Spoken Bones

by N. C. Lewis

  She opened her eyes and Dr Mackay said, "Has Lisa Levon found much of interest in her forensic search?"

  "Still with the labs."

  "Pity. If you found the murder weapon… well, you'd have half a chance. The gals in the labs have made quite remarkable progress in evidence recovery."

  Fenella gave a sad smile. "And I thought you were an old-school luddite."

  "Only to my boss. All that blasted form-filling drives me crazy."

  "Got anything else for me?"

  "Whoever did this to Miss Brian didn’t know their own strength. They must have carried a giant club." Dr Mackay stretched his arms wide to illustrate. "A great big bloody-mindless Neanderthal, swinging a great big bloody club."

  Chapter 27

  Fenella stood by her car and thought about her next step. She had just left the morgue and now had a clear picture of how Maureen Brian died. The murder weapon might be a log from the bonfire or a chunk of driftwood. Either way, it was a club-like weapon an apeman might swing. She climbed into her Morris Minor and sat in silence. Her eyes watched the low clouds, mind elsewhere.

  It was the phone that broke her quiet focus. Stunned by its intense din, Fenella stared at it in a dreamlike state. For several moments it rang. The superintendent's tone. What did the boss want? Then she thought about the Pig Snout and the search warrant and scooped the phone into her hand and pressed it tight to her ear.

  "This business about Councillor Malton," Jeffery began, "comes at a tough time."

  There was a long pause as if she were waiting for agreement. But the sight in the morgue had chilled Fenella to her core. She wasn't in the mood for games.

  "I've never known murder to come at any other time, ma'am. We need to get on that boat and look around."

  "It's a hot mess, Sallow. I'm under pressure from all sides. Headquarters in Carlisle want a daily update on the case. Progress, stats, status."

  "Okay," Fenella said. She thumbed the phone to turn down the volume. "I will keep you informed. And the search warrant, ma'am?"

  Jeffery said, "If we don't get a quick result, this will look bad. Might dent our careers beyond repair. I'm not sure it is worth the risk."

  The line went quiet.

  This was it. This was what the phone call was about: ambition, numbers, and her boss's climb up the ladder. The hush was total. Fenella thumbed her phone to turn up the volume.

  "Are you there, ma'am?"

  No response.

  But she heard a soft breath. It was as if Jeffery had begun some massive calculation. Fenella waited. She was good at the wait.

  At last, Jeffery said, "Are you one hundred percent certain the missing art photos are on Councillor Malton's boat?" Jeffery's waspish voice creaked with a strange hiss. "One hundred percent, Sallow?"

  There was no way Fenella could answer that question and Jeffery knew that. Fenella said, "We believe Miss Brian used the Pig Snout as her art studio. There is reason to believe she also stored her finished works on the vessel."

  "Reason to believe, Sallow? We'll need a good sight more than that if I'm going to poke the hornets' nest."

  Fenella felt tension in her shoulders. She tilted her neck from side to side. It didn't help.

  "Ma'am, the missing items are of considerable value and may prove the motive for Miss Brian's death. We need to search the boat to find them."

  "Is Councillor Malton a suspect?"

  "We can't rule anyone out at this stage. Once we look around the boat, we will have a clearer idea."

  "Rather a sticky wicket here." The superintendent's voice grew in volume, until by the end, she was shouting. "Sallow, you've bowled me a bloody googly."

  Fenella enjoyed ladies’ cricket, preferably from the clubhouse with a glass of red wine and a slice of cheese with a dash of brown pickle on the side. She'd cheer with the crowd at a six or a four or a well-taken wicket. But it was the batswoman's duty to deal with the ball as bowled. It was Jeffery's duty to get the search warrant.

  "Sorry, ma'am. But you understand we need to access the boat."

  "Well, of course." The line went quiet for so long Fenella thought the superintendent had hung up. But Jeffery's voice came back, soft, like buzzing bees. "I'll need time to work through this. I can't give you an answer today. Oh, and send Dexter in to see me, will you?"

  The phone went dead.

