by N. C. Lewis
"What a ride, eh?" Jeffery's lips curved into a full-blown smile. "One thing we have in our favour is our ability to get things done. We aren't passive little women. I want you to work on the Viv Gill case with our detectives—as a consultant. Help track down Hamilton Perkins, and put him back behind bars."
"What?" Joy hadn't expected that and needed time to think it through. But she felt her heart beat even faster. Fear or thrill?
Jeffery leaned forward on the desk. "You built trust with him in prison. He agreed to tell you where he'd buried Colleen Rae. You know his mind better than anyone."
"I don't know."
"Joy, I need your help. The top brass are all over me on this one." Jeffery shot her a pleading look. "We have a briefing at four o'clock. I've told the team you will speak."
Joy said, "I feel like you are backing me into a corner. Do I have a choice here?"
"Listen, I'll get a uniform on your front door before our coffee arrives, and I'll make sure you are paid top dollar for your services, but you have to work with me. Agreed?"
Joy considered for a long while. Suddenly her lips twisted into a slow smile.
"You've got a deal."
Now she'd be a fly on the wall, see how things unfolded and get paid for the privilege as a consultant. It would make the perfect last chapter to her secret book.
Chapter twenty-three
At 3:59 p.m., Dr Joy Hall waited with Superintendent Jeffery in the corridor outside the briefing room. She had always admired her friend's punctuality, although today with the news about Hamilton Perkins and the death of Viv Gill in her new home village of St Bees, she wished the meeting was over.
"Thirty seconds to go," Jeffery whispered. "Keeps the troops on their toes if their head is on time. I'll give the team a morale boost, then over to you. When you speak, be quick and clear. They appreciate that."
Joy's mouth felt dry, and she wondered whether she would be able to speak at all. This wasn't like a presentation in front of the prison board. What could she tell a team of seasoned police officers? Her psychological reports were only one strand of the investigation. A thin strand, she thought. Had Jeffery put too much weight on her suggestions? After all, that's just what they were. Suggestions. She felt like a fraud. Nerves tumbled in her gut. What was she doing here?
"I can't do this," she said.
But Jeffery's hand had already reached for the door handle. It flew open, and the superintendent walked in. Joy hurried behind as though the two were connected by an unseen cord.
The whole team was crammed into the small room. A tiny space, quarter the size of Incident Room A. More of a side room, really, where they would not attract attention. Jeffery didn't want word to leak to the press just yet. And police stations leak information like flour in a baker's sieve.
Joy looked at the faces and knew them by sight. Jeffery had shown her their photos over lunch with a short verbal bio as well. PC Hoon sat on the front row, pen in hand. Dexter, Jones, and Fenella sat at his side. PC Beth Finn stood by the small coffee machine at the door and downed the bitter brew as if it were a magic elixir. Someone had set up a whiteboard with photos of Viv Gill, and there were also images of St Bees and the Pow Beck footbridge.
Jeffery's marched to the front, with Dr Joy Hall behind. Inspector Moss greeted them with a smile.
"Okay let's get started," he said and handed the reins to Jeffery.
Jeffery planted her legs wide, arms by her side. Joy watched, liked what she saw, and decided to do the same when her turn came.
Jeffery said, "I want Hamilton Perkins tracked down. I want him brought to the station and put behind our bars. You want that too. Our work here is top secret. If anyone speaks to the press, I'll have their hide."
The words seem to fall flat. When her turn came, Joy thought she'd take a different tack. They didn't need motivation. They needed information so they could track down Hamilton Perkins, make an arrest, and put him away. What could she tell them?
Inspector Moss clapped his hands. He was the only one.
"Come on, folks. That's what we need, an energy boost from the boss. I hope you got the message." He turned to Jeffery. "They're all jazzed up, ma'am, raring to go."
Jeffery stood very still and watched their faces. After several moments, she took two paces back. "That will be all. Over to you, Inspector Moss."
She turned and marched from the room, her arms swinging at her side.
Moss said, "Dr Joy Hall will speak to us in a short while. First, I'd like to get a quick sense of our progress. PC Hoon, what've you got?"
