Bones In the River

by Zoe Sharp

  “Now are you going to tell me what that was all about?”

  “Sorry. I found a sticker underneath the saddle—there. Someone’s tried to remove it, as you can see, but they’re designed to tear, so there’s enough of it left to identify.”

  Nick looked but could discern no more than a few swirling lines of what was perhaps a stylised logo. “Which is?”

  “One of the security companies who provide micro-dots people can glue to any property that’s likely to be stolen,” Grace said.

  Finally, the penny dropped. “And you’ve just found the PIN number on one of the dots that will identify the registered owner.”

  Her smile was wry. “The original owner, yes. I wouldn’t get your hopes up, though.”

  “Oh, why not?”

  “Because the bicycle has been through at least two sets of hands—possibly more.”

  Nick sighed. “I think you better start at the beginning. Tell me what you know.”

  “What I know, or what I can infer from the evidence collected thus far?”

  “OK, option two. At the moment I’ve nothing to go on. Anything’s got to be better than that.”

  “According to Mr Felton over there, he dropped off the skip, empty, four days ago. Water Yat—that’s the name of this unfenced area next to the river, before you ask—had maybe a dozen Gypsy caravans here then. Vardos and bow-tops, mainly, but a few modern ones, too. When—”

  “Hang on, a ‘bow-top’ I think I can guess—those traditional looking Gypsy caravans with the green canvas top, yeah? But what’s a ‘vardo’ when it’s at home?”

  “Ah. A vardo is a wooden caravan that widens at the top. The roof is usually curved slightly and they often have a row of roof lights in a raised section from front to back, and a porch where the driver sits.”

  “Got it, thanks. You were saying?”

  Grace paused momentarily, as if checking she was not being mocked. Nick gave her a bland smile.

  “As I was saying,” she agreed, “when Mr Felton came back this morning, they were all gone and he found this bicycle in the skip with what he realised was blood on it.”

  “Human, or animal?”

  “That we won’t know without a lab test, I’m afraid. But it is definitely blood of some kind—I have checked.”

  “Of course you have.” He smiled. “But I fell off my bike numerous times as a kid and often bashed myself up pretty badly with no foul play involved.”

  She pointed to the distorted front forks. “This damage was caused by crushing rather than a simple impact. The evidence points to the bike being first hit by a vehicle—leaving trace, as you can see—which then also ran over it.”

  Nick felt the tightness in his jaw, forced it to relax.

  “There have been no local kids reported missing overnight,” he said. “We checked the local hospitals, too—nothing.”

  “Maybe you’re not looking at the behaviour of a local victim,” Grace said. “What if they were part of the Traveller community?”

  Nick frowned. “Well, that might add an interesting wrinkle,” he said at last. “Can you tell me anything about the victim?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “The bicycle was originally pink but it’s been sprayed gold. And not done well, either. I’d guess with one of those rattle cans people buy for car repairs that never quite match the original colour.”

  “Which tells you…?”

  “The original owner was most likely a girl but then the bicycle was acquired for—or given to—a boy. The family aren’t wealthy or they would have bought him a newer replacement by now, and they either are not able to maintain discipline or don’t bother trying.”

  “Oh, come on, Grace. I thought you weren’t prepared to guess?”

  Expressing his disbelief was a mistake, he saw. Her face took on that expressionless look, her voice so calm it was almost icy. “Who says I’m guessing?”

  “OK, girl to boy I can go for. I mean, why cover up a good paint job with a worse one unless you were embarrassed by the colour?”

  “If you could afford to be choosy, why accept a bicycle in the ‘wrong’ colour in the first place?” Grace said. “And look at the seat and handlebars. They’ve been raised as high as they can go. Higher than would be comfortable if there was an alternative solution.”

  Nick held up his hands in surrender. “OK, OK, I take your point. And the business about discipline?”

  “Mr Felton arrived early this morning to collect his skip. It’s possible, therefore, that the bicycle was put into it last night—in the dark.” Her eyes strayed over the crumpled bike. “There are no lights fitted, and no marks on the frame to suggest any ever were. What kind of responsible parent allows their child to go roaming the countryside, on a bicycle with no lights, alone, in the dark?”

