by N. C. Lewis
Fenella said, "How do you mean?"
"Nothing was taken from Maureen's purse." He straightened, running a hand across the top of the cabinet as if stroking a thoroughbred horse. "Nothing taken from her apartment either." He stooped back down to fiddle with the dials.
"And?"
"Whoever killed Maureen Brian didn’t come back here to turn the place over. Unless they knew what they were looking for and didn’t need to."
Trumpets blasted.
Dexter leapt away from the cabinet like a mashup between Frankenstein and a demented ballerina.
Fenella laughed. It was only the opening bars of Purcell's Sonata in D Major for Trumpet. She clapped her hands as a classical music aficionado might for a wonderful performance by a great maestro. Then she thought of her granddad and how they used to dance on Sunday evenings, and felt sad.
Dexter regained his composure, returned to the Ace, and jabbed at a knob. The dial light faded first, followed a few moments later by Purcell's trumpets.
"Sorry, Guv. My granddad's radio used to do that all the time. Thank God for electric transistors. Bleedin' valves are a bugger to work with."
"Anything else?" asked Fenella, still grinning.
"Nowt that I can think of." Dexter rubbed a hand over his chin and stared at the radio as if he wanted to kick it. Then he shook his head and grinned. "Guv, I'll let the crime scene techs know, then?"
Fenella stood, did a slow 360-degree turn. "No sign of a break in. No sign of anyone looking for something." She didn’t want Superintendent Jeffery on her back over costs. "Let's wait to see what Dr Mackay has for us or if anything comes out of the forensics from the bonfire."
"Aye, my thoughts too." Dexter walked slowly into the kitchen. He opened the microwave door. "Wish there was more to chew on here."
"There is one thing," Fenella said. She gazed at the bookcase. "Maureen was renowned for her colloidal photographic images. That's old-style photo-taking to you and me. None of your digital malarkey. If I understood young Jones, those old black-and-white photos require chemicals and glass plates."
"She didn’t have none of that here, Guv."
"Exactly. Where did Maureen Brian store her art?" Fenella placed her hands on her hips. "Where is her art studio?"
Chapter 19
As Detective Constable Earp stood in the car park of the Quarterdrigg Activity Centre, he felt annoyed. It was a whitewashed one-storey concrete structure surrounded by brown-bricked walls as high as a bus. He'd parked next to a row of black council wheelie bins which overflowed with bloated bin bags. One of said bags had snagged under the driver’s-side front wheel. Its contents spilled like a split gut around his car: crisp packets, coffee cups, a dozen or more apple cores, banana skins, empty bottles, chicken bones, fast food containers, and soda cans.
He gasped in the rancid plume, spluttered a cough, and cursed as he kicked away rubbish. So far, he'd only spoken with seven from his list of people on the beach, and endured seven irate lectures on how the police were failing in their duty to keep the public safe. Sue hadn't packed his lunch either. Only his flask of coffee which he'd long drained.
Everything dragged under the dreary dull sky. The sound of traffic on the main road rumbled in the distance. Two pigeons landed on the brick wall. A gust caught a crisp packet sending it upwards in a demented spiral. Earp kicked away more rubbish, stamped hard on a rolling ketchup bottle. Its congealed sauce splattered on his shoes. He stamped again. It spluttered like an old dog with flatulence.
Next on his list was Martin Findlay. He'd tracked him down to the Quarterdrigg Activity Centre thanks to a chatty neighbour—Mrs Claire Sutherland. She watched her narrow street like a hawk.
"He’s across the street in the flats: big bloke, doesn’t talk much, but friendly enough. Goes to the Quarterdrigg during the week. Well, he's not fully there, in his head, like."
"Cheers," he had said, but she took his arm.
"Now what you lot doing about that murder on the beach? Ought to be chasing down the killer, not pestering nice Mr Findlay. A right ruddy disgrace. Call yourself a detective! The kids playing cops on the street do a better job. It's not safe anymore, is it?"
