Spoken Bones

by N. C. Lewis

  "Promise."

  Earp placed a hand over his heart. "I promise, son."

  "But it will be dark."

  Earp looked at his boy. Yes, it would be dark. He wanted to celebrate with his colleagues. It wasn’t every day the spotlight of success shone on him. But his son came first; he'd not stay long in the pub. Only a pint or two, then straight home.

  "I'll bring a Chinese curry for dinner and string up some lights so we can play night cricket. Like they do on the television."

  "That will be fun." Nick paused. "Promise, Daddy?"

  "I already did."

  "I love you, Daddy."

  Earp gave his son a hug. "One day you'll be a detective like me."

  And he'd walk and run and jump and dance and climb high in the branches of that damn apple tree. But Earp mentioned none of those things.

  Nick said, "That's what I want most when I grow up, Daddy."

  "You'll be better than Sherlock Holmes, son."

  "As good as you, Daddy?"

  "Better."

  "No. Just as good."

  "Aye son, happen you're right."

  It wasn’t until Nick had caught the bus to school, Sue had gone shopping, and Earp had drunk another three mugs of boozy coffee, that his mobile rang. His anxiety spiked as he listened to the call. Detective Inspector Sallow wanted him to go to the Quarterdrigg to pick up Martin Findlay and bring him in for questioning.

  There'd be no constable to pick Earp up and drive him to the activity centre. They were too short-staffed. This wasn't like the old days. He wasn't a detective inspector any more. He'd have to drive his own car and meet Constable Phoebe in the Quarterdrigg car park. An appropriate adult from social services would join them at the police station for the interview.

  "Don't go in heavy-handed," Sallow had said. "The press are all over this one. We don't want any trouble."

  Chapter 39

  It was a little after ten in the morning when Fenella and Dexter arrived at the harbour. They were met by Finnegan Woodstock, the watchman. He led them to an oval room that looked like a captain's cabin. The detectives sat on one side of a glass-topped oval table with yellowed nautical charts beneath.

  On the other side sat Ron Malton. Jack Croll had set up the meeting. Fenella hoped to get access to the Pig Snout without a warrant. It wasn’t a done deal. She felt like a student about to take a test, her hands clammy with nerves. She rummaged in her handbag, pulled out a handkerchief to wipe her palms. There had been a rumour that Malton had cancelled an important catering contract because the head chef's sweaty palms didn't reflect a suitable standard of hygiene. Fenella did not know whether it was true. She dabbed her palms again, not willing to take any chances.

  Ron Malton looked like a doddery physics professor in a rickety wheelchair, but he wasn’t.

  "You're Fenella, are you?" He spoke in a thin gasp like air deflating from a tyre. "And you must be Dexter."

  "Aye," Fenella said, speaking for them both. She hadn't seen the councillor this close up before. His sagging expression reminded her of week-old bread turned green at the edges. Odd-sized eyes, stained the colour of a smoker’s fingers, sized her up.

  "So, tell me what this is all about," Malton said. "As your humble public servant, I'm here to listen."

  "Thank you for sparing the time," Fenella replied. "We are here regarding the death of Maureen Brian."

  "A dear friend and co-conspirator in my work as a councillor." Malton had one of those faces that gave nothing away. Even when he spoke in plain English, you were never quite certain he meant what he said.

  "You knew her well?" The question came from Dexter.

  "As a member of the harbour society and a friend."

  "We are interested in any friends of Maureen Brian." This was Fenella. "Routine, you understand. How long have you known her?"

  Malton gave a superior smile. "Would it surprise you to learn Maureen funded my re-election campaign?"

  Fenella tried not to show her shock. But her brows crumpled. Could Maureen's death have been political? They hadn't considered that. She'd read the forensic finance investigator's report. Nothing out of the ordinary in those dry pages. Now she made a mental note to check again. This time she'd look for political donations.

  Malton said, "Maureen donated to my last election campaign. I believe the money came from the sale of her art."

  Fenella said. "Do you know if Miss Brian had any enemies?"

