by N. C. Lewis
Not today though. There'd been no let-up in the clouds. They hung their spidery tendrils in restless swirls over the flat water. But on that day with Maureen, it was clear, and the cottage cast a spell on Audrey. Through rose-tinted glasses, she'd made the offer and purchased the cottage.
They were an odd-shaped assortment of houses on Clearview Row. Orange, browns, blues, even pink hues, and Audrey's two-bedroom whitewash faded to grey. Like a family, she often thought, connected by the lane as straight as a vein. Her cottage was in the middle. A pink bungalow on one side. On the other, a three-storey Edwardian town the colour of honey converted into flats. Most people parked on the lane as the front gardens were small, built before the popularity of cars. Today, she had parked farther along the lane. That left space outside her window so she could see when the detectives arrived.
The rhythmic hum of a car engine slowing to a crawl first alerted Audrey of their appearance. In slow motion it eased along the lane around a parked van and came to a stop where she expected—in front of the cottage. She smiled. So, they owned the dark blue Morris Minor she had hid behind at Seafields Bed and Breakfast, did they?
The detectives sat in the car for a long time. Audrey peered through the net curtains and strained her ears. The steady sputter of the Morris Minor and the distant murmur of the sea echoed along the lane.
Then the grey-haired woman detective, crisp and alert, climbed out. The engine roared and the car sped away. Audrey did not notice who was driving, had her eye on the woman detective.
The woman opened the garden gate, glanced around, then started towards the front door. The light clop-clop of her footsteps echoed like goat hooves of a recurrent dream. It came to Audrey on days like these. The voices first. Then an unremembered nightmare which crept into her unconscious as the pills pushed her into the free fall of deep sleep.
Audrey took a step away from the window when she saw a two-legged devil with horns and a pitchfork walking up the garden path. She snatched off her glasses, wiped them with a tissue, and continued her gaze.
A woman. Not a devil.
Now she turned her attention to the car, but it was out of sight although she could hear its low rumble. The driver must have been the other detective, the grizzled-looking black one. What was his name?
It came to her along with a rush of adrenaline. Dexter, Detective Sergeant. And the grey-haired woman—Detective Inspector Fenella Sallow. A wave of relief. Her know thy neighbour skills were back in full flow. That she'd remembered their names sent a thrill through her body. She tapped her pant pocket two times, stopped on the third; she didn’t need luck. She had her plan.
Audrey continued to watch. The woman detective couldn't see her through the net curtains and the clouded glass. It felt like a show on the television. She sat in the audience and saw it all, while the actors knew only their next lines. Except... She held her breath for a moment. Why was the woman detective on her own?
The knock on the door pushed a wave of adrenaline through her body. It surged so hard, her next memory was of the grey-haired detective seated at the kitchen table with a notebook and pen in hand.
"Just a routine inquiry," said the woman detective as she gazed around the kitchen. "Smells good. Baking?"
"Victoria sponge. It is about done. Would you like a slice with a cup of tea?"
Audrey thought neither of them ate much cake, too fattening. Now she worried the detective might get suspicious, decline her culinary creation. Would it be a bribe to offer fresh-baked goods with a cup of tea? They were firm about gifts in the library. No tips or packages. Patrons who wanted to leave cash were sent to the charity collection box. It was at the checkout desk, out in the open. That made things difficult, but when no one was looking, Audrey emptied the box into her purse. How else was she expected to pay the bills on what they paid her?
It was more difficult at Christmas. Satisfied readers brought in chocolates, cakes, cards with cash, even bottles of wine. The head librarian put them in a box in her office. Audrey would sneak in and grab a few things. One at a time. It was surprising how they mounted up. At the end of her shift, she'd smuggle them out. There were so many last year, she'd even rewrapped one and gave it as a gift to the head librarian. She thanked Audrey with wide eyes and smiles. So sweet.
Now Audrey worried she'd made a big misstep. Weren't the police very strict about gifts? She imagined they had an army of folk tapping out policy and procedures on keyboards. She wanted no more trouble. Things were bad enough in her job at the library. These days the head librarian watched her like a hawk. The woman was always trying to catch her out. Always nagging about some violation or other of library regulations. She tried her best, but it was never good enough for the damn witch.
