by N. C. Lewis
"Soddin’ idiots."
Earp put the car into gear, but didn’t let it move. Today had been one dreary slog. Where was the excitement he used to feel at the start of an investigation? He hadn't felt that in years. Still, he needed brownie points to get his career back on track. With a fast result, he'd be on the road again to inspector. That came with a higher salary and more savings to pay for his son's treatment in America. But he needed a quick win.
The drizzle stopped.
A vague idea formed.
He smiled.
Yes, he'd find the Pig Snout in the harbour, take a nosy around the outside of the boat. Better yet, he'd check the doors. Not a problem if locked. He'd jam the latch so it opened and take a quick look inside. Maybe he'd find enough to persuade Sallow to send in uniformed officers. They'd find something, he felt sure of it, and he'd take the credit, all of it. He wondered what they'd make of his instant success back in Carlisle. Solving this murder would get their attention.
His smile swelled to a grin.
Miss Maureen Brian is my passport out of this hell hole.
He clung to this thought as his car jerked into the traffic.
Chapter 23
Earp rested his elbows on the harbour railing and idly watched a fishing smack navigate its way through the entrance channel. The drizzle had stopped, but the threat of heavy rain loomed so that the air smelled of brine with a faint trace of sulphur. Low waves lapped against the harbour wall; a soft rhythmic murmur broken by the screams of herring gulls as they hovered above the deep water. Port Saint Giles kept a working fishing fleet. Commercial boats bobbed by the wet dock. There were private boats too, a few shiny and new. Most were well-worn and used for more than the occasional weekend sail around the Solway Firth.
From this distance it wasn’t obvious which boat was the Pig Snout. He walked along the harbour wall towards the stone gatehouse with its pitched slate roof and ornamental turrets. It reminded him of Carlisle castle.
On the boardwalk, a man kicked a ball about with his son. A sudden surge of jealousy caused Earp to stop and watch. Another few years, and he and Sue would have the money to take Nick to America. After the operation, they'd play kickball on the boardwalk and snap photos by the gatehouse. He and Nick would pretend it was a citadel and defend it from imaginary Viking hoards. Provided all went well with the operation. It would be a success; he could feel it in his bones. The Americans had put a man on the moon. They could fix his boy’s legs. He felt a tightness in his chest and returned his attention to the gatehouse.
The uniformed security guard dozed behind a small glass hatch. The newspaper at his side was turned to the sports pages with a bookie-office pen pointing at the 16:23 greyhound race at Owelerton Stadium. Earp watched for a while, noted the circle around Carney Jill, and wondered whether it was worth a flutter. He knocked on the window.
Nothing.
He tried the door.
Locked.
He thumped again, several times, continuing to drum his fist against the glass in rapid bursts.
"Open up."
The shout roused the man from his slumber. He rocked in his chair. It tilted over, spilling him sideways onto the floor. He lay there in bewilderment as if he'd awoken in a strange bed and didn’t know how he got there. He rubbed sleep away with the backs of his hands, sat up, looking about wildly. With a jerk he scrambled to his feet and opened the hatch.
"What the bleedin' hell do you want?"
"So sorry, sir." Earp tried to keep himself from laughing out loud. "Are you all right?"
"You ought to be locked up for creeping up on folk like that. Could have given me a bleedin' heart attack."
"You appeared to be sleeping, sir."
"Nowt wrong with taking a nap on me lunch break."
"You are the security guard, aren’t you?"
"Watchman, that's what I am, not some bleedin' ninja warrior."
Earp did not speak for a while. He stared at the man and listened to the relentless slap of waves against the harbour wall, the susurrous whoosh against stone that separated water from land. Was there another security guard who'd be more amenable?
Earp said, "Has your workmate popped out for a smoke?"
"They don't pay enough for two watchmen. I'm all there is."
"So, you are on duty?"
"Ever worked a double shift, mate?"
"I'm with the police. A detective." Earp kept his voice polite although the man's tone was beginning to irritate. He waved his warrant card, glanced at the man's name tag and smiled. "Can I have a quick word? Finnegan Woodstock, isn't it?"