  Malton shrugged. "Maureen was the least partisan person in Port Saint Giles. She must have supported all sides of our political divide in her time. She simply chose the best candidate, irrespective of party. A dogmatic woman and very generous with it."

  Fenella glanced at Dexter, then back at Malton. She wouldn’t be doing her duty if she didn’t question the man further. But if he became angry, he might refuse access to the Pig Snout. They'd be back to square one if that happened.

  Fenella said, "How long were you and Maureen friends?"

  "Years. Fifteen… no, twenty at least."

  Dexter took out his notebook and began to write. Malton watched him with sharp eyes.

  Fenella said, "Were you aware of any problems in Maureen's life?"

  "She listened, didn’t judge, and brought you solutions."

  "She didn’t mention anything out of the ordinary to you?"

  "No."

  "And her harbour rent was on time?"

  He shifted uneasily. "Not exactly."

  Fenella tilted her head, considering how best to proceed. She had to be very careful. If she pushed him too far, the interview would be over. So would her chance to search the Pig Snout without a warrant.

  "I'm not quite with you, Councillor Malton."

  The councillor's face flushed, and for a moment Fenella thought it was all over. But he leaned so far over the table his breath caught in her nostrils—the rancid stench of a stale packet of cheese and onion crisps. "I want you to catch her killer. Maureen's death is very untimely and intensely personal. Now let's continue off the record, shall we?"

  Fenella nodded at Dexter. He put down his pen and folded his arms.

  "Please go on, Councillor Malton," Fenella said.

  "Maureen and I had an agreement… for tax purposes, but no actual money changed hands. Her use of the boat was free. A gift from me, if you like. Mutually beneficial for both sides."

  "Can you explain?"

  "Let's not go there," He said, voice snapping like a trapdoor. For a moment the room became still. Then his wheelchair creaked as he leaned back and looked from Fenella to Dexter. "My private affairs are not relevant to your investigation. Need I remind you that I can end this meeting at any time."

  Fenella wasn’t sure how much more she could get away with. Was the famous Malton temper about to break? There was one more question she had to ask. She rolled the dice and hoped Ron Malton would not explode.

  "Do you know if Miss Brian was involved in a romantic relationship?"

  A slight flush came to his face. He jabbed a finger. "Like I said, I can end this meeting at any time."

  "You haven't answered my question, Councillor Malton."

  He lifted his head and held Fenella's gaze. A slight quirk touched the corners of his lips. "I do not know about the romantic relations of that woman."

  Fenella detected the politician's blarney in his tone, but sensed it would be a waste of time to push, so she changed direction.

  "How did you first meet Maureen?"

  "Oh, a pure fluke." The quirk twitched into a grin. "I'd been invited to a fundraiser for the coastal lighthouses organised by my Uncle, Malcolm Buckham. His wife was friends with Maureen and they were both interested in the restoration of historic buildings. Malcolm is a civil engineer, retired now. Maureen and I got along very well, although she was quite a bit older than myself. But then again, she seemed to get along with everyone."

  "And you are certain Maureen didn’t have any"—Fenella searched for the appropriate phase—"male acquaintances?"


  "I cannot comment on her romantic relationships, Detective Sallow."

  Fenella got the message and moved on.

  "What about financial problems?"

  Malton shook his head. "Not with the prices her artwork is selling at. Maureen lived a very modest lifestyle. She had a healthy pension and income from her art and teaching. She gave away more than most." He folded his arms across his chest. "Do you have any idea who might have murdered my friend?"

  "Not yet," Fenella replied. "We are working a number of leads."

  Malton sat straight in his wheelchair. He stared at Fenella for a long time.

  "I hear through the grapevine you have a person in your sights." He watched Fenella closely as if searching for a reaction. "A man with mental health problems. Isn't that so?"

  Fenella kept her face blank. "I can't comment on that."

  Malton said, "I want you to move quickly on this case. The more days slip by, the colder the trail. I think you should know that Superintendent Jeffery is keeping me informed." He gave a self-satisfied chortle. "Anything else?"

  Fenella cleared her throat. "Can you verify your whereabouts on Bonfire Night?"