"This isn’t the lunch I’d planned in my diet journal." Audrey smiled. "Today was supposed to be a turkey-lettuce wrap with a dollop of cottage cheese. But I've baked it now and don't want to eat it all myself. How about a slice each and I'll give the rest away to my neighbours?"
"Aye, that'd be lovely," said the woman detective.
Audrey felt very clever. She went to the oven, placed the cake on a cooling rack and poured a pot of tea. Things were off to the perfect start.
They didn’t speak again until after everything was on the table. She used her blue-and-white china teapot with matching teacups. It came from the Christmas box in the head librarian's office. The pot for the milk didn't match. Nor did the tub for the sugar. But she used the little silver teaspoons with the fancy handles. And the cake, moist and warm, she placed on a china stand. Very posh. Like a teahouse in Carlisle.
"I'll not take up much of your time," the detective said after she had taken two bites, said it was delicious, and sipped her tea. "Just a few questions. We had rather a tough time having a conversation in the ambulance, didn’t we?"
"It was a shock finding Maureen like that by the bonfire." Audrey added milk to her cup, took a sip, tasted bitterness. " I suppose my mind was a little messed up. Anything I can do to help?"
The detective didn’t answer. Her gaze fell on the sideboard where Audrey stored her trinkets. A framed photograph, pebbles, seashells, little mementos of her trips to the beach. And there was a spider plant too, with long dangling leaves.
"Is that Maureen?" The woman detective pointed to the rectangular frame. The photograph contained three women, a large man, and a brood of grinning kids.
"That’s her," Audrey said. She got to her feet to fetch the photograph. "Taken last summer. That's me, Maureen, Elizabeth with her foster kids. And those two are Gloria and Martin."
"Findlay," added the detective looking at the man. "Martin Findlay?"
Audrey didn’t reply for a moment. She stared at the woman detective and took another sip of tea. "Maureen had a soft spot for"—she stopped, considered her words with care—"people who are different."
"Disabled?"
"Oh, I don't think there is anything wrong with Martin physically, more in the mind. Maureen took a shine to him when he was a kid, kept an eye out. His mum had her problems, lived alone, spent her days at the pub making friends with married men. It helped pay the rent, I suppose." Audrey thought it would be helpful to paint a picture. Broad outlines only, let the detective fill in the rest. "Not that I was around. As I understand it, Maureen introduced Martin to Gloria, years ago. Gloria got him a spot at the Quarterdrigg Activity Centre. He goes there most days."
"Friendly lad, is he?"
"Oh yes, very friendly. Sometimes."
The detective looked at her like a CCTV camera so that she felt like a shadowy image caught in the act of a crime. She took a bite of cake, thinking.
Outside in the lane, a van lumbered by the cottage. Its exhaust pipe rattled above the persistent hum of wind and sea. The clap of the letterbox echoed a tuneless melody as the postman pushed through mail. Audrey felt the urge to get up, run to the door, see if there was anything other than bills. Maybe if she hurried to the hallway, to return a few moments later, mor
e slowly, walking softly, holding the mail with both hands, the grey-haired detective would be gone. Just like the ratty-faced terrier who spoke Patrick's words. Just like Maureen. She felt a sorrowful weight.
The detective was speaking. "Tell me about Mr Findlay."
"Martin comes to the library several days a week, a regular." Audrey took a quick breath, quick to see the possibilities. "He is the sweetest person when he is himself."
The detective blinked, tapped a pen on her notebook. "And when he is not?"
"Well, it's not for me to say." Audrey sipped her tea. "Oh look at me, I'm rattling on again."
"Not at all. We are trying to build a picture of Maureen Brian. That includes her friends and acquaintances."
"Then you may as well put the entire town down, including the staff of the library." They'd never catch the killer if they did that. Audrey imagined Wanted flyers plastered to lampposts all over town asking for help. She felt giddy, electrified. "Are you close to catching the killer?"
