Spoken Bones

by N. C. Lewis

Chapter 31

  Fenella pulled her car to a stop. She was on a pot-holed lane on the edge of town. The rain continued to fall, fast and hard. It had been two years since she had last travelled this way. She'd had her reasons then too. It was a Friday afternoon in summer and the hedgerows were heavy with foliage. Yellowhammers perched on top of hawthorn bushes. They sang their “a little bit of bread and no cheese” ballad. On a slope shaded by broadleaved sycamore, she'd watched a badger sett. Later, she'd walked to Detective Inspector Jack Croll's cabin.

  Now, as the wipers worked hard, she peered along the barren lane. She was looking for the dirt track that snaked to Croll's home. After her futile search of Maureen Brian's apartment, she didn't want to return to the office. She wanted to do something. Not stare at the bleak walls and wait for news from her team. Of course, there was the administration she always left for Friday, but it could wait until next week. As soon as she filled it all in, more forms arrived. It was a never-ending paper chain of forms and reports and procedures. All had to be read, memorised and implemented. And she'd promised herself a visit to her old mentor. A break from the case, she thought, with someone who understood. Later, she would look back on their meeting as the lull before the storm.

  The retired detective's house was a single-storey shack with a thick iron roof rusted to russet. He came onto the porch and watched. Fenella eased her Morris Minor to a stop in the muddy front yard. He'd grown a beard, bleach white, and leaned on a chestnut staff held firm in his right hand. If he'd worn a cloak rather than blue jeans and a tee-shirt, he'd have made a passable Fagan from Dickens's novel Oliver Twist. But he could have dressed in high heels and a tartan kilt for all Fenella cared.

  Jack Croll saved her career.

  Fenella climbed out of the Morris Minor and walked to the porch wondering why she'd left it so long.

  "Hello, Jack."

  "I knew you'd come today," Croll said, flashing a crooked grin. "A little bird tells me there has been a spot of bother."

  Chapter 32

  The front door led straight into the living room. Fenella stomped her shoes on the welcome mat, feeling the warmth as the rain pattered on the windows. She inhaled the smell of floor wax, beer, and embers.

  Nothing's changed.

  An old but respectable Axminster rug patterned with faded blue-and-beige floral medallions covered much of the living room floor. Fenella slipped off her shoes and headed for the wingback armchairs which stood side by side in front of the wood-burning stove. She settled into the soft cushions. Croll looked at her as if about to speak, changed his mind, and left the room.

  Fenella stared into the flickering flames, remembering. It was two years since she sat in this room and, within two minutes, she was back in the memories of the crimes they'd solved around this stove. Croll shuttered his team in his cabin when they worked a tough case. They'd eat pizza, drink craft beer while each person put forward their theory. Everyone's idea, whatever the rank, taken by Croll with professional interest. Then they argued good-naturedly until the truth emerged. They worked the Mr Shred case from this room. Tracked down Hamilton Perkins and put him away.

  Fenella realised once again what a remarkably good detective Jack Croll was and wished she was back working a case with him.

  It was always very quiet in Croll's cabin. She turned in her chair and folded her knees to one side to get more comfortable. The only sound was the patter of rain as it hit the windows with such a constant beat that you almost had to listen for it. She thought about what might have been if he'd found the right woman. There'd been girlfriends, too many to recall. She sunk deeper into the chair trying to remember their names. Janet with her dark eyes and brown skin stood out from the rest. Gentle, kind, caring Janet. She’d stayed the longest. Years. But like the rest, moved on when she realised there was nothing outside the police in Jack Croll's life. It took you over like that if you let it. The work so intense, so overwhelming, the desire to catch the perp so deep that it left a toughened outside but hollowed-out the core. Now Croll's era had passed, but she couldn’t get used to her boss as a retired bloke.

  "Putting a pizza in the oven."

  Croll's voice came from beyond the door that led to the kitchen.