  Fenella started the engine and weighed her options. It was useless to dwell on the search warrant. The weather forecast said there’d be clear skies, a warmer day. Already a watery sun had begun to show through the sullen clouds. She might stop by the Grain Bowl Café, grab a cortado and butter croissant, and sit outside to think things over.

  Then she thought about Maureen Brian's apartment and her heart did that little flipping thing. She'd forgotten to ask Dexter to take a second look. She could do that herself. And anyway, her team were at full stretch. It wouldn’t hurt to get a bit more fresh air.

  Chapter 28

  The weather forecast was wrong. Rain fell in great grey sheets which smashed hard against the Morris Minor's windows. Cumbria weather, ever changeable. The urgent beat from the heavens was like a hard fist pounding a door at night to warn of danger ahead. It poured down for the entire drive to Seafields Bed and Breakfast.

  Safiya Griffin greeted Fenella at the door.

  "Help yourself, Detective Sallow," she said. "I'll be in my room. Give me a shout if you need anything."

  "And Mr Griffin?"

  "Ben's out shopping, so you are on your own, I'm afraid." She waved Fenella up to the dormer with a weary nod of the head.

  Fenella entered Maureen's room and looked around. A faint smell of vanilla-scented potpourri hung in the still air. Same rectangular space partitioned into two rooms. A living room with a small kitchen in the alcove where the roof slanted down. She did a slow 360-degree turn looking for change, but nothing. She walked to the Ace radio and again looked around. No markings on the walls.

  She padded across the rug, stopped, stepped off the autumnal swirls and stooped to lift the edge.

  Nothing.

  She went to the bookcase, pulled out books at random and flicked through the pages. Then she ran a hand over the wooden backing of the bookcase. Next, she went to the cherrywood table and stared at the loose pile of magazines. Again, she flicked through the pages. She stared at the balls of yarn, pink and blue, but did not pick them up. Then looked back towards the door. She hurried over to close it and examined the wall either side. No sign of a hook or nail or faint outline where a frame once hung. No sign of the missing photos.

  In the bedroom, the same unslept-in bed, same lavender bedspread, same pillow. Underneath, the same lemon nightdress next to the same empty hot water bottle. On the wall above the bed, the same crucifix. She touched the crucifix, weighed it in her hands. Same for the swing-arm brass lamp. For a while she stared at the open magazine. Then she read the article about prehistoric cave paintings. It contained nothing useful, so she searched the bedside cabinet.

  Nothing.

  Fenella walked to the window and stared out. Beyond the garden fence, a bleak beach with a bland sky. There was only one person on the sands; a jogger in green shorts with a mop of bleached white hair. He moved with slow precision through the sheets of slanting rain. She turned away and thought about Maureen Brian in the morgue and felt sick in her stomach. She riffled through the built-in wardrobe with an urgent sense she could not explain. Skirts, dresses, blouses, headscarves. Shoes at the bottom, some boxed. Boxes in neat rows. Just like last time. What had she missed?

  She went to the photographic landscape hung near the small rectangular window. Definitely the lighthouse but viewed through a distorted lens. She eased it off the wall, half hoping to find the outline for four smaller images once hung beneath.

  It was a long shot.

  It missed.

  In the reluctant November light that filtered through the window, she studied the small bed. She bent over, looked under the mattress. Then knelt t
o stretch her arm deep under the slats, feeling about the bare floorboards. When she'd finished, she stood by the window, thinking.

  After a while, she once again looked about the tiny bedroom and tried to think of something else but could not. A feeling she dreaded clawed at her gut. A numbness of dull despair that she was chasing a stick in a stream. Always one step ahead. Always just out of reach.

  Chapter 29

  Earp found himself on yet another doorstep. The sixth this morning. This time at the frosted glass door of a semidetached house in a quiet cul-de-sac. The cars parked in the driveways of these homes suggested business executive. A vague hunger gnawed in the pit of his stomach, with the knowledge of only a half flask of coffee in the car.

  The weather had turned against the meteorologist's hopeful predictions. Rain fell hard. With his umbrella raised, and in a foul mood, he wondered how they could get it so wrong and still have a job. At least it was Friday. He cursed as he rang the doorbell.

