by N. C. Lewis
He said, "Ah, forgot you know all my secrets, being a detective. But you forgot one."
He spoke in a smooth tone, like the voice on the telly advertising rich dark chocolate. Fenella made a note to buy a bar later in the day, and said, "Eh, what you on about?"
"Only my grandad called me Malcolm, and he died ten years ago. It's Malc to everyone else."
That made Fenella laugh. She knew that, had always called him Malc, but he'd crept up, taken her by surprise. She glanced at his jacket; it could do with a wash too, then recalled he was single and thought he'd make a good catch for Nan. Her mother remarried for the fourth time at seventy. The last husband croaked during an intimate moment on New Year's Eve. And Fenella wondered whether Malc might make a nice fifth husband for her mum. She wasn't one to beat about the bush when it came to matchmaking. It was like geese heading south in the winter to her. Instinct.
She said, "We are having a do at Cleaton Bluff this Sunday. Any time after two will do; consider yourself invited."
"Oh, I don't know… I mean..."
"Got something better to do?"
"I've my jog on the beach… no, not really."
"My mum is doing the cooking, and I'd like to introduce you two. Bring a bottle."
"Formal or casual?"
They both laughed.
Out beyond the broad flat sands, a wave crashed against the shore, spilling foam and froth onto the dry land. Malc ran a hand through his mop of hair. His lips were broad and wide and grinning.
He said, "You didn't drive all this way to invite me to a lunch date with your mum. Why are you here?"
Fenella didn't answer directly, better to keep the investigation under wraps.
She said, "Have they sold this old place yet?"
"Not much demand for these Victorian houses, too much work to bring them up to scratch."
"But you are the executor of the estate?"
"Aye, and I'll do my best to squeeze every penny out of the buyer. But in this market, it could be a year before this place sells."
Fenella considered for a moment. "I suppose you put up CCTV cameras or hired a security firm to keep an eye out?"
He shook his head. "Got to keep costs down; that's why I jog by every day, to keep an eye out."
Fenella said, "Seen anything unusual?"
"No," he said and shook his head and turned to look at the old house. "About two weeks ago, I saw a thin plume of smoke rising from the back garden. I went to take a look; that's when I saw him."
"Him?"
"The man. Shifty face, all scrunched up as if he'd chewed on a sour grape. There was a woman with him. I didn't see her, just heard her laughing. I asked him what he was playing at. The man said he'd only stay a few nights, then move on. I didn’t think it was worth going to the police, and now he's gone, so I guess I was right."
Fenella thought about that for a moment. There wasn't much to go on, and she almost let it drop, but said, "Don't suppose you got a name?"
Malc half closed his eyes, remembering. "Harry… he said his name was Harry Perkins."
Chapter twenty-six
Fenella opened her mouth to ask a question when Dexter's battered old Volvo rumbled along the track. He pulled up next to her Morris Minor, climbed out, glanced around, then moved with tiger-like strides to where she and Malc stood.
"How do," he said as his sharp eyes took in the situation. He exchanged a glance with Fenella. "What's going on?"
Fenella reached into her handbag, pulled out her phone, and scrolled until she found the right image. She showed it to Malc.
"Is this the man you saw?"
Malc stared at the phone for less than a heartbeat.
"Aye, that's him. That's Harry Perkins."
"Okay," Fenella said, trying to hide the excitement in her voice. "Okay."
But Malc was a canny old sod, saw right through it and said, "Thought his face looked familiar. Is he wanted by you lot?"
There was no point denying it, but she'd not give him the full details.
"Aye, we would like to have a quiet word with Harry."
"P-e-r-k-i-n-s," Malc said, sounding out each letter as if trying to remember. "I know the face, and the name rings a bell. Where have I heard it before?"
The public knew him as Mr Shred, but Harry Hamilton Perkins was his full birth name. That was a mouthful for a news headline, while “Mr Shred” sold news copy. A cockerel crowed in the distance, its shriek an alarm call for the vanishing dawn.
Dexter said, "We'd better call it in, Guv."