  Fenella turned from the fire to glance around the sparse room. A fold-down table with two stools sat by the window. No television. In its place, a mahogany Davenport desk with the hinged desktop down and a laptop resting next to a pile of handwritten notes. A handcrafted bookshelf with perhaps a hundred books. She thought of Maureen Brian's apartment. Neat and tidy and organised and clean. In his cabin, too, Jack Croll kept things simple.

  Croll returned with two half-pint tankards and four bottles of ale on a tray that folded out into a table.

  "Loweswater Gold. From Hawkshead village."

  Fenella poured half a glass of the amber liquid and sipped.

  "Delicious, almost tropical in flavour."

  She poured the rest into the tankard, kept it in her hand.

  They didn’t speak again until after Croll stoked up the fire so it cracked and spat above the patter of the rain.

  Croll said, "Five years."

  "Already?"

  "Feels like ten. Don't retire early, it's a bloody lifetime." He took a gulp from his tankard. "And you? Tough times I hear. With the police cuts and the body on the beach."

  Fenella sighed. For a long moment she gazed intently at the bare panelled walls, skimmed with a coat of dark varnish. No gilt-framed certificates or pictures of Jack Croll shaking hands with bigwigs. Just an enlarged photograph of the Port Saint Giles beach and pier and lighthouse. But he'd made more impact than a dozen gilt-framed certificates in his time. Much more than a ripple. He'd told her to master the switch, not to be on all the time like him. She'd listened and applied his suggestions. Jack Croll saved more than her career, and for that, Fenella remained forever thankful.

  "The investigation into Miss Maureen Brian's death is bogged down," she said. "But we are working several lines of inquiry. Including her art studio which is moored in the harbour."

  "Clear sight on a motive?"

  "Not yet."

  Fenella felt slightly light-headed, not from the Loweswater Gold, but from thinking about the Maureen Brian case. She couldn’t get a good handle on the motive.

  She said, "Theft of her photographic art seems the most likely possibility." Yet she still felt wary of that explanation. Once they got access to the Pig Snout, they'd have an answer. "And she didn’t appear to have any enemies. As far as we can tell, she was one of those women who everyone loved."

  They lapsed into silence, gazing at the stove. The flames cast miniature shadows which danced, then vanished moments after they appeared. It was Croll who broke the quiet.

  "Not a mugging gone wrong, then?"

  "Nothing stolen as far as we can tell. Her handbag and purse were found intact."

  "Family, then?"

  "None that we can trace."

  "Interesting," he said slowly. "I can see why the newspapers are whipping it up as a sort of mystery. An elderly artist who everyone loves and does good deeds is slain on a quaint Cumbrian beach as the fireworks flash."

  Fenella unfolded her legs to stretch. Croll continued to speak in his quiet understated voice.

  "There are no mysteries in our world. Only crimes of passion or vengeance or greed." He paused. "Whatever the headline spin, integrity beyond doubt. Remember that and you'll be fine."

  That was Croll's mantra back in the station when they'd worked together in the pressure cooker of internal politics, public opinion, and political demands. He never used that phrase unless something was wrong.

  "Anything I should know?" Fenella asked.

  Croll said, "A little bird told me this one is not going down well with police headquarters in Carlisle. Doubt you've got long before they and their political masters jump in to dish out healthy portions of blame." He stopped abruptly, ran a hand over his beard. "There's one other thing…"

&n
bsp; "Go on."

  "They'll be out for a scalp if this isn't cleared up fast. It won't be Jeffery. The woman is like Teflon. Nothing sticks. Watch the higher-ups and watch your back."

  Fenella stared at Croll's face. It held so much of her loyalty that she knew it well. The ever-so-slight twitch in the corner of his right eye and the little pulse beating on the side of his jaw. Suddenly she knew that Croll was working up to something more. She shifted in her chair, eyes fixed like bright beams on his face.

  "Jack?"

  Croll's gaze drifted back to the flames. He cleared his throat.

  "How is Dexter?"

  "That's what I came to speak with you about."

  "Back on the bottle, isn't he?"

  "Seems so."

  She didn’t ask how he knew. Croll cared about his people; that's what they told her when she joined his team. Five years retired, and he still did. She suspected it was innate in him, like a mother bear protecting its cubs.