"Aye." Finnegan looked him up and down. His eyes rolled over the crumpled suit, curry-stained tie, and scuffed shoes. It appeared to fit his perception of a Cumbria Constabulary detective. "Now what's all this about?"
"I'm investigating the murder of Maureen Brian. I understand she rented a boat, the Pig Snout. I'd like to have a quick butcher’s."
Finnegan didn’t reply, simply stared at Earp through the little glass hatch. An outboard motor rumbled in the distance. Giggles and laughter came from behind. Earp turned. A group of schoolgirls in uniform hurried along the boardwalk towards the lighthouse. They had their umbrellas raised, although there was no rain. There was something about the girl in the orange jacket. The Doc Martens boots? He wondered why they weren’t in school, then realised it was still lunchtime. It felt much later. The haddock and chips had sucked his energy or maybe it was the curry sauce. Good stuff. Worth it. He might return later for a battered sausage and another can of pineapple soda. It'd cost, and he and Sue needed to save every penny, but that's what happened when his lunch went unpacked. He contemplated another snooze. After I've finished poking around the boat.
Finnegan was speaking. "Maureen Brian was a wonderful woman. A real-life angel whose time on this earth was too short."
"You knew her, then?" Earp took out his notebook.
"She helped me and my wife, Tammy, with babysitting when our Danny was small. Years ago now, but I still remember the great advice she gave us when he wouldn’t sleep at night. Worked like a charm." He fell silent and stared past Earp towards the boardwalk.
Earp turned to follow his gaze. The father and son kicked the football back and forth. Neither spoke, but it was clear they were having fun, creating memories that would last a lifetime. The clouds seemed lower. There'd be more rain soon.
Finnegan said, "When I was a kid, Maureen would take a bunch of us to the beach to kick ball and play stick cricket. Miss Maureen, we called her. Always Miss Maureen. We got up to mischief and had lots of fun. On the way home she'd buy us each a glass bottle of cola with little straws and a bag of chips with scraps." He stopped speaking, gazed at Earp, but his eyes were seeing the marvellous past. His face radiated.
Earp struggled to put a word on the glow—sadness. But there was happiness too. He pondered what to make of it, drew a blank and decided he would stop by Mustard's Chippy as soon as he wrapped things up here.
Finnegan was speaking. "Bonfire Night. That was the last time I saw Maureen. My boy, Danny, got lost in the crowds. Maureen found him. She was with her friend, Audrey Robin." He leaned forward so his face almost touched the glass hatch. "You'll find who killed Miss Maureen, won't you?"
Earp hesitated, taken aback by the intensity of Finnegan's question. "I have a few questions of my own; routine, if you don't mind."
"Looks like it's going to chuck it down. Come inside; not a lot of space, but it's dry and warm. I'll put the kettle on."
"No thank you."
"Suit yourself. What do you want to know?"
"Where were you between midnight and two in the morning, Bonfire Night?"
"At home with my wife and boy."
Earp made a note. He'd check with the wife later. "Is Miss Brian's boat, the Pig Snout, berthed here?"
"Aye. Maureen used to visit once or twice a week. She came with a big canvas shopping bag most times. A huge thing, like she were hauling coal. Sometimes I'd
walk with her to the boat, just to stretch my legs and talk, but she wouldn’t let me help carry. She'd give a little wave and disappear inside."
"She was a hobby boater, then?"
"Never took it out on the water. Well, not least so I saw. Most times she would stay a couple of hours, then go home."
"Any idea what Miss Brian used the boat for?"
"She liked to sit and watch the water, I suppose."
"Ever been aboard?"
"I'm a watchman, not a crew mate."
"Weren't you curious?"
"I get caught snooping around a yacht and I'm out of a job. The last guy held late-night parties on the boats, got fired." Finnegan paused, thinking. "Wayne Wingfield, that was his name. I believe you lot put him away for drug dealing."
Earp made a note. "So, you've never been inside the Pig Snout?"
"I've got a family to feed."
