Spoken Bones

by N. C. Lewis

  "I cannot share information about an ongoing investigation."

  "Need I remind you I chair the Police and Crime Panel." Malton didn’t miss a beat and name-dropped to drive home his point. "I count Chief Constable Rae amongst my personal friends."

  "That doesn’t change the rules."

  "Detective Sallow, I can assure you our videos will prove useless."

  "Let me be the judge of that," Fenella said. "The public often think their information is of no importance. But I've known many a case turn on 'unimportant' details."

  Malton spun around and wheeled back to the table. His poker face unreadable. "Tell you what, Detective Inspector Sallow, how about we make a deal?"

  "I'm listening." Fenella was curious. She wanted to know what he wanted to trade. "Go on."

  "Off the record?" The question came from Mr Ward.

  Dexter shifted uneasily. Fenella smiled. Dexter had no qualms about using unofficial means to gain entry to Ian Wallace's cabin. But speaking off the record to counsellor Ron Malton made him anxious. It did the same for her. The man was a snake who liked to bite. She tilted her head from side to side to ease the tension.

  "Off the record," she confirmed.

  Malton gave a thin-lipped smile. "Let's begin with a brief history lesson, shall we?"

  Fenella wanted him to get to the point, wondered how far back he would go, but said, "Okay, as long as it is relevant."

  "You have met Finnegan Woodstock?" Malton paused, waiting for confirmation.

  "On several occasions," Fenella replied.

  "A good man, hard worker, and gentleman. I am honoured to say we have become quite close since he joined us at the Port Saint Giles harbour. I now count him as a friend, and I'm sure he feels the same about me. Now, how can I put this… let me see…"

  Again, Malton halted, this time for several long seconds. There was a stillness to the room, as if the scented air waited in eager expectation. Mr Ward leaned forward, elbows on the table, watching the detectives with sharp eyes. Malc had his hands on his chin, staring at Fenella. Something was shifting in the atmosphere.

  Malton placed his hands on the table, palms down. "Mr Wayne Wingfield was the previous watchmen. His name might ring a bell. He is doing time in one of your fine institutions. A rather distasteful fellow, I'm sure we all agree."

  "Aye, happen you're right about that." Fenella remembered Wayne Wingfield. She slept more easily at night with him off the streets.

  Malton said, "Mr Wingfield also ran a CCTV installation service. A small business, only one other worker. His prices were good. I employed him to install our CCTV cameras. The Board approved the expenditure at my request."

  The picture began to emerge. Fenella was already one step ahead, knew where this was going.

  "Go on," she said. "Go on."

  "Would it surprise you to know the other person in Mr Wingfield's CCTV business was a Mr Ian Wallace? He is residing in one of your cells as we speak."

  Fenella didn't ask how he knew. She didn't ask him anything, just waited.

  "Now here's my problem," Malton said. "Your detective has asked for our CCTV surveillance videos going back as far as possible."

  "That is correct," Fenella confirmed.

  "There are no videos. Mr Wingfield and Mr Wallace installed a dud. The CCTV cameras only record five minutes in a continuous loop."

  "And you've only just found that out?" Fenella asked.

  "Port Saint Giles is a quiet town. We've never had cause to review the video from the CCTV cameras. When we did… well you know what we found." Malton sighed. "If this comes out, it will be embarrassing."

  Fenella saw it in crystal clarity now. Ron Malton had supervised the purchase of the CCTV cameras. The champion of law and order had employed criminals to install the system. They'd swindled him with cameras that didn't work. The board would have his hide, the press his tail, and his fellow politicians would tear him apart.

  Fenella turned to glance at Dexter. He couldn't suppress his grin. Neither could she.

  Mr Ward said, "As you can see, your demand for video surveillance has put my client in a difficult spot. If you could withdraw the request…"

  Fenella said, "And the trade?"

  Mr Ward's eyes sharpened, and he ran a finger over the wisp of his moustache.

  "Information about the death of Maureen Brian."

  Chapter 60

  "I was Maureen Brian's lover."

