by N. C. Lewis
The daylight steadily dimmed so that it felt almost like dusk. The air turned ice-cold. Would Martin welcome her in, or would she have to stand on the doorstep outside? Again she glanced back towards the street. It wouldn’t be wise to be seen out here. But Audrey thought the rain and the cold would keep the nosy neighbours away.
Now her imagination conjured what lay inside Martin's flat. Maureen often visited, and she was so orderly: everything in its own place. Audrey wondered again why she hadn't been inside. Was it that she'd never been invited by Maureen? Yes, that had to be it, and she'd never realised that trick! Now she suspected Maureen ate the tofu while Martin dined on chicken and chips. Had she been nothing more than Maureen's personal driver? She stood very still, engrossed in that thought until damp seeped through her hood and moistened her mousy hair.
This rain made everything miserable. So it was too cold and dark for anyone to be about. Audrey's body began to relax. She and Martin could talk on the doorstep without any fear. That cheered her up a little.
She lowered her hood and let the rain splash over her head. But now she wanted to get inside, her curiosity was so great. She stared at the door and anticipated what awaited her. Neat and tidy with a shoe rack in the hall—even a floral tablecloth thrown over the dining room table—and one of Maureen's photographic pictures hung on the wall? Her heart raced faster. Would Martin know how much it was worth? She didn’t think so, and that made her feel better.
When Maureen first shared her art, Audrey thought they were just blurry photos. But she'd soon found out what people paid, and it made her head hurt. Now nothing would stop her from having a nosy around Martin's flat. Who knows what treasures I'll find? Once Martin gets a whiff of the fried chicken and chips, he'll hurry me inside. She hummed, quietly, in syncopation with the tap of the rain—tat-de-da-da-de-de-dah.
She stopped her merry hum and was about to knock when she sensed the presence of a heartbeat before she heard the noise—a scraping shuffle above the drum of the rain. At first, she thought it was her mind playing tricks and that ratty terrier would come into view, mouth open, baring the small sharp teeth of a rabid fox. Her heart froze in fear as she braced herself for Patrick's whispered words.
"He's not back long, pet. Got his lunch I see."
Audrey spun around. A skeletal woman peered at her through sharp eyes. She wore a yellow plastic mackintosh with the hood up and held a floral umbrella opened wide above her head.
The woman said, "He's inside now. I saw them drop him off. They came in the big white van with the yellow stripe along the side and the funny poster of that American bloke eating a hot dog stuck on the back doors. You know him, don't you? Pastor at that church that gathers on the beach when the weather's good. Funny folks if you ask me. Guitars and singing are not what church is supposed to be about. In my day it was hard wooden pews with wild-eyed preachers screaming fire and brimstone. And to see him on the beach strumming and grinning with all those young women google eyed. It ain't proper. No wonder crime’s gone barmy. Flogging's too good for the buggers. Anyway, they always bring Martin back at the same time on Friday. Are you from social services?"
Audrey fingered back a tuft of her mousey hair. It stood up in damp punk-rock spikes. She muttered a non-committal answer.
The woman said, "Me hearing’s not what it was?"
"Social services," Audrey shouted.
That seemed to satisfy the woman. She shuffled away, inspected a row of dustbins, only turning back when she was at her porch door. She watched Audrey and gave a little wave.
A sudden squall blew in from the Solway Firth. The rain fell like a great white curtain for half a minute, then eased to a soft cold drizzle. The skeletal woman in the yellow plastic mac was still there, watching.
Eyes like a bloody hawk, Audrey thought.
The fried chicken carton's warmth leached into her hand. Suddenly the greasy aroma unsettled her stomach so that she lurched forward and thumped the door knocker.
For an instant after the door opened, Audrey stared with confusion at the woman who smiled back.
Chapter 34
"It's an admirer," Elizabeth shouted into the flat. "Come inside, luv, and get yourself dry." She glanced at the soggy fried-chicken box. "Oh, you've brought lunch for Martin? Well, I made him a curried chicken and mango salad. I suppose he can eat yours for his supper."
