Spoken Bones

by N. C. Lewis

  "Stay back," he boomed, planting his legs wide, arms outstretched.

  Behind him stood a low wrought-iron gate. It led to a narrow path that stopped at the crime scene tent. Beyond the marquee stood a porch attached to a three-storey red brick house.

  Fenella slowed to a stop and glanced at the gathered crowd. Is the killer watching? She scanned the faces at the front, eyes darting from person to person for any she might recall from the Maureen Brian crime scene. Then those at the back. No one stood out, so she glanced at the messages on her mobile phone. After a moment, she turned to Jones.

  "Have a word with the crowd. See if anyone saw anything. Get names and details, then get on with the door-to-door."

  "Will do, ma'am."

  "And turn my car engine off when you get a chance."

  Jones hurried away as more people came from the houses. They peered over garden hedges or from the windows. Others wandered into the street, their feet wrapped in soft slippers. Small children pointed at the police cordon.

  Fenella flashed her warrant card, stepped over the tape and stared to where the crime scene tent stood waiting. Like a portal into another world, she thought.

  A familiar thrill of excitement tingled along her spine. This was why she had signed up for the police force all those years ago. To see behind the crime scene tent and to protect the good from the bad. She felt like a guest at a magic show who got to go backstage to see how the tricks worked. Her heart beat a little faster. There was no knowing what she might find.

  She tramped along the narrow garden path as a diesel engine growled to life. The rattle grew louder until it reached a solid rhythmic thud, whir, thud. A tech peered upwards at tall portable lamps. They blinked on and cast a bright arc of white light over the hastily built crime scene marquee. The tech returned to the diesel engine and pulled a lever. A gruff rattle, then the motor quieted to a soft purr.

  The crime scene tent door flapped open. A halo shrouded the stooped figure who stood for a moment in the bright gap.

  "There you are, Fenella," said Dr Mackay, stepping out of the arc of white light. He wore a tartan jacket and red bow tie with brown corduroy trousers. Blue N-DEx gloves encased his delicate hands. Midnight-black wellington boots covered his enormous feet. "I'm done for the present. Once the techs give the all-clear, I'll make a start on the body in the morgue."

  Fenella said, "Is Lisa Levon inside?"

  She wanted to have a word with the forensics head about what the crime scene techs had found. She hoped for fingerprints or genetic evidence—anything to give them a clue to the killer.

  The doctor shook his head. "Only the twelve-year-olds are on duty today, I am afraid. Lisa is in training in Carlisle, and with the cutbacks, there's no one else to head the team. But they are well-organised for a bunch of newbies. I hear Lisa has dialled in to check things are on track."

  Fenella pulled on shoe covers and gloves, then glanced at the tent with unease. "What have we got?"

  "I'll brief you on it if you like, but best come see for yourself." His face seemed thin, hollowed out, eyes rimmed with dark. "Nasty one. Come on, this way."

  The brightness of the lights inside the tent surprised Fenella. For several seconds she stood blinking.

  "This way," Dr Mackay said. He spoke in soft tones like a priest to a confessant.

  She followed him to a row of dustbins, their mouldy stench filling the still air.

  The doctor pointed. "There she is."

  A wizened figure in a yellow mackintosh lay atop a crude bonfire of refuse sacks. The plastic hood was still up, arms splayed in a ragged arc.

  "Dear God," Fenella muttered, taking in the gruesome sight.

  She stepped closer to peer at the victim's face, but felt the gentle hand of Dr Mackay.

  "Not a pretty picture. Please let me."

  He stooped forward and, with a gloved hand, lowered the hood. Fenella turned away in disgust.

  Outside the crime scene tent, the whir of the diesel engine continued its harsh rumble. Anxious voices carried from the street, and a childlike voice let out a frightened yell.

  "Not much of the face left," Dr Mackay said at last. His hollow voice hinted at more, but he paused, his eyes watching Fenella.

  She braced herself.

  "Go on," she said. "Go on."

  "The first blow didn't kill the victim. It injured her. Then the bugger shoved her onto the fire and gouged her eyes." The doctor spoke in quick stabbing breaths. "Look, there are signs of a struggle. And you've seen what's left of the head. No need for the hat brim line rule here. A savage Neanderthal did this."