"Let's have a look around, first." Fenella glanced at Malc. "Why don't you show us where you saw the smoke."
They followed Malc along the side of the house to a wire fence, six feet tall with barbed spikes on top.
"Put it up to keep the local kids out," Malc said.
They walked along the length and stopped at what Fenella thought was a random place. Malc stooped and tugged at the edge of the wire loops. A gap opened.
"After you," he said in his deep, rich voice.
It was a tired garden with a lawn of brown patches and a wilted pear tree next to a path that stretched out from the side of the house in an arc. At the far end, half hidden by an overgrown hedge, stood a run-down shack with a rusted roof, cracked windows, and a makeshift door with a large gap at the top.
"They were burning a fire by the pear tree when I saw them," Malc said in a whisper as though they might be overheard. He pointed at a black patch of earth. "Damn stupid place to light a fire, if you ask me. That old tree is nowt but tinder, hasn't born fruit in years."
"They?" Dexter hadn't heard the earlier conversation.
"There was a woman with him," Malc said. "But like I said to Fenella, I didn't see her, just heard the laugh."
Fenella said, "Okay, Malc, wait here while we take a look."
They circled the ground around the fire, scanning for anything that caught their eye. A cigarette stub, ring pull from a can of beer, fast-food bag. Anything that might help give them more information. But there was nothing but a few burnt twigs, piles of dust and ash.
"They did a good job of cleaning up," Dexter said.
"Aye, very careful. Not your average day camper." Fenella placed her hands on her hips and glanced around the garden. "Don't suppose we'll find much in the shed, but let's take a look anyway."
Fenella stood by the door, flipped on the torch on her phone and swept the room in a long, slow arc. It was like a small cave inside, dark and dank with the stink of rot. The beam of light shone on a lawnmower, slats of wood, and a broken stool next to a low bench.
"Look!" she said, pointing.
A green canvas bag lay on the bench. Even as they peered through the gloom, they could tell there was something inside.
"I'll take a peek," Dexter said. He shuffled into the dark space, put on latex gloves, and reached for the bag.
"Looks like a cardboard box," he said. "Damp at the edges."
"Bloody hell, I got it!"
Fenella turned and saw Malc hurrying towards them.
"Harry Perkins! Why, that's the pervert Mr Shred, ain't it?" He'd passed the pear tree. "And the bugger's got the cheek to camp in this garden. Bloody hell!"
"Please go back. We will be with you in a minute," Fenella said. She raised a hand like a traffic cop. Malc halted, took two paces back, and watched.
Dexter lifted the box out of the bag, opened the lid, and peered inside.
"Only an envelope, nothing else; can't make out the writing, too dark."
He walked to the door and handed it to Fenella. She stepped from the gloom of the shed into the bright light of the morning sun and blinked at the untidy scrawl that had been written for the address on the envelope.
"To Harold Perkins, Low Marsh Prison." She flipped the envelope over. "From Mrs Pearl Smith, Thirty-Eight Oak Grove Lane, St Bees."
Chapter twenty-seven
Before the first uniforms arrived at Seafields Bed & Breakfast, Moss was on the scene. He walked w
ith quick steps to the edge of the gravel, stood listening, working the tip of his shoe into the ground as if trying to decide his next move.
He said, "And you found that envelope in the shed in the back garden?"
"Aye," Fenella replied. "We thought we'd take a quick look around after PC Finn said she'd seen signs of camping."
"I'd have ordered a search myself, of course, must have slipped my mind. There are so many things to juggle when you are the senior officer."
"Not many can do it," Dexter said.
Moss ignored the snide remark. "And you said a Mr Malcolm Buckham noticed smoke about two weeks ago?"
Fenella pointed to her Morris Minor where Malcolm sat inside. "Would you like to speak with him?"
"I leave the interviews to the plods on the ground. Just answer my question, will you."