"I've made a list of folks in St Bees who are known for their keen eye. If they didn't see what happened, sir, no one did."
"Okay, keep up with that. Once you're done, start knocking on doors." Moss placed his hands behind his back. "Anyone else?"
Jones said, "Still working Viv Gill's background. She was not a local, moved here less than a year ago from Whitehaven. Her rent was paid until the end of March, no bills, no debts as far as I've been able to tell. I've sent a request to her bank to get more on her financials. It might take a day or two before they come back."
Moss turned to Fenella. "And what did Dr MacKay have to say?"
Joy watched the woman with the shoulder-length, grey hair hesitate as though she were performing some difficult calculation. This was Detective Inspector Fenella Sallow.
Fenella said, "He is out the country. In Africa. But I spoke with Dr Oz, who heads the cottage hospital. He's made an initial exam of Viv Gill's corpse, but it is too soon for him to come to a firm conclusion."
"Come on, Sallow," Moss barked. "He must have told you something. Spit it out."
"Nothing to report, sir."
"Don't give me that crap. Solving crime is a team effort, Sallow. Dr Oz is one sharp brain; the man has ideas. What's he thinking?"
Fenella said, "He thought Gill's face was… well, he mentioned Hamilton Perkins."
"Oh God!" Moss yelled. "I hope to hell that is not official yet. Bloody hell, it will be all over the press before we know it. Get on to Tess Allen; let our press officer know."
Joy watched as Fenella Sallow made careful notes in her book. Jeffery had said Detective Sallow was one of her best. She weighed that in her mind as she thought about her opening lines.
Moss was talking. "Anyone else? What you got?"
PC Beth Finn raised a hand. "Been checking out abandoned buildings, sir. Places where Perkins may camp without being seen. Noticed some activity at the Seafields Bed & Breakfast. It closed a month ago, and the place is up for sale. Someone has been living there, camping out, not local. I've asked uniforms to keep an eye out."
Moss leered at PC Finn as though his eyes were stripping away her clothes. "Follow up and keep me up to date. And while you're at it, check out empty properties in St Bees. PC Hoon will be your guide."
Joy caught PC Beth Finn's roll of the eyes. She doubted Moss noticed, and everyone else looked towards the front. But she saw it, all right, and knew in that instant PC Finn had more ambition than Jeffery had suggested. The woman wanted to be more than a uniform in plain clothes. The same couldn't be said for PC Hoon who'd never been up for promotion or sat for any exam. "A good, solid plod," Jeffery had said, "The backbone of our small communities."
She was still thinking about that when Moss pointed to her and said, "It's all yours, Dr Hall."
"Okay," she said, trying to control the panic. "Okay."
She turned to the gathered faces and wondered what the hell to say.
Chapter twenty-four
Dr Joy Hall stood at the front of the cramped briefing room, next to the whiteboard, throat bone-dry, her mind racing like a steam train on the track.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm here to talk about Hamilton Perkins, full name Harry Hamilton Perkins," she began, then told herself off for sounding so formal. She cleared her throat and started again. "Let me begin by telling you what I'm not. I'm not a police officer, not skilled in criminal investigations, no tra
ining in the law. I'll not step on your toes or get in the way of your inquiries."
"That's what we like to hear," said Moss, who had taken a seat on the front row. "I like a lass who knows her limits."
Sweet mother of God, Joy thought as she felt her neck tighten. She knew there was something about the man she didn't like, knew it wouldn't be long until she saw through him. It lay there just beneath his skin—sexist. She'd met his type in prison, on both sides of the bars. If she was going to work with this team, she'd need each person to perform a psychological assessment, so she could figure out how they would best work together. Yes, she told herself, that would be her first task.
"I’d like to begin with us," she said. "We are a team, and teams need to work well together. I'd like to suggest each person complete a psychological profile."
"Bleedin' hell, we ain't contestants for Mastermind," Moss growled.
"It will help build team spirit, enhance trust, and deepen respect," Joy replied.
"No."
"It is important we work well—"
"I said no." Moss took a step towards Joy, fists tight. "I've assessed my team, know all I need to know about them. Move on."