  Fenella spoke, but it was more to herself. "No accident or a suicide, then?"

  "I'm afraid not." He shook his head. "The labs will no doubt agree with what I have diagnosed. I'm telling you now in the hopes it will save you some time. You'll need to get your skates on to catch the monster. No point hanging around for weeks for the boffins in the labs to confirm. Nothing beats a seasoned eye."

  Fenella's gaze remained glued on the victim. Her mind churned and her stomach roiled. She didn't have a name or background, but knew no one deserved to die like this. A slow anger began to brew. She turned her head from side to side to ease the tension. But she could not take her eyes from the charred corpse. The pictures filled her memory bank. Like a camera click-clicking, she took it all in.

  At last, her thoughts drifted to the killer. What on earth are we dealing with here? It had all the hallmarks of a manic attack. Crazy, deranged. They would have to redouble their efforts, go over things with an even finer comb. Slowly, she considered the next step.

  Her mobile phone buzzed—a voicemail from the superintendent.

  Jeffery's meeting!

  She glanced at her wristwatch. There was still time to get back to the office. Just. But before she hurried back to her car, an idea struck—an idea she did not like. Resources were tight, and the police stretched thin. Only those on the inside knew that. Did the killer have inside knowledge?

  For a fleeting instant, a laugh carried from the street, high-pitched and mocking. The weight of the investigation suddenly pressed down on Fenella like the twist of a vice. She closed her eyes and saw the body of Maureen Brian and placed her head in her hands.

  "Are you all right?" Dr Mackay looked at Fenella with concern.

  "Fine," she said, but her voice sounded dull and wooden. She sucked in deep breaths. At last, her inner detective kicked in. "Do we have a name?"

  She didn't expect an answer from the doctor.

  "Mrs Claire Sutherland. She retired ten years back. Her husband worked on the bin vans. He died three years ago."

  "You knew her?"

  Dr Mackay let out a ragged breath. "Aye. A midwife in her day, a bloody good one. She was a bit of a nosy parker too. You couldn't get anything past Claire. For her to end like this…"

  Fenella wanted to reassure Dr Mackay. A sudden urge to say they'd catch the killer swelled in her chest, but she couldn't give that promise. Her team would wear out their shoe leather and persist, but success would also require a healthy dose of good luck.

  "I've got Detective Constable Jones on the door-to-door." Fenella spoke in as bright a tone as she could muster. "There's a good chance he'll turn up a lead."

  Dr Mackay didn't look convinced. His women friends were dropping like flies and not through old age. The man's face seemed to sag under a weight Fenella couldn't imagine. He leaned in close and spoke in a hushed tone.

  "I do not want to start rumours or cause a panic." He glanced over his shoulder. "But the death of Maureen Brian and Claire Sutherland… are we talking about a serial killer here?"

  "There is an outside chance, I suppose," Fenella replied.

  He snorted. "Two deaths where the victim is beaten about the head and thrown onto a fire. Too eerie for my tastes. Anyway, this isn't Claire Sutherland's garden. She lived across the street. This path leads to flats: two vacant, the other let to Mr Martin Findlay. I took the liberty of looking
around his place before you arrived. Constable Woods let me in. You won't believe what it was like. Not what I expected from a man who doesn't work. Quite strange."

  Fenella opened her mouth to ask a question, but Dr Mackay waved it away and got in his request first.

  "Is it true Mr Findlay is a person of interest in the death of Maureen Brian?"

  Dr Mackay stared at Fenella with the intensity of a surgeon's knife.

  She shifted uneasily.

  "Detective Constable Earp has orders to bring in Mr Findlay," she said.

  Given the turn of events, they would hold Martin in custody. It niggled in her gut. There was no record of violence in his past, not even a parking ticket. But Earp said he was seen angrily throwing rocks into a pool. It made little sense. She hoped forensics would turn up a clue.

  She said, "I'll speak with Mr Findlay later today at the station."

  "Good," Dr Mackay said, breaking into a smile. "Very good."

