by N. C. Lewis
"Are you asking me to step aside?"
"There is no one else in my team who could take on the case. You, Dexter, and Jones are all we've got." Jeffery couldn’t hide the venom in her last sentence.
"Then what," Fenella asked, "have you invited me here to tell me?"
Jeffery steepled her hands. "Carlisle Police will take over the Maureen Brian and Claire Sutherland cases under my direct command. Detective Inspector Frye will be in charge from Friday."
Chapter 50
Audrey sat at the kitchen table drinking tea when she heard the knock. She hastily placed her cup on the table and wondered if it was the detectives coming back to ask more questions. For an instant she saw the face of that ratty terrier with its fox-sharp teeth and thought the knock at the door was all in her head. But the knock came again and she jerked to her feet, her mind running over what she would say.
When she opened the door, Elizabeth Collins stood on her welcome mat with her hood up against the chill. For a moment Audrey doubted whether she was there at all. Maybe it was the detectives in disguise? Or her mind playing tricks again? Then she took in the bloodshot eyes and ashen cheeks—Elizabeth had aged.
"Are you going to leave me standing in the damp and cold?" Elizabeth spoke in a jovial tone, but something about her wary expression put Audrey on her guard.
"Come in. I've just put the kettle on for a fresh brew." Audrey stepped from the doorway. "A surprise visit. How nice."
The door closed with a quiet click.
Elizabeth lowered her hood and shrugged off her coat, placing it on the hook on the wall. "Don't want to tread the mess and muck all over your nicely cleaned floor." She stomped on the doormat, slipped off her shoes and sniffed. "Lavender and mint; been doing a bit of spring cleaning?"
Audrey had taken great pains to tidy the place. She had mopped and swept and washed the windows so they sparkled as if they were new. The kitchen, she'd spritzed with fresh air spray to dull the scent of fried food. She had even begun sewing new curtains, though she doubted they’d look as good as bought. None of this did she dare mention to Elizabeth.
Audrey said, "Just a quick clean to spruce up the place. Don't want it going to the dogs." She watched Elizabeth closely as she spoke. Her curly brown hair was a mess. No makeup. No lipstick. "Elizabeth, is something wrong?"
Elizabeth gave a weak smile. "Let's get that brew going, shall we? I'm parched."
Audrey busied herself with a fresh pot of tea while Elizabeth sat at the scrubbed pine table. As she poured milk into a delicate china jug, she felt Elizabeth's eyes on her back. When she spooned out sugar into the small bowl, she was once again seized with the uncomfortable sense of being watched. She placed the tea things on a flat tray and spun around, almost toppling them over.
Elizabeth's chin rested on her hands, her eyes wide and wary.
"Careful Audrey, we don't want a mess. Come and sit down so we can talk."
Audrey sat and said, "Are you all right?"
"This is really awkward." Elizabeth stopped abruptly as if not wishing to go on.
"What is it?"
"I'm concerned about Martin. He's gone missing."
Audrey felt herself relax. Not Maureen Brian. Not Claire Sutherland. She didn't know what she would say if Elizabeth brought up the topics of the murders. She knew how upsetting it all was.
Elizabeth was speaking. "He is on a lot of medication. God knows what will happen if he fails to take his dose."
Audrey spooned sugar into her cup and stirred. "I'm sure he will be fine. How far could he have gone?"
Elizabeth shrugged. "I remember when he forgot to take his pills and ended up in the Port Saint Giles Hospital. He almost died."
"He'll be fine," Audrey said. "We will all be fine."
Elizabeth stared at her in silence for a moment.
"But he has disappeared, Audrey!" Her voice rose to almost a wail. "And with the murder of Claire Sutherland, it won't take long before the police start asking questions. I'm really concerned."
Audrey felt her anxiety rising and grasped her teacup with both hands. She wanted to scream and throw Elizabeth outside. Her nosing around interfered with the plan. With sharp gasps, she sucked in air. In. Out. In.
"Are you okay?" Elizabeth gazed at her with concern.
"Fine." Audrey tried to smile. It came out wrong. "It is difficult for us all. When did you see him last?"
