by N. C. Lewis
Still, he hoped they'd come into the store. He'd give the girl a lollipop and ask her name. Quickest way to win the heart of a child is with a piece of candy. Best not let the mother see, though. Maybe he should get a small dog? One with a wide mouth so it looked like it was grinning. Kids like them. Might lure little girls into his store by the dozen, and he could write the dog off as a business expense. He pressed his face against the cold glass of the door to watch the mother and child.
But they didn’t come into the store.
Chad scowled as they continued along the lane and disappeared around a sharp bend. If he were back in New York City, the store would be brimming with kids on Saturday. He'd have to fill his storeroom with boxes of lollipops and could take his pick of which little girl he'd give one to. He wouldn’t need a grinning dog to attract them through the doors.
He reached under the counter for Bert, a three-legged, stuffed sheep with one eye. He wouldn’t show it to the little girl. It would scare her. He kept it under the counter so that wouldn’t happen. But when the store was empty, he'd bring Bert out and have a quiet chat with the sheep.
"Shall we take a look, see what's in the white envelope?"
Bert didn’t answer. He never spoke.
Chad turned back to the white envelope, opened it, and read. Then he placed it on the counter and gazed blankly through the window. On the opposite side of the lane stood St Bees Priory. The green grass was mown, neat borders were edged at sharp angles, ready for the bright flowers in the spring. He thought about the little girl with the raven hair tied with a pink bow. Maybe it was time to visit that church, get on his knees and pray.
Really pray.
For forgiveness.
Chapter eight
An orange sun was up over the hills now, and the sea mist had cleared from the flat brown fields. PC Sid Hoon strolled along the lane and breathed in the chill air. Birds twittered in the barren trees, and a slight wind whistled through the branches murmuring like a contented crowd. This is the life, he thought as he watched a jay work an acorn. Its wings fluttered with flashes of blue, stark against the browns and greens of the countryside.
To the casual observer, he looked like a village bobby on his way to work. He carried an oversized sandwich box filled with cream doughnuts and the flask topped up with tea. And indeed he was on his way to open the police station. Not that it was much of a station, only a single room in St Bees train station. It had a telephone, computer, kettle, and space heater, which took ages to warm the room. On Saturday mornings he sat behind the desk and read the local newspaper or surfed the news on his work computer. There'd be no hordes waiting outside, no urgent matters requiring his attention, so he took his time. No rush. No hurry. The same pace he'd used for years.
Except today was different.
Today PC Hoon thought about Maude. He shouldn't have rummaged through her dresser last Tuesday. He didn't even know what he was looking for. But something told him to search. He waited until she was out of the house, then crept up the stairs. He should have been at work, but he came home to search. Under a pile of bras and knickers, at the very bottom, he found a pile of letters and a large, slim brown envelope, the type lawyers use. He tossed the letters aside and opened the envelope—a life insurance policy taken out on his name! His scrawled signature was on the paperwork, but he didn't remember signing. If he croaked, Maude got a wad of cash. He stared at the amount and gasped. Then he shoved it back under the letters, bras, and knickers. What to do about it?
If he confronted Maude, she'd know he'd been snooping. That wouldn’t go down well. Maude knew his secrets. But how could he keep quiet?
Married life had been a living hell, but a divorce would wreck his meagre finances. He couldn't have that. He felt like a sparrow with a cuckoo chick in its nest. He couldn’t go on like this. His nerves were shot through.
"Till death do us part," he said to the whispering trees.
A soft gurgle of water broke into his thoughts. He stopped to listen to the gentle slosh of the Pow Beck stream. It began near the country house of Mirehouse and flowed through the village and out into the Irish Sea. Locals said it washed the flesh from the bones of King Arthur and spewed them into the surf. "Nothing good happens over them waters," they'd say. "Nothing but bad luck from Mirehouse to the salt sea."
On impulse he left the lane and made his way across a field towards the stream. He strolled along the bank following the flow of the Pow Beck and stopped under the brick stilts of the footbridge. Last year at this time, he'd spotted a rose-coloured starling and a spoonbill, which local legend said brought good luck. He stopped and watched for a few minutes, heard nothing but the call of a crow. So he poured a cup of tea from his flask, ate all his cream doughnuts from his oversized lunch box, and brooded over the question of Maude.