Earp wanted desperately to visit Maureen Brian's address with Sallow and Dexter. Instead he'd spent his morning taking verbal beatings from irate members of the public. And now he had to chase after the mentally impaired. He gritted his teeth and sighed. He took orders now, took a back seat in the investigation, did as he was told. His mind flashed back to when he ran the show. Detective Inspector Earp got results, banged up criminals by the dozen.
I should be centre stage. Show the buggers how it is done.
By now he'd have had an army of officers turn Maureen Brian's place over for clues. Tear the place apart. Then a hard chat with the witness Audrey Robin—squeeze her like a lemon for information. Frighten the silly cow if necessary. Make her pee her pants. There'd be something between her sobs, complaints, and wet knickers that would help him catch the killer. That's what the job was about, wasn't it? Putting perps away. Getting a result. I'm the last stand for the old school, he thought. He knew he did his job well, however much the higher-ups cautioned him to curb his unconventional ways. They'd brought it up in the tortuous demotion hearing which lasted for innumerable hours. It seemed like ages ago.
Sod the lot of them. Only a bloody detective constable. Grunt work with no food.
He swore.
His stomach rumbled.
Why hadn't Sue packed his lunch?
In the damp dullness, he recalled with weary acceptance she hadn't been awake when he left. He'd slipped out of bed before daylight, leaving Sue with her dreams. As water boiled for coffee, he'd gazed through the growing dawn at the frozen branches of the Egremont Russet apple tree. Nick had stirred as he crept along the hallway. If it weren't for the creak of the boy's bedroom door, he'd have been out into the morning chill, picking his way across the white hoar frost towards his ice-covered car.
Nick called out as he reached the front door.
"Can't sleep, Daddy," said his boy, already in his wheelchair and out in the hall. "Can I come with you?"
"It's early, son. Go back to bed, else you'll never wake up for school."
"Don't want to go."
Thomas, their cat, trotted along the corridor. Earp stooped, picked him up. "You need to go to school if you want to grow up to be a policeman."
"I've got no friends." Nick let out a soft sob. "The kids in Mrs Ledwidge's class don't like me. They call me names."
Earp's skin prickled. "What sort of names, son?"
"I don’t want to go, Daddy."
Earp wasn’t sure whether to wake Sue. He set the cat down slowly. Then he remembered Walter, another wheelchair-bound child in his son's school. "What happened to Sandra, Tim, and Walter?"
"They are not my friends anymore."
"But you are in the same class, aren't you?"
"Yeah, but Mrs Ledwidge won't let me play with them."
Bloody teachers! I ought to go to that school and crack a few heads, starting with Ledwidge.
Earp placed an arm around his boy's shoulder. "Why won't your friends play with you, son?"
"They say I'm a fibber because I told them my dad was a detective and would speak to the class."
Earp pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "Next time, son, I promise."
"Can I go with you, Daddy, and be a policeman today?"
"One day son. One day. But you need to go to school this morning, okay?"
"Promise?"
"Promise, son."
"When."
Again he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Soon son. Soon."
A coffee cup rolled towards Earp, bringing him back to the present. He kicked it with a vicious swing. It spun and bobbled sideways, coming to a stop with the cardboard bottom facing him like the rear end of an exhibitionist flasher. He cursed again and stared with irritated eyes at the brash welcome sign:
Quarterdrigg
: Fun activities for people with a disability. Everyone welcome.
Earp pulled a paper tissue from his pocket, wiped his shoe clean of ketchup, and threw it down. Then his lips curved into a hard smile.
"Martin Findlay, disabled or not, here I come."
Chapter 20
Two things surprised Earp as he entered the wide doors of the Quarterdrigg. First, the polished flagstone floors and the wide windows. They let in more light than he’d expected from the dreary November sky. The lavender walls reminded him of an upmarket art gallery in Carlisle. Images hung in simple rosewood frames—of men working the pits and women weaving on great looms. A fragrant tub of potpourri sat on the reception desk. On either side stood large porcelain vases filled with roses the colour of plums. Soft classical music, vaguely familiar, played low from hidden speakers.
The second thing that surprised Earp was the welcoming face of Gloria Embleton. She was all smiles, her eyes shining expectantly as if he were an old friend.
