by N. C. Lewis
The room went quiet.
"I've read through the crime scene report," Fenella began as she flicked through the volume. "Lisa and her team have done an outstanding job, as always."
Lisa Levon's reports were always typed with the precision of an engineered instrument. The pages were bound into a thick tome. It detailed every aspect imaginable: from a fibre collected from near the bonfire to estimates of time of death. It even detailed dog paws and herring gull tracks from three different birds. There was no immediate sign of animal damage to the corpse. And there were six distinct sets of footprints. One set were jogging shoes, size seven. The others were for boots or shoes which ranged from size nine to size fourteen. The size-fourteen footprints matched Constable Phoebe. One pair matched Audrey Robin, the other Noel O'Sullivan. The dog paws were believed to be those of Barkie, Mr O'Sullivan's dog. But that awaited confirmation. The owners of the other footprints were not yet known. But one, by the size of the boot and uneven impression, was likely a male, over six foot with a limp.
The crime scene team had photographed the body from every imaginable angle. Plus the charred wood, scorched sand, and single metallic ring pulled from the top of a cola can. As for Miss Brian's corpse, there was no evidence of drug abuse. Samples of sand awaited analysis in the labs. Analysis of DNA swab samples from areas of likely contact were also pending. And so it went on.
Fenella closed the report and for an instant thought about Eduardo and Nan. At home she was a wife, mother, and daughter. Never a cop with her head full of dark crimes. She'd mastered the switch and could slide from murder to domestic bliss and back again. The drive home from work helped. That's where she made the change. The Cumbria countryside with its neat hedgerows and winding lanes helped her to unwind. But even she couldn’t switch off that pang she felt when she missed an evening meal with her family.
Those gathered in incident room A watched their leader and waited. Fenella flipped the switch, brought herself back to the present. She said, "Anyone else looked at the report?"
Every hand went up.
Fenella studied the gathered faces. They were eager. The first furlong of the investigation was now well underway. Her own hopes were high. Doubts as soft as forgotten dreams. No need for her to pick through the report and read the relevant sections aloud. Everyone in the room was on the same page. She moved on. "Earp, where are you with the statements from the list of beach walkers?"
"About halfway."
"Anything interesting?"
"I've heard nothing but Miss Maureen Brian's good deeds and no end about her brilliant advice. It's insane, no one's got a bad word. Seems like the old broiler clucked with everyone in town, can't figure who'd want to wring her neck." Earp glanced around in the hopes of a laugh.
There came none.
The room became still.
Earp shrunk low in his chair and stumbled on. "Uh… er… well… makes it tough for us police folk when you've got no enemies." He gave a self-conscious laugh, thumbing his ear. "Anyone find any dirt on the woman?"
The room went as mute as stone.
"Come on, people," said Earp, his voice as scratchy as a stand-up comedian who'd bombed. "Where's your sense of humour?"
"This is a murder investigation, not the ringside in the circus." The blank expression on Fenella's face spoke more than her quiet words. "Okay?"
Earp stared hard. "Yeah."
Fenella held Earp's stare. "I didn’t hear you."
"Yes, ma'am." He looked away.
"Okay." Fenella continued to stare. "What time did they close the beach?"
Earp flipped through his notebook, avoiding eye contact. Then he glanced around. "Anyone have the details?"
"I asked you to follow up on that item, Detective Constable Earp." Fenella kept her face fixed. She had a soft heart, knew that, but she wouldn’t accept slackness in her team. Nor clowns who disrespected the memory of victims. Earp needed to understand that. "When I ask, I expect your commitment. Jones, follow up on it, will you?"
"Will do, ma'am." Jones beamed.
Fenella turned away from Earp and continued, her voice level. "I visited Miss Brian's home, a dormer in Seafields Bed and Breakfast run by Mr Ben and Safiya Griffin. Not what I expected, but that's bye the bye. What is important?" She gathered her thoughts. "First, Miss Brian was sociable, but she didn’t take visitors to her home. Strange, eh? Second, there were no signs of a break-in when Dexter and I examined the place." Again, she paused. Nothing unusual except the lack of photographs. Then it hit her. Could someone have taken them from the walls? I'll send Dexter for a second look tomorrow. She continued without missing a beat. "One line of inquiry is the location of her photographic art studio. We believe it is on a boat in the harbour, the Pig Snout. Any thoughts?"
