by N. C. Lewis
Finnegan shrugged. "I believe he spends his days and nights in one of Cumbria's finest institutions. At the taxpayers' expense, if you get my drift. Four years, if my memory is correct."
"Drug pusher to teenage girls, I recall," Fenella said. "Now tell me about Maureen and this boat."
Finnegan said, "She visited most days, stayed a while, then left. Always on her own."
Fenella stared back unable to hide her disbelief.
"No visitors?"
"Check the guest book."
"Anyone been on the boat since Miss Brian's death?"
"Nope."
"Are you sure?"
"I walk the jetty and pontoons several times a day." He turned and pointed at a tall silver lamppost. "And we have CCTV cameras."
"What about Mr Malton?"
Finnegan placed his hands in his pockets. "I just work here and do as I'm told. It pays well and I have a family to support."
High above them, silhouetted against the bright sky, a herring gull flew in a slow arc, landed atop the CCTV camera, and screamed.
"This must be very difficult for you," Fenella said. "I hope you understand our job is to find out what happened to Miss Maureen Brian. Anything you say to help will be kept in confidence."
Finnegan cleared his throat. "I'm sorry for what happened to Maureen. I'd like her killer caught." From his jacket pocket he took a folded piece of paper but didn’t immediately hand it to Fenella. "Mr Malton is wheelchair bound. Since I've worked here, I have never seen him on the jetty or by these pontoons. Yes, he owns the place, but apart from swanning around his office like the captain of the bleedin’ Titanic, he spends most of his time at the town hall and doesn’t have much to do with the hands-on day to day."
"So who manages the place?"
"A bloke called Malc. He is a retired engineer."
Fenella thought for a moment. "Would that be a Mr Malcolm Buckham?"
"Aye, that's him. Everyone calls him Malc. He is Mr Malton's uncle. Ten years before he retired, Malc bought this place. Over the years he built it up. But during the last recession he ran into financial problems, and his nephew bailed him out by becoming the largest shareholder. They say the stress killed Malc's wife."
"Malc about today?" Dexter already had his notebook out and was writing. "Since we are here."
"He's not been about much since Bonfire Night. Used to stop by on a regular basis. Very regular if you know what I mean."
Fenella said, "Perhaps you can enlighten us."
The herring gull screamed.
Finnegan tilted his head to gaze at the gull. It sat on the CCTV camera and screamed and screamed. When he looked back, his cheeks were flushed.
"Like I say, I've got a family to care for." He handed the folded paper to Fenella and nodded at the Pig Snout. "That is the combination lock number. Go ahead. I've still got to finish my rounds. If you need anything, you'll find me in the gatehouse."
He adjusted his cap, swung around and hurried away, swerving around a pile of rope so he had to balance along the edge of the pontoon.
Chapter 42
Earp felt his pulse thumping so hard he didn’t take in the polished flagstone floors or wide windows or hear the gentle classical music playing from unseen speakers. An adrenaline jolt from the chase or the kill? He didn’t know. He had Martin Findlay in his sights now and needed to convince him to come quietly to the station. No fuss. That'd be easy with the dunce. He felt like a kung fu master about to take out an untrained pleb.
A well-dressed thirty-something woman sat in a wheelchair behind the reception counter. She watched him warily as he approached.
Earp remembered her name—Albertha, the lass with no legs. He popped another mint into his mouth, feeling confident it shrouded his boozy aura. His heart continued to beat fast, and he knew now it was the excitement of the kill.
"Morning, darling," He said with a polished lilt. "I'm back again. Remember me?" He gave an easy smile. It wasn’t every day a detective showed up at the Quarterdrigg. The curious stare gave him a thrill of importance, like a minor soap opera actor recognised on the street. "You keeping the riff-raff out today, are you, luv?"
"You got in, didn’t you?"
Her tone simmered with something he couldn't read. He'd have to watch it with her. He knew her type. Demanding her rights and complaining at the slightest indiscretion. One word out of place, and she'd be on to the police complaints committee like a dog at a bone.
Earp said, "They tell me I've got a memorable face?"