"Welcome to the Quarterdrigg. How may we best serve you today?"
The buoyant greeting threw Earp. For a moment he stood staring at the short plump woman. She had huge looped gold earrings, afro speckled with grey, and a Glaswegian accent.
"I’m Detective Constable Hugh Earp. Can I speak with whoever is in charge?"
"My God, we were just talking about you."
"Me?"
"Well, the police. The name's Gloria Embleton," she said extending her hand. "I called the police station earlier, after the appeal for information." She stopped, as if realising she was getting ahead of herself. "This place is run by volunteers, and for my sins, I'm in charge today. Why don't we go through to the office? That way we'll have a bit of privacy."
Without waiting for his response, she yelled something he couldn't understand. Scottish dialect, he thought. A thirty-something woman wheeled through a set of automatic doors. Then he realised she'd called a name—Abertha.
Abertha wore a dark jacket, white blouse with matching skirt. Very professional. Very office. She moved quickly, manoeuvring her wheelchair behind the reception desk. She had no legs.
"What's up, Gloria?"
"Mind holding the fort for me, darling." Gloria lowered her voice. "This gentleman is a detective and we need a bit of privacy."
Abertha stared at Earp as if he were an exotic exhibit in the zoo. She smiled, showing two rows of irregular teeth. "Right you are, Gloria. Just holler for help if he brings out his handcuffs."
Earp followed Gloria through electronic doors and into a wide rectangular room. It had floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall. A contented murmur filled the space, somehow in harmony with the classical music. Several armchairs faced the windows, with men reading newspapers or sleeping. Others cluttered around a rectangular table playing a game of cards. There were women too, although less in number. He noticed three in wheelchairs. They clustered in a semicircle at the far end, middle-aged, knitting as they nattered. No one looked at him, but they all stared. He felt it. A police officer's sixth sense.
Gloria paused at a noticeboard filled with flyers, posters, and announcements.
"The centre is for all ages. During the day, it's mostly adults. Weekday evenings is a mixture of children with their mothers, and our teens." She straightened a flyer. "Weekends it's every man for himself—chaos!"
Earp wanted to hurry the woman on and get away from the prying eyes. Once in the enclosed space of her office, he would ask about Martin Findlay. Then a quick round of standard questions with the disabled man, and he'd be on his way to the next witness. He'd wasted enough time today and felt tired and hungry.
Gloria pointed at the picture of a boy, nine or ten, in a wheelchair. Then another of the same child in a canoe. "Gold medallist in the Aira Beck White Water Challenge. Only been at it for a year. Follow the path of your infinite potential, that's what we tell these boys and girls. Sometimes I can't believe what they achieve."
"Aye," Earp replied. As he stood with his arms folded tight across his chest, a thought hit him. Nick. Maybe he'd mention the centre to Sue. He wasn’t sure his son would take to water, but maybe there was something else here he'd enjoy.
A few moments later, Gloria and Earp were in a cubical office: glass walls, no desk, two wing-backed armchairs placed shoulder to shoulder, humid air.
Gloria eased into a chair. "No one can hear us in here." She stood up, turned around several times like a cat, then settled deep in the cushions, letting out an inaudible sigh. "A bit of privacy, Detective Constable Earp, so we can have a nice natter."
An elderly man in a flat cap hobbled over to one of the glass walls. He leaned on his stick and peered into the office. Abertha arrived soon after, had a few words with the man, and opened a packet of crisps. She was soon followed by the three women in wheelchairs Earp had seen earlier. They parked, continued to knit, natter, and stare. Earp felt like a guppy in a tropical aquarium. The humidity was getting to him, so he took off his jacket and sunk deep into the soft velvety cushion. Despite the stares of the gathered crowd, the earlier tension began to drain away. He half wondered if Gloria had worked some Scottish magic like the witch in the bedtime story he'd read to Nick.
Gloria leaned sideways, tapped the glass, and pointed at Abertha. "Reception desk," she mouthed without making a sound, and again she pointed.
Abertha pulled a face, swivelled, and wheeled away.
"Ignore the eyeballs," Gloria said. "They are just curious. And this fish tank is better than talking outside in the car park."