Jones raised his hand, back straight, eyes alert, like the bright kid in school. He sat at the front too. Fenella liked that, and his charming smile.
"Go on, Jones."
"We spoke about the storage of her collection when she taught my class in London."
"Well, don’t keep us in suspense; this isn't a horror movie."
Everyone laughed, including Earp.
"Maureen was always a bit secretive about the exact location. But I recall her mentioning several times she kept a portfolio of finished images in her studio. I think she kept them there until they were shipped to either an art gallery or a dealer. So that would mean they are stored on—"
"The Pig Snout," interrupted Fenella. Now she turned to Dexter. "What can you tell us about her recent sales?"
Dexter looked at his notes. "Her art was sold through a broker in Carlisle. A company by the name of Wingfield and Morton. I spoke with one partner, a Mr Wingfield."
"And?" Fenella knew there was more. Knew Dexter.
"Mr Wingfield said his art shop has sold three of Miss Brian's works. All for high prices. Two went to America and the other to an oil man in Nigeria. The bidding was fierce."
"Isn't it strange what people will buy when they have too much money," Fenella said. "Go on, we are listening."
Dexter lowered his voice as if about to share a great secret. "One of Mr Wingfield's Chinese clients was very upset at missing out at auction. The nouveau riche in China can't get enough of Mrs Brian's work. He reckons they'll do anything to get their hands on her prints. Anything."
"What else?" Fenella spoke in a low voice, thinking.
"Mr Wingfield said his gallery had the rights to sell another four items." Dexter paused as if for dramatic effect. "He was very upset because he had not taken delivery before Miss Brian was killed. So, where are those photos?"
"In China," Jones said as he jumped to his feet. "I read about smuggled art in a spy novel. Maybe the Chinese government had a hand in it?"
"I'm with the boss on this one, reckon it's on the Pig Snout," Earp said, trying to be more helpful. "Unless Jones thinks we need to pay a visit to the Chinese Embassy in London?"
Everyone laughed.
Fenella did her best to stifle a grin. She liked her young detective’s ideas even though this one was way outside the box. "Wherever they are, we will need to find those photos fast. Jones, get on the line to the forensic finance investigator. See what you can find out about Miss Brian's financials."
This was it.
They were moving in a direction at last. Fenella sensed the atmosphere in the room change. Energy crackled along the walls. She turned to Earp and smiled. "Root out anything interesting for us on your forage around the harbour?"
Warm chuckles filled the room, although Earp kept his face straight. He'd made one misstep this evening with his boss, wouldn’t make another. He kept his tone formal. "I can confirm the Pig Snout is in the harbour. But I could not get access to the vessel without a search warrant. The security guard, Mr Finnegan Woodstock, refused to let me on board."
Fenella wasn’t surprised. Earp simmered with discontent. It oozed like pus from an old wound. He probably peeved off the security guard. She'd send in Jone
s and Dexter to have a word; they knew how to work the public. Might even go herself. She paused, wondered what Nan had cooked for supper, knew it'd be in the oven. It wasn’t the same when she arrived home late. Nan would be in bed and Eduardo listening to the play on BBC Radio Four.
Fenella pointed at Earp. "Are you trying to tell us the magnificent skills you learned in charm school failed you?"
Once again everyone laughed.
Earp joined in, then rubbed his ear. "Ma'am, the boat belongs to Councillor Malton."
"Okay," she said. "I hear that."
Something shifted in the room.
Dexter said, "Guv, we'd best tread with care with Councillor Malton."
"We don’t want any bad publicity," Tess Allen added. "And he is good friends with Chief Constable Rae, not that it is important. But it's good to know."
"I'll have a word with Superintendent Jeffery," Fenella replied. "Once we get her say-so, we'll get the magistrate to issue a search warrant. By close of play tomorrow, we'll have searched Miss Maureen Brian's boat."
Chapter 26
Early the next morning, Fenella stood inside the mortuary and shuddered.