"Unforgettable. I agree." She laughed, but her eyes watched him as if he were a cockroach crawling along her arm.
Earp didn’t care if she didn’t like the police. He had a job to do. "Is the centre open?" He glanced about. Definitely less hustle and bustle than his last visit. "Seems quiet today."
Albertha said, "A group of our daytime regulars are in Normandy on an exchange visit with our partner organisation in France. But we are still open seven days a week for as long as the funding lasts. There is so much need in the community I wish we could open twenty-four seven. Not enough funding for that though." A yellow-and-white plastic collection box appeared in her right hand. She shook it with vigour. "Anything you can spare will help."
Earp kept his face friendly as he deposited two pound coins.
"Always happy to give a hand, luv."
He wasn't a bleedin’ cash machine. His chest tightened and his stomach turned sour, but it was Albertha's hard-staring eyes that made him more uneasy.
She kept her arm outstretched, snorting slightly. "Some of our members cannot find employment through no fault of their own." Again she shook the collection tub.
Earp deposited another coin, cursing under his breath. He didn’t like the way she watched him—like a shop assistant all eagle eyed as if he were about to nick something. Then it came to him all at once. The woman hated the able bodied. He saw it in her eyes, a dull simmering resentment. He'd read about the militant disabled marching in London. They'd wheeled along Whitehall demanding everything from more pay to paved tracks through the National Parks. Now the buggers were in Port Saint Giles! Not that the liberal politicians would do anything about that. He sensed trouble ahead. He could smell it. She was already getting on his nerves.
Albertha was speaking. "The centre is always on the lookout for able-bodied volunteers to pick up any litter, carry stuff, empty the bins, and scrub the toilets. Your face fits the bill."
Earp knew her game now. Poke the hard-working police officer and, when they strike, go running to the complaints board with allegations of abuse and discrimination. He breathed in long and hard to quell the desire to punch the cheeky lass. But he considered himself a professional, like a kung fu master, and wouldn’t let her get under his skin. So he kept the playful tone; didn’t want her to go all militant on him.
"Then sign me up, will you."
"For dustbin duty or the toilets?"
"I was thinking about reception."
"Sorry, I can't." Albertha sniffed. "There is a waiting list. Perhaps instead I can add you to our regular donations sign-up sheet? A pledge of twenty pounds a month. Not much for a man of your means, but it makes the world of difference to those of us who are less fortunate."
The way she spoke unsettled him. He swallowed down his annoyance. He was here for Martin Findlay, and he intended to take the man in without fuss.
"I'm a public servant, luv. We don't get paid enough to share."
She put the collection box under the counter. "I suppose you want something?"
He'd had enough of the snooty cow and said, "Mrs Gloria Embleton about?"
"You on duty?"
"No I'm on my bleedin’ holiday!" He flashed his warrant card to ram home the point. That always got their attention. He'd not be intimidated by political correctness or a crowd of misshapen militant buggers. It wasn’t his fault the cow had no legs.
Albertha sniffed again. "Gloria is a volunteer. She doesn’t work Mondays."
"Who's in charg
e?"
"Me."
Now he'd have to deal with her. He put on his professional smile. "Can I have a quiet word?"
"You caught Miss Brian's killer yet?"
The entire town wanted the answer to that question. Earp thought Martin Findlay was the most likely candidate but racked his brain for a more caustic answer. It couldn’t come up with anything fast. That bloody brandy's slowing me down. So he stood staring at the woman like a deranged kung fu master trying to decide upon the right killer blow.
But Albertha spoke first. "What exactly are you after?"
"A quiet chat with Martin Findlay." He still wanted to take a verbal jab at the woman, but his mind wouldn’t play ball. "Is he around?"
"He is a nice man."
"Is he here, then?"
"A personal friend. Everyone loves him."
"Can you just answer my question."
Albertha snorted. "You'll not find a murderer here. Not within these walls. The members of Quarterdrigg are law-abiding people. You are wasting your time." She sniffed, watching him with sly eyes. "Anyway, Martin leaves early on Fridays. Have you tried his flat?"
"Today is Monday."