  Malton raised an eyebrow, suddenly tense and alert. "Am I to take it that I am under suspicion of murder?"

  "Just routine, sir." Fenella smiled. "It is our job to check alibis and eliminate. The faster we do that, the quicker our progress. I'm sure you understand."

  There was a moment's hesitation. Then he spoke in an irate tone.

  "This year I was invited to open the parade. After the fireworks I joined the after-party at the Giles Breeze Hotel. It finished rather late, around two thirty a.m."

  "And I suppose someone can confirm that?" Fenella would check either way.

  His voice crackled like a distant thunder storm. "I'm sure Superintendent Jeffery will vouch for me. She spent much of her time chewing my ear about the very issue which brings you here."

  "The Pig Snout," Fenella said.

  Malton nodded. "I've complained no end about the police's flagrant abuse of search warrants. Given the political tension over the issue, you'll not get a magistrate to sign one anytime soon." His voice trailed away. He picked up a device which looked like a remote control.

  A short while later, Finnegan Woodstock strode into the room.

  "You buzzed, Mr Malton?"

  "My conversation with these two detectives is over. Please take them to the Pig Snout. Give them full access and anything else they require."

  Chapter 40

  Just after ten o'clock that same morning, Earp pulled his car into the Quarterdrigg. The piles of overflowing rubbish bags by the trash cans had swelled to double his previous visit. There were only three other parked cars, all dark inside. They gave the place an eerie abandoned atmosphere. For an instant he was reminded of a haunted house where you know something terrible will happen. The sooner this is over, the better, he thought. Where the hell is Phoebe? Tension tightened in his shoulder.

  Earp parked on the opposite side, as far away as possible from the bloated bin bags. He poured a coffee from his flask and felt the warmth seep into his hands. As he sipped and inhaled the nutty aroma, he listened for the growl of Constable Phoebe's patrol car. He hoped the coffee would sober him up. The brandy was still taking its effect. Combined with only a splotch of jam on buttered toast, his stomach felt queasy.

  He was anxious. His right shoulder ached and there was a tightness in his chest. He clenched both his fists and let them relax. Then he rolled his shoulders, forwards and backwards. The rotary movement more than anything gave him a sense of ease. As soon as Phoebe arrived, the tension would go.

  He thought about how the rest of the day would turn out, felt certain there'd be a confession in the interview room. The sooner that came, the sooner he'd be hailed a hero. In the old days, before CCTV and recorded interviews, he would have been able to jolly things along. Squeeze a confession with a sly blow to the groin. The do-gooder higher-ups were none the wiser. No rush, he told himself, although he wished the evening celebrations would come. But he forced himself to take his time, sipping, watching, wondering where all the people were.

  The car park was deserted with the front entrance of the Quarterdrigg shrouded in dark and quiet. Fantastic! Couldn’t be better. They'd slip in and out with no fuss at all. Bringing in Martin Findlay for questioning would be a doddle. Nothing could go wrong.

  After he'd finished the coffee, he popped a mint into his mouth. Would it get rid of his boozy breath?

  He'd have another before he showed up at the police station. Maybe even the whole bloody pack. He smiled at that and got out of the car to stretch. Golden rays shone from a clear blue sky. A crisp November day with no rain, although the weather forecaster said there'd be a hard frost overnight. At least this time the sun's out, he thought. Still, he'd expected more activity at the centre this morning. Sue said the place was jumping on Saturday with no place to park but out on the street. And on his last visit, there'd been at least triple the parked vehicles. Like a ghost town. Where the hell is everyone?

  Now he had a bad feeling.

  He did a slow 360-degree turn. Nothing but the three parked cars. He stood perfectly still, listening to the rumble of traffic from the road. The rattle of a motorbike. The distant toot of a horn. An energetic young radio voice introducing a tune. A harsh techno-beat mix of “Kung Fu Fighting” pounded the frigid November air, then faded away.

  Too damn quiet.

  For a while he gazed at the street entrance, half hoping to see someone walking to the centre on foot. But there was no one else about. So he turned his attention to the building and stared, apprehensive, as he considered his options.