Dr Mackay's kingdom was in the oldest part of the Port Saint Giles Cottage Hospital. It dated back to Roman times. The weathered tan brick of the morgue was colder than the rest of the hospital. A sharp tang of disinfectant mingled with the stench of death. It lingered in the rooms and hallways. No matter how hard the cleaners scrubbed the stainless-steel tables, it hovered in the still air. No amount of rinsing down the blackened blood off the brown-tiled floors shifted the grim scent of the long dead. The shadows of those who'd gone before haunted the ancient place, if not literally, in the recesses of Fenella's mind.
Dr Mackay bent over Miss Maureen Brian's corpse. He clucked and muttered as if unaware of Fenella's presence. If he were an actor, the stage director would have demanded he tone it down. But the good doctor was no actor, just a man fascinated with death and all it entailed. Full of stories too. Many too gruesome for even Fenella. But he knew how to draw his listeners in. He mesmerised them like a Moroccan snake charmer, his words as melodic as a pungi flute.
Fenella had first met him when she was a rookie constable. There'd been a murder and she'd been assigned to guard the body. The stench of the place churned her stomach, and she trembled, turning pale green in this very room as Dr Mackay stood over a rotted corpse.
"Human decomposition," he had declared, "is the ultimate way to give back."
Now Fenella glanced at the steel table where the childlike form of Miss Maureen Brian lay. Lifeless, pale as dawn, naked, and cold as the night. She couldn’t quell the sad question that crept into her mind. What would Maureen have achieved if she'd had an extra year or two? How many more people would she have touched through her friendship and art? Sorrow opened like a crack in dry earth.
Dr Mackay hovered over the corpse like a carrion crow. He was always doing something. At times with a scalpel. Or tugging at a body part with both hands. Even chipping at the head with a skull chisel. Forensic pathology seemed to Fenella to be a depressing job. How did he do it day in day out, and with so much zeal?
At least she took criminals off the street, but to stare at rot and decay and with the stench in your nostrils every day. That, she couldn't comprehend. Still, she admired his passion, professionalism and enjoyed his little quirks.
Few like him left.
The new breed of pathologists were a dull bunch. They hedged until the labs confirmed beyond any reasonable doubt. Not Dr Mackay. He spouted theories of the cause of death as freely as he imbibed a good Scotch whisky. Frequently and often.
Quirky, but human with it.
"Bloody awful." Dr Mackay stood up and turned to face Fenella. He held an enterotome, large stainless-steel scissors like those used by a butcher chef. It dripped with some vile bodily fluid. "Filthy business, this."
"Aye."
There was no denying it.
"A bloody awful business." Dr Mackay had a way about him that reminded Fenella of a scalpel. He peeled away the disinfectant, chemical deodorisers, and bureaucracy to expose the simple truth. "Last meal, fried chicken and chips with a can of cola. I've got the lab gals working on the brand." He placed the enterotome on the table. "Thank God I arrived at the crime scene before they shifted the body. Useful to see where the deed took place, much better than photographs. Got a feel for the situation, amount of blood, splatter patterns and the like."
Dr Mackay walked to where Fenella stood by the door. He raised his gloved hand for a shake, realised the error, and withdrew his bloodied hand.
"What can I tell you, Fenella?"
He always used her first name. Never detective, never Sallow. Not even constable when they’d first met all those years ago. Fenella liked that.
She said, "We're struggling to build up a picture of Maureen's last movements. We know she was on the beach for the Bonfire Night celebrations. She spent some time with a friend, Mrs Audrey Robin, the woman who found the body. Other than that, her movements between, say, nine p.m. and time of death remain a mystery."
"One forty-seven. That's the time of death."
Fenella marvelled at the precision of modern science. "I'd ask how the lab knows that, but the explanation would go over my head."
Dr Mackay snorted. "I can't wait for some snotty-nosed graduate to look down a microscope and then swirl foul-smelling fluids in some godawful chemical solution to tell me the obvious. The time of death is my best guess. Bet you a good bottle of Glenmorangie I'm right."
Fenella declined. She'd lost that bet once too often. And Eduardo didn't like it when she gave away bottles of his favourite whisky.