  He shuffled towards the body and squatted. His hands hovered over Claire Sutherland's battered face like a mystic's palms gliding over a crystal ball. Then, with an audible sigh, he leaned forward. The gloved fingers extended as if the proboscis of some hideous tartan fly. They moved with practised dexterity as he re-examined the fractured skull.

  Two minutes later, Fenella left the crime scene tent. When she glanced back, she was surprised to see Dr Mackay at the tent flap door, watching.

  The generator hummed. A growing crowd filled the air with nervous voices. Fenella's mind raced over the next move. Better call Earp. She pulled out her mobile phone. It pinged before she'd even glanced at the screen—a text message from Superintendent Jeffery:

  Remind me to discuss Detective Sergeant Dexter. We need to move on this item. Are you on your way?

  The generator beat out its rhythmic thud. There was nothing more she could do here. The crime scene techs were on top of things. And Jones would report back on his door-to-door. If she hung around any longer, she'd be late for the meeting with the superintendent. Yes, better go back to the station. It is time for a frank talk with Jeffery.

  A herring gull landed on the gutter of the red brick house and screamed. Fenella gazed beyond the crime scene tent to where it squawked. What did Dr Mackay say about Martin Findlay's flat? "Quite strange."

  She turned to the street. Her Morris Minor waited like a police attack dog, key in the ignition but engine quiet. Fenella pivoted and hurried to the dingy porch with its rusted tin roof and screaming gull.

  Chapter 45

  Fenella moved onto the porch, looking around.

  "Good day, ma'am," said a short fat constable. He shuffled from the shadows like a hog from its watering hole. "Terrible what's happened, isn't it? These quiet streets are the worst. You never know what's going on behind the closed curtains."

  Fenella recognised him: Constable Woods. What was he doing lurking about in the shadows? She glared at the officer.

  "Shouldn't you be helping on the street?"

  "Doing my duty right here, ma'am." He gave a salute. "As much as a uniform can."

  But Fenella smelled the acrid stench of cigarette. If there was a chance to skive, Constable Woods would find it. He was lazy, besides being addicted to nicotine. A bad blend.

  "You been smoking on duty, Constable Woods?"

  "A quick tea break, ma'am. With us being so short-staffed, you have to take it when you can. Just five minutes to clear the head."

  Fenella wished she could take a five-minute break. With two deaths on her plate, she couldn't take her eye off the ball. If Dr Mackay's hunch about a serial killer was right, there'd be more deaths until they caught the perp. How could she take a break? How could any police officer?

  Constable Woods gazed at Fenella with innocent eyes. "If you need an extra body on your team, I'm game for a bit of overtime. As long as it is the paperwork variety. I'm good at sorting through files."

  "Get back to work," Fenella snapped. "And don't let me see your sorry face again today else I'll have you up for disciplinary. Do I make myself clear?"

  He hurried away, his thick legs moving with surprising speed.

  Fenella strode in the opposite direction, curious to get inside Martin Findlay's flat. She hurried along a musty hall, heavy with the stale odours of fried food and sweat. At the end she turned into a bright room, split in two sections by a Formica breakfast bar. The still air smelled of pine and polish with faint traces of mint. A contrast so stark from the dull and stink of the hall, it caused her to stop and stare.

  There were no net curtains in the window. Drapes, soft and velvety and forest green, hung from the curtain rail. An oversized television rested on a matching teak stand. The sofa and armchairs looked new, carpet cleaned. In the kitchen, the hard tile gleamed. Every surface clean, everything put in its place. It looked like a picture from a glossy magazine.

  Fenella folded her arms. Was this Martin Findlay's flat? She had read his social services report. It said he spoke little, dined on chicken and chips daily and got along with everyone at the Quarterdrigg. "A kind-hearted man if a little muddled at times."

  She walked to the kitchen, opened the cupboards. Yes, everything in its place. At the fridge, she opened the door. Milk, cheese, eggs, ham and butter, with bottles of ketchup and brown pickle. Nothing unusual. She turned to the sink, empty, and lifted the lid of the bin—empty. Now she thought of her cottage on Cleaton Bluff. Of Nan in the kitchen surrounded by mess. Of Eduardo in his study with drawings on the floor.