  The words came from the man in the Hawaiian shirt. Malcolm Buckham, known by everyone as Malc. He flashed a sad smile. There was a moment of stunned silence as his words floated in the oval room. Fenella's ears took in his deep resonant voice. But it took several seconds for the implications to percolate into her brain. Did Malcolm Buckham kill Maureen Brian? What about Claire Sutherland?

  The answer came as fast as the questions formed in Fenella's mind.

  Mr Ward said, "My client has an alibi for Bonfire Night and last Sunday when Claire Sutherland died." He reached under the table and pulled out a briefcase. He took his time shuffling through papers. At last, he lifted out a single typed sheet which he slid across the table to Fenella. "A signed statement confirming my client’s whereabouts on both evenings. I've informed those mentioned to expect a discrete call from you to verify."

  Fenella read the statement, her mind still working the implications. When she finished, she handed the note to Dexter. His astonished grunts echoed like the dull thud of a closed tomb door. When he looked up, Mr Ward continued.

  "Superintendent Jeffery will confirm my client attended the after-Bonfire Night party. It took place at the Giles Breeze Hotel. Mr Buckham didn't leave until well after 2 a.m. As you have read, counsellor Malton drove his uncle and Police Constable Woods to their respective homes. He dropped off my client a little after two thirty a.m., and Police Constable Woods at his place a short while later."

  "Aye, I heard about that," Fenella said. "From the horse's mouth, so to speak."

  Mr Ward ran a fat finger across the wisp of the moustache on his upper lip. "Councillor Malton and my client attended a dinner party on Sunday evening. It took place at Chief Constable Rae's house. Mr Rae will confirm that. The event was a fund raiser for the Port Saint Giles lighthouse. I also attended and confirm my client's presence at the event."

  Fenella said, "What time did the dinner party finish?"

  "The activities concluded around 11 p.m. Both men retired to their respective guestrooms and remained until daylight. They shared a rather pleasant breakfast of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. Chief Constable Rae was present. They discussed budgetary issues, which I will not go into here. I also attended the business breakfast, as did many of the town's business leaders."

  "Cast-iron alibi," Dexter muttered.

  "Aye, seems so," Fenella replied. She thought again about Ian Wallace and Ben Griffin. She didn't see Ian Wallace as a cold-blooded murderer. That left Ben Griffin. Was he the mastermind who pulled the strings and wielded the blunt instrument twice?

  A rich soothing tone percolated into Fenella's thoughts. Malc was speaking. "Maureen and I met five years ago. We became an instant item. I asked her to marry me on several occasions, but she enjoyed her independence. She is… was a very private person. We never met in town, only on the Pig Snout. That was where we relaxed together and she showed me her photographic creations."

  It was clear he was an honest man, sincere, deeply in love.

  Fenella said, "Do you have any idea who would want to kill Maureen?"

  He ran a hand through his mop of thick white hair. "Not exactly."

  "How do you mean?"

  "I jog every day, keeps me healthy."

  The words triggered a memory in Fenella. She stood in Maureen Brian's apartment looking out of the window. He was the man in the tight green shorts with the mop of bleached white hair. She had waved, but he didn’t see her. The jogger was Malcolm Buckham!

  Fenella's heart thudded against her chest. "Go on, luv. Tell it all."


  "I jog by Seafields Bed and Breakfast most days. When Maureen was alive, I'd stop and wave. Sometimes she'd see me and wave back." He gave a sad smile. "It was last week, the day after they discovered Maureen's body. Old habits die hard, I suppose. I missed Maureen. So I jogged my usual path by the bed and breakfast several times. I don't know, I suppose I hoped to see Maureen. Silly, really."

  His voice broke, and he pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket.

  "Go on, luv," Fenella said. "We are listening."

  "I was feeling sorry for myself, when I saw a woman crouched in the sand."

  Fenella rested her elbows on the table. "How do you mean?"

  "At first I thought she was ill, but I'd seen her earlier walking along the beach with a black bin bag in her hand. She was definitely crouching, hiding, by the side of a blue Morris Minor."

  Fenella sat up straight. That was her car. She'd check her logbook later. For now she was certain it was the day she and Dexter visited Ben and Safiya Griffin for the first time.

  "Did you call for an ambulance?"

  "I thought she was ill at first, but she wasn't. I could tell by the way she crouched low that she didn’t want to be seen."

