by N. C. Lewis
"I don't know… this business with the Pig Snout is… odd."
"How do you mean?"
"Her studio." Jones rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "Where is Maureen Brian's studio?"
"On the Pig Snout," Dexter replied.
Jones shook his head, then pushed his half-finished pint of ale aside. "Where are the glass plates and the chemicals?" Again he shook his head. "Her studio is somewhere else. The boat was where she went to relax."
"But we found one of her photographic images hidden on the boat," protested Dexter.
"There is no way it was her studio. If it were, we would have found the—"
"We've got it," Fenella said. She agreed. "So where is her studio?"
Dexter shrugged, stood, and headed for the men's restroom.
Fenella said. "When you checked Maureen's financials, did you see any rent or other regular payments that might suggest the address of her studio?"
Jones pulled out a spiral-bound notebook and flipped through it. "Only gas and electric and her telephone bill. Of course there were groceries, but no regular payments of any kind. Wherever her studio is, she didn't pay rent for it."
Fenella folded her arms. Were the missing photographs in Maureen Brian's mysterious studio or somewhere else? And why was the photograph she found hidden in a compartment on the Pig Snout? One thing was clear. Wherever the location of the studio, Maureen didn't pay rent. She thought about Seafields Bed and Breakfast. All those rooms. Another reason to visit first thing. Her gut told her she was onto something, but her mind remained troubled.
"Any news on Martin Findlay?"
"Not a word," Jones replied. "He's disappeared like a ghost."
"Not easy for a big man." Her gut told her he was innocent; so did her head. But they had both been wrong before and she wanted to speak with him. "He'll not have gone far."
Dexter returned, but he didn't sit down.
"Guv, Lisa Levon's been trying to contact you."
Fenella fumbled for her phone. "What's she got?"
"A match on the Johnnie Walker bottle fingerprints. They belong to a Mr Ian Wallace."
"Name rings a bell," Fenella said. "Petty drug addict who lives in the East Side Caravan Park. Think we'd better pay him a visit."
Chapter 53
Dexter drove to the East Side Caravan Park, easing the Morris Minor to a stop outside a row of dilapidated cabins. The detectives sat for a moment in quiet contemplation. Bloodhounds taking in a scent. There were no streetlights, just the flicker of orange from the windows. A gust of wind picked up a fast-food box. It tumbled along the pavement, coming to a stop at a broken picket fence.
"These used to be holiday lets," Fenella said, glancing around. "Back in the day people would come from all over Cumbria to spend time by the sea. Me and Eduardo stayed here once when our children were little. It was like Disney World back then, with workers wearing red jackets and kids all over the place. The evenings were when the adults got to play. Now everyone goes to Benidorm in Spain."
"Not much sign of the glory days left," Jones said from the back of the car. "If it weren't for the houselights, I'd mark this place down as deserted. More like a ghost town from one of those Halloween horror movies. Which one belongs to Ian Wallace?"
"No numbers," Dexter replied.
"See what I mean?" Jones played a slow drum beat on the window. "Spooky."
Fenella laughed and said, "Guess you'll have to go house to house, Detective Constable Jones. We'll wait in the car."
"Me?"
Dexter laughed. "The Guvnor's on a wind-up, lad. We'll all go."
The first door they approached opened two inches before they knocked.
"What do you want?" asked a disembodied voice.
"I'm looking for Mr Ian Wallace," Fenella said.
"You the police?" The door closed an inch.
"Aye, that we are, luv."
"About bleedin’ time." The door opened to reveal an elderly woman with bleached white hair and false teeth which gave her the look of a donkey. "I knew it. No one knocks on the doors around here at night, not even the Bible bashers."
"Can you point us towards Ian Wallace's place?" Fenella paused. "Mrs—"
"The name’s Mrs Young. I used to teach elementary school in town before I retired. Moved here when it was a holiday resort with my late husband. Now it is a pigsty thanks to the likes of Ian Wallace. He uses my yard as a cut-through like some feral teenager, but he's got to be in his forties. Never grown up and too damn lazy to use his own front door. I've complained no end about it, but nothing's been done."