The detective said, "We are in the very early stages of the investigation. Most of what we are doing now is about gathering the right information. Later we'll shift our focus and sift through it to see what we've got."
A robot response, Audrey thought. Like the woman officer who spoke at the press conference. A string of important-sounding words, which when taken apart told you nothing. She wanted to hum, but not aloud, quietly in her mind so that ratty terrier wouldn’t come—tat-de-da-da-de-de-dah.
The detective watched with the laser-focused eyes of a mystic. Could she read minds?
Audrey stopped mid-hum and said, "I'm sure the person knows they'll get caught." She took a big bite of cake. "In the end."
The detective picked up her teacup and leaned forward. "Tell me about Mr Findlay?"
"Like I say, he is the sweetest person you'll ever meet. A big bloke. A bit simple. Harmless." Audrey gazed at the detective with interest. "Once a week, Maureen visited the Quarterdrigg Activity Centre. She read from Dickens, Shakespeare, or a bestseller in crime or science fiction. Her readings were very popular with the attendees. Martin never missed it."
"Really?" The detective’s eyes seem to glow, or that's how it appeared to Audrey. "And Mr Findlay never missed a reading? Interesting."
Audrey felt alive. She sat up straight like a child in a classroom eager to answer the teacher's next question. Ready responses about Martin Findlay hovered on the tip of her tongue. She'd tell her about how he was locked away. Not his fault. Not right. But he'd spent time in a cell. Tat-de-da-da-de-de-dah.
The questions didn’t come.
"Why don't you tell me about Maureen?" The woman detective leaned back. "Nothing is off limits. Talk and I'll listen."
Audrey stared at the detective. "As I said earlier, Maureen helped me settle into the community. Not just her, but Elizabeth Collins and Gloria Embleton. Even Martin Findlay did his part to make me feel welcome. Nothing was too much trouble for Maureen. She even helped me buy this cottage. It's a work in progress, but I'd never have afforded it without her help."
"How so?"
Audrey felt like she'd made a mistake. "Oh not with money or anything like that. It was her advice that was so valuable. Worth its weight in gold."
"I see. So no loans, then?"
"Maureen was the type to offer, but I'd never accept. She found workmen to fix things up in the house on the cheap. The electric, plumbing and so on. You know how it is in these old stone cottages."
"Aye, luv. I know. Nothing but repairs and bills and more repairs, eh?"
Audrey laughed. they could become friends, couldn't they? She relaxed. "And I'm only an assistant librarian; they pay us peanuts." Then she added, "But I'm a good saver thanks to Maureen. She always said spend less than you make to make a stress-free life."
There was a pause while the detective wrote into her notebook. Then she turned and pushed a strand of hair from her face. After another sip of tea, she tilted her head to the left, then to the right in some kind of neck-stretching exercise.
"Why don't you tell me about Maureen's photographic art."
"Oh, I don't know much about that. It was all hush-hush. I know she was working on another project with a bloke from London." Audrey closed her eyes. "Jones. Zack Jones. Never met him, but she always had her notebook with her to write down ideas. I also hear her photos are selling at high prices these days, but like I say, that’s not a secret. Everyone knows."
The detective took careful notes.
All that writing made Audrey uncomfortable. What had she told her that merited such careful precision?
In a rush, she said, "I thought I saw Detective Sargent Dexter in the car." Suddenly she realised she'd admitted snooping. "Thought he might come in for a cup of tea as well."
There was an extended silence. The detective took a sip of tea and appeared to decide.
"He'll probably come in for follow-up questions." She placed the cup in the saucer. "There are always one or two I forget to ask."
"I'll be here. I'm not going anywhere."
The detective stared at her for so long, Audrey thought the hawk-eyed woman could see into her khaki pocket. Her hand dropped to pat the envelope. Could they order her to turn out her pockets?
That thought terrified her. She should have thrown the bloody plan on the bonfire. She didn’t want anyone reading her handwritten instructions, let alone a policewoman. And for an instant, she saw that ratty terrier dog in her mind's eye. That frightened her even more. It would speak in Patrick's voice and tell the police where to look.