Twenty minutes later, with a lazy gait and contented belly, PC Hoon climbed the wood steps of the Pow bridge. He felt the strain in his legs. Warmth rushed to his face. Eh, Sid, you need to work out at the gym, he told himself. Won't take but a few weeks to get into shape. A piece of cake. He gasped for breath as he heaved himself onto the level slats.
He took three steps, then stopped. For a long moment, he stared. He staggered backwards and felt the breath being sucked from his lungs. It was the shoes he saw first. A pair of red stilettos scattered on each side of the bridge. He lifted his eyes to see a coat caught in the railing, and two paces beyond, a girl face down on the slats in a cream blouse with a thin, strappy, gold handbag across her shoulder and a short dark miniskirt hitched up to expose bare skin.
Now PC Hoon's training kicked in. He walked quickly along the slats of the bridge, heart thumping in his chest, eyes fixed on the girl.
The skin on her legs was grey with patches that were almost purple. It wasn’t a schoolgirl; he could tell that now. An instant later, he knew it was Viv Gill without seeing her face. Blood pooled around her matted hair. He didn’t have to get any closer to know she was dead.
An urge to see her face seized him. He told himself it was to confirm her identity but knew otherwise. He edged a step closer.
They tell uniforms never to enter a crime scene. The risk of contamination is far too great. Leave it to the crime scene techs and the suits. PC Hoon recalled this as he took two more steps and squatted next to the body. He mustn't touch Viv Gill. Still, he leaned forward and tried to look at her face. It pressed against the slats. The part he could make out was bloodied and bruised. Red, raw. Shredded.
Acid churned in his gut. PC Hoon felt light headed, felt the blood drain away from his body, saw black spots before his eyes. For a long while he remained frozen, how long he could not tell.
A sudden noise came from behind. A flutter and scrape. Startled, PC Hoon glanced over his shoulder. A jay sat on the wood rail watching. It was only a bird, but he didn't like the glint in its sharp eyes. It reminded him of the way the shopkeeper, Chad Tate, looked at him. What had happened years back was water under the bridge. Case closed. Forgotten. He stared at the jay, wanted to shoo it away. Throw a stone, knock it dead. He barked an angry shout. He growled and swore. Wings fluttered, flashes of blue. The jay flew.
Now he was alone, but the gurgle of the Pow Beck made him uneasy. He kept hearing footsteps on the slatted steps where he'd just walked. His imagination, he knew. Still, it put the hair up on the back of his neck.
Somewhere, a crow squawked. The wind whistled through the barren trees as though in a warning shout. Once again, he thought he heard footsteps. He looked up and down the slatted bridge. There was no one about. No unwelcome eyes watching. He put on a pair of latex gloves, undid the clasp of Viv Gil's handbag, and rifled around inside.
Bingo!
With a satisfied grunt, he pulled out Viv Gill's purse and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He searched the gold handbag again, found her mobile phone, and took it. Then with a greedy grunt, he shoved the handbag into his lunch box, pushing hard to force the lid shut. Next, he peeled the gloves off his
hands and reached for his own phone to make the call.
Chapter nine
The call came through when Fenella was at the police station.
She'd just left Jeffery's office when the duty sergeant called her over.
"A suspicious death in St Bees," he said. "I know it's not your shift, but we are short staffed today. We need to send a detective. Could you drive over and take a look?"
When she arrived, there was a small crowd of locals at one end of Pow bridge. Under a clear, blue January sky with the sun the size of a melon, they stood in silence and watched. There was an air of quiet expectation about the townsfolk. A low hum, like the mumble before a carnival horror-house ride begins.
A thin line of police tape stretched across the narrow footbridge. In front, a tall constable stood with his thick arms folded.
"Good morning, ma'am," he said as Fenella crossed the tape.
"Not for the poor sod in the crime scene tent," she replied.