  The melodic chimes faded away. A woman with the face of a fashion model answered. She wore a cotton dress the colour of avocado with masses of wavy brown hair. Under the dim light, Earp took her for a teenager or young twenties at most.

  "Can I speak with Mrs Collins?" He peered hard, uncertain and flashed his warrant card. "Your mum?"

  "That's me," Elizabeth replied with a broad smile.

  Takes good care of herself, Earp thought and repeated her name just to make sure.

  "Come in out of the rain, Detective." Her words fizzed and effervesced as if they were old friends. "We can't have an officer of the law dripping wet."

  He caught a better look as she turned into the hallway. Forty at least, maybe more. Pretty though.

  The hallway smelled of floral scents. Two dark amber pots held golden chrysanthemums. There was cherrywood furniture and cream-coloured walls with polished waxed floorboards. A long narrow Persian rug ran the length of the hall. Elizabeth took his mackintosh coat and hung it on a coatrack next to children's hats and gloves and a pink jacket. She put the umbrella in a cherrywood umbrella stand. Affixed to the bottom, Earp noticed a brass oval drip pan polished so hard it shone like a bedroom mirror.

  Elizabeth turned to Earp. "Let's talk in the kitchen, warmer in there. I'll put on the kettle for coffee, or would you prefer tea?"

  No surprise at the visit, or resentment or angst, just a friendly welcome. Earp's mood improved.

  "Tea would be nice."

  "And a slice of cake?"

  "I wouldn’t say no."

  In the kitchen, the floral scent from the hallway mingled with the faint trace of curry. It was a broad room with a chef sink and wide windows. They looked out onto a green lawn with a swing set and sand pit and a box filled with toys. At the end, almost hidden by the slanting rain, lay rose beds and a freshly dug vegetable patch next to a garden shed. On the fridge and the walls were pictures drawn by children. Stick people. Stick dogs. Stick trees and boxy buildings with slanted doors, all in garish colours. They reminded Earp of the oil paintings he, Sue, and Nick had seen on a trip to the Lowry museum in Salford.

  The rain was slanting hard against the kitchen window. Earp watched it for a few moments. Then he gazed at the chef sink. There was a large cutting board, knife holders, drainboards, drying mats and sponge holders. His wife, Sue, was more of a packet-mash-and-frozen-veg cook. He couldn’t imagine her peeling and chopping and scraping. Not when she could whip something out of the freezer and put it in the microwave. Still, it would be nice to eat something fancy every once in a while. Not curry or Chinese or frozen lamb cutlets dashed under the grill. His stomach rumbled.

  "Please take a seat, Detective Earp." Elizabeth pointed to the pine kitchen table. It was broad, like the benches Earp remembered from a pub he and Sue visited in the village of Crossthwaite. "I'll get the kettle on."

  After two cups of tea and a slice of Battenberg cake, Earp pulled out his notebook. He read for a moment, then gazed at the children's paintings.

  "Kids in school?"

  "Thank goodness, a few hours peace when the army are gone."

  Earp hesitated for a moment, unsure of what she meant.

  "Army?"

  "Oh, I thought the police knew everything. I'm a foster parent. I've got five under twelve."

  Earp glanced around the orderly kitchen and tidy yard. Nothing like the mess and chaos at his place, and he and Sue only had one.

  "Five! My God, how do you keep the place so"—he struggled to find the right word, thought about the brass oval drip pan polished to a mirror-like shine—"pristine."

  "I've a teenager too; she helps."

  "But still."

  "I'm organised, Detective Earp. It’s the only way to keep the ship moving, and the kids know the rules and generally stick to them." She wagged a finger, grinning. "Tidy away your toys. Finish your meal else no pudding. No shouting. No biting. Start your homework. Turn that light out, it's bedtime. You know the drill."

  "Aye." But he thought there had to be more to it than that.

  "Anyway, I give the place a quick tidy while the nippers are at school—Saint Giles Elementary. They finish at three thirty; that's when the chaos begins." She laughed. "Madness, pure and simple lunacy when they return."

  Earp realised she loved children, loved having them about, loved the chaos and the mess and bringing order out of everything. He adored Nick and so did Sue, but he felt resentful at this superwoman who made it all seem easy.