  Croll said, "How is Priscilla?"

  "She left him."

  "Really?"

  "More than a year ago."

  "Shame." Croll shifted in his seat. "And you and Eduardo?"

  "He is still drawing superhero cartoons and I'm still chasing down the bad guys."

  "And little Winston?"

  "He's nine now."

  "Time flies."

  For the first time since settling into the armchair, Fenella realised Croll appeared exhausted. His eyes swelled as if he lacked sleep, and he'd lost weight. Until the day he had retired, he'd been like a dynamo. Now she wondered if he was sick.

  She'd seen it happen before.

  Police officers who devoted themselves to their job and nothing else. When their time came to retire, bereft of relationships outside of the uniform, there remained nothing but memories and the prospect of long empty days ahead. Melancholy settled like dust. Disease and sickness soon followed. Had the void of retirement's endless days overwhelmed her mentor?

  "And you, Jack?"

  Croll's quiet eyes fixed on Fenella. He sipped his drink.

  "Tell Dexter to stop by. He owes me a chat."

  "Not if you two are going to knock back more than a few bottles of Loweswater Gold." She delivered the line like banter, but if Jack was sick, she wanted to know.

  "Oh come on." He grinned, the old Jack back. "It'll give me a chance to evaluate things."

  "Really?"

  He nodded towards the Davenport desk. "Been doing a spot of research. The section of the mind that detects criminals is also the part that looks inward. Like a mirror. The mirror mind."

  Fenella leaned forward, curious. Where was he going? But she didn’t interrupt, knew it would be somewhere extraordinary.

  "We can deceive the world, but not the mirror mind." Croll took a long gulp from the tankard. "We can train it too. That's what all great detectives do. Makes us curious, active, alert, instinctive, get deep into other people's heads."

  "And?" Fenella couldn’t help herself.

  "Dexter is too good a cop to let drink destroy his mirror mind."

  Fenella nodded at the bookshelf. "Read that in one of your books, did you?"

  "Aye. Open University course. I'm completing my doctorate in psychology. Long days. I've been burning the midnight oil. Overdoing it, I suppose."

  Fenella sipped her ale, thinking. "Not sick, then?"

  "Fit as a fiddle."

  "Dr Jack Croll, eh?"

  "Has a ring to it."

  She pointed to the empty mantelpiece and bare wall.

  "Oh come off it, Jack. You don't have any of your commendations or medals on display. Why would you suddenly want an academic title?"

  "Wanting a thing is reason enough."

  "I'm not buying. What is the real reason?"

  "To hang above the mantelpiece."

  "And mice don’t like cheese."

  "They don't, actually."

  Fenella stared at him, mouth open. He had a way of sucking her into a silly argument. She knew she shouldn’t argue the point, but somehow couldn’t resist.

  "Oh, come on! Everyone knows mice eat cheese. Tom and Jerry, anyone?"

  "They prefer to nibble on something sweet."

  "And cheese."

  "Fruits or grains, actually."

  "What about cheese?"

  "Or if they are half starved, a chunk of stale cheddar."

  "Told you."

  "Okay, okay, but I said starving."

  Fenella grinned. "Now, just what are you up to with this PhD?"

  "Nothing."

  "And mice don’t eat cheese."

  He laughed. "You are quite right; I have an ulterior motive." He poured the rest of the ale into his tankard. In the distance they could hear thunder, and after a while lightning lit the sky. The rain continued to lash against the windows. "I've a favour to ask."

  "Anything; you know that, Jack."

  "I'm planning to come back."

  Fenella stared, wide eyed. He'd reached the mandatory retirement age. There was no way back. But she kept her mouth shut and listened.

  "The force are looking for retired detectives to work cold cases. The doctorate will help with my application. You'll put in a word to the admissions committee for me, won't you?"

  "If they ask about mice and cheese, you are sunk." But Fenella grinned.

  The ping of the oven timer sounded from the kitchen.

  "A word in your ear," Croll said, getting to his feet. "Keep a close eye on Detective Earp."

  "You know him?"

  "Solid record but driven. Too much at times. No switch."