  Bloody Sallow.

  If she'd called him earlier, they would have nabbed Martin Findlay at his flat. Much easier. Now he'd have to haul the bloke in surrounded by a gang of disabled folk. That was it. That's what bothered him about all of this. Being a dad whose son wants to make friends with the kids who attend the centre. Just as well it's Monday and the little buggers are all in school. That thought eased his nerves a little. Once Phoebe arrives, we'll be in and out like a whippet.

  Earp returned to his car, clicked on the police radio, and listened. A crash on High Road. Nothing new in that. He let out a savage curse as the dispatcher diverted Constable Phoebe's patrol car to deal with the event. How long will Phoebe take now?

  He called in to request another car to assist him. His heart skipped a beat, and he held his breath to count to ten. Then the dispatcher responded.

  "None available for interview transportation."

  Earp's right shoulder throbbed. Should he wait for Constable Phoebe? Or haul in Martin Findlay on his own?

  He chewed his lower lip. He'd rather have uniform backup even though the buggers usually got in the way. Annoyed and uneasy, he poured another coffee.

  As he sipped, he sized up the situation. The cuts and lack of uniforms meant all hands on deck all the time. Transporting an individual to the station for questioning was not the dispatcher’s highest priority. What if Constable Phoebe got called to another incident? Maybe it would be better to talk with Martin Findlay on his own. Assess the man, call for help if needed. There was the question of a responsible adult for Martin. It was a requirement the bloody rule-makers had introduced years back. And police officers were supposed to work in pairs. Just in case of trouble.

  Earp drained the cup, tossed it into the back seat, and strode purposefully to the entrance. Sod the bloody rules. He'd identified the perp. He'd bring the bugger in.

  Chapter 41

  A crisp breeze blew across the harbour as the detectives and the watchman scurried along the jetty, loud as soldiers in their combat boots. It was still a shock to Fenella that Malton had given them access, and she gave a silent prayer of thanks to Jack Croll. They picked their way through the clustered boats and along the motionless pontoon to the silent berth where the Pig Snout stood waiting.

  "There she is.
" Finnegan Woodstock pointed to a sleek fifty-foot sloop which glowed with teak and polished brass. It bobbed gently at the end of a wide pontoon, hidden in shadows, out of sight of prying eyes. He adjusted his watchman's cap. "A beauty."

  Dexter let out a low whistle.

  "Twin auxiliary engines for when there's no wind," added Finnegan with a hint of pride. "Cuts through the swell like a knife through butter. Mercedes. Smooth."

  "Mercedes, eh?" Dexter rubbed his chin. He drove a rusted Volvo with a dodgy passenger door. "Mercedes makes boat engines too? Fancy that."

  Fenella had imagined a small dingy of a boat held together by rusted nails and rope, or a refurbished fishing smack with scuffed floorboards splashed with faded paint. Nothing was farther from her mind than gleaming brass and polished teak. Definitely not the hovel of a starving artist, more like a floating upscale art gallery. How could Councillor Malton afford such a vessel? Why did he lease it to Maureen Brian for free?

  As if mirroring her thoughts, Dexter muttered, "Pricey. We'd better take a closer look at Miss Brian's financials. See if we can't find a bit of something to chew on."

  Fenella stood quietly and watched the boat. It looked like it would have a polished bar inside. And a bearded barista to serve the drinks. Dainty cups of espresso, latte, or shots of single-malt Scotch whisky for eager buyers of Maureen Brian's art. So this was her studio. Her perception of Miss Brian shifted again. She was a savvy sales woman and a creative artist.

  Dexter was speaking. "Take the rich nobs out on the water, wine and dine them, then return to shore with a sale and a fat cheque. That's what I call classy."

  Fenella turned to Finnegan. "Did Miss Brian use the Pig Snout to showcase her photographic art?"

  Finnegan shook his head. "Not since I've been here. As far as I'm aware, the last person who took the boat out to sail around the Firth was Wayne Wingfield, the former watchman."

  "And where can we find Mr Wingfield?" This was Dexter.