  "What was she doing?"

  "Watching the bed and breakfast front door."

  "Nothing illegal in that." But a tingle ran along Fenella's spine. "Did you pass this information to the police tip line?"

  "No."

  "But you thought her activity was suspicious?"

  "Not at the time. But I saw her again, last Friday. Do you remember the rain?"

  "Aye," Fenella replied. That was the day she got caught in a thunderstorm in the lane near Jack Croll's place.

  "I love jogging in the rain, keeps an old goat alive." Malc chuckled. "The rain was heavy when I saw the woman again on Fleetwood Lane. I'm not a fast runner so I had time to observe her. She was standing under the porch of Martin Findlay's flat. I didn't see her knock, and it seemed to me she was… thinking. Then a woman in a yellow mackintosh came from one of the houses. The two women had words."

  "An argument?" The question came from Dexter.

  Malc nodded. "I don't know. But I heard on the morning news they found Mrs Sutherland in a yellow mackintosh. It didn't take long for my old brain cells to put two and two together. That is when I called Mr Ward and my nephew. I suppose it could be a coincidence?"

  Fenella didn't like coincidences. She said, "Can you describe this woman?"

  "Slender, average height. She wore glasses. They were very large, owl-like. Oh, and she had mousy brown hair."

  Fenella rummaged in her handbag. She took out her spiral-bound notebook and unfolded a sheet of paper which she slid across the table. It was a copy of the photograph on Audrey Robin's sideboard.

  "That's her," Malc said tapping a finger on Audrey Robin's face. "That's the woman I saw crouching beside the blue Morris Minor."

  Chapter 61

  Audrey stood at the bottom of the stairs which led to the attic. She rarely visited that part of her tiny stone cottage. It was full of junk when she moved in and she never had the energy to sort through it. She dreamt of turning it into a dormer with huge windows that looked out onto the lane. But there were so many repairs and so little money, she wondered whether it would always be a dream.

  Now she waited.

  Listening.

  The scraping noises were back; so was Patrick's voice and that ratty terrier. It looked at her with its shiny black eyes, pointed teeth, and ears pricked forward. Then it spoke in Patrick's voice.

  "Turn yourself in. The police will find you."

  Audrey knew the words were only in her mind because she could hear the slush of waves on the distant beach. She had taken her medicine today, although sometimes she forgot. That's when the voices were worse. They'd tell her what to do and she had to obey. So she walked the beaches with a plastic bin bag in her hand. If she picked up the trash, the voices would stay away. Even if the medicine didn't work.

  But now they were back.

  From her cargo pants she pulled out the envelope which contained the sheet of paper with her plan. While she waited for instructions from the voices in her mind, she reread it. It seemed so clear when she’d written the words down in red ink with a neat hand. Now all she saw was a jumble, and she knew something bad was going to happen.

  From the attic, there was a movement, a noise. Audrey became still and glanced up the gloomy stairwell. A shaft of weak daylight did little to penetrate the dark. Again came the noise. Shuffling, scraping, as though boxes were being moved and rearranged.

  Audrey held up her phone and flicked on the flashlight as she carefully climbed the stairs, making certain to hold the rail. An intense odour of dust and mould and rot hit her nostrils. It mingled with the savoury aroma of café fried food. At the top, she groped around for the string that turned on the light bulb. A dull orange glow chased away the shadows.

  "It's only me," she said. "I've come to take away your trash."

  Martin Findlay stared at her through feral eyes. They jutted out of narrow slits. He did not blink.

  "Are you finished?" Audrey didn't wait for an answer. She began picking up the empty fried-chicken carton and the discarded plastic cup. "Where's the straw? Martin, what did you do with the straw?"

  He didn't respond.

  "You'll be safe up here. I'll bring you fish and chips for your dinner."

  A hard knock echoed up the stairwell. Then a solid thud from the knocker on the front door. Stunned by the suddenness of it, Audrey remained still for a few moments in a state of total bewilderment. It clattered again, and again, and Audrey knew they had come.

  She'd always known the police would come.

  Chapter 62

  If only Cathy had known that it would turn out like this, she would never have agreed. She held on to Noel O'Sullivan's arm as they walked through the car park.