The crime scene techs had already put up a tent of sorts so Fenella couldn't see the victim. She paused for a long moment to take in the scene. Figures in white suits flitted about as if ghosts. They changed colour as they moved—splashed in the red, blue, and white of flashing lights.
Fenella wondered who was in charge of the techs, hoped it was Lisa Levon. Fenella liked Lisa, thought she'd look good on the television, knew the head crime scene tech was as tough as nails. Thorough and professional. She scanned the scene but couldn’t make her out in the sea of white suits.
Now she glanced about, her eyes taking everything in. The footbridge was very narrow, barely enough room for two people to pass. And the rails were lined with a mesh wire to prevent things falling through. On one side were bushes and trees. On the other side, about ten feet away, was the arched stone of the road bridge where the police vehicles were parked. Below the slats, the water of Pow Beck gurgled. So what had happened here, then?
"Guv, over here."
There was Dexter, her detective sergeant. He knelt by the handrail and peered down at the gentle waters below. Fenella knew Dexter struggled with drink, and half wondered whether he'd been at the bottle already. She stepped closer: he smelled of sour rum, but when she saw his face, it was stone-cold sober.
"Thoughts?" Fenella asked the question, although she had not yet seen the body.
He stood and shook his head. For a long while he didn’t speak. When he did, his voice was an octave higher than normal. "Nasty one, Guv. Not what you would expect in an English seaside village. Can't say you'd expect to see it in a big city either. Right nasty."
She knew, then, he had been inside the crime scene tent, already saw what she had yet to see. They'd worked together for years. Had each other's back. But she couldn't recall his voice that high-pitched. Ever. Her stomach roiled.
"Not an accident, then?" Fenella knew the answer but asked anyway.
Dexter opened his mouth, closed it, then said, "Best go see for yourself; make up your own mind. I'll have a word with the crowd, never know who saw what." He pulled out his notebook and strode with big steps towards the crime scene tape, dipped under, and disappeared into the gathered crowd.
Fenella glanced towards the crime scene tent. Three figures in white suits walked by, followed by a police constable who lingered. There was already a lot of activity, but it seemed to be increasing. The growl of a generator tore through the air as it whirred into life with a mechanical cough.
"Do we have a name?" Fenella said to herself out loud. She liked to know their name. It made it more personal.
"Viv Gill, ma'am." The answer came from a police constable, more round than stout. The one who lingered after the three white suits walked past. "She moved here six months ago, rented a room just off Station Road."
"And you are?"
"PC Hoon, ma'am. I'm the local police constable. I found the body."
Fenella's sharp eyes took him in. She'd met him before. Or rather him and his wife. What was her name? Marge… no, Maude. Maude Hoon. And she'd met the couple at a police do in Whitehaven, must have been three years ago. They'd shared a table and small talk. An odd couple, she had thought then. She remembered wondering how they'd got together. But opposites attract, don't they? Now, she racked her brain for his first name and got it in a heartbeat.
"Sid Hoon, eh? I'd forgotten this was your beat."
He took a step back.
"Have we met?"
"Aye, a couple years ago, at a police event in Whitehaven. Christmas party." Fenella liked to keep on good terms with the uniforms. She had walked the beat herself years back. So she treated police constables with respect and always made time for small talk. Then she remembered what happened at the Whitehaven Christmas party. The officer had got into a drunken argument with his wife. They'd called each other names, too tanked up to think about shame. Eduardo got between the couple and split it up before it got out of hand. "You were with Maude; we shared a table. How is your wife?"
PC Hoon smiled, but it didn't extend to his eyes. "Loving life in the country. We two are like milk and honey, belong together. My Maude is a credit to me."
"Aye," Fenella said, eyeing him with uncertainty. "Happen you're right about that. We'll have a chat later. I'll need your help to confirm the details."
"At your service, ma'am," PC Hoon replied. "Us uniform blokes are always willing to lend a helping hand." He gave a slow smile. "I'd best get back to the job. It'll be a long day." He walked quickly away from the crime scene tape, glancing twice over his shoulder.