"Friday, when we were in his flat." Elizabeth ran a hand through her untidy hair. "You saw the mood he was in. He didn’t touch my food, not a bite. He's been like that since Maureen's death."
Audrey said, "Don't worry, Elizabeth, everyone's taking it hard."
Elizabeth shook her head. "Maureen would have seen this coming." She began to sob. "I feel like I have let her down."
Audrey placed an arm around her friend, kissing her on her forehead. "It will be all right. Nothing's going to happen to Martin. The police will find him."
"What will happen to him when the police catch him?"
"I don't know." Audrey thought they would charge him with murder, lock him in a cell and throw away the key. "I just don't know. Maybe it is for the best if he stays away for a while. Let this blow over."
"How can it blow over?" Elizabeth said, her voice filled with alarm. "We are talking about murder. Audrey, it won't blow over."
"I know. I know."
"This has to stop." Elizabeth shrugged from Audrey's grip. "You told Martin to say nothing, but he needs to tell the police the truth." She was shouting, her bloodshot eyes wide and wild. "Martin has to tell the truth. Maureen and Claire deserve that."
Chapter 51
Fenella stood by the whiteboard in Incident Room A. She clutched a cup of lukewarm coffee and glared at the empty rows of chairs. It was 7:00 p.m. Evening briefings were not popular, even when bigwigs attended. Tonight, there were no bigwigs present, nor did Fenella expect any to show. Bad news spread around the police station quicker than norovirus on a cruise ship. So yes, she was off the Maureen Brian and Claire Sutherland case. But the handover didn't happen until Friday.
She had hoped for more people. Dexter and Jones sat in the last row.
"I'm sure a few faces will show," Dexter said.
But Fenella counted the empty chairs—twenty-two—and let out a gloomy sigh. She had invited Tess Allen, the press officer. No show. No Constable Crowther. No Constable Phoebe. Even the cleaner passed the room without a sideways glance. They had scattered like rats fleeing a stricken ship. Why bother to attend an evening briefing for a captain whose vessel is sunk?
"Another five minutes, Guv?" Dexter said, shuffling to the door and looking along the empty hall. "For any stragglers."
They waited for ten.
Dexter returned to the back row, sat, and said, "It is not looking good."
"Aye," Fenella replied. "Everyone has given up and gone home." She was unable to mask the bitterness in her tone. "Everyone."
Jones glanced towards the door and spoke for the first time. "They'll wait for the new inspector. A fresh set of eyes. New orders. I suppose we ought to go now as well, ma'am."
It was the kindest way for him to say it. It was over. Finished. He'd given up like the others.
Fenella put down her lukewarm coffee and stomped to the door. As she looked along the vacant hall, she reminded herself not to get frustrated and blame her team. She was the leader and had to take the balls as bowled. She twisted her neck from side to side, then sucked in a breath and held it for a count of ten. On Friday, Detective Inspector Frye took over the case. His responsibility. His call. Maybe she should close the file and wait?
But frustration seeped into her bones and she came to a slow boil. She became a detective to solve complex cases, find justice for the victim and their family. To see things through.
That's who she was.
That's all she knew.
She'd keep pushing until they told her to stop. But what could she do in forty-eight hours?
Something.
An idea formed.
She turned to Jones. "Got plans for the evening?"
"Nothing special. A shower, quick meal, and a television show. Then tomorrow, I'll do it over again."
"Tell you what," Fenella said. "Let's head to the pub. I'm buying."
Jones looked dubious but didn't get to reply. Dexter got there first.
"Right you are, Guv," he said with a grin.
Jones said, "Thought you were laying off the booze?"
"Team building," Dexter replied. "Are you in?"
"Okay," Jones replied. But he looked as excited as a child on Christmas morning tearing open their present to find a lump of coal. "If you are sure about it. Okay."
"Let's go," Fenella said in an upbeat lilt, although her stomach bubbled with nerves. Was it a mistake to invite Dexter to a pub? Could her day turn much worse?
Chapter 52
Dexter knocked back his drink like a man who'd stumbled into an oasis, and Fenella laughed. It was a nervous cackle, filled with relief.