  7

  Chris Blenkinship tapped his pen impatiently on the edge of his desk while the phone rang out long at the other end of the line. When it was finally picked up with a mumbled, “’Help you?” his temper sparked and took fire.

  “What the hell way is that to answer a phone, Frost?” he demanded. And he heard a distinct clattering, as though Ty Frost had lurched instinctively to his feet.

  “Erm, sorry, boss. I was just—”

  “Oh, save it. Where’s Grace McColl?”

  “She’s, erm…she’s out.”

  “I know she’s out, Ty, but her phone’s going straight to voicemail. Where is she?”

  “I think she’s down near Kirkby Stephen somewhere, boss. A kiddie’s bicycle turned up in a skip along the valley road.”

  Blenkinship’s heart bounced painfully behind his ribs. He forced the bite into his voice to still the quiver. “Since when do we send out CSIs to deal with lost and found?”

  “Well, erm, we were told there was blood on it.”

  “Blood?” That shook him. What else had he missed, in the hurry, in the dark? “Who found blood on it?”

  “Whoever called it in, I s’pose.” Frost sounded puzzled now and Blenkinship knew he was making too much of this. Enough that it would stick in the younger man’s mind.

  “All right, all right,” he said quickly. “But why didn’t it get passed to Steve or Tony at Kendal. They’re closer, aren’t they?”

  “I dunno, boss,” Frost said. “I think Steve’s away on a course today. Tony must have been out already.”

  Blenkinship grunted a response and tried not to slam the phone down. He spent a moment staring at nothing, rubbing a fist to the centre of his chest where the heartburn was trying to eat its way out through muscle and bone.

  “Bloody Grace McColl,” he muttered to the empty office. “It would have to be her, wouldn’t it…?”

  8

  As they climbed the last long, slow pull out of Hard Hills to North Stainmore, Queenie was overwhelmed by a sense of poignant homecoming. It was always the same in this place, this time of year. A mix of emotions all jostling to be on top. Sadness and contentment. Anticipation and regret.

  In front of her, between the shafts of the vardo, the old piebald gelding plodded on, nodding heavily into his collar, leaning into the grade. She could remember when he would trot all the way up, all flash and feather and needing a strong hand to steady him. Now she let the reins drape over the footboard, listening to him blow.

  Bartley had walked the last mile or so by the horse’s head, with Ocean alongside his father, striding out like a man. The boy had put on a spurt of growth in the last year. Reaching for his father’s height, although in colouring he was dark like Queenie herself. Bartley’s hair had a copper tint to it, shining now in the sun.

  As they neared the final rise and the stone barn and farmhouse appeared, Ocean slapped the horse on the shoulder and said, “Nearly there now, look!”

  Bartley turned to throw her a quick grin. “Told you,” he said. “You always were a worrier, me darlin’. Told you he’d be fine, now didn’t I?”

  But she heard the relief in his voice and realised then how well he’
d hidden his own doubts.

  “Know that, don’t I?” she said, and couldn’t stop herself from adding, “But normally we’d have the mare to spell him. Had to work the whole trip by himself this time.”

  Behind the caravan, tied to the back runner, the mare let out a soft whicker as if she knew she was being talked about—Queenie swore she understood more than anyone gave her credit for. She leaned out and checked the led horse. The mare was twisting sideways, distracted, until the lead rope tugged her on again with a jerk.

  “Where’s the colt?”

  Next to her on the front porch, Sky edged across to her side and swung outward to peer behind them, clinging by one hand to the decoration of the porch bracket for support. Queenie fought the urge to grab hold of the back of her little daughter’s dress and haul her to safety.

  “He’s here!”

  There was a scatter of hooves on the road and the foal came rushing to join his dam from the far verge, hustling in close alongside her as if something had startled him. Head up, nostrils flared wide, he stamped and snorted, showing every inch of the breeding that was in him.