"Okay," Joy said. She'd drop the assessment for now but wouldn’t be cowed. She had long ago found that doing what she was good at put the bigots back in their box. "There is one thing I know better than anyone else in this room—the mind of Hamilton Perkins. He was on my slate when you lot put him behind bars. I studied him like a scientist observes a specimen under a microscope. That's what I do, what I love, to grasp the motives of criminals and build psychological profiles to understand and help you lot capture them."
Moss gave a slow clap. "Come on, luv, we haven't got all day. We get you have fancy bits of paper hanging on your office wall, but we've got a murder to solve. What have you actually got for us?"
Joy wasn't sure whether he was a woman hater or just dumb. Either way, she'd watch him, report her observations back to Jeffery. She knew her friend loved breaking balls.
Dexter got to his feet. "Give her a bleedin' chance. We need all the help we can get with this one, sir."
Moss glared. Dexter glowered back. The two men stared hard at each other.
Joy was nervous, sensed it would break out into a full-blown fight, and said, "Like I said, I know the mind of Perkins, have insight into how he thinks."
"So where is the bugger, then?" Moss folded his arms, face twisted into a sneer.
There was something about this team, the atmosphere in the room, that reminded Joy of the lull before the storm. There was no way they would work well together. It seemed to her they were a bunch of dogs at each other's throats. There'd be no tears if Moss stumbled, no soft wails if he fell. She thought police crime squads were supposed to be like a solid brick wall with one goal, to trap the perp and put them away. Now she knew different and made a mental note to include it in her book. They weren’t like her and Veronica—friends as strong as a chain. The team in the room were more like strands of dried grass that could be swept away by a gust of wind. How the hell would they catch Hamilton Perkins? That thought made her mad.
"Listen," she said and stomped over to the whiteboard to point out Viv Gill's photo. It hung next to a map of St Bees. "An adult. Hamilton Perkins killed a full-grown woman, not a schoolgirl."
"It was the dead of night, and there was a bleedin' fog," Moss said. "How'd he know Viv Gill was nowt but a bit of tough mutton?"
Fury boiled in Joy's gut. How did Moss rise through the police ranks to inspector? The way his eyes roved over her slender body, like the hands of a masked groper, the way he dismissed her words, and the smug sneer on his face, no longer filled Joy with fear, it made her mad. She'd show the bugger. Hadn't she lived and breathed Hamilton Perkins for years, penned a secret book on the man? She knew how Perkins's mind worked and said, "Where was Viv Gill killed?"
"Pow bridge," PC Hoon said. He didn't realise the question was only rhetorical.
Everyone laughed despite the tense atmosphere. Or perhaps because of it.
Joy's mind raced as it put the pieces of the puzzle in place. When the laughter died, she said, "Viv Gill was killed over the Pow Beck stream, and that is the key. Anyone else see what I'm seeing?"
She folded her arms and glared at Moss. Everyone in the room knew her game and watched with intense anticipation. She'd thrown down a challenge. Could Moss figure it out?
Moss shifted in his seat. The sneer disappeared as he stared at Joy hall with intense concentration. After two slow minutes, he shrugged.
"You're the damn psychologist. Why don't you tell us what it means?"
Joy took her time now. She was in charge and had the room's full attention. She'd spent years working with Hamilton Perkins, building his trust. It was only after she broke through his layer of ice and got deep into his mind that the idea for the book came. The advance was enough to put down a deposit on her cottage in St Bees. The book sales would be more than enough to pay the mortgage. She'd quit her job at Low Marsh Prison, work freelance as a consultant, and travel the world to give advice. Now, in her mind, she was acting out the last pages of her book.
With purposeful steps, she paced the front of the room, then back to the whiteboard and pointed at the picture of the Pow Beck stream. "We all know the rumour of King Arthur's bones, washed into the Pow Beck and tossed into the Irish Sea, symbolic of cleansing." Now she stared at Moss, smiling. "Perkins is telling us something."
"Go on," Moss said, leaning forward, interested. "What's he telling us?"
Joy wasn't sure, but her thoughts moved fast. What was Hamilton Perkins saying?