She sat with Dexter and Jones around a wooden bench in the Sailors Arms. It was a dingy pub with hardwood floors and a barman with the face of a bulldog. A shroud of booze and ancient tobacco and savoury pies clung to the scuffed dark wood. The red leather furnishings were well worn. The thick frosted glass of the windows encased the saloon like a time capsule from the nineteen seventies. Nothing had changed in decades. It was a favourite watering hole for old-timers of the Cumbria Police fraternity. Young officers drank elsewhere.
Two elderly men sat at the bar. Under the dim light, they looked like etchings drawn with thick strokes of an artist's brush. Fenella remembered when they were a group of ten. Their number had dwindled over the years, pulled from this Earth to meet their maker. She recalled the names and faces of every one who had departed.
"Another?" Fenella asked with a grin.
"Oh, go on, then," Dexter replied.
"Not for me," Jones said, his hand clutching his pint. "Still working on this."
"Aye," Fenella said giving Dexter a wink. "It doesn't pay to rush the Sailors Arms’ ale, else it will come back to bite you in the morning."
Fenella laughed again, this time through relief. Dexter drank orange juice rather than ale. His choice.
He hadn't given up on the case.
Neither had she.
She sipped her pineapple juice and felt pleased.
"So, what's the plan, Guv?" Dexter asked.
Fenella reached into her handbag and pulled out a spiral-bound notebook. From the docket she pulled a folded sheet of paper and spread it on the table: a copy of the photograph of Maureen from Audrey Robin's sideboard. There was a long moment of silence as Dexter and Jones stared at the smiling faces. Fenella liked that. She had their attention.
"Let's start with Maureen Brian." Fenella returned her notebook to her handbag and reached for her mobile phone. She glanced at the screen and switched it off. Do not disturb, detectives at work. "A popular woman who created art from her photography using a process known as—"
"Colloidal photographic images," interrupted Jones. "It involves glass plates and—"
"Yes, yes," Fenella said. "None of your digital malarkey, we get that. And her snapshots sell for a decent chunk of change. Problem is, four went missing." She paused and glanced around to make sure they were still with her. They were. "We found one on the Pig Snout. Where are the other three?"
"We searched her apartment," Dexter said.
"Only a quick scan," Fenella corrected, thinking about the hidden compartment in the skirting board on the Pig Snout.
"Ma'am," Jones said, his voice high pitched. "Should we be discussing the case in a pub?"
"Probably not," Fenella replied. "But we shall do so anyway, if that is all right with you?"
Jones shrugged and said, "Is it too late to bring in the crime scene techs to do a fingertip search of Miss Brian's room?"
"Aye," replied Fenella. But she made a mental note to return to Maureen Brian's room to check. "I couldn't get the resources earlier; perhaps Inspector Frye will do better."
The barman appeared. He carried a large tray with three plates of steak pie, green peas, Beefeater chips and a ladle of thick brown gravy. Fenella hadn't eaten since breakfast: Nan's scrambled egg and two slices of toast. Hunger hit hard as the savoury aroma wafted up her nostrils.
"On the house," the barman said in a voice which carried to the bar. Then he let his voice drop to a whisper. "It ain't right what Jeffery did to you and Dexter."
"Thank you," Fenella said, her stomach squeezing in a tight knot.
The barman turned to Jones. "And who might you be? One of us, I hope."
"Aye, he is that," Dexter said. "Fresh out of the National Detective Programme, but he'll soon learn the ways of us seasoned folks."
"Nice to meet you, son." The barman placed the tray on the table. "People around here call me Sarge. I retired ten years back from the police station you call home. I know Inspector Frye. Hard-nosed bugger. He won't go down well around these parts." He turned and ambled back to the bar.
They ate their meal in silence.
The barman stacked crates behind the counter, his loud puffs mixing with the rhythmic jingle of bottles. With quiet voices, the two old men at the bar continued to talk and sip their ale and cast curious glances at the detectives.
