Bones In the River

by Zoe Sharp

  “They said, if you dook the gry, then I shall lel a coorapen.”

  “If you bewitch the horse, then I shall get a beating.”

  “The horse slipped and fell,” she said. “That doesn’t take bewitching, just a bad kistro-mengro.”

  She felt only a twinge of guilt at calling Jackson a bad horseman. It was better than the alternative.

  Ocean was silent while they jogged further down the hill. She saw his shoulders hunch a little before he asked, “Mam… That boy they mentioned—the one in the river. Was it…Jordan? Only, I thought I’d see him here, or on the way back, you know?”

  Queenie gaped for a moment, then realised the dead boy was one her son had met in previous years. Whenever they camped along Mallerstang, he’d appear, shy, awkward, looking for Ocean, and they’d play together. She’d heard the news and not thought…

  “They haven’t said so, but I think it might be, yes,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “’S’OK.” He gave a shrug that tried so hard to be unconcerned it broke her heart.

  She wrapped him close again until he began to wriggle. Then she said, “I don’t think it would be a good idea to tell your father about…what happened today—or your uncle.”

  “Tell Dado or Coco Vano?” Ocean sounded affronted. “When they bested me? No way!”

  Queenie almost sighed with relief. It was short-lived as Ocean put one hand on the horse’s neck and twisted round so he could see her face. “There is one other thing, Mam. When they asked of Patrick Doherty, why didn’t you tell them that—?”

  “Because they didn’t need to know,” Queenie cut in quickly. “None of them gorgios need to know. So you keep that to yourself, all right?”

  53

  “Well, did you find out what you needed to know?” Eleanor asked.

  The three of them had moved back into the doorway of the house to watch the Romany woman and her son disappear along Scattergate on the piebald gelding. As she spoke, Eleanor’s gaze moved between her daughter and the young detective. Having only just met him, she couldn’t be sure of his expression. And even as a child, Grace had been hard to read.

  Eleanor knew she wasn’t going to get an answer out of her when her mobile phone started to ring. Grace turned away to answer it, as if glad of the excuse, leaving Eleanor and Nick standing together.

  “Some of it,” Nick said. “It’s what she didn’t say that interests me.”

  “About this Doherty chap?” Eleanor saw his eyebrows rise and smiled. “Even I could tell she wasn’t being entirely truthful about that.”

  “And you spotted him taking the ornament.” There was added respect in his voice.

  Eleanor looked down at the china horse in her hands. “No, I didn’t,” she admitted. “But I saw his eyes linger on it and, when we came out just now, I saw it was gone. Not exactly a Sherlock Holmes level of deductive reasoning.”

  “You do yourself a disservice, Eleanor. Not much gets past you, I’ll bet.”

  Like the way you look at my daughter, you mean, when you don’t think she’s paying attention?

  She sighed. “If he’d asked, I would have given it to him with pleasure, but I will not allow myself simply to be robbed.”

  “Well, if they decide to make a return visit, or you should ever need my help, I hope you’ll call me,” Nick said, handing her a card.

  “Thank you.” Eleanor thought of the contrast with Grace’s ex-husband, who had happily come to their aid until he found out who they were dealing with, and then made his excuses along with a quick exit.

  Not that Max was lacking in courage, when it was required.

  Grace returned, tucking away her phone. The camera bag was slung onto her shoulder.

  “I need to go,” she said. “I’m meeting Ty Frost over at Kirkby Stephen. He’s already left Penrith, and it would be embarrassing to be so close and then arrive after him.”

  “More trouble?”

  If Nick hadn’t asked the question, Eleanor probably would have done so herself.

  “We’re going to carry out a drone survey of the river, upstream from the weir—see if we can find out where Jordan Elliot was put into the water.” She paused. “If it is Jordan who was found, of course.”

  “Still no official confirmation?”

  “Not yet. I’m expecting the results of the DNA comparison any time now. The moment I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Nick grinned at her. “What, even before your boss?”