Fenella took out her notebook. "I'll see what I can do, luv." She wrote for a few moments and handed the woman her business card. "Which one is Ian's?"
Mrs Young came out onto the doorstep. She appeared much shorter outside, just shy of five feet. But she had the presence of authority. Must be the teacher in her, Fenella thought.
Mrs Young said, "Is he in big trouble?"
"Aye," Fenella replied. "As big as it gets."
"Fantastic. Bloody fantastic." Mrs Young clapped her hands, then pointed to the house on the right, next door. "He is in. I saw him staggering home earlier. Tell the judge to throw away the key."
"We don't sentence them, luv," Fenella replied. "Only reel them in."
"If you need a witness to shut him away for good, I'm game. I keep a diary. Ian and his druggy friends' activities make up half of the entries. It's his daughter I feel for. Imagine having a dad like that."
Fenella considered for a moment, then said, "Can one of my officers wait in your backyard?"
"I'll need to see your identification." Mrs Young flashed a donkey-toothed grin. "Anyone can print a business card these days."
Fenella obliged, then turned to Jones and said, "Make your way around the back in case he decides to go rabbit on us."
"And be careful not to stomp on my flower beds," Mrs Young added. "Ian's always stomping on my roses."
Fenella and Dexter walked along the narrow path which led to Ian Wallace's front door. A wind chime clattered with a rusty squeal. The place needed repair. Paint peeled from the rotted windowsills, and the cabin sagged to one side as if about to keel over. They paused on the doorstep. The stench of stale tobacco and beer and marijuana hung like a cloak above the rotted door.
Dexter sniffed. "Hasn't changed his ways, by the scent. Old dog, new tricks, and all of that."
"Let's see what he has to say," Fenella replied. " Up to now he has been more of a nuisance than anything else. Do you think he is involved in the death of Maureen Brian and Claire Sutherland?"
"Sometimes they graduate," Dexter replied, apparently thinking along the same lines as Fenella. "Never ends well when they step up to the major league."
Fenella tried the door handle.
"Locked. Guess we'll have to knock and wait."
A sharp noise interrupted their conversation. It came from the back of the cabin. The slam of a door, followed by hurried footsteps.
"Looks like Ian's gone rabbit on us," Fenella said. "Watch the front door."
She rushed around the side. A pile of wooden pallets slowed her progress. A figure flitted through the shadows in the direction where Jones waited.
Jones gave a shout, and she heard footsteps as he gave chase. She followed the sounds of the chase, because in the dark it was difficult to see what was happening. And there was clutter and junk and mud and muck. It seemed their only purpose was to catch your foot. Twice she stumbled, but righted herself. After the third stumble, she slowed to a careful walk.
There was nothing but dark ahead and the glimmer of the cabin lights behind. She knew Ian Wallace couldn't outrun Jones who was twenty years his junior and built like an Olympic athlete. Fenella stopped and listened.
A solid thud, followed by a curse.
"Jones," she called. "Are you all right?"
In the light of a watery moon dimmed by black swirling clouds, Fenella held her breath. The air seemed to hang cold
and still with the dark wrapping tight like a scarf. With no sound but the distant grumble of the sea, she called again.
"Jones, what's happening?"
A moment later Jones appeared, shaking his head and wiping a handkerchief across his mud-stained trousers.
"Got away from me, ma'am. Knows this place like the back of his hand. And as fast as greased lightning."
"Aye," replied Fenella, thinking. "You sure it was Ian Wallace? Average height, long hair, bald on top."
"I didn’t get close enough to tell."
"Man or woman?"
Jones shrugged. "Moved as quick as a zebra. I'd have got him in daylight, but in the dark, well, it wasn't a fair game."
Fenella wondered whether the ale he drank at the Sailors Arms slowed him down. She sighed. The suspects seemed to be slipping through her fingers. First Martin Findlay and now Ian Wallace.
"Call the duty sergeant," she said. "Give a description as best you can and get a patrol car out here. If we are lucky, they'll pick up the person. Wait by the Morris Minor until they arrive."
