by Zoe Sharp
He was only too aware of the fact that the Fair was three days in and as yet there had been no word at all on the choosing of the next Shera Rom.
If truth be told, he didn’t want the responsibility of the position and all it entailed. He could feel the weight of it already, dragging at his shoulders, making him stagger. And all he’d done so far was throw his hat into the ring—with little thought and less effort.
Beneath the swagger and the bravado, the thought of taking on the charge of Queenie’s clan was scaring him half to pieces. He’d rather face a dozen flaming giants across the blood and straw of any makeshift boxing ring than try to fill old Hezekiah’s boots.
The man was a legend. A true boro rye—a great man.
Living up to him would take another who was cut from the same cloth.
And in the cold depths of a dark night Bartley feared that he was not the man to do it.
Even for a woman like Queenie.
The way she’d drawn away from him, after he’d told her about the… After he’d told her. It sliced him deep, to see the pain in her eyes, the disappointment, and the fear. But news spread fast at the Fair, it always had. Part of its reason for being was to keep the wheels of the gossip cart turning. He couldn’t run the risk that someone else might take it upon themselves to put the word in for him, knowing what they knew.
Especially not if that kindly soul happened to be her brother.
He and Vano had started close, like brothers themselves. But of late they’d drifted—more so since the old man’s passing, he’d be the first to admit the fact. Didn’t like the direction Vano’s thoughts were leading him, if he was speaking plain.
Like most folk born of Travelling blood, Bartley had been taught from the cradle never to back away from a fight. And he’d gained a reputation in the ring, for sure—as a cooroboshno, a fighting cock. He’d take on all comers with a wide smile and enough of the gab to make them lose their cool. And, if he was lucky, to forget all about the quickness of his feet, and his fists that were quicker still.
But he never went about looking for a fight.
Vano, on the other hand, had something he needed to prove that Bartley suspected his brother by marriage might never be man enough to do. It pushed Vano a step past brave and into downright reckless, if truth be told. The thought of being honour-bound to such a man did not fill him with anything other than foreboding of the bleakest hue.
Now, though, as he and Ocean hopped down from the trap belonging to a pal, outside one of the many pubs that Appleby had to offer, he was all smiles, no worries.
Doing a fine job of making like a man without a care in the world.
More of his pals arrived, most by trap or on the backs of their ponies. They tethered the animals to the railings and went inside the main bar of the Lady Anne’s Arms.
And as soon as the door was closed behind them, the temperature inside the place dropped to winter frost. Bartley looked about him, taking note of suddenly grim faces where only the day before had been, if not smiles of welcome, then at least the straight faces of acceptance.
It was the barmaid who came forward, bunching her glass cloth and tossing it onto the counter as she stepped around it.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t serve you,” she said, a fierce determination in her voice he hadn’t heard before.
“Oh, Maisie, darlin’, is that how it is between us now?” he said, still smiling. “Does our coin not spend as well as any other?”
“Not today.” She moved in a little closer, a pleading for no trouble in her eyes, even as she kept her voice loud and cold. “I’m sorry. Publican’s discretion. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you all to leave.”
“And yet, there we were, in here only yesterday and there was you, who welcomed us like returning knights from a quest, and with a thirst to match. What’s gone to change your mind, hey?”
It was one of the other customers, already seated and drinking, who spoke up.
“A dead child, pulled from the river, that’s what.”
Bartley looked about him but couldn’t place the one who’d said the words. All the faces around the bar looked unfriendly in equal measure.
“That’s awful sad. I feel for the family. We all do, to be sure.” He glanced left and right, saw nods at his words. He placed a hand on Ocean’s bony shoulder and went on carefully, “But whatever happened to the child had nothing to do with any of us.”
The crowd shifted, disbelieving. Bartley tried not to tense. He had half-a-dozen others with him but one was an old man, leaning on a cane, and Ocean only a chal not yet in double figures. Not good odds against maybe two dozen with a righteous anger lighting them.
Not good odds at all.
“You would say that, wouldn’t you?” someone jeered.
He would have reacted to that. How could he let it lie? But Maisie beat him to it. She turned on them, face flushed.
“Shut up!” she snapped. “Shut up, the lot of you!” She whirled to face him again, lowered her voice. “If you take on anyone, Bartley Smith, you take on me, you hear? I’m the one in charge. I’m the one that says who drinks in this place and who doesn’t. And I say not you. Not today. You say it’s nothing to do with you. Well, when that’s proven, you’ll all be welcome. But until then… I’m sorry.”
43
As soon as he had a signal on his mobile, Nick rang DI Pollock. It was only as the phone connected and started to ring out that he realised his inspector was likely to be at lunch.
“Weston,” Pollock barked. “This had better be important, lad!”
“Well, sir, I—”
“Wait!”
Nick’s voice dried. He realised he was out of the speed limits for the village where Catherine Liddell and her partner lived and was still dawdling along at thirty, much to the disgust of the driver following on behind him. He was so close that Nick could barely see the front of the car’s bonnet, never mind the registration plate. He put his foot down. That seemed to infuriate the other driver even more.
“Right, lad,” Pollock said then, his voice normal. “What’ve you got for me?”