"Is it?" Albertha lifted her head, eyes wide in mock shock. She flashed an uneven smile. "Well, he won't speak with you, so you'd better turn around and leave because you're making the place stink."
Militant and a hater of the police, Earp thought. He glanced around furtively to make sure he could not be overheard, then he leaned so close he could count her eyelashes and see her pupils suddenly contract.
"You militant little bugger. I bet you were one of those dossers wheeling down Whitehall demanding something for bloody nothing." His voice started out quiet but rose to a shout. "Now, Miss No-Legs Nancy, you are going to point me towards Martin bloody Findlay or you're nicked."
A high-pitched scream sent Earp's hands to his ears. He staggered backwards, confused. Albertha was in front of the reception desk racing her wheelchair backwards and forwards like a Friday night drunk nerving themselves to throw a punch.
"Do you want to know how I got like this?" she screamed, face a deadly shade of purple. "An accident when I was fifteen. A car crushed them so badly they had to be chopped off. Fifteen and studying for my 'A' Levels."
"Calm down, luv." Earp heard his words although they seemed to come from a great distance. "Please calm down."
Albertha was still shouting. "They called it an accident but it wasn’t. I've killed myself a thousand times in my dreams rather than live like this. Nasty deaths, painful. And I cry with bitter sobs every night. Not because I hate the man who did this to me but because I trusted him to know better. We all did." Her mouth was open so wide Earp could see her tonsils. "He was a police officer. Drunk on duty. And you come in here stinking of drink! I'm going to call the police station and have them breathalyse you. You'll not do to others what that drunken fool did to me."
Earp had no memory of how he ended up at the door. He recalled his hand feeling for the handle, the stab of cold air in the car park, and the yelling screams of Albertha as he scurried back to his car.
Chapter 43
They hadn't yet climbed aboard the Pig Snout when Dexter cursed.
"It's busted," he growled as he stared at the cabin door. He put on blue N-DEx gloves and leaned in close. "The combination lock's been jimmied."
Fenella was at his side, hands already covered by gloves. "Okay," she said standing in the sun and chill wind. Everything looked so picturesque: the wooden deck with a lacquer shine and gleaming brass rails, and a glossy black cabin door with the oversized golden letters PS etched in a stylish font. But the brass-plated combination lock hung at a sharp angle. Its cover snapped back and forth in the cool breeze. "We'll get the techs out once we've taken a look."
They walked inside. The still air smelled of polish and leather and the faded floral scent of rosehip potpourri. It looked like something owned by a banker, so plush and lavish. A deep-piled rug covered the floor like a shorn sheep's new coat. They stepped with care on the soft fibres, not wanting to blemish its impeccable design. They picked their way through the huddle of low leather seating. Then along the polished railing that led to the wet bar. An empty bottle of Johnnie Walker stood next to a shot tumbler.
Dexter picked up the bottle in his gloved hands, shook it as if to confirm its emptiness. "Drained dry, eh?" He examined the shot tumbler, placed it under his nose and sniffed. "Maureen Brian didn’t strike me as a hard drinker. But then again, my old gran could knock it back. Granddad too."
Fenella walked behind the bar and saw a low glass display-case table. It was of a similar design to the one they'd seen in Councillor Malton's office. She stared at where the photographic artworks should have rested. There was nothing but an open glossy magazine on top of the green velvet lining. Fenella flipped up the glass lid. She peered at the open magazine pages. A cave painting of stick people. They were engaged in a hunt with one warrior breezily spearing a ferocious beast, apparently unconcerned that the creature held him between its sharp claws.
There was no sign of Maureen Brian's artwork. Only a faint outline showing where they might once have rested. Fenella counted four markings, but couldn’t be sure they represented anything more than shadows and the imagining of her mind. She was tempted to drag the display table on deck so they could examine it in natural daylight. But the techs wouldn’t like that.
"They knew what they were looking for," Dexter said, glancing at the empty case. "Maureen Brian's photographs."
"Aye, happen you're right," Fenella replied, hands on her hips. That was exactly how it appeared. A headache throbbed. Things had suddenly become more complicated.