  "Like you."

  "Aye, like me. No way to live though. Kills the body. Almost killed me." Fenella remembered his heart attack. It was a close call. "Earp was demoted to a detective constable. From what I hear, it was his own fault."

  Fenella thought about that. "We all make mistakes."

  Croll turned, squinted with one eye. "They told you what he did?"

  "I didn’t ask."

  "You should have been a priest, Fenella."

  "I've dropped my share of clangers." She put the tankard down. "They didn’t stop you taking me on board. You were very tolerant of my foibles."

  "Still, it helps to know."

  "If it doesn’t colour my judgement. But the way Jeffery sneered, I feared it would. So I've given him a chance before I peek into his files."

  "Aye, perhaps you are right." He smiled. "Now, before the pizza burns, tell Jeffery she's made a mistake."

  "About what?"

  "Two things."

  Fenella waited.

  "First, Hamilton Perkins won't lead her to the body of Colleen Rae."

  Fenella picked up her tankard and stared at Croll for a long moment. How the hell did he know about that? She tried to hide the surprise in her voice and said, "You said two things."

  "Second," he said with a smug smile, "she'll never get Dexter to retire early."

  Chapter 33

  It was past lunchtime when Audrey arrived at Martin Findlay's flat on Fleetwood Lane. She carried a cardboard box of fried chicken and a double portion of chips. The girl in the tatty uniform and baseball cap had offered a plastic bag.

  "Two if you like, it will keep it from getting soggy from all this rain. Keep it nice and dry so you can eat it in the car."

  Audrey refused. The bag would live in the landfill forever. At least the cardboard box was decomposable. Now she stood with her hood up underneath the dingy porch with its rusted tin roof. But she did not knock. Instead, she waited outside Martin's front door and listened to the splash of the rain.

  She felt anxious.

  If she were caught, there’d be big trouble. But she had to speak with Martin before the police arrived. She had gone over and over what she would say, but each time the words came out wrong. She felt like a child on stage performing at a school play. All those eyes watching you on stage from the dark. That freaked her out. She turned to stare back into the street to see if anyone watch
ed.

  A figure moved through the rain, but she could not make it out. Just a jogger. Silly buggers run in any weather. She raised her hood, just to be careful in case anyone was watching. Soft whispers spoke between her ears, a murmuring of voices as though clearing the throat.

  "No," she yelled. "I won't listen."

  The rain continued to splash. Great sweeping squalls rattled along the rooftops and down the drainpipes. The tenacious drumming echoed on the porch as if hideous voices warning her away. She hesitated, thought about returning home. With a surge of momentary confidence, she tried once more to practise what she would say. She reworked the words so they'd come out just right. But it did not work, so she closed her eyes and thought about the last time she visited Martin's flat.

  It had been a while. The last time? With Maureen. The two of them had a late-morning coffee in the Grain Bowl Café to celebrate the sale of another of Maureen's photographic creations. Maureen paid and afterwards ordered a takeaway meal for Martin.

  "Something different for him." she had said in her chatty voice. "He eats nothing but fried chicken and chips. Do you mind driving me over? On Fridays, it's mornings only at the Quarterdrigg. He'll be at home by now."

  "Ginger-marinated grilled tofu with red peppers is a long way from chicken and chips," Audrey had replied, doubtful whether it was something Martin would eat.

  But they'd also stopped by the fried chicken shop. Maureen ordered drumsticks and a double portion of chips.

  "For my supper," she had said with a sly grin.

  Audrey drove to Martin's flat and waited in the car, while Maureen, talkative as ever, delivered the food. The woman had stayed for ages inside. Talking in her rapid-fire voice no doubt.

  Audrey raked her memory for a time when she'd been inside Martin's flat. Never, she realised with a start. Every time, she'd sat outside in her car and waited. It served as her own safe space, where she'd hide when the head librarian shouted at her. A peaceful oasis away from the inane literary chatter of workmates. The perfect place for making her plans. That day, as always, it was her chariot for carrying Maureen to her do-goody tasks, and she'd stayed in her car and thought of Patrick.