  Grace arched an eyebrow. “He pulled rank on me at the post-mortem exam,” she said. “He’s not going to do it twice.”

  54

  When Chris Blenkinship knocked on the front door of Dennis Stubbins’ cottage next to the Lady Anne, he had not only one of the uniformed constables with him, but also the bar manager, Maisie.

  “Yes, what’s the meaning of this?” Stubbins demanded, drawing himself up to his full height. His nose was almost level with the top button on Blenkinship’s shirt. “What’s she here for?”

  “An apology, Mr Stubbins,” the constable said.

  He sniffed. “Well, better late than never, I suppose. After all the months of inconvenience I’ve had to put up with—”

  “No, sir. You are going to be the one to apologise to her.”

  The man floundered, mouth opening and closing several times before he said, voice low with outrage, “I beg your pardon! I will do no such thing.”

  “Well, that might prove awkward,” the constable said, and Blenkinship could see he was struggling to keep a straight face. “I have to inform you, sir, that defecation in a public place is an offence under current legislation, punishable by a hefty fine. As well, of course, as the resultant adverse publicity…”

  “Publicity?” Stubbins echoed, colour leaching from his face. “I deny it. You can’t prove a thing.”

  “I wouldn’t be sure about that, sir, when Mr Blenkinship here has just matched your fingerprints to those on the surround of the barbecue where the, ah…offending deposit was made.”

  “Downright offensive deposit, if you ask me,” Maisie put in.

  “That’s ridiculous! I–I could have been into the pub recently and…come into contact with that barbecue under entirely innocent circumstances,” Stubbins blustered.

  Blenkinship favoured him with a tight smile. Finally, his day was taking a turn for the better. “I’m sure you’re aware, sir, that we can identify owners who don’t pick up after their dogs by analysing the DNA…left behind.” He leaned in, conspiratorially. “That doesn’t only work with dogs.”

  He thought for a moment the little man was going to faint. “You can’t… I can’t…” He swallowed. “I’m on the Parish council. And the committee for the bowls club!”

  “You should have thought of that before you shit in my barbecue and hoped everyone would blame it on the Gypsies, then,” Maisie said.

  “Is there no way to avoid…any of this?”

  “That’s another reason she’s here,” Blenkinship said. “So that the two of you can work out some kind of suitable restitution.”

  “A nice healthy donation to The Donkey Sanctuary ought to do it,” Maisie said. Just as the relief started to creep across Stubbins’ face, she added, “And you can bring your marigolds with you right now, matey. You’ve got some serious scrubbing to do…”

  55

  It was around ten miles from Appleby to the weir just north of Kirkby Stephen. Twenty minutes by road, depending on the traffic. Grace took the back lanes through Burrells and Soulby to avoid any possible tail-backs on the A66 from the Fair. She met her share of locals en route, who no doubt had the same idea.

  She left her Nissan pick-up parked at the roadside near to the gate. There was a chain and padlock wrapped around it that looked secure, but on closer inspection had been forced. Grace remembered the woman who’d reported the body—Wynter Trelawney—saying the Gypsies had called her. She wondered if it was they who’d broken the lock, for the sake of a bit of
overnight grazing. Or perhaps the officers who’d first responded?

  The metal gate actually had hinge pins rather than needing to be dragged. Grace opened it and went through onto the trampled grass. It was calm and quiet there, with only the murmur of the river tumbling over the weir, and the occasional buzz of cars on the nearby road up to Brough.

  Someone, she saw, had laid a bunch of cellophane-wrapped flowers close by the water’s edge, a small plush toy in the shape of a horse. Sad little reminders of a life that had not yet outgrown its childhood. And now never would.

  She was reminded of the china horse which the boy, Ocean, had tried to steal from her mother’s house. Had Ocean’s mother lied to them for a reason, or just out of some ingrained distrust and dislike of anything representing rules, constrictions, and law?