  This place wasn't right.

  A sudden revelation gripped Fenella. It spilled from her mind and into her gut in sour waves of dread. She recalled a teenage girl who tidied her room before disappearing into the night. A young mother who placed her baby in pretty clothes, then left the sleeping child on a church pew. And the executive who settled all his accounts before killing his wife and fleeing to Peru. Her heart sped up.

  Has Martin Findlay gone to ground?

  She had the chance to bring him in on Friday and passed. She gazed around the room. The faint trace of polish and pine and mint was suddenly sweet and sickly. Had she made a mistake? A mistake which led to the death of Claire Sutherland?

  Again, her stomach roiled and her chest tightened so she could barely breathe. To this point, she was certain of her course. That the answers lay in the Pig Snout and tracing Maureen Brian's missing photographs. But the wheel of fate had turned, shattering her theories into a thousand puzzle pieces. For now, nothing seemed clear. Nothing.

  Fenella steadied herself against the Formica countertop. She breathed in and out in shallow breaths. With a trembling hand, she grappled with the contents of her handbag. She wanted to know the instant Martin Findlay arrived at the police station. She speed-dialled Earp.

  His phone rang for several moments, then clicked to voicemail.

  She left a message, her voice dry and hoarse. Next, she called the station.

  "Earp in?" she asked, her voice uneasy.

  "Not yet," came the reply from the clerk.

  Fenella ordered a patrol car to check at the Quarterdrigg. She hung up and gazed around the room in growing agitation. She walked around the kitchen and into the living room. Her eyes scanned the walls, and she noticed tiny brass hooks where pictures once hung. She examined the patch of dark wallpaper. Even with modern forensic science it would be impossible to say what hung there and for how long. Still, Fenella speculated. A Gift from Maureen Brian or a family portrait?

  She moved to the velvet drapes, stared out the window, but saw nothing. The mowed lawn did not enter her conscious mind. Nor the crazy paving path which led to a shabby shed with cracked clouded windows. Not even the crime scene tent along the path which led to the front door. Sightless, she stood there for a long while, listening to the slow tick of the clock. Dimly aware of the police officer hurrying towards the house. Only a single image swelled in her head. The broken face of Claire Sutherland.

  Fenella passed a hand through her hair and turned back
to the room. She paced to the Formica counter and sat on a stool. She spotted it then. Face down on the carpet underneath the table where the television sat. A small slip of paper almost hidden by the carpet. As she approached, she realised it was a business card. She put on blue N-DEx gloves, then picked it up and read:

  Jack Croll

  Retired detective and Crime Consultant

  Port Saint Giles 619-0703

  Nothing prepared her for what happened next. Not the corpse of Claire Sutherland, nor Martin Findlay's neat room. Footsteps sounded from the hall. Constable Woods appeared, his eyes dark and troubled.

  "Ma'am, I've been sent to get you. They've taken Detective Constable Earp to the hospital."

  Chapter 46

  It was noon when Fenella and PC Woods arrived at the Port Saint Giles hospital. They ran through the main entrance. A man on a gurney sat up and watched. He coughed with hacking breaths as they dashed to the reception desk. A uniformed greeter with peroxide-blonde hair waved them into a wide passage where halls snaked in every direction. It took several seconds to get their bearings. Constable Woods, breathing heavily, doubled over for air.

  "This way," Fenella said. She rushed along a ramp. It turned at a sharp angle to a staircase. Constable Woods fell several paces back. He wheezed and groaned like an old-time accordion. An awful slap–slap of his boots echoed off the hard concrete floor. The fierce white glow of overhead lights lit their path through door after door. Their pace slowed to a steady trot then to nothing, now outside an entrance marked Cardiac Care Unit.

  A nurse stepped through the door.

  "Detective Constable Earp is in here," she said. "This way please."

  "Wait here," Fenella said to Constable Woods, as she followed the nurse.

  A disinfectant odour shrouded the still air as dense as a London fog. They walked by a trolley filled with medical devices. They moved too fast for questions. A red light flashed. Hidden speakers let out a high-pitched shriek.