  Bartley laughed. “Got your dad’s spirit, that one.”

  Queenie sat down again without speaking. His determined good humour was starting to grate. She’d argued against making the trip with the horses this year, what with the mare having foaled just weeks ago and only the old piebald to pull the van. She’d argued and lost, and now Bartley was close to crowing.

  In truth, it was the colt she’d most wanted to leave at home.

  Her father’s last colt.

  The old devil had lived just long enough to see his tawno gry—his little horse—safely delivered, as if that was all he’d hung on for. One life beginning as another ended.

  Oh, she knew all the good reasons for bringing him to this year’s Fair—hadn’t Bartley been over them, time and again? The name Hezekiah Smith carried more weight now than ever. The bidding for his last-bred foal would be fierce—too good to miss. But by next year he’d be a scrawny yearling and another Shera Rom would have been long since chosen.

  But still, she wished this time they’d brought no horses with them at all.

  The old piebald turned in at the farm gate, hardly needing Bartley’s hand to guide him. As they reached the yard, Wynter Trelawney emerged from one of the outbuildings, as though she’d been watching for them. A windswept woman with wild grey hair, she hurried across to a field gate and dragged it open, shooing ducks and chickens out of their way.

  “Bartley! Queenie! Greetings—t’aves baxtalo, my lovelies. Welcome back to you all! My, Ocean, how you’ve grown. Go on straight through. You should know the way by now.”

  Sky put one foot onto the shafts and leapt, hitting the ground already in a run to be swept up and hugged by Wynter.

  Ach, not yet six and that child will be the death of me. She has no fear.

  Queenie let the old piebald take them the last few yards onto the grass, then gently took up the reins. It was only pure stubbornness made him pull against her for another half-a-dozen strides. He had a mouth like iron.

  Queenie hopped down to give the piebald a pat on his sweating rump while Bartley set the brake. Wynter disentangled herself from Sky long enough to pull the gate closed behind them. Ocean was with her then, and she dropped an arm across his shoulders and hugged him close as they approached. A moment later she had enveloped Queenie in the familiar scents of washed wool and chicken feed and lavender.

  “It is so good to see you again,” she said. She eased back, met Queenie’s eyes with concern in her own. “I was so sorry to hear about your father, God rest him.”

  “It was his time.”

  “But still…”

  “And what of Agnes?”

  “Oh, Mum’s still with us,” Wynter said with a wry twist of her lips. “Getting frailer now, though. And her eyes are not good.”

  “And, what of—?”

  But Queenie’s question cut off by Bartley’s approach. He swept Wynter off her feet and twirled her around as if she were a slip of a girl, before setting her down again.

  “Ah, Wynter Trelawney, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? I’d swear you get younger every year.”

  “And I’d swear you get more outrageous,” Wynter said, laughing. She squeezed his forearms, his hands still at her waist. “And brawny, too. I’m no lightweight these days.”

  “Ah, there’s nothing to you, woman—a good wind would blow you away,” Bartley denied, the Irish floating to the top. “Is Vano here yet?”

  Wynter nodded toward the far end of the field where it dropped from view. “Already in his favourite spot,” she said. “They came up from Mallerstang this morning. Got here so early I was still in my nightgown.”

  Bartley held up a warding hand. “Now, don’t you be putting images like that in my head. If I weren’t a married man…”

  “Get away with you.” Wynter slapped his arm. “I’m practically old enough to be your mother, only I’d wager you’d treat her with more respect.” But she was still smiling. “Go on, see to those horses while I make your poor wife some tea.”

  He gave them both another grin and a wink as he moved away. The two women stood and watched him lead the piebald along the rutted track toward the bottom of the field. The mare ambled sedately behind the wagon and the colt darted about her. The children raced alongside him, excited to be reuniting with cousins and friends.

  “Is that Hezekiah’s last?”

  “It is.”

  “He’s going to be a beauty.” Wynter paused. “I’m surprised you can bear to part with him.”

  Queenie swallowed and said nothing.