  "Are you sure?" Cathy allowed her eyes to travel across his handsome face.

  "It will be all right, honey," replied the pastor. "This is the right thing for us to do. You understand, don't you?"

  She had been afraid he would say that. Fearful he would ask if she understood. She did; she'd always understood. That's what made it all so difficult. Not simple like when she was a child where life was shrouded in magic and mystery. Not like the town pond with its ebb and flow of seasons, or a palmate newt driven by simple biological urges. She had a brain. The ability to think, to decide. To make her own choices.

  "I understand," Cathy said. "I want to do this."

  "Good." Again, he flashed his Texan smile. And Cathy felt the magic and mystery creep back in. He placed a hand on her cheek. "Let's have an ice cream when we are done. With sprinkles."

  "Yes, that would be nice," Cathy said. "I love ice cream. You know I can't resist it. When I was young, my dad would take me to the parlour on the town square. It always seemed sunny back then."

  But under a sky pregnant with clouds, the rows of cars with their darkened interiors reminded Cathy of soldiers protecting a grave. She had seen the picture in a geography book about China. "A terracotta army buried underground," the teacher had said, "guarding the tomb of the dead." Now she felt a heavy weight as though soil pressed down the burdens of an uncertain future. Suddenly, she wasn't sure she wanted to do it. Her legs froze as if controlled by some demonic force. She stopped walking.

  "I can't."

  "Nothing to fear, honey." Noel O'Sullivan glanced about. There was a sudden edge to his voice, an adult urgency which Cathy recognised with dread. "This is for the best."

  Cathy didn’t move.

  "The way you feel is quite natural." Noel spoke in a soft tone, honey-sweet, as again he flashed that million-dollar Texan smile. "You are exactly the way the Lord made you to be."

  "But—"

  "But nothing, honey. Trust me."

  A gust of chill wind picked up a crisp packet and swirled it around like a giant butterfly with crumpled wings. Noel pushed up the co
llars on his leather jacket and placed an arm around Cathy's waist. It felt warm. She felt suddenly secure.

  "Come on," he whispered. "Come on."

  They resumed their walk, picking their way between the cars and up the steps of a faceless building.

  Inside, the smell of bleach and sweat and stale coffee clung to the bare walls as though part of the structure. Sprawled on a wooden bench, a vagrant slept. A deep snore rattled from his throat like a lawn mower. Cathy turned away; she knew the slumbering man: one of her dad's gaggle of drunken friends. The vagrant's rhythmic snore didn't miss a beat.

  "Hello there." The greeting came from a flat-faced man with slits for eyes. Cathy thought he looked like a grass snake. Then he bared his teeth in what Cathy thought must be a professional smile. "I'm the duty sergeant. Can I help you?"

  Cathy supposed she would do all the talking. Tell him all she wanted to say. But the duty sergeant looked pale, almost translucent, like a snake that lives under artificial light. And she remembered what grass snakes ate—newts. Suddenly she became a palmate newt, her only desire, to wriggle deep into the mud of the Port Saint Giles town pond.

  Noel said, "We would like to speak to the detective in charge of the Maureen Brian murder case."

  The duty sergeant hesitated. Cathy noticed his sharp eyes. They took them in as though sifting wheat from chaff.

  "Name please?" He picked up a pen. "So as I can let Detective Sallow and her team know you're here."

  Cathy found her voice. "Cathy Wallace. My name is Cathy Wallace."

  "Ian Wallace's daughter, eh?" The duty sergeant put down his pen.

  "That's right," Cathy replied. "That's me."

  Noel said, "She would like to see her dad." He turned to Cathy, lowering his voice. "While you're here, I think it would be a good idea."

  Cathy didn’t want to see her dad. She hated it when he got himself arrested. She didn't know why they had taken him in this time. When she’d seen the detectives at the front door of the cabin, she ran. They gave chase, but she escaped and spent the night at Mrs Collins’s house. Belinda smuggled her into her tiny bedroom. They chatted and laughed like old times, with Cathy telling outlandish stories to Belinda's wide-eyed gaze. Mrs Collins didn't bat an eyelid when Cathy showed up at breakfast. She never did these days.