Audrey shuffled along a musty hall into a dim space. It was a fusty room, split in two sections by a Formica breakfast bar. The walls were papered with a foliage pattern full of browns and khaki-coloured swirls. A dingy pair of yellowed net curtains dimmed the room to dusk. Peeled paint curled on the windowsill. An oversized television was perched on an orange plastic table. It was tuned to cartoons with the volume turned down. The flickering lights illuminated the grim room like New Year's Day fireworks.
Everywhere were dirty clothes, overturned fast-food cartons, and empty crushed cans of soda. Martin Findlay lay on an old sofa. His oversized head rested on a tiny pink pillow and he stared at the television. A china plate of curried chicken salad sat untouched on the coffee table. He didn’t look up when they entered the room.
"Jesus," Audrey whispered. She cleared a pile of soiled underwear from a three-legged stool and sat, still holding the sagging cardboard container. The stink of the place. "Oh Christ."
She wanted to open the windows, throw out those dingy net curtains. Even repaint the room in modern tones and take the piles of stinking clothes to the launderette. But most of all she wanted to think.
"Look who's here to see you," Elizabeth said in a primary-schoolteacher voice. "Your good friend Audrey."
Martin didn’t respond.
"And she has brought you supper." Elizabeth placed her hands on her hips. "Martin, eat your salad."
Audrey's mind whirred. What was Elizabeth doing here? What should she say now?
Elizabeth's appearance at Martin's flat had caught her off guard. She and Maureen were a couple of do-gooders. They were almost like town saints with all they did for the community. Audrey had tried to copy their well-intentioned actions, but held secret thoughts filled with hate. Her ex-husband, his new wife and their kids were top of the list. A chill settled around her heart. She resented Elizabeth's wavy brown hair, youthful looks and the way she breezed easily through life. Then she thought about Maureen with her army of friends and hobbies and art, and wanted to sob. No matter how hard Audrey tried, she'd never make a saint. Why hadn't Elizabeth let her know she'd be making lunch for Martin?
Audrey's heart pounded with anxiety. She felt left out just like when she'd lived with Patrick. He'd kept her away from his work. Worse, he'd stayed long hours in the office, all the while making secret plans with his new wife. She'd put it all together when she was locked in the wine cellar. And Maureen and Elizabeth whispered together too. Always just out of earshot. What the hell were they talking about?
That question upset Audrey.
If she'd known Elizabeth would be here, she would have come by later. It would be better to speak to Martin when they were alone. Then it occurred that she hadn't told Elizabeth about her visit either. Still, she had to do this. She had to say the words to Martin Findlay before the police arrived. But she'd have to be careful now, so she reworked her words yet again.
"Now come along, Martin, try to eat your salad." Elizabeth's voice remained light, almost playful. "It's real food, organic. It'll make your brain grow."
Audrey went to the kitchen sink, urged on by the sudden need to wash her hands. She cleared a space between the dirty plates and placed the fried-chicken box on the Formica counter. She let the water run for a count of ten. Then she squeezed washing-up liquid onto her hands and plunged them into the cold flow.
The rain continued to fall.
Audrey returned to the stool. Elizabeth stood by the sofa. Martin didn't move. It was as if he was unaware of their presence.
"Martin." Elizabeth placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Organic greens are good for y
ou."
His head turned slowly from the television. He stared at Elizabeth through feral eyes. They jutted out of narrow slits. He did not blink.
"Curried chicken and mango salad. One of my favourites." Elizabeth continued to speak as if urging a child to eat its green peas. "It's delicious. Why don't you try a little?"
Suddenly Audrey found her words. They formed as if by magic into a coherent sentence in her mind. But they still had to be spoken. She had to speak before they became a jumble and flew away.
"Martin, I have to talk with you about something important."
"He hasn’t eaten his lunch," Elizabeth said. "Let him be until he's finished."
"It's about Maureen"—Audrey got to her feet and wanted to pace, but there wasn’t enough space for that—"and the police." She said it so softly, she wasn’t sure whether it was only a thought, so she tried again. "And the police."