  “Ah—I see,” Wynter said quietly, her gaze following Bartley’s figure as it disappeared. “You poor love. Will nothing persuade him?”

  “No… No, it’s for the best. It’s getting harder to find the grazing close and he’s going to be a little bugger to break to harness unless we have him cut.”

  “Oh, no, somebody will want to breed from him,” Wynter agreed. “How could they not?”

  “Besides, we’re best to strike a deal on him now, while my father’s name is still worth something…”

  “Hezekiah was not a man who will be soon forgotten, lovely, don’t you worry.” Wynter laid a hand on her arm. “Is there any word yet on who will become the new Shera Rom?”

  Queenie hesitated, then shook her head. Of course there had been word. There had been talk of little else, on the road, except who would take over as head of their clan. But it was not something to be discussed with an outsider—a gorgie—even one as close as Wynter and her family had always been.

  She glanced across to find Wynter studying her closely, as if she saw the conflict and knew the cause—the real cause.

  “Stuck between your husband and your brother,” Wynter murmured. “Can’t be easy for you.”

  Queenie wrapped her arms around her body as if suddenly chilled, although the sun climbed still and the wind was but a breath in her hair.

  Coming here was like coming home but it was never easy.

  Wynter threaded her arm through Queenie’s and pulled her close. “How about that cuppa, then? Come and say hello to Agnes. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you.”

  Queenie allowed herself to be ushered inside the farmhouse kitchen, with the beams so low even she had to mind her head. She watched Wynter wash her hands and fill the kettle. It still felt wrong to have only one sink for everything but, if Bartley was thinking of moving them into brick themselves, joining the settled community for part of the year, at least, she would have to get over herself on that score.

  It was only once the tea was brewed and poured, and Wynter’s local gossip had petered into silence that Queenie finally gathered her courage. The question had been on her mind if not her lips all through the journey northward.

  “Has there been…any news,” she asked, “of the boy?”

  Wynter’s face gentled. “No,” she said. “I’m sorry, l
ovely. No-one’s heard anything of him.”

  9

  Nick overtook the horse-drawn caravans carefully, going as far into the outside lane as he could manage. Not that the traffic seemed to bother the animals, not even the heavy trucks, which thundered past only inches from the garish, flimsy vehicles. The horses trudged on, impervious, nodding into the load. Those holding the reins watched with expressionless faces as the tailback streamed around them onto the dual carriageway, with no hint of embarrassment or apology for the delay.

  In the front passenger seat, DI Pollock sighed.

  “Hold-ups will be commonplace until the Fair’s over—if we’re lucky,” he said. “Few years ago, a truck ploughed into the back of one of the caravans going along here. Splintered it to matchwood. Didn’t do the young lad and his grandfather who were in it any good, neither—not to mention their horses.” He shook his head. “Bad business, that.”

  “Can’t we keep them off the main A66?” Nick asked. “Cut the risk?”

  “Hardly. They reckon they’ve been travelling across the Pennines by this route, to and from the Fair, since the sixteen-hundreds. As far as they’re concerned, it’s up to the rest of us to make allowances.”

  It was hard to tell from the DI’s voice, Nick considered, if he approved of their stubborn adherence to tradition or was annoyed by it. With Pollock, it could have gone either way. He had achieved his rank by persistence and was usually admiring of that trait in others.

  Most of the time, at any rate.

  Nick had not expected his boss’s demand to be in on this interview and he was wary of asking outright. He drove on automatic pilot, flicking on his indicator as the turn-off for Brough Sowerby came up. And all the time he tried to work out what he might have done to cause a sudden collapse of confidence in his abilities.

  He’d taken the PIN number Grace had revealed hidden in the micro-dots on the bicycle, run it with the company who held the data. They were used to such requests and, even though they said the bicycle wasn’t reported stolen, they were happy to give him the details of the registered owner. That turned out to be a couple in Kirkby Stephen, local enough that Nick had been able to reach their address from the spot where the bicycle had been found in less than ten minutes.