Chapter ten
Fenella turned her attention to the crime scene tent. A figure in a shapeless, white suit walked from the entrance. They moved as though their legs were made of rubber. Not quite a stagger, but very close, as if they were about to collapse.
Fenella hurried forward, took the person by the arm. "It's okay, pet. Is this your first time?"
"I'm fine," a woman's voice whispered.
Fenella stared in shock. It was Lisa Levon, the head crime scene tech. Gorgeous, sexy Lisa Levon. Except today her auburn hair hung limp, dark eyes dulled, and her almost forty-something face, usually glowing with the vitality of a teenager, crinkled into the scowl of a woman twice her age. There was no doubt she was less than fine.
"You don't look fine, pet." Fenella couldn’t hide the concern in her voice.
"I thought I'd seen it all," Lisa said in a dry voice. "But her face…"
"Come on, luv, this way." Fenella led her to the rail. Lisa leaned against it for support. "That bad in there, eh?"
"Worse."
Fenella glanced at the crime scene tent, then looked at Lisa with deep-felt sorrow. Whatever happened here, she would get to the bottom of it, put the perp away. Her detective mind kicked in.
"Handbag?"
"No sign of one," Lisa replied.
As Fenella thought about that, she could hear the low murmur of voices above the bubble and splash of the Pow Beck. When she glanced towards the crime scene tape, she saw PC Hoon, watching.
She turned back to Lisa and said, "Do you think it was a mugging gone wrong?"
Lisa managed a shrug. She looked sick, with sunken rings of puffy, dark flesh around her eyes. "You are the detective; we just look for clues amongst the blood, guts, and bile."
Solving crime was like reading Chinese to Lisa Levon. All strokes and squiggles. Incomprehensible. She never speculated about why a crime was committed or who did it. As the head crime scene tech, she organised her team to sift the scene for forensic clues. That was her job, and she was damn good at it. It was Fenella's job to solve the crime.
Fenella said, "Time of death?"
"Last night late or early this morning." Lisa's voice became hoarse, and she suddenly turned another shade of pale. "Viv Gill died no later than two a.m., and mercifully, it would have been quick."
Fenella knew it could not have been a mugging gone wrong. Who would wait on a bridge in the middle of a small village in hopes of mugging someone? She had checked the wea
ther report for the previous night. A fog had blown in from the Irish Sea. Not an opportunistic thief. Not a mugging gone wrong. Someone had lain in wait, knew Viv Gill was coming.
Lisa said, "Dr MacKay is on his way to examine the body. We'll have a better estimate of time of death once he's gone over her in the pathologist lab."
Dr MacKay liked to visit the scene of a crime, get a feel for the place, see where the grisly deed was done. It was as though he got a thrill from being on-site. Fenella wondered what he'd make of it but didn’t get far with that thought.
Lisa grunted, leaned over the rail and threw up into the Pow Beck stream. After the third heave, she turned to Fenella and pointed at the crime scene tent.
"You'd better go inside and see for yourself. It looks like the work of Hamilton Perkins. Mr Shred."
Chapter eleven
Chad Tate stood at the back of the crowd watching so he wouldn’t be seen.
He had closed the store after ringing up the bill on Mrs Lenz's baked beans, white bread, and small box of black English breakfast tea. Her Alf loved strong tea with his beans on toast. But she came back to the store because she forgot the milk, so Chad went to the fridge and brought back a carton, full fat.
Mrs Lenz was the rush hour, and when she left, he knew it was over. He'd planned to reread the letter in the white envelope and think about what to do next, but he heard the wailing siren of a police car, then an ambulance and another police car. Curiosity got the better of him, so he shut up shop and followed the flashing lights to the footbridge over the Pow Beck.
There were police cars all over the place. An ambulance. Even a fire truck. Chad felt an excited thrill as he watched them hurrying about like worker bees. He'd already heard that Viv Gill was dead, her body discovered by PC Hoon on the footbridge over the Pow Beck. He'd also heard the victim was a backpacker who travelled up from London, from the old widow who lived on Brown Hen Lane. The crowd were awash with the chatter of rumours. But there was only one question in Chad Tate's mind—would the police find any clues?