Elizabeth stared at her with disbelief. Her mouth opened and closed. At last she said, "What about the police? Martin, what's going on?"
Cartoon images flickered across the television screen. An oversized cat chased a cunning mouse but got trapped when it tried to enter the rodent’s den. Then the mouse picked up a pot and smashed the cat on its head. Martin turned his head to watch the screen but said nothing.
"Martin?" Elizabeth again placed her hands on her hips. "Have you been rummaging around Mrs Shari's garden shed again?"
Still nothing from Martin.
Audrey cleared her throat. Would there be an argument about what she was going to say? An argument wasn’t in the plan. Nor was finding Elizabeth in Martin's flat or telling the detective about Martin at the bonfire. She looked at him, feeling sad. But it had been done now, and she supposed it was for the best.
Audrey said, "They may come to speak with you, Martin. Not folk in uniforms. But police officers in regular clothes. Suits. With pens and notebooks to write everything down. A man in a suit, or a woman with grey hair, or they could send someone else. They are called detectives and ask a lot of nosy questions. They will ask you a lot of nosy questions."
"Let him be." Elizabeth appeared annoyed. "What we all want is for Maureen's killer to be caught and put behind bars."
Audrey almost lost control and stifled a shout. "When the police get a whiff, there is no stopping them."
There was an awkward silence. Elizabeth's face turned purple. She stared through wide eyes and said, "Audrey, we all want the truth. We all want justice for Maureen."
Audrey realised her mistake and lowered her voice. But she still wanted to shout. "Elizabeth, I'm thinking of Martin. He is a friend; we have to protect our friends."
"But that's ridiculous, Audrey. What are you trying to say? Surely you can't think…" Elizabeth's youthful face clouded with doubt and she fell silent.
Now the words came easy and Audrey spoke with cold precision. "Those detectives are like bloodhounds. They are nothing but half-starved dogs on a scent. The only thing on their minds is the kill. You understand that, don't you Elizabeth?"
Audrey stared hard at Elizabeth. The moment had come. The words were in order and ready. She turned her attention to Martin. "It is very important when the detectives come to speak with you, that you—"
"I talked with Detective Earp this morning."
Elizabeth spoke so softly that Audrey almost missed her words. But her subconscious mind flagged their meaning before she took her next breath. She stopped, mute as a stone.
"I told him all I know." Elizabeth held Maureen's gaze. "Everything."
A dull thud pulsed at the back of Audrey's mind. "But if they ask Martin questions—"
"He must tell them the truth." Elizabeth turned to Martin, replaced her hand on his shoulder. He looked at her, but did not blink. "If the nice detective comes to visit you here or at the Quarterdrigg, you must tell them everything, and no fibs."
Martin turned his head back to the television.
The words drained from Audrey's mind, their order blotted out by the dull thud of anger. When she finally spoke, all that came out was a bitter shout.
"Martin Findlay, if the police come, don't say a word. Tell them nothing."
Chapter 35
Fenella did not know what possessed her to leave Croll's house while the thunderstorm raged. She supposed it had to do with the two beers she'd drunk and the guilt. She should be at the police station filing and signing reports and poised to respond to new information on the Maureen Brian case. Not stuffed to the brim with pizza and rather fine ale. And there was another message from Jeffery. It blinked on her mobile's message icon like Cyclops’s eye. If she left now, she'd be back in the office by 3:00 p.m.
She set off in the rain, along the muddy lane with its growing pools of standing water and sharp bends which caught you by surprise on the clearest of days. The first warning toll rang out as she pulled out of Croll's yard. The Morris Minor splashed through a deep puddle and stalled. It restarted after she let out the choke. Her spirits remained high as the car crawled forward, its wipers at full pelt.
"Croll's coming back."
She let out a laugh. They'd talked theories about the Maureen Brian case, with each line of thought countered with another. The Pig Snout, they agreed, held the vital clue. That quelled her internal doubts and pushed her spirits even higher. Better yet, Croll knew Ron Malton. If Jeffery failed to come through with a search warrant, Croll would have a word with the councillor. Fenella sensed a break in the case was just over the horizon.