A squally shower splattered down. It splashed against the window. Water dribbled from the roof. Earp cursed under his breath, turned up his collar and said, "Why don't you show me where the Pig Snout is berthed so I can have a quick look around."
Finnegan considered for a moment. "You got some sort of paperwork, a search warrant?"
"We are trying to find out who beat and murdered Miss Maureen Brian."
A cold gust swept heavier drops across the boardwalk. It slanted down, drenching Earp's trousers. He almost let loose a tirade of foul words but held himself in check. It'd be worth it if he got on that damn boat. He'd tear the place apart himself now, wouldn’t stop until he found something. And if anyone complained, he'd have a good excuse—Finnegan Woodstock let him board. He didn’t move, and set a pleasant expression on his face.
"Just a quick look, Mr Woodstock; won't take more than ten minutes."
"I dunno about that."
"It will help our investigation." He heard the irritation in his voice but hoped Finnegan missed it. "Just point me in the right direction, I'll have a wander about, simple."
Finnegan frowned. "Not easy finding work about these parts."
"Then we'll keep your afternoon kip between ourselves, shall we?"
Finnegan looked at him, his eyes clear and focused. "Sorry mate, it is more than my job’s worth." He scribbled on a slip of newspaper with the bookie-office pen. "Why don't you give Ron Malton a bell? Councillor Malton owns the Pig Snout. Get his say-so and I'll do anything you ask."
Earp stood in the cold and the rain, cursing under his breath. Drops, icy cold, slapped his face as he slowly turned away from the hatch. He cursed again and stamped his soaked trouser legs. He stomped back along the boardwalk and didn’t notice the man and his son, umbrellas raised, dancing.
Chapter 24
Cathy sat in Wander's Wash Laundrette feeling like a great big lump of coal. A November wind gusted against the plate-glass windows. It turned the drizzle into smears of grime and glitter. Inside, the tumble dryers and washing machines spun with an urgent hum. They spat out damp and heat so that it was warm. She shrugged off her orange jacket and waited for the wash to be done.
Thursday was wash night.
She'd pushed the soiled clothes in a shopping cart her dad had nicked from Tesco years ago. If she didn’t do the wash, it wouldn’t get done. So, once a week she scrounged money from her dad and came to sit, watch, and catch up on her homework. Not that school mattered much anymore. Dreams of a farm in the countryside pulled her away from her books these days.
Chickens and goats and a vegetable patch. In the rich soil, she'd grow organic carrots and cabbages and potatoes. Some she'd cook and eat, the rest she'd sell in the local farmers’ market.
But daydreams of rural life weren't enough to sustain her this evening. She felt weary and frightened and sad, and needed to speak with him again. With Maureen Brian dead, doubt crept in. She'd saved some money for flowers. Not enough yet, though, for the bunch of orange roses and yellow sunflowers. They were pricey but Miss Brian deserved it. And now she was dead, it was the best she could do. So she picked them out from a display in Laurie's Florist and counted the pennies until she could afford them. Her way of saying sorry.
At one minute past six, she fiddled with her phone. She scanned for a message from Belinda. They hadn't spoken or texted since they'd argued on the bench under the lighthouse on the pier. So she watched an inane video of cats dancing to nineteen-seventies’ disco music. At six twenty, her mind drifted to him. At six thirty, she pulled out her geography homework, then put it back.
Too boring.
Should she send Belinda a text message?
But then there'd be questions, and she wasn’t ready for that yet.
At six thirty-five, she went to the laundrette door. She peered into the amber lamplight of the drizzle-swept street. Most of the shopfronts were dark, except the convenience store and the newsagents next to it. They closed late to cater for the evening rush. The occasional person hurried along, coat drawn tight against the blustery wind. At the end of the street, as it curved on a slow bend, stood the Three Tuns pub. A handwritten sign was taped to the frosted glass of the saloon window—Pub Grub Sold Here. Her dad would be in there now, drinking the evening away. He'd beg a box of food at closing time, bring it home for breakfast or a late lunch. Nothing unusual. Nothing to see.