  Ty Frost arrived a few minutes later, beeping his horn in greeting as he swung his old banger of a Peugeot through the gateway and pulled up alongside the river. She saw the car lurch a little as he jerked the handbrake on with a graunch of the ratchet mechanism. He was a contradiction when it came to equipment. If he valued it, then he treated it with obsessive reverence. If he didn’t, with disdainful neglect.

  Now, Ty bounced out like a puppy taken to the beach, opened the rear hatch and flung out an arm.

  “There you go, Grace. What d’you think of that?”

  She peered in to see a spindly looking machine with a central body and two narrow struts leading to a T-piece, with a twin-bladed rotor at the end of each arm. Underneath was the camera, protected by articulated legs like those of a crab. She did not insult Ty’s pride and joy by voicing the comparison.

  “Very impressive,” she said. “What does something like that cost these days?”

  He named a figure that made her blink, and he flushed a little at her reaction. “Why do you think I still drive this old heap? I spend my money on tech instead.”

  “Well, I hope you’re billing the force for flight time?”

  His answering grin told her that, even if he wasn’t making money out of the exercise, he was probably enjoying himself too much to care.

  “Speaking of flying time, how long have we got in the air with this?”

  “Twenty-seven minutes, max. I’ve got a couple of spare battery packs with me, and a charger, but I’d rather not have to fish it out of the river if I can help it.”

  As he talked, Ty was assembling his kit, hands working with the speed of familiarity. Grace watched over his shoulder

  “What does it record onto?”

  “Standard Micro SD card. I put a load in a box on the front seat, if you wouldn’t mind grabbing them for me? Then we can get this party started!”

  Grace reached in through the passenger door and picked up a plastic box filled with assorted cards. “Any one in particular?”

  “Hm? Oh, the largest capacity you can find, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  She sorted through with an exploratory finger. Picked one out and frowned at it. “This one has a note taped to it that says ‘CB’. Is that for something special?”

  “Ah, no, I brought that to give to you, actually.” He flushed again, all but shuffled his feet. “You know that day when the boss ran into Nick Weston’s car?” She nodded and he went on, “Well, he told me his dash-cam wasn’t working and had me put a new memory card in for him. Said the old one was corrupted or something.”

  Grace caught the slightly haughty note in his voice. “But you didn’t believe him,” she said.

  “Nah, I think he knew he was in the wrong and was trying to hide it, like. Anyway, he wanted me to chuck the old card but I thought, well, you might want to see if there is anything on there that can help Nick.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “You never know.”

  “Thanks, Ty. That’s really nice of you. I’ll take a look later, when we’re all done here.” Grace tucked the card into the leg pocket of her cargo trousers. “Now, are we almost ready for take-off?”

  56

  As soon as they got down to the bottom of Boroughgate, Ocean was twitching to be let down off the piebald, like he’d sat on a nest of ants. Queenie let him off by the memorial on Low Wiend with the vertical sundial on the top of it.

  She watched him dart away into the crowd and urged the old horse into a shambling jog-trot across the bridge. He reluctantly obliged, announcing his return with a deafening neigh as they reached the other side of the river.

  Queenie leaned forward and stroked one of his long ears. “No point in trying to be stealthy with you about, feller, is there?” she murmured.

  But she had a good vantage point from his back, able to scan above the heads of the people, looking for two in particular.

  She caught sight of Vano first, in the shallows of the Eden with their father’s last colt, washing him down. Then, further in, Bartley doing the same with the mare.

  Her first reaction was of hurt—that they hadn’t waited for her before taking the colt into the Eden for the first time. It was almost like a baptism, and it stung that they’d chosen to do it when she was absent. And without Ocean, who’d be more upset still.

  That’s when the anger took over. She shook the piebald up and rode him straight down the ramp into the water without a second thought. Vano looked up and saw her and, although he kept a smile pinned firmly on his face, it no longer went all the way up to his eyes.

