. It was the urgent scream of a herring gull which jerked her into the present. She saw them then. The grey-haired detective in the lead, making her way up the steps with her sidekick several paces behind.

  Instinct kicked in. She crouched low in the marram grass, watching. The woman detective skipped up the steps, then paused halfway up to glance around. Like holidaymakers from London, they didn’t move for ages. It seemed they were sucking in the cold salt air, boggled by the vastness of the flat quiet sea.

  What were their names?

  She couldn’t recall. The past few days had seemed like a dream, everything soaked in a green fog so dense it tasted like bitter parsley. The detectives’ names remained just out of reach, waiting like lost children on the other side of the fog.

  Audrey squeezed her eyes shut. Now she was back at the burnt-out bonfire, her throat raw, with Noel O'Sullivan at her side. A policeman appeared out of the green fog. He spoke with an excited buzz into his radio. Then more police came in a great blue swarm. She'd tried to play her know thy neighbour game, but their faces were so many that it all became a jumble.

  The detectives’ names? She'd memorised their faces, but their names remained hidden in the bitter green fog.

  A rhythmic grunt caused Audrey to freeze. She had heard no footsteps. Nothing to show that she, too, might be watched. That ratty terrier dog flashed into her mind with its open mouth and words from Patrick. Mind tricks. The grunt came again, closer, human, real.

  The blustery breeze continued its low whine. That perpetual whisper where land meets sea. A constant comfort to coastal dwellers, like the soft coo of a mother to child. But the whine set Audrey's nerves on edge.

  She was sure no one knew she'd come here. Unless… her ex-husband bugged her car, attached a tracking device like she'd read in a spy novel. Anxiety rose. Had she stepped into Patrick's trap?

  Again came the grunt as if calling her name.

  She muttered her secret mantra and spun around.

  The elderly man in tight green shorts scrambled along
a sand dune. His thick legs, with veins like knotted oak tree roots, propelled him forward against the resistance of the blustery wind. She crouched lower. Did he see her?

  He didn’t look back.

  When he was out of sight, Audrey reached for the envelope secured in her coat pocket. Her hand hovered for a moment and withdrew. Nothing's changed. She placed her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands.

  After thirty seconds she wiped her eyes. Her gaze returned to the steps of Seafields Bed and Breakfast. The detectives were still admiring the view. When they turned to continue the climb, Audrey eased to her feet. Now she didn’t think, wouldn’t think, let instinct be her guide. Walking carefully on the uneven ground, she found a break in the fence and slipped through.

  Much better view from here.

  The detectives were on the top step. The front door opened. Audrey hoped she'd glimpse Ben. He'd let her in, show her around Maureen's room. She'd like that. But she couldn’t tell if Safiya or Ben answered. Her jaw clenched. She scurried closer, keeping low to the ground. But the detectives were inside and the door shut as she reached their parked vehicle—a dark blue Morris Minor.

  Crouching at the side of the detective's car, a thought struck.

  It struck hard like a burnt log propelled with great force.

  It caused Audrey to shudder.

  It was the realisation that the paramedic was right. The detectives would be back, and if she didn’t get her story straight, she'd be their favourite tree to pee on.

  Her hand trembled as it reached into her coat, pulling out a small, dark glass bottle. She sniffed the bitter mint fragrance—hyssop. The bracing scent rolled up her nostrils and turned her mind over like a combustion engine. On each revolution, she got her story more organised. She muttered answers like an actor in dress rehearsal. At last she was ready. I'll bake a cake, a sweet-scented Victoria sponge. My own personal illicit pleasure. She felt a sudden surge of renewal.

  The soft purr of the motorcycle crept slowly into Audrey's consciousness. It came to an easy stop at the steps. Even in jet-black leathers and polished helmet, Audrey recognised Noel O'Sullivan. He swaggered up the steps two at a time, pressed hard on the doorbell, then stepped back.

  The door opened.

  Audrey strained to hear the conversation. With a sense of elation, her ears picked up Noel's Texas twang. She edged closer. But the wind picked up and carried away the words so their meaning was incomprehensible.

  Another sound caused her to turn around, look back along the driveway. The elderly man was there. He lumbered across the sand, following the line of the fence. He didn’t appear to notice Audrey as he skipped across the pitted driveway. A sudden fog of green envy enveloped her. She resented the old man's easy life. Nothing to think about except his breathing. Nothing for her but bills.

  She turned back in time to see Ben step out of the entrance. An impulse to rush forward, ask what the detectives had uncovered, surged. But how would she explain herself, crouched low behind the car?

  No. Better to stay here out of sight. She crouched lower and watched.

  The two men strolled down the steps. At the motorcycle, they stopped and talked in low whispered tones—the priest and the confessant.

  Audrey wasn’t entirely sure which was which.

  Chapter 18

  Dexter clanked the key in the lock of Miss Maureen Brian's door. It turned with a sharp click. He pushed the door open and stepped aside for his boss to enter.

  Before the slow tick of the clock on a shelf. Before the scent of vanilla potpourri hit Fenella's nostrils. And before her eyes took in the neat order of the well-furnished room. She knew Miss Brian and Nan would have gotten along well, and a sharp pang of regret stabbed at her gut.

  She stood in the entrance and blinked. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. The main room was divided in two. The small kitchen fitted into an alcove where the roof slanted down. It had a sink, electric cooker, and microwave.