As she turned to go back inside the laundrette, a boxy car belched to a stop in front of the newsagent. A man flitted like a graveyard shadow from the driver’s side into the shop.
Cathy spun around.
It was him.
She drew in a breath. Her stomach churned as if riding the Tilt-A-Whirl at the town theme park.
A sign.
She started out after him, almost calling his name. At the edge of the pavement she waited for a break in the traffic. Cars trundled along. Commuters on their way home to a warm house and evening meal. When a gap came, she darted across the road as if a hare pursued by a fox.
Cathy stopped under the awning of the newsagent. It wasn't until then that she realised she was holding her breath. The wind gusted its chill and her hands flew to pull tight the hood on her jacket. Only then did she exhale.
There were people moving about the store; she could see them through the window, but not him. Easy to see. Dark into light. Not so easy on the inside to see out. Light into dark.
Better wait outside. He won't be long.
Like a loyal puppy dog waiting for the return of its master, that was she. Or a palmate newt awaiting the warmth of spring. Both animals. Both constrained by their biological urges. She thought again of Belinda. The girl had her craven need for stories, bright and gossipy and extravagant. But I'm here too, she thought. And standing outside the newsagent in the damp and cold and dark when I should be in the laundrette where it is bright and cosy and talking to Belinda on my phone while folding crisp warm clothes.
Cathy peered through the plate-glass window. She had to speak with him tonight, tell him everything. He was so pure and honest and true. He made her feel safe. But she knew he'd ask lots of questions.
Over and over in her mind she practised what she would say. There was Maureen and the baby and her violent death on the beach in the dead of night. It jumbled around her head and she couldn’t get it straight. And she needed to get it straight when she spoke with him. She didn't want him to get angry, or have him say she didn't trust him. And her mind was already a mess. It was hard to keep things straight and clear.
Cathy stepped back and glimpsed herself reflected in the window. A useless lump of coal. And she reached for her phone to text Belinda but caught sight of him before it came out of her pocket. He had his back to her and stood still and rigid by the magazine rack. His head tilted upwards at the shelf—porno magazines with big-breasted women and computer-enhanced butts. Every face beaming with welcoming smiles. He pulled down a glossy publication, head drooped as he flicked through the pages. It went under his arm and his head once again craned upwards.
A momentary wave of dizziness rose in Cathy. She'd heard about
men who liked that, but… not him. Please, God, not him. Perverts, Belinda called them. She'd have used stronger language herself. Her mind raced. She tried to slow her pulse and think about what to do next. Drizzle fell in a fine mist, pooling in puddles on the uneven pavement.
Cathy couldn't think. Drops of icy water dripped from the shop awning. They splashed against her face as she felt something inside break that could not be put right again.
Once more his head tilted up. But this time his hand hesitated. It was like watching a grocery shopper choose between two ripe plums. Then his big forceful hand darted out as fast as a lizard’s tongue. His forked fingers grasped a glossy magazine as if it were a juicy blue-bottle fly.
The drizzle stopped. The drip from the awning beat in time with the rhythmic trundle of cars along the street.
Cathy decided then.
She'd go back to the laundrette, fold the washing, pretend it hadn't happened, be a palmate newt. Forget about him. Forget about the baby. Forget about the police. But before she turned away, he spun around.
It was the greyness of his face that caused her to scream. Skin drawn taught and leathery across sharp features like some hideous cadaver woken up from the tomb.
It wasn’t him.
It was some old bloke.
Cathy ran.
Chapter 25
"All right, ladies and gentlemen, your attention please."
Fenella stood at the whiteboard in Incident Room A. She held a thick, bound folder under her arm. Her eyes watched the faces. Not too bad for an 8:00 p.m. briefing. She knew her core team would show—Dexter, Earp, and Jones. But there were other faces too. She nodded at the press officer, Tess Allen, and Constables Crowther and Phoebe.
She kept evening briefings short, but she'd not get home in time to enjoy supper with Eduardo and Nan. They'd already be sat around the scrubbed pine kitchen table. Part of her wished she was there too.
Not possible tonight though. Important to keep up the momentum.