by Zoe Sharp
“In the end, it was both of us—in a way.”
Nick said nothing, just waited for her to continue. After a moment or two, she did.
“I’d split up with my husband, come back north to live with Mum. And for want of another career, I suppose, I’d started training to be a midwife, too.”
“Agnes was still working then?”
She nodded. “It was Fair time. We’d bow-tops and vardos camped all along the lane by us, and in the field at the back, when Mum got word a Romany girl had gone into labour.”
“Who was the girl?”
“All I know is, she was young—very young. Hadn’t even known she was carrying. Mum didn’t ask questions and I didn’t either. She just packed up her bag and went, same as she always did. And then, a little while later, Yvonne Elliot rang. She’d been in labour for hours, she said, and the baby wasn’t coming. She’d had three by then, knew probably better than I did how it all should go. But she couldn’t feel the baby moving and she was scared, sobbing at me down the phone. So…I went to her.”
“What about her GP? Or an ambulance?”
“She said she’d tried but couldn’t get through. And anyway, what with the Fair and everything, it would have taken them too long to get out to Mallerstang.”
“So you went to her,” Nick echoed, trying to keep any judgement out of his voice.
Even so, she flushed. “What else could I do? Leave her to struggle on alone? The baby was breech. I’d just learned about it—about how you can turn them using ECV.”
“Which is?” Nick asked.
“External Cephalic Version,” Yardley supplied. Both of them stared at him. His neck stained pink above his collar. “Cheryl was breech at thirty-six weeks. The doc had to manipulate her abdomen to turn the baby into the right position for delivery, eh? Explained all about it.”
“So, what happened with Yvonne?”
“It was too late to try that method when she’d already gone into labour. She needed a caesarean section—and quickly. Even so, I’m not sure, by then, if it would have made much difference. She’d been trying too long—she was exhausted, panicking about what her husband would do to her if anything happened to his son…”
“So Yvonne’s baby was still-born,” Nick said quietly. The realisation settled over him like snow, softly chilling.
“Yes.” It was almost a whisper.
“And the Gypsy girl?”
Wynter swallowed. “When I got back to the farm, Mum was in the kitchen. She’d put the girl’s baby in the bottom oven of the Aga.”
He started. “She’d done what?”
“He was early—a tiny little mite. It was the only way to keep him warm enough. We used to do it with lambs all the time, back when Dad was still farming.”
“What of the girl herself?”
“She was hysterical, Mum said. Hadn’t known she was pregnant and was convinced her family would kill her if they found out.”
“So you did a swap.”
She nodded. “Mum said the girl begged her to take him, not to tell anyone. So it seemed the perfect solution all round. She drove him down to Mallerstang and…gave him to Yvonne. I don’t know if Yvonne suspected—I mean, surely she must have done. But she never said…”
“And the other child—Yvonne’s still-born baby?”
Wynter met his gaze again. “I’d brought him away with me. Not quite sure why. But Mum took him and…” Her eyes shimmered bright with unshed tears. “She never said what she’d done with him and I, God help me, never asked.”
84
Outside the door, Grace lifted a hand and hesitated, just for a second.
Then she reached for the handle, opened the door and stepped through before rapping her knuckles on the wood panel.
Chris Blenkinship looked up sharply at the intrusion. He was sitting behind his desk near the window. There were two desks in the CSI office at Carlisle but, since the reshuffle of staff, only one was occupied. The other was utterly empty. Almost like a symbol, she thought, that he neither wanted nor needed any assistance.
“McColl,” Blenkinship greeted her coolly, only his raised eyebrows betraying his surprise. “I’d say ‘come in’ but it seems you already are.”
“I need to speak to you.”
His eyes dropped back to the screen of his laptop and he resumed pecking at the keys.
“Well, pet, I’m a bit busy at the moment. If you’d called to make an appointment before you drove up, like, I could have saved you a wasted journey.”
Grace ignored the dismissal and waited, her expression bland, to see whose nerve broke first. After only a few moments, something ticced in his face and he sat back with an exasperated sigh.
“All right, sit yourself down, seeing as you’re here anyway.” He checked his watch pointedly. “I can spare you five minutes.”
“That’s fine, Christopher. I won’t need long.”
She disregarded the visitor’s chair and chose instead to lean on the edge of the spare desk. She put down her bag on the desktop, close to hand, and withdrew a plain folder. From it, she picked out the top sheet of printed paper, which she offered. He folded his arms, almost childishly, forcing her to place it on the desk in front of him.
Blenkinship leaned forward with obvious reluctance, just enough to peer at the page. “What’s this?”
“It’s the summary from the post-mortem examination report on Jordan Elliot,” Grace said with calm precision. “The PM you attended.”
“Yes, I do know where I’ve been, thank you all the same, McColl.” And the flash of something in his eyes could simply have been irritation, but somehow she thought not.
“If I might draw your attention to the text I’ve highlighted…? You see, that is a copy of the report which you delivered to me yesterday. Whereas this”—she removed a second sheet from the folder, also highlighted, and placed it alongside the first—“is the same page of the original report, which Dr Onatade emailed through to both of us.”
“So?”
“Three little letters,” Grace said. “That was all it took. The erasure of N-O-T to turn ‘cannot’ into ‘can’ at the end of that line, and suddenly the whole tone of the conclusion changes, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Making a bit of a meal out of this, aren’t you, McColl? It’s clearly a mistake. No doubt Dr Onatade sent me an earlier version of the report, realised she’d cocked up, and is now trying to cover her arse. And like I said, I’m busy and—”
“Then I’ll be brief,” she cut across his further attempt at dismissal. She took out a number of print-out images and lined them up in front of him, then pointed to the first. “These two are my crime-scene photographs when Jordan Elliot was taken from the river. No, look at them, Christopher!” she snapped, when he would have pushed his chair away. “Look at his shirt. It’s torn and ragged, yes, but the hems are intact.”