Earp squeezed his eyes shut for a second and tried to focus. He felt sleepy. "You'll have heard about the death of Miss Maureen Brian," he began, feeling his way into the subject. "I'm trying to trace everyone who might have been on the beach the morning the body was discovered."
"Oh, then you'll want to speak with me and Peter. We knew Maureen well and walk the beach most mornings."
More friends of Maureen. Did she know the whole bloody town? More names to add to the list. A wave of tiredness washed over him. He scribbled down the names and shifted in his seat trying to remain focused.
Gloria was still speaking. "Peter Jarman is my fiancé. He runs Jarman Automotive Repair in town. Maureen got us together, so you can imagine our distress at what's happened. We have been friends for years, her and I. Almost like sisters. Well maybe not sisters. I always fought with mine. Still do, all these years later, imagine that? But we were close, and to think…"
The early morning start, humidity and lack of breakfast finally got to Earp. He felt his eyelids flutter shut. He wasn’t sure how long they remained in that state, but jerked his head up at the sound of Gloria's voice.
"And Bonfire Night, Peter and I walked the beach planning our wedding; met Audrey Robin too. She was looking for Maureen, quite frantic she was. Anyway, are you any closer to catching the person who did this? Well, I suppose it is early days in the investigation, so…"
He sat up straight, snatched out his notebook and pen, then tried to scratch a few words onto the page. What did she say? He couldn’t remember. Sod it! Anyway, he'd taken pages of notes, carefully scribbled, but considered them a waste of good ink. He'd been at it too long to care about the death of an old boiling fowl. Old people didn’t have much to live for anyway. Still, if Sallow asked, he'd have evidence that at least he'd tried. Not how he'd run the investigation though. He stopped himself, knowing if he let his thoughts run in that direction, he'd become agitated. So he tried to think of Nick and Sue. He was doing this job for them. That's all that mattered. They'd soon have the money to go to America, and when he came back, his boy would walk.
"Then when Maureen found out it was true love between me and Peter, well, I can't tell you how happy she was for us both. Not just me, but us both…"
As Gloria continued to speak, Earp's mind grew foggier. He saw not even the vaguest clue in the conversations he'd documented. No leads. No names. No pattern. Nothing.
"There isn't much else I can say, really." Gloria
stared at him with expectant eyes. "I hope what I have told you is useful. Seems like inane chatter to me, but I'm not a detective skilled in the art of piecing things together, am I?"
His mind fought to escape the swamp of creeping sleep. Keep your eyes open. He stared back, gave a professional smile. He glanced at his notes and scrambled for something to say. "I'll have to have a chat with Mr Jarman. Can you give me the details?"
She did, with quick words as if she'd been waiting for the moment.
"Oh, and there is one thing, Miss Embleton." He'd almost forgotten the reason for his visit. "Can you point me towards Martin Findlay? I'd like a quick word."
"Ah! I'm so sorry to disappoint you, Detective Earp. Martin isn't here today. His group are on a day trip to Derwentwater. They won't be back until after ten this evening."
Chapter 21
Audrey knew they would come.
She'd had a bath, soaked in the bubbles, and put on her work clothes—a striped lemon cotton blouse with khaki cargo pants. Not standard librarian dress. She preferred jacket and skirt, but felt it better to appear less formal. Anyway she needed roomy pockets. She'd taken the envelope from her coat and placed it in the large side pocket of her pants. Better to keep it close.
In the kitchen, the kettle simmered on the stove, the low hiss filling the room with soft steam. A moist Victoria sponge baked in the oven. The fragrant vanilla set the sweet tone she wanted to portray. Better than the stink of hot dogs and onions on her first meeting with the detectives.
Now she watched from the window and waited. She could see the Solway Firth and, on a clear day, for miles until the sky joined sea in a horizontal blue line.
"That's why they call it Clearview Row," Maureen had said when she introduced Audrey to the idea of buying the little stone cottage. "Unobstructed views to the horizon. A perfect place for you. Help keep you focused on the future. On a clear day you can sit at the window and read a book or paint or daydream. A clear view across the water."