  Elizabeth was talking. "And Belinda, my teen, is volunteering this morning at the Quarterdrigg Activity Centre."

  Not just a whizz with little kids, then. She can work her magic with teenagers. He let out a low whistle. "The Quarterdrigg, eh?"

  "Twice a week and she loves it, likes to help. Later she's picking up the afternoon shift at Logan's Bakery. When she gets back home, she'll help me with the kids."

  Earp pondered for a moment. "I'm thinking of signing my boy, Nick, up for their after-school club."

  She raised an eyebrow. "At the Quarterdrigg?"

  "Aye."

  "Mental health challenges?"

  "No."

  "Physical, then?"

  "A bit."

  Elizabeth stared at him over her cup. "Well, he'll love it. I volunteer one weekend a month, in the kitchen. Let me know when your son visits, I'll keep an eye on him. It helps them to settle in if they feel someone is looking out for them."

  Earp realised he'd drifted off course, didn’t care, and took a sip from his tea and another bite of cake. He felt sure they'd find the evidence they needed on the Pig Snout. How long would they have to wait for the superintendent's green light? In the meantime, he had to spin his wheels speaking with people who resented his questions. No point rushing away from here.

  They fell into silence. A soft drumming rattled the kitchen window. Rain slanted down in white sheets. He wondered how long he could stay before moving on to the next name on his list. Elizabeth got up, went to the fridge, and came back with a package wrapped in brown paper.

  "You may as well take this. Turkey stuffing with cranberry sauce sandwiches, wholemeal bread. There is a homemade vanilla crème brûlée for pudding. I prepared it for Belinda, but she forgot. Late as usual."

  Earp thought about the half flask of coffee in the car. It would go down a treat with that. It seemed like he'd stumbled on a pleasant witness at last. Those he'd spoken to earlier crackled and spat at being disturbed. Or were annoyed the police hadn't caught the killer.

  "Just a few questions," he began, on guard for a change of Elizabeth's generous mood. He placed a protective hand on the brown package just in case. "I believe you were friends with Maureen Brian?"

  "Best friends." Elizabeth's voice wavered. "Along with Audrey Robin. Gloria Embleton was close too. Maureen had so many good friends and we are at a loss to understand. Why did it happen?"

  In his early years on the force, he'd pursued the same question. The quest powered the long days and longer nights. It kept him going despit
e dead ends and stony silences. With careful diligence, he sought to dig up and expose the root cause. Over unrelenting years, he'd moved from sympathy to empathy to nothing at all. He'd lost any interest in who did what to whom or why. His job was to ask tough questions, make people sweat, cry, pee their pants so the perp would be put away. That was how he saw his role as a detective, and he detested himself for it. But today, in the bright kitchen with his belly filling with hot tea and warm Battenburg, and the stick-figure children's drawings and the prospect of a gourmet-packed lunch, he glimpsed something he'd lost.

  "Is Mr Collins about? Your husband might want to sit with you through the questions."

  "George was quite a bit older than me, went suddenly—heart attack, fifteen years ago."

  "Widowed, then?"

  "My husband was a banker, and I worked for a staffing agency as a bookkeeper. They assigned me to his branch when his regular clerk was out on maternity leave. We fell in love." Elizabeth went silent, looking off at the drawings on the fridge. "George left me well endowed. I want to give back. I live for the children and my volunteer activities. And now he is gone, I'm on my own and will always be so."

  If he hadn't already done so, Earp would have blown another low whistle. A woman with her looks could definitely attract another bloke with a fat wallet. Why would she willingly accept growing into an old grey spinster? He wanted to pry further, out of curiosity, but it wasn’t germane to the investigation.

  The melodic chimes of the doorbell rang.

  "Please excuse me, Detective Earp."

  He watched her leave the kitchen and shook his head slowly. Then grabbed another slice of cake and topped up his tea. But he couldn’t restrain his inner detective and crept to the kitchen door, eased it open, and listened.

  Elizabeth muttered a greeting followed by a woman's voice. It travelled along the hallway but was too mumbled for him to make out the words. He recognised the tone—worry.