“Well, erm, I’m sorry to disturb you at lunch, sir,” Nick began. “But—”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, lad. To be honest, pie and chips at my desk would have been my choice, and a damn sight faster, an’ all. But Superintendent Waingrove demanded I help wine and dine some local big-wig she’s intent on schmoozing, and a duller man may I never have the misfortune to meet. So, you could be calling to tell me you’ve just heard the first bloody cuckoo of spring for all I care, but I try to keep my superiors happy. Now then, talk to me—and if you could drag it out for twenty minutes or so, I’d be much obliged.”
“Ah, right you are, sir. Well, I think I may have a line on the identity of Eden Man.”
He briefly ran through his contact with the phone importers over the serial number recovered, and his subsequent visit to Owen Liddell’s sister.
“Sounds promising, lad,” Pollock said. “Good work.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ve already got calls in to chase down Liddell’s medical and dental records. I’ll get them to Dr Onatade as soon as they come through.”
“Damn shame we couldn’t have found this out before we fast-tracked the DNA test,” Pollock grumbled. “Ah well, all spilt milk under the bridge now, eh?”
“Erm…yes, sir. DC Yardley’s looking into the assault the sister mentioned. It happened around eleven years ago. Two Gypsies broke Liddell’s arm and put him in hospital, apparently. There were arrests but no charges were brought, so there isn’t much to go on.”
“Sounds like once he got over the initial shock he had sudden amnesia brought on by an acute attack of realism,” Pollock said. “Still, I’ll ask around with some of the old lads. I was still in uniform back then and I’ve a fair idea of who might have been sent to pick ’em up. Most of those Romany lads were hard buggers and if we needed to nick anyone we tended to use the biggest meanest coppers we’d
got.”
“Right, thank you, sir.”
“Presumably the sister didn’t know the name of this young lass Liddell was seeing?”
“She said not. She says she was living away from home around then so she only had a vague description of the girl.”
“Which was?”
“Jailbait, basically.”
Pollock gave a snort of laughter, quickly stifled. “Speaking of Gypsies, have we had any luck getting our hands on Vano Smith—he of the fingerprints on the Elliot kid’s bicycle?”
Nick felt his stomach drop. “Er, not yet, sir, no.”
“Ah. Ran you off, did they?”
“To be fair, sir, I was pretty heavily outnumbered. And I was trying to be diplomatic.”
“Well, I’ll have a word with Waingrove, see if she can apply a bit of pressure from her side, although it’s not going to go down well if it seems like we’re only looking in one direction when it comes to suspects for both these bodies,” he said, almost more to himself than to Nick. “Right, I’m out on the terrace and my superintendent is giving me daggers through the dining room windows. As soon as you’ve got confirmation of an ID, I want you to dig deep into Liddell’s background, lad. See if you can find anyone else who might have wanted him dead.”
44
Eleanor McColl linked her arm through Grace’s and leaned her head close.
“Just remind me, darling, what is it we’re looking for again?”
Grace suppressed a sigh. Not so much at her mother’s question, as at the entire situation. It was ridiculous, sending a qualified CSI on an errand that could be just as easily accomplished by anybody with half a brain who could match an object to a photograph. A child could do it.
Oh God…
“Are you all right, Grace?” Eleanor asked.
Grace gave herself a mental shake. She threw a quick smile in Eleanor’s direction.
“Of course,” she said. “We’re looking for the symbol I showed you. I came across it on one of the stalls along the next row, I think, but I can’t recall exactly which one. We need to know what it means.”
“Ah, yes, and I’m here as your wing-man, to provide back-up, in case they make you for a rozzer.” Her mother’s voice was filled with glee.
“A what? Honestly, what kind of TV programmes have you been watching lately?” Grace murmured, not quite managing to hide a grin. “That doesn’t sound like it came from an adaptation of the Brontë sisters.”
“It all depends,” her mother returned dryly, “on who’s done the adapting.”
“Anyway, no—no back-up required.” I hope, Grace added silently. “I asked you along to help make me look less suspicious, not more.”
“Ah, like covering fire?”
“No, like local colour.”
Eleanor patted her arm, then let go with a light laugh.
“I know. Your face was a picture, though.”
Grace gave her a look of mild reproof as they walked the next row of stalls. It took a while, as her mother was interested in everything. She stopped frequently to ask questions of the merchandise, as if she was seriously considering a set of display shelves shaped like a two-metre-high stiletto heel and covered in rhinestones.
“So, Max was round again yesterday,” Eleanor said, her eyes on a huge white leather armchair, covered in clear plastic against the dirt and the dust.
“Oh yes,” Grace said, entirely noncommittal. “How nice for you both.”
Eleanor laughed at her tone. “He firmly believes that you’re punishing him for not paying you enough attention while you were married. And that, eventually, you’ll get tired of playing at real life, and come back to him.”
“Really?” she drawled. “How fascinating.”
“Yes, it is rather, isn’t it? I didn’t have the heart to tell him, poor boy.”
“Hardly a boy any longer, mother. He’s plenty old enough to know better.”
“Well, you know what they say, darling—there’s no fool like an old fool.”