When Fenella returned to the front of the cabin, Dexter said, "No joy with the rabbit, then?"
Fenella shook her head. "Even Jones couldn't keep up with the bugger."
"Whatever Ian Wallace is taking, I want some," Dexter laughed. "Anyway, Guv, bit of good news. Front door is open."
Fenella knew by the broad grin, Dexter had worked his unofficial magic.
"Let's have a look around," she said. "We wouldn't want anything to happen to Mr Ian Wallace's private property. Call it neighbourhood policing."
The detectives' footsteps clattered off the hardwood floors, a shuffling noise that echoed through the two-bedroom cabin and disturbed the rank air. Enough to wake the dead, but it didn't wake Ian Wallace.
Under the dull glow of a floor lamp, he lay slumped on a low sofa, mouth ajar, eyes closed, half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker at his side. A contented snore alerted them to life. But it took several shakes from Dexter and a mug of frigid water to bring him around.
"Not cool, man," Ian said blinking awake. He flicked at his shoulder-length hair and rubbed a hand over his bald spot. "Not cool, dude. Not chill."
Dexter said, "What you been up to, then?"
"Hey, what is this?" He was fully awake now. His head turned from Dexter to Fenella. He gave a resigned sigh. The police were a constant annoyance in his day-to-day life. They'd shoo him away when panhandling or arrest him for selling stolen goods. "What now?"
"Mind if I look around?" Dexter didn’t wait for a reply and left the room.
Fenella said, "Ever heard of the Pig Snout?"
"No."
Only a two-letter word, but came out like a lie.
"You sure you never heard of it?"
"I didn’t do nothing." The words oozed out greasy. Damp glistened on his forehead.
Fenella glanced at the Johnnie Walker bottle. "I see you enjoy a dram of whisky."
"It's legit, I swear."
"Tell me about today."
"Never left the house. I'm a man of routine. I always stay in on Tuesdays."
"And the Pig Snout?"
"It wasn’t me."
"Fine, let's do this down the station, shall we?"
"Listen, I don't like water. I don't like boats, never been on the Pig Snout. I don't go near the harbour."
"Who said anything about boats or the harbour?"
Ian blinked.
"I… er… like I say, I don’t know nothing."
Fenella nodded as if she understood. "I'm with you on that, Ian. I realise you don't like boats, hate water, and have not been to the harbour recently."
"That's right. You got it, man." Ian let out a breath. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to return to my dreams. You can find your way out, can't you?"
"Of course," Fenella said. "There is one minor detail we wish to clear up first. It has to do with your fingerprints. They were all over the Pig Snout. Are you sure you don't recall going aboard?"
"Listen, I… wait, what is all this about?"
"I'm investigating the murders of Maureen Brian and Claire Sutherland."
"Hey, man, you can't pin that on me. I'm innocent."
"Your fingerprints were found on the Pig Snout. Three valuable photographs were stolen from that boat; ring any bells?"
"I don't know anything about no stupid photos."
Dexter stepped into the room.
"Guv, look what I found hidden under the bed." He held out three square photographs. "Nice, aren’t they? Look expensive. Not your regular holiday snaps."
"Collodion positive images," Fenella said, her heart sinking. Ian Wallace had graduated, stepped up to the major leagues. "And yes, they are worth a penny or two. So valuable, in fact, they’d be worth murdering for, right, Ian?"
"Hey, you got it all wrong, man."
"Why did you do it?" The answer often made no sense, but Fenella had to ask. "Why did you kill Maureen Brian and Claire Sutherland?"
"No. No. No." He tugged at his hair. "I don't know anything about Maureen's death. I liked the woman. She was good to me. And who the hell is Claire Sutherland?"
"You killed Maureen Brian and stole her photographs to fuel your drug habit."
"I don't do drugs no more."
But the evidence was damning. The room stunk of cannabis and tobacco and beer and sweat. And there was an ashtray at the side of the sofa filled with spliff butts. They'd find other drugs, too, if they searched. And they would.
"What's that, then?" Fenella pointed at the ashtray.
Ian Wallace stared hard, folded his arms but didn't answer.