Thunder tumbled across the heavens like the clap of a shaken-out bed sheet. The rain fell so hard the wipers couldn’t keep up. They screeched back and forth in an agitated yowl. A wall of white mist cut the view to a handful of feet. Just enough to see the grassy bank shaded by a stand of broadleaved oak by the gated entrance to a pasture field. There'd be no farmers on their slow-moving tractors in this weather. The lane only led to Croll's shack, so there'd be no other drivers coming this way either. Fenella pulled off the lane. She parked on a grassy bank, doused the lights, but kept the engine ticking over with the heat turned up high. Then she pulled out her mobile phone to play the message from Jeffery. Before she pressed the icon, the mobile rang.
"Hi, Earp… an update… yes… go ahead… Martin Findlay… Bonfire Night… rocks in a pool… the connection? Yes… and what does he have to say for himself? I see… on your way to his flat now… we'll need to find an appropriate adult… well, let me think about that. Wait outside until I call back."
She hung up. A chink of light at last.
"Martin Findlay, eh?"
Fenella remembered Martin in the crowd by the crime scene tent. Tall, odd-looking head with that dirty mud-brown trench coat. You couldn’t miss him if you tried. She thought him a ghoul, interested in seeing the grisly activity around the murder sight. Or a concerned member of the public who wanted to help with their inquiries. But he hadn't come forward after the television appeal. Had he seen someone watching Maureen on the beach late Bonfire Night? Or had he met her, argued, lost his temper and struck out?
Martin Findlay's probably a long shot, she thought as she stared out of the windscreen. Then she recalled Dr Mackay's words about a club and a Neanderthal. And the photograph on Audrey Robin's sideboard, he was in that too. Now she wasn’t quite so sure.
The mobile pinged. A text message from Dexter:
Eyewitness saw figure in mud-brown trench coat hurrying away from the bonfire. From description, believe it is a Mr Martin Findlay. No record of him calling the police station to report the find. Awaiting your instructions or call.
Fenella sat bolt straight. They'd have to bring him in for questioning. But at this time on a Friday, finding an appropriate adult would be a challenge. And she wasn’t aware of the extent of his disability—mental or physical?
She considered that for a long while and felt a little depressed. Only one thing for it. She would get on to social services, have someone who knew Martin attend the station. Get an assessment of the man. Did he
have a history of violence? It would require the calling in of favours. Maybe some shouting, but she'd get an appropriate adult in place before they hauled him in. That was a trick she'd learned from Croll. They get agitated if you keep them waiting. A waste of time if they clam up.
Fenella began to type her reply when she glimpsed headlights. They advanced slowly like an old man treading on ice. She wondered who would drive this way in all this rain. Not a farmer. Had someone taken a wrong turn from the main road? Or were a couple looking for a quiet spot to be alone?
After several moments staring through the clouded windscreen, she lowered the window. She peered through the rain but could see nothing except the bright headlights reflected through the raindrops. So she waited with the driver’s-side window half down. The wind blew drops of rain into her face. The low growl drowned out the slush of the rain.
From out of the white rain, a Ford came into view. Its single occupant crouched over the wheel. Fenella recognised the battered, misshapen green vehicle—Rodney Rawlings, the Westmorland News reporter. And she knew he had only one destination on his mind—Croll's house. Like a hungry fox after a rabbit, she thought. An instant later came a disturbing revelation: the press were only one step back. The politicians wouldn’t be far behind.
She hadn't expected to see the reporter. Like a rat sniffing out cheese, she thought dryly. He needed a big story to boost sales. She could see the headlines blasted across the social media sites:
"PC Plod Arrests Beloved Disabled Man. Another Cumbria Police Cock-Up?"
Fenella thought it over. Then she quickly typed into her mobile phone. The message was for Dexter and Earp:
Leave Martin Findlay. We'll speak with him on Monday.
If the press caught a whiff they'd hauled in a disabled man, it would be all over the weekend media sites. Fenella didn’t want that.
Chapter 36