She changed the subject. "What else have you got for me?"
"Let me begin by putting all my cards on the table." He raised his gloved hands in mock surrender. "I knew Maureen, saw her Bonfire Night, maybe an hour after the procession." He paused for a moment and raised his gloved hand so it partially covered his face. "She was surrounded by a crowd of people as always. No one I knew though."
Dr Mackay turned to look at the body. For a brief moment he had his back turned to Fenella. She heard a noise. A sob or a laugh?
She couldn’t say, but his stoop was more pronounced than last time, she thought. How long had he been working here? Before her time certainly, before Detective Inspector Jack Croll too. Thirty years, forty?
"I'll send Detective Constable Jones over to take a formal statement."
"New?"
"Just out of the National Detective Programme."
"I'll give him a tour as we chat, show him all the details, hands-on, just like I did when you were a rookie." Dr Mackay grinned, then turned his attention back to the matter at hand. "Like I say, a bloody awful business. Blunt-force homicide. Well you know that; not a knife. A fist, boot, a baseball bat, hammer… you get the picture. Blunt force." He shook his head. " Definitely not an accident. I wish it was otherwise for Maureen's sake and my peace of mind, but that's not the case according to my gut."
"Your gut?" Fenella respected his opinion. Gut was as important as fact. But she couldn’t put how he felt about things in a report. "Your professional gut, I take it?"
"Of course." Dr Mackay lifted his arms, gloved hands hovering just above his ears. "My professional gut is informed by the hat brim line rule."
"Go on."
"Friday night in Carlisle. Young men. Pubs closing. You with me?" He waited until Fenella nodded. "One punch. Down the young man goes, smashing his head against a wall. Now, imagine the victim wearing a trilby. Not much call for those these days, not even in your line of business, but picture it nonetheless."
"Croll's boss used to wear one," Fenella said, a smile touching the corners of her lips. "I've seen the pictures in an ancient photo album."
"Todd Stamford, wasn't it? I remember him. Died ten years back. Bad ticker." Dr Mackay tilted his nostrils, so they pointed towards the door. He sucked in the antiseptic-laced air as if a to
urist cleansing his lungs on a beach. "Anyway, here is the kicker—fall-related injuries generally happen below the hat brim line. Not above it. Case in point, I recall a woman who was pushed in a New Year's Day sale in Barrow-in-Furness. Cracked her head on the haberdashery counter—dead before the ambulance arrived. Nasty. Blood all over the place. The key thing, though—her injuries were below the hat brim line. Accidental death."
"And Miss Brian?" Fenella asked, knew the answer.
"Above the hat brim line. Not accidental. Too many splits to the skin, long and linear. Intentional blows. Maureen Brian died of blunt force trauma." He half folded his arms across his chest. "A crude crime of passion I suspect. Have you considered a lover?"
The mortuary door opened wide. A young woman spoke from the entrance.
"Dr Mackay, I've a call from the medical director."
"Five minutes."
"He is rather insistent."
"Let Dr Oz wait; won't hurt the bugger."
"But sir."
"Tell him I'm with the police and helping our Fenella with her inquiries."
The door closed.
"Any ideas on the murder weapon?" Fenella hoped he would give her a clear picture of what was used.
"Blunt instrument, heavy. Bludgeoned." He sucked in a long breath. "Everything crushed in like that, reminds me of a case over in Workington. Husband hanging a curtain rail. The wife complained about the slant. He reached in his toolbox for the hammer. Only swung it once. That was that for the wife." Dr Mackay stopped speaking. He turned to stare at the remains on the table. When he turned back, he'd aged ten years. "The person who killed Maureen had multiple goes at it. The bugger bludgeoned her skull to a pulp. Not a hammer though, wrong skull fracture pattern. Mercifully, Maureen was well dead before the embers seared her face."
Fenella closed her eyes, remembering the crime scene. The charred remains, burnt embers, blackened sand. It all turned over in her mind. A ragtag collection of images with no form, no shape, no purpose, as if random. Yet a quiet voice nagged. It itched in some lost corner of her mind. Her stomach churned over like a faulty starter motor. There was something else. She was sure of it. What had she missed?