"Ben and Safiya Griffin," Fenella said tapping a finger on the photograph. "What do we know?" She didn't wait for a reply. "This business with Seafields Bed and Breakfast. Maureen Brian leases her home to the happy couple, and they run it as a hotel. By all accounts a dream come true for Ben and Safiya. But with all that rain we had this summer, and no visitors, it's turned into a nightmare."
"Question, Guv," Dexter said as he wiped the last of the gravy with the crust of his steak pie. "How are they staying afloat?"
"I ran a background check on their financials," Jones said. He had not been asked to do so by Fenella or Dexter and looked as if he regretted opening his mouth. "Thought it might help."
"You did, eh?" Fenella said. "And who else did you run financials on?"
Jones looked shifty. "Pastor Noel O'Sullivan."
Fenella read his face and knew there was more. She waited.
Jones said. "And also Audrey Robin and Miss Maureen Brian's friends—Gloria Embleton and Elizabeth Collins, as well as Ben and Safiya Griffin."
"Initiative, eh?" Fenella said. "That's what I like. Well, let's keep this bit of creativity to ourselves, shall we? Drop your report off on my desk in the morning, luv. But don't keep us in suspense; what did you find about the Griffin's business?"
"They've been losing money for quite some time and are up to their eyeballs in debt."
Dexter put down his fork. "So, Ben and Safiya are struggling financially. What do they gain by bumping Maureen Brian off?"
They fell silent for a moment. The quiet tinkle of bottles being stacked drifted from the bar.
"They might have a motive if they owed rent." Fenella had been over Maureen's numbers herself. Several times earlier. And again today to check for political contributions. Nothing stood out. She turned to Jones. "Did you see anything odd in Maureen's financials?"
Jones shook his head. "I asked the forensic financial investigator to give me a breakdown of her regular payments and income. I got the numbers going back five years. Just the usual stuff, pension coming in and utility bills going out. There were several large payments into her account which were traced back to Wingfield and Morton, an art dealership in Carlisle. Again, nothing suspicious."
"And what about the Griffins?" The question came from Dexter.
"They owe money to Tom, Dick, and Harry. But nothing to Maureen as far as I can tell. And their rent payments are up to date."
Fenella pursed her lips, then she said, "So neither Ben nor Safiya had a financial motive, so I guess we better move on." As she spoke, she had another thought. She raised her hand for silence and closed her eyes. When they opened, she was smi
ling. "Where did Ben Griffin go on Bonfire Night?"
"Come again?" Dexter said.
Fenella reached into her handbag, pulled out her notebook, and flipped to the page where she'd interviewed the Griffins. "Yes, here it is. Ben came home with his wife. She is heavily pregnant, and he gave her sleeping pills and put her to bed. But he went back out again, according to his wife, and came back home around 2 a.m. Did anyone follow up on that?"
Dexter cracked his knuckles. A sign she was onto something.
"Nope," he said. "Wonder if he knew Claire Sutherland?"
There was a pause, only a beat, but long enough to hear the expectant hum of the detectives like the chirp of insects after a storm. Fenella felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. They'd been so focused on gathering witness statements they had not had time to analyse them. And then came the murder of Claire Sutherland and the disappearance of Martin Findlay. On top of it all, preparation for the magistrates’ court and one hundred and one other administrative tasks, all urgent. All required now. She put her frustration on hold and focused on Ben Griffin.
"Let's have a word with him first thing in the morning." She could not hide the excitement in her tone. But she wasn't about to put all her eggs in one basket. "Now what to do about Ron Malton?"
"We can't bring Malton in," Jones spoke in a reverential whisper. "Not without good cause, and I doubt he'll show up voluntarily."
"I'll find something," replied Dexter. "What about this business of leasing the boat to Maureen at no cost? It smells fishy. If we are creative…"
"Superintendent Jeffery would have our hides!" The outburst came from Jones. He grasped his ale and took a quick gulp. "We'll get fired."
Dragging Malton into the station would definitely give Jeffery ammunition. If it backfired, Fenella knew she and Dexter would be put out to grass. Still, if the councillor was involved, it would be worth the roll of the dice. She thought about that, wasn't ready to swing for the fences just yet, and said, "Okay Jones, you have a better idea?"