The detective was speaking. "Earlier we visited Maureen's apartment. Everything was in order as far as we could tell. Did you ever visit?"
"No. She never invited guests back to the boarding house."
"Do you know why?"
"Not really, although she said she didn’t want to impose on Ben and Safiya Griffin. They run the bed and breakfast, lease it actually from Maureen." Audrey's mind drifted. She wondered where the other detective went. "I suppose Detective Dexter has gone back to the station for his lunch?"
The grey-haired woman detective laughed. "No luv, we get little in the way of lunch breaks. He is on his way to visit the community college and then the local art galleries. We asked Mr and Mrs Griffin about Maureen's art. They couldn’t tell us much. So now we've got to do a little research on our own."
"Oh, that's not surprising." The words came out without Audrey thinking ahead of time. "Ben and Safiya are in a different bucket."
"Come again." The detective leaned so far forward, it felt to Audrey as if she wanted to reach into her mind. "Why do you say that?"
Audrey detected a touch of formality in the voice. She didn't like the tone. It reminded her of a stern nurse in the hospital or a guard as they closed the cell door. So she recalculated their chance of friendship. Was the grey hair and smiles all surface?
Yes, everything was an act. Still, she narrowed her eyes as if sharing a great secret with an intimate acquaintance.
"Maureen organised her life in neat buckets. Friends, home life, photographic art, and teaching. They rarely crossed. No, I'm not surprised Ben and Safiya knew nothing about her photography. Why would they? I only know a little myself. As I've said, Maureen kept her art close to her chest. Elizabeth Collins might tell you more I suppose. But I know nothing about it."
"We'll have a chat with her." The detective wrote into her notebook. "Anything else?"
"If it is her art that interests you, then I suppose you should visit the studio on the Pig’s Snout. That's a boat in the harbour."
Chapter 22
Earp took the phone call while still parked in the Quarterdrigg Activity Centre. He considered himself fortunate to have sounded alert at all when the mobile rang. He’d taken a few minutes shut-eye which had extended, as he looked at his watch, to a full thirty minutes.
"Hello ma’am… yes I'm making steady progress… at the Quarterdrigg… no, nothing to report… Find anything at her home, ma’a
m? Another name… yes… uh-huh… uh-huh… her studio… the harbour… Pig Snout… got it… I will… I know… I’ll go straight there."
Earp gave the phone two fingers along with a volley of sour words. Another wild goose chase. He started the car and reversed. The front wheels ran over another black bin bag. It burst with a pop. He didn’t stop, swung the car around, and headed for the exit.
As he signalled to turn into the street, he glanced into his rear-view mirror. Gloria Embleton, Albertha, and the old man in the cap stood in the Quarterdrigg entrance. The old man raised his walking stick. He pointed at the litter as it swirled around in the wind.
Earp knew he should turn back, clean up his mess. His son had shown an interest in the environment. Nick had read about the plight of the red squirrel in the woodlands of the Lake District. Sue's voice swelled with pride when she told him Nick had written a report in his spare time. The lad got an A and a gold star from the teacher. Now his son insisted they use the council recycling bin. Earp agreed, although he thought they jumbled it all together anyway.
His stomach rumbled.
"Sod it!"
Earp continued, taking a slight diversion to stop at Mustard’s Chippy. He bought a large battered haddock with steaming-hot chips, a pickled onion, curry sauce, and a large can of pineapple soda. He ate the crisp fish and fried chips in his car with the heat turned up high. As it began to drizzle, he scooped up the last of the sauce with a slab of batter. Then he reclined the driver’s seat, and again closed his eyes. Just a quick kip.
Earp awoke, refreshed, to a light rain drumming on the window and the lingering smell of chip shop curry. Could do with a battered sausage and another can of soda. He stared for a while at the steamed windows of Mustard's Chippy. It was packed with lunchtime patrons. He couldn’t be bothered to wait in the queue. His mind turned to the earlier phone call. Sallow and Dexter hadn't found anything interesting at Maureen Brian’s home. Why didn’t they call in a crew to tear the place apart?