Chapter 54
Fenella put in a call to the duty sergeant. She explained the situation and asked they post an officer on the front door. The crime scene techs would go over the cabin inch by inch tonight. In the morning there'd be a fingertip search of the front and back garden. If Ian Wallace was the killer, she'd nail him good and proper.
"Nice job, well done," the duty sergeant said. "I'll have every available officer on hand. Might pull in one or two on overtime too. The crime scene team will be there within the hour. The mother lode for you, Inspector Sallow. No expense spared." He paused a moment, and the line went quiet. When he came back, his voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm not saying anything you don't already know, but the way Jeffery treated you over this one… well, I'm not cutting corners here. Like the superintendent says, it is imperative we do everything in our power to catch the killer." He let out a devious laugh. "The expense will get right up her nose."
When Fenella hung up, she felt a sense of pride and accomplishment. They had found the missing photos under Ian Wallace's bed. His fingerprints were all over the empty bottle of Johnnie Walker on the Pig Snout. And here in the cabin, another Johnnie Walker bottle, half-empty. Coincidence?
Still, Fenella felt a pang of sadness for Ian Wallace. He sat in miserable silence on the sofa. She saw a wizened, middle-aged drug addict whose life had gone wrong. A loser, yes. But a vicious killer? She sighed. That decision wasn't her call. It was down to the Crown Prosecution Service to press charges and a judge and jury to convict. Her job was to follow the evidence to wherever it led. To get justice for Maureen Brian and Claire Sutherland.
"All right, young man," Dexter said, easing Ian Wallace to his feet. "Your transportation has arrived. Guess we'll speak again in the morning."
A uniformed officer handcuffed Ian Wallace and led him away.
Fenella checked her watch. It was roughly the time Nan went to bed. Eduardo would be drinking a cup of cocoa at the scrubbed pine table in the kitchen. She usually joined him, and they spoke about the day's events or plans for the future. Not tonight though. An evening with her family missed, but she felt it was worth it.
Her mobile phone rang. It was Jeffery.
"Sallow, what the hell's going on?" Jeffery cut out the usual introductions. Fenella knew to wait. The superintendent usually answered her own questions. "Let me remind you we are under
extreme budgetary constraints. And now I hear you ordered uniformed officers and crime scene techs to the North Side Caravan Park. This better be good."
"I'm investigating the Maureen Brian and Claire Sutherland murders, ma'am."
"What?" Jeffery spat out the question before Fenella could continue. "I made it perfectly clear you are off that case. Inspector Frye takes over on Friday."
"Today is Tuesday, ma'am. And we have had a development."
"At the North Side Caravan Park?"
"We've found Maureen Brian's missing photographs. It seems a Mr Ian Wallace stole them."
The line fell silent for several heartbeats. When Jeffery came back, Fenella could hear the wolfish smile in her voice.
"Very good, Detective Inspector Sallow. I shall arrange a press conference at once. I told the public we would do everything in our power to catch the killer. And we have. It is imperative our result goes out tonight. Imperative. Now, the details."
Too early for a press conference, Fenella thought. But she knew better than to get in the path of Jeffery when she'd got up a head of steam. An announcement would go down well with the politicians. Rocket fuel for the superintendent's career. She gave the details. When she finished, she said, "Ma'am, we can link Ian Wallace to the stolen photographs. There is no evidence to link him to the death of Maureen Brian or Claire Sutherland, yet."
"Forensics?"
"Ongoing."
"Then we'll have to jolly them along." The superintendent placed her on hold. Fenella waited and wondered what was going on. At last the line clicked and Jeffery was back. "I've sent word to the labs to focus on your case. Follow up in the morning with the reference numbers. Now, when are you interviewing Ian Wallace?"
"In the morning, ma'am."
Jeffery snorted. "If he confesses, let's hope it is in time for the lunchtime news. No leaks on this, Sallow. I want to know the moment any news breaks."
Fenella hung up and began to make notes. The first priority was to interview Ian Wallace, get his story on what had occurred. He looked frightened when the uniformed officers took him away. Good. A night in the cells would loosen his tongue.