“We are still talking about Max?”
“Hm, I fear he won’t stop dreaming until he knows for certain there’s no hope—that is, until he sees you settle down with somebody else.”
“Why on earth should I need the company of anyone else in order to be happy? I am settled—with myself. And I have Tallie. Why would I want another man when I have a dog? Far better company and she never complains about my cooking.”
Eleanor smiled with a certain indulgence that Grace didn’t know whether to take with anger or relief.
They drifted apart to walk the next row. When Grace reached the end and turned, it was to find Eleanor had stopped halfway along the opposite side and was beckoning her over.
“Here, darling, don’t you think these look rather interesting?” she said as Grace joined her.
The layout of the goods on the stall was not the same as she remembered, but maybe the woman manning it set her wares out differently every day, just to attract a new crowd of potential buyers. But there, tucked away behind window stickers showing the official green and blue Romany flag with the red sixteen-spoke wheel in the centre, was a box of unstrung pendants, all bearing the same design as the one found with Eden Man’s remains.
“I’m not sure,” Grace said, trying to play it cool.
Eleanor held one up as if picturing it around Grace’s neck, then turned to the stallholder. “What does it mean?”
“Mean?” the woman asked, heavy-set enough to be unhappy in the heat. It came through in her voice. She had clearly assessed the pair of them with a quick flick of her eyes and knew they were not fellow Travellers. She did not seem pleased to be mixing with the public and made no pretence of charm.
“Yes, this design, it’s rather curious. Does it have any significance?”
The woman shrugged and Eleanor pursed her lips as if in disappointment and leaned across to put the pendant back in its box.
Realising that being unhelpful was going to actively cost her money, the stallholder had a sudden change of heart. She even tried a smile that Grace decided was the stuff children’s nightmares were made of.
“Is for luck,” the woman said.
“Luck?” Eleanor pressed. She frowned. “I thought that was horseshoes, or four-leaf clovers?”
“This, too,” the woman insisted. “And protection. Will protect you against bad luck.”
“How wonderful. I should get one for you, Grace,” Eleanor said. She glanced at the Gypsy. “Or does it only work if you’re Romany?”
“No, no. For gorgios too.”
“Excellent. In that case, I’ll take it,” Eleanor said. “I haven’t seen these anywhere else. Do you make them yourself?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Grace saw a little girl skip up alongside Eleanor. The child was wearing a yellow dress today, and matching ribbons tying her pigtails. Still, Grace had no difficulty recognising her as the girl who so boldly tried to charge her a fiver a time to photograph their colt.
“My mam makes those,” the little girl said.
Eleanor turned. “Does she? Well, your mother must be very clever,” she said gravely, her eyes wide. “But mothers often are, I find. Don’t you?”
The little girl nodded mutely. Not wanting to spook her—or be remembered—Grace moved away, eyes on other items for sale, while her hands went to the camera slung across her shoulder. She moved a suitable distance while her mother was paying for the pendant and discreetly took a couple of wide shots of the stall, making sure to include the registration plate of the open van parked directly behind it. She caught the little girl in a couple of the pictures, looking up at Eleanor. It was hard to tell who was more enamoured of the other.
Then, from between the stalls, slipped a skinny boy of perhaps ten or eleven, who came to stand protectively at the girl’s shoulder. He was dressed in jeans and jodhpur boots, a shirt with the cuffs rolled back and an unbuttoned yellow waistcoat in a style twenty years too old for him. His chin was out, aggressive,
very much the man.
She saw him say something to Eleanor by way of a challenge. Her mother responded with a serene disregard that clearly threw him, although Grace was too far away to hear their exchange. She knew from experience how hard it was to put Eleanor off her stride. A mere boy, no matter how much cocky swagger he possessed, would be eaten up and spat out in seconds.
And, sure enough, when her transaction was complete, Eleanor walked away, leaving the boy scowling in her wake. Grace snapped a quick shot of the pair before he tugged at the girl’s arm to lead her away. Big brother, she surmised. Not only watching, but watching over as well.
Eleanor crossed to join her and pressed a brown paper bag into her hand.
“There you go. Mission accomplished.”
“What was the boy after?”
Eleanor glanced up from rooting in her handbag. “Hm? Oh, wanting to sell me something else, I expect. I purposely didn’t let him get his foot in the door.” She took a quick look at her wristwatch. “Now then, do you think your boss would stand us a glass of wine on expenses?”
Grace thought of Blenkinship’s manner in the office. He had never been exactly good humoured and seemed to be getting worse. Perhaps the added stress of being made up to Head CSI—even in an Acting capacity, as yet unconfirmed—was proving too much for him?
Whatever the reason, being forced to miss the post-mortem exam on the boy from the river was infuriating. Oh, she had no doubts he’d do a competent job but she couldn’t help wondering about the little things he might miss. Things which, she knew, she might divine.
“I don’t know about a glass of wine,” she said, her voice dry. “But, knowing Christopher, you’d be lucky to get a glass of water out of him, even if it came out of the river.”
“Speaking of the river, one of the other stallholders was telling me they had an accident in there today, with one of the horses…”
45