Fenella's gut twisted; it never took long for Moss to get under her skin. And now as she watched his smug face, she thought of Eve and felt a surge of rage. The search for her sister had fallen flat. Rightly or wrongly, she blamed Moss for that. If he'd been quicker off the mark… if he'd searched harder… She tilted her head from side to side. She needed a stiff drink, no matter that it was early and the cock had just crowed.
She said, "It's surprising what you find out when you meet people face to face. You should try it, sir."
Moss breathed hard. Short snorts of white mist shot through his nostrils. There was going to be a big ugly row. A quarrel right here at the crime scene. She'd tell him what she thought. He'd get the whole mother lode. Irrational, she knew, but she was ready.
Moss said, "All right. No need to be like that. I want Perkins behind bars as much as you do. We're a team, aren't we?"
Fenella felt suddenly foolish. She'd let him get the better of her, get under her skin. That would not help Viv Gill get justice or put Perkins back behind bars.
She sucked in a long breath and let it out slow. "Mr Buckham noticed a plume of smoke coming from the garden. He jogs by this place every day and is the executor of the late Miss Maureen Brian's estate. She owned this building."
"I see." Moss glanced about. "Garden that way, is it?"
"Aye," Fenella replied.
"To carry out a search, you begin with what you can see and then bring in the crime scene techs for what you can't," Moss said as though he were a schoolteacher speaking to a four-year-old child. "Think I'll have a brief peep for myself." He strode towards the side of the house.
When Moss was out of sight, Dexter said, "Wouldn't want to be in his shoes, Guv. He is in the Last Chance Saloon, one cock-up and he is out. I hear the top brass will have his hide if he doesn't solve this one quick."
Dexter kept his ears close to the ground. So close, it was as if he tapped the top brasses' phone line. There was barely a time when he got it wrong. If Moss was under pressure from the top, he'd make their lives hell. In the distance came the whine of police cars.
"How the hell did you get into the garden?" The angry shout boomed from the side of the house an instant before Moss reappeared, his face purple, white snorts shooting from his nostrils. "It's like a bleedin' prison fence."
"This isn't gonna be an easy one, Guv," Dexter said under his breath." If we don't catch the killer soon, I'll be up for murder."
"Aye, you and me both," Fenella replied. She knew Viv Gill's case could go on for months. How on earth would she put up with Moss without snapping? And she worried about Dexter. Another mark on his record and he'd be out of the force.
By the time Fenella had shown Moss the gap in the fence, the black soil by the pear tree, the tumbledown shack, and the envelope, more uniformed officers had begun to arrive. They hurried about as Moss barked orders.
"A fingertip search over the whole place, and you lazy sods better not miss a thing, else you'll have me to answer to."
As police cars continued to arrive, Moss returned to stand by Fenella and Dexter. The three detectives watched the scene unfold in silence. When a forensics van arrived, and officers in white bodysuits with spades climbed out, Moss said, "I better call Jeffery," and stepped away.
Not far enough, though.
"Yes, it's Inspector Moss; good news," he said. "I found the camp of Hamilton Perkins, got crime scene techs on-site and officers on the search… yes, a hunch, that's how I found it… knew he'd be local just like Dr Hall said… might have him in the bag by nightfall… thank you, ma'am. I do my best."
He ambled back to Fenella and Dexter, an arrogant smirk on his face.
"The boss is on her way with Dr Joy Hall. I think you two had best make tracks. Go on, get lost, sharpish."
"Pardon?" Fenella stared as if she didn’t quite believe his words.
"Nothing personal, but you know where three detectives gather, the press are not far behind. If this leaks out, there'll be hell to pay."
Dexter said, "So what do you want us to do?"
"I don't care, so long as you don't speak with the press. Just clear off, will you?" Moss sighed. "Listen, I'm ahead of the game right now. If Perkins is anywhere near this place, I'll have him. Why don't you drive over to St Bees, track down Mrs Pearl Smith, and see what the old goat's got to say for herself."
Chapter twenty-eight
The terraced houses on Oak Grove Lane stood on either side of a crooked, narrow street that came to a dead end by the cliffs. They were built of grey slate stone with latticed windows and steps that led up to faded front doors: an old part of St Bees where those who worked manual jobs lived.