Dexter was speaking. "Hear me out, Guv. Suppose it was the same person who killed Miss Brian."
"Go on."
"Well, they are short of cash, and seek out Maureen after the Bonfire Night festivities. They know about her artwork, know it sells for record prices and decide they want a piece of the action." Dexter paused, glanced at the empty case, and shook his head. "Miss Brian was a tough cookie and refuses to play along. It got rough, too rough. The death on the beach might have been an accident."
Fenella warmed to the idea, nodded for him to go on.
"And after she died, they thought about where she'd likely stash her finished works, broke into the Pig Snout, and pinched the four missing photographs."
"So, we are talking about someone who knew Maureen well," Fenella said. "A friend or a close associate."
Dexter nodded. "Rules out Martin Findlay. Although he is a friend, I can't see him being that calculating. Not unless someone else is pulling the strings."
Fenella agreed but said, "Only one problem with all of this. We've no evidence anything has been stolen. Once we've interviewed Mr Findlay, we'll see where we stand." She chewed her lip. "I think I'll join Earp for the interview; you'd better come along too. And I suppose we should have another chat with Councillor Malton. This time down the station." Fenella knew that would go down as well as a circus clown at a coulrophobia convention with Superintendent Jeffery.
A phone rang.
"The super," Fenella whispered.
Dexter signalled he'd call in the techs and left the cabin.
Fenella spoke in a brisk tone. "How can I help you, ma'am?"
"Didn’t you see my text messages?" Jeffery's voice sounded stressed. "You'd better come into the station so we can talk."
Fenella couldn’t leave the Pig Snout now. She wanted to speak with the techs and be the first to know if they found anything.
"With respect, ma'am, I'm in the middle of an investigation."
"Listen Sallow, this is bloody important. I want you—" the line went quiet. Fenella heard the waspish voice of Jeffery but it was too indistinct to make out the words. They sounded cautious and filled with trepidation. "I've got to go. Chief Constable Rae is on the other line. My office in forty-five minutes. No excuses."
Fenella paced. Fifteen more minutes here
and she'd have to return to the station. Now she'd miss the action and hear what the techs found, second-hand. She turned off her mobile phone.
She needed to focus and began again to pace with her head down and a growing brew of annoyance in her gut. If she had been paying attention, it would never have happened—but she wasn't, and bumped into the starboard bulkhead. To the casual eye, there was nothing to show an opening. Only a slight irregularity to the wooden skirting. Fenella bent down and tugged at the strip that hung loose from the base. It came away to reveal a long shallow cavity.
She scrambled to her knees and shined the light from her mobile phone into the crevice. Nothing visible. But when she placed her hand into the gap and felt around, something moved. Carefully, she grasped it between her fingers and pulled the slim object into the dim light of the cabin. She held it up with a sense of growing delight.
It was a photographic image of a flat beach and white sky. The sort of thing they frame and put on museum walls. She felt around for more, but it was the only one.
"Dexter. Come quick."
He was by her side before she finished the sentence.
"Well, well, well," he said turning over the image in his gloved hands. "Now where—"
The cabin door flew open. Detective Constable Jones hurried inside.
"Ma'am," he gasped. "A body has been found on Fleetwood Lane. It was beaten about the head and thrown onto a fire. Dr Mackay sent me to get you."
Chapter 44
Fenella's Morris Minor screeched to a halt in Fleetwood Lane.
She clambered out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition. The engine growled as if in protest. Jones scurried behind.
They picked their way along Fleetwood Lane, littered with dustbin cans. Collection day. Later, the refuse trucks would clear it all away. A violent knot tugged in the pit of Fenella's stomach as she sucked in the hazy air. Damp and rot and embers. It twisted again at the sight which lay ahead.
Crime scene techs scuttled about in their white suits. They moved as quiet as clouds in an uncertain sky. A thin crowd of anxious onlookers gathered by the blue and white tape. It slithered in the slight breeze. In front stood a police constable as stiff as a Roman centurion. He scowled at the eager gawkers who came up close to snap photos with their phones.