  The living room was larger. A quilted camelback sofa with thick mahogany legs sat next to a maple-veneered cabinet. There were four dials on the front of the cabinet and a hinged door. A Persian rug with red and gold flecks covered part of the polished oak floor.

  A pile of magazines lay at one end of a cherrywood coffee table. At the other end, a crochet hook and two balls of yarn: one pink the other blue. A built-in bookcase ran the entire length of one wall. Four shelves in total: three filled with books, ordered by size, spines facing out. The fourth held trinkets: seashells, pebbles, a rusted cowbell, Kodak Brownie camera, wooden mantel clock, and a fat china Buddha. They all jostled for space with a large spider plant with long dangling leaves. And it was quiet up here in the dormer. Only the distant slush of the waves and the soft whoosh of the wind.

  Fenella took photographs with her phone.

  Dexter padded across the rug to the cabinet. "Haven't seen one of those since my granddad was alive." He stared with wonder at the ancient device. "Looks like an Ace radio. Valves rather than electronic transistors. Takes an age to warm up, but Granddad swore by it."

  With a gloved hand, he tugged the cabinet door. It swung forward and down to reveal a record player. He peered inside. "Hasn’t been used in a while; bet it spins though. Can't beat valve technology, works like a dream, reliable." He closed the door and fiddled with the knobs. A backlight glimmered behind the dial. The cabinet let out a low hum.

  Fenella sat down on the couch and looked around. After a few moments she wondered at the neatness of the space. Clean and tidy. Nothing out of place. Like an image in a magazine, almost as if someone has been in here to tidy up the room.

  She watched Dexter at the radio. With a jolt, she realised it was the same model her own granddad once owned. Childhood memories swarmed her mind. The family around the scrubbed pine table in her grandparents farmhouse. A woodstove crackled in the corner. Blasts of warm heat wafted savoury scents from the oven through the air. Roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and homemade gravy with potatoes roasted in drippings. Even now, in Maureen Brian's room, the memory made her stomach rumble. It felt so real.

  "My granddad had one of those and shelves of record albums," Fenella said. "We'd visit for Sunday dinner and, after, listen to classical music or watch a show called Songs of Praise on the television. I liked the radio most. Me and Granddad would dance and he'd make up words to go with the music."

  Dexter rocked back on his heels. "On Sundays my granddad cooked dinner, played reggae, and drank rum. Later his friends would visit. They played dominos in the front room while Grandma and we kids sat in church pews."

  "Explains a lot," Fenella said.

  But Dexter didn’t hear; he was fiddling with the Ace radio knobs.

  From her seated position, Fenella realised the room wasn’t quite rectangular. It tapered in from the front door to the bedroom. She stood and wandered through the kitchenette. A copper kettle sat on the far ring of the cooker. Several pots and pans dangled from overhead hooks. Nothing in the sink. Bottle of milk in the fridge.

  Fenella had not expected such order in an artist's home. Eduardo's studio contained drawings scattered about, and inkpots and pens too. There was even an old laptop with floppy discs so large they looked like table mats. No, this place was nothing like Eduardo's work studio, and that made her stop and think.

  Fenella looked around again, then walked into the tiny bedroom. There was a built-in wardrobe, and a small square curtainless window let in what there was of the November daylight. She peered through the windowpane, with a view of the front of the house, steps, and the ramp they'd missed earlier. An elderly man in tight green shorts jogged along the line of the fence. He turned his head in her direction, staring at the dormer window as if sensing she was there. She gave a little wave, but he continued as if not seeing.

  Farther out, she could see the sweep of monotonous sand. The people were like dots. Dog walkers, more joggers, and couples out for a stroll. She was about to turn away when the motorcycle parked
near the bottom step caught her eye. It wasn’t there when they arrived, she was certain of that. She watched for a while, hoping to get a glimpse of the rider. After two minutes she lost patience with the wait—only a courier of some sort.

  Turning back to the bedroom, she took it all in. The bed hadn't been slept in. She touched the lavender bedspread, then looked under the pillow to find a lemon nightdress and a pink hot water bottle. The nightdress was neatly folded, the hot water bottle empty. No diary.

  A swing-arm brass lamp sat on the bedside cabinet. A magazine lay open at an article about prehistoric cave paintings in the Ardèche region of France. No clue to point to the killer here, then. Fenella sighed, stooped, and looked under the bed.

  Nothing.

  For a long while she stared at the photographic landscape which hung on the wall. Was it Port Saint Giles? The image was strangely coloured and distorted as if viewed from beneath rippling water. Fenella thought she could make out the pier with the lighthouse at the end. There was nothing else on the walls except a wooden crucifix above the bed. Not a lot of photos about the place for a photographer. When she and Eduardo first got married, he'd hung his drawings all over the place. All those comic sketches drove Fenella crazy. That's why they'd built the studio. The images now hung in odd-sized frames on the studio walls, but not in the kitchen or the bedroom or anywhere else.

  Fenella pushed the wardrobe door. It slid into the wall on well-oiled rails. Not very deep though. Only a handful of feet. Skirts, dresses, blouses, even headscarves all hung from racks in neat lines. Shoes at the bottom, some in boxes. all arranged in orderly rows. Everything spotless. Everything in its place. No boxes of photographs.

  Fenella slid the door closed and left the bedroom. It felt as if an hour had passed, but Dexter was still fiddling with the Ace radio.

  "First impressions," Fenella said as she sat back on the couch.

  For a long moment Dexter was quiet. Fenella was about to repeat the question when he said, "It reminds me of the beach, Guv." He twisted a knob.