  Oh, you don’t want to spoil your campaign image, now do you, brother of mine? Got to show everyone you know how to follow all the old traditions.

  She nudged the piebald closer, leaned down to him and hissed, “What the devil d’you think you’re about?”

  “What do you think I’m doing? Trying to get the best price, to honour our father. That’s what I’m about. Something you should have had in mind, my sister.”

  The piebald began to paw at the water, splashing the pair of them. Vano stepped back and said, more loudly than he needed to, “You’d best take him out before he rolls, with you still on his back.”

  Queenie, who could read the signs the horse was giving her without the need for such instruction, scowled at him but did as she was bid, growling at the animal when his knees began to droop.

  Bartley had seen her arrive and, reading her mood, was already walking the mare toward the slipway, knowing Vano would have little choice but to follow. She moved to intercept her husband, leaned close to his ear and gave him a kiss.

  The audience on the riverside laughed and applauded. Bartley grinned at them and caught her wrist, tugging her closer apparently to snatch another.

  “What is it?” he demanded quietly.

  “The gavvers,” she said. “They’re asking about Patrick Doherty.” And she straightened in time to see the worry in his face before he covered it with smiling ease.

  “Now then, me darlin’. Don’t you be worrying about that.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me, Queenie,” he said, all trace of humour gone. “Patrick Doherty is a long time buried and he won’t be coming back.”

  57

  “Found something?” It was all Grace could do to keep her attention on the road and not on the view-screen held by Ty Frost, alongside her in the passenger seat of the Nissan. The photographer in her was captivated by the superb-quality images being relayed by the drone in flight.

  “Not as yet. Ah, hold on…” Frost manipulated the controls with a deft touch that was almost delicate. The picture on the view-screen zoomed in, steadied and refocused. “Nope, just a piece of litter.”

  “You’re coming up to Frank’s Bridge,” Grace said, glancing in her mirrors and flicking on her indicator. “Watch your altitude.”

  Frost flashed a quick grin at her, suddenly looking even younger than usual. “Don’t worry, this thing’s got built-in proximity sensors. Folk in the film industry regularly fly them inside buildings without any problem. Ah, there’s a stone bridge just coming up. That the one you were meaning?”

  He tilted the screen toward her and Grace risked a quick scan. �
�That’s the one.”

  “Who was this ‘Frank’, anyway?”

  “A local brewer, apparently. He had the bridge built some time in the sixteen-hundreds to allow the dead to be brought over the river, from Winton and Hartley to St Stephen’s for burial. There are even stones at either end of the bridge where they used to rest the coffins.”

  “How do you know all this stuff?”

  “I have an enquiring mind, Tyson,” she said. “Plus, I was brought up in the Lakes, and I used to spend my spare time going out photographing local landmarks.”

  He shook his head. At the traffic lights in Kirkby Stephen, Grace turned left, past the Temperance Hall and started to head slowly along Nateby Road. Somewhere further over to their left, the Eden’s course wandered in the same direction, weaving back and forth through the fields.

  Frost took it slow, pivoting the camera from side to side and zooming in on anything that caught his eye. They knew they could review the footage in more detail later, on a larger screen, but anything that was missed might easily be swept away and lost completely by the time they went back for it.

  “How far away can the drone get from us and still be controllable?”

  “Four and a half miles, more or less, so don’t worry on that score. We’re not going to lose it anytime soon.”

  “Oh, I do wish you hadn’t said that…”

  “Ah, we’ll be coming up on Stenkrith in a moment. That might be worth a closer look.”

  “OK. There’s a little car park just the other side of the bridge over the falls,” Grace said. “I’ll pull in there, shall I?”

  Frost nodded.

  As soon as they stopped and she turned off the engine, they could hear the rush of water crashing over the waterfall. Frost started walking down the sloping path toward the river. Grace began to follow but an incoming call on her mobile made her pause.

  “Go on ahead,” she called to Frost, pulling out the phone. “I’ll just get this—it’s the lab.”