Fenella and Dexter arrived just after 10:00 a.m. in the blue Morris Minor, which they parked with its passenger-side wheels on the curb. It had turned into another bright day, although the chill from the sea hung in the salt air. In the distance there was a crash of waves at the base of the cliffs and a black-headed gull screamed from the rooftops. There was no one about in the street, no noise from the grey slate houses. The workers were out on their nine-to-fives; it wouldn't get busy till dark.
"Might be a wasted trip," Dexter said as he climbed out of the car and looked around.
They hadn't called ahead, best to take Mrs Pearl Smith by surprise. That way she'd not have time to think about her answers or call a lawyer, who would slow things down. It was only a friendly chat to gather facts, but experience taught them to be cautious.
"Do you feel lucky?" Fenella said, staring at the silent houses.
They rang the bell on number thirty-eight; the door opened a crack before the chimes faded.
"If it's cash you're after," came a woman's voice from the crack, "the gas bill was paid—"
"We are not here to collect the gas bill, luv. We are from the police." Fenella held up her warrant card to the tiny crack. "Are you Mrs Pearl Smith?"
The door opened and a short forty-something woman with a plump face and round belly emerged with her hands on her hips. She was very pale. Lardy, as though she only came out at night. She wore a tight bathrobe, had bare feet, and her tousled, black hair was streaked with grey.
"What do you lot want, then?"
"Can we come inside, luv?" Fenella said.
"I don't know… I'm on my own. Can you come back later?"
Fenella smiled. "Won't take long. A few questions. Best if we come in, so the neighbours don't hear."
Pearl glanced over her shoulder at the stairs. After a long moment, she turned and led them down the hall into a small kitchen with a large pine table. By the window there was a two-seat sofa with a green rug thrown over it and a burnt-orange handbag perched on the edge. Next to the sofa stood a sideboard with a photograph of Pearl and an elderly man. The curtains were drawn and it was dark, but Pearl didn't turn on the lights. Instead, she went to the kettle and flipped the switch.
"I could murder a cuppa, any takers?"
"That'd be lovely," Fenella replied.
"Two sugars for me," Dexter added.
In some minutes, they sat around the table with steaming mugs of tea.
Pearl said, "What do you want with me?"
> "A chat, that's all," Fenella replied. She nodded at Dexter, who took out his notebook and watched Pearl closely as she asked her first question. "Do you know a Mr Harold Hamilton Perkins?"
Pearl made a face and rolled her eyes. "Course I do, else you wouldn't be here, would you?" She took a sip from her mug, watchful. "What do you want to know?"
"He escaped from prison—"
"Low Marsh, supposed to be high security." Pearl gave a sharp snort. "Harry's like a snake in a sack, won't stop wriggling until he gets free."
Fenella said, "Have you seen him since he got out?"
"Not likely." Pearl picked up her mug, placed it to her lips, then put it back down. "Neither sight nor sound."
"Are you sure?"
"On my dead grandad's grave, I ain't seen him."
Fenella nodded towards the sideboard. "Nice photo of you and…"
"That's me grandad, Charles; took it last month."
"So he's not dead, then, luv?"
Pearl took a gulp from her mug. "It were only a figure of speech. We all die in the end. But I ain't seen Harry, if that's what you came here to find out."
Fenella wondered, What was this woman hiding?
"Ever visit Port St Giles?"
"Who doesn't?"
"Often?"
"Not very."
"Been there in the past few weeks?"
Peal looked at Fenella with wary eyes. "No."
"Ever visit Seafields Bed & Breakfast?"
Pearl ran a hand over her face as if trying to wake up her mind. "No. Never heard of the place."
"Okay," Fenella said, watching her like a hawk. "Let's go over it again so Detective Sergeant Dexter can get it all down, and in case you'd like to change your mind, let me ask you again: Have you seen Harry Hamilton Perkins since he escaped from prison?"
Pearl breathed hard. "Of course not. Why would he contact me?"
"You wrote to him in prison."