Now she paused and looked at each face in the room as if encouraging them to speak up, share their ideas. A trick she'd learned in the prison consulting room. Smile and nod and wait it out; someone would throw out a thought. All she needed was a thread, then they'd brainstorm it to a solution.
But no one spoke. Worse, they looked baffled.
Panic.
What the hell was she going to say next?
Joy began to think fast. She had to put the pieces of the puzzle in place on her own. Her mouth was dry, her hands slick with sweat, and her heart pounded like a heavy metal drum. A fool, she told herself, that's what I've been. Yes, Jeffery was a friend, but she should have said no. All she wanted was to flee from the room. But right now she was between a rock and a hard place.
Joy took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and slowly let the air out. She wasn't an impostor, she told herself. She was a professional woman with years of experience. She’d studied Hamilton Perkins, knew his mind.
Her eyes snapped open. How had she missed it? She turned to face the whiteboard and spoke once again in a strident voice. "It's obvious, isn't it? He kills Viv Gill on the Pow footbridge over the Pow Beck stream. Legend tells us the water cleansed the bones of King Arthur. Perkins is telling us that…"
Everything suddenly clicked into place. Dear God, was it even possible?
"He has made the transition, cleansed his past. The bridge is symbolic of a gateway to a new self." Joy spun around to face the room, eyes wide. "Perkins is telling us that he has grown up. His next victim won't be a schoolgirl. It will be an adult. A woman, mature."
"That's a bit far-fetched, ain't it, luv?" Moss sounded sceptical. "Perkins made a mistake cos it was foggy and dark, thought he was getting a nubile schoolgirl, ended up with an old broiling hen. He's done the deed, satisfied his need. I don't reckon he's in the county, might even have left the country, taken the boat to France. It don't take a fancy bit of paper on the wall to figure that out."
But Dr Joy Hall didn't hear. She was staring at the map of St Bees and sticking pins into it.
Chapter twenty-five
The next day, at 7:45 a.m., Fenella pulled her Morris Minor onto the drive of Seafields Bed & Breakfast. She wanted to look around the place. PC Finn had seen signs of camping on the site, but there was another reason for her visit. Not too long ago, she'd worked a
case that involved the old brick house. She was nosy, curious to see how much the place had changed.
At the end of the gravel drive, on a patch of bare ground with tufts of brown grass, stood the Victorian red-brick house. There were no curtains in the windows, no light on in the house, and the front door was nailed shut with thick wood slats. A faded sign proclaimed, Seafields Bed & Breakfast. Luxury Accommodation at Great Rates.
Fenella cut the engine and climbed out.
The sun was rising quickly into the dawn sky, and the sea far out beyond the rusted iron rails of the fence shimmered like stars in the night. But the building looked like a haunted house from one of those old horror movies where you yell at the girl not to go inside. Somewhere a herring gull screamed a warning cry; somewhere the wind rattled dustbins. Fenella looked at the boarded front door and wondered if there was an easy way in.
But she'd wait for Dexter.
They had agreed to meet at eight fifteen. So she went back to the Morris Minor, settled down and began to read Dr Joy Hall's report. That's why she didn't hear the quiet footsteps approach or the soft tap on the car door. But she sensed the presence and glanced up to see a face staring through the car window.
He had a mop of bleached-white hair and sharp eyes.
"Oh, it's you, Fenella; thought I recognised the car," he said.
Fenella climbed out and shook his hand. "Malcolm Buckham! Long time, no see. Run here every day, don't you?"
"Wouldn't call it a run, more of a hobble and hop, but there's not a lot to do when a man retires," he replied. "Keeps me fit and passes the time."
Fenella smiled, took in the lime-green jacket and tight green shorts. He always wore those shorts, but she thought they could do with a wash. "How are things in the harbour?"
Malcolm Buckham, far from retired, ran the Port St Giles Harbour with his nephew, Councillor Ron Malton. Malcolm was friendly and cute with a deep voice that resonated like a soul singer, the opposite of his nephew, who was gnarled and hard and prone to kick the police just to see them jump.