“So?” He glared at her with defiance rather than do as he was bid, but couldn’t hold it long. “What of it?”
She ignored his question, stabbed a finger at the next image. “This is the photograph Dr Onatade took of the shirt when she’d removed it from Jordan’s body. See—hem still intact.”
“All right, McColl. No need for theatrics. Just say what you have to say, will you?”
“This last shot is the one Ty Frost took of the ‘evidence’ he recovered from the underside of Dylan Elliot’s vehicle. A vehicle you were working on, alone, immediately prior to that discovery.”
He did look then, slowly, from the first pictures to the last. His face reddened as the blood rushed to it, to the tips of his ears. As his fight-or-flight response fired.
“You altered the PM report and you planted the evidence for Ty to find,” Grace said quietly. And, almost to herself, “You know, if I thought it was because you were trying to protect someone else, I might almost admire you. But this is all about you, isn’t it?”
She saw it then, the kaleidoscope of emotions that flickered through his face. An
ger, dismay, fear and—finally—guilt. Confirmation. He swallowed, didn’t speak right away. And when he did so, he chose his words with care.
“What…proof do you have? Of any of this?”
“What more proof do I need, Christopher?” she asked. “What more is there to find?”
He shook his head, putting up a hand as if to ward off further questions. Then let it drop back into his lap helplessly.
“Who else have you told…about this?”
She eyed him for a split-second, somehow knowing this moment was pivotal.
And, quite possibly, dangerous.
“Dr Onatade knows there’s a discrepancy in the reports but, other than that, nobody. I rather thought it was your job to…bring it to light.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t,” she said, her voice clipped with revulsion—at herself for giving him this chance as much as at the man who had been her colleague, and was supposed to be her superior. “Don’t thank me. I’m not the keeper of your secrets. I simply don’t want all the evidence we’ve gathered to be discredited by your actions. Nor will I stand by and let you ruin Ty’s career. He’s a good CSI.” Unlike you. The words hung unspoken between them. “He doesn’t deserve this.”
“I know. It wasn’t—”
“Don’t,” Grace said again, but with more tiredness than heat. She slid the empty folder back into her bag and rose. “You need to turn yourself in, Christopher. You need to do it, not have me do it for you. I’ll give you that, at least. You have until tomorrow. Then…”
And with that she walked out of the office, leaving him slumped in his chair, staring with eyes that saw nothing but his own downfall.
85
The batter of a fist on the outside of the vardo made them both jump. Bartley, leaning against a bunch of pillows on the bunk at the far end, clutched the bandaged wound in his side and gave a muttered curse. Queenie had her hands in a bowl of cold water, scrubbing the blood from his shirt. Looking down, she saw the ripples spread outward from the sudden tremble of her fingers.
“Stay there,” she told him, shaking off the excess water.
She opened the top doors only and stood in the gap, wiping her hands on a towel.
Below her, on the grass, was the gorgio she knew only as Karl. The man she’d threatened with a blade, and been threatened by in her turn. She felt her spine stiffen, her chin lift.
“And what is it you’re wanting?”
He looked up at her, squinting against the bright sun. He didn’t like having the lower ground, but short of dragging her out there wasn’t much he could do about it.
“You know that well enough,” he said. “Come for my horse, haven’t I?”
“Oh, and it’s your horse, is it now?” she tossed back at him.
“We had a deal.”
“So we did.” She nodded. “And if you’d kept up your end of it, then so would I do the same.”
His brows drew down, making his forehead seem bulbous and heavy. From this angle, she could see the depth of his shoulders as well as the width. Like those of a dray animal who leaned into the collar, and built up layer upon layer of muscle for the task.
“What’re you on about, girl? You promised me the horse so that miserable bugger you call a husband could hide behind your skirts, instead of standing up for himself like a man.”
“Oh, I promised you the horse all right,” she agreed, “but only if there were no comebacks. Your man sticking a churi between Bartley’s ribs is not what I’d call ‘no comebacks’, is it now?”
Just for a second, she caught the surprise in the big gorgio’s eyes, then the glower was back.
“A what?”
“A knife. A blade. Call it what you will. And your man McMahon behind it.”
He shook his head. “If he did anything, it wasn’t on my time.”
“So? You can’t set loose your dog and then say it’s not your problem when he bites.”
“Not my dog. Got a mind of his own, that one, eh?”
“You brought him here,” Queenie insisted, a set to her jaw. “You turned him loose.”
Karl gave a grunt, his patience with her argument clearly exhausted. “I didn’t bring him nowhere or tell him to do ’owt,” he said. “Now, I’m taking my horse and I’m going.”
He nodded to someone standing off to the side of the wagon, out of Queenie’s sight. She leaned out, craning, as two more of them appeared, moving toward where the mare was tethered, the colt alongside her. One of the men carried a leather foal slip headcollar, the other a long whip.
Queenie threw open the lower door and leapt down, ignoring Bartley’s shout from behind her. She ran for the man with the whip first, bowling him off his feet with sheer momentum and weight and rage. She snatched the whip from his hand and turned on the other man with a snarl.
Karl wrapped both arms around her from behind, pinning hers to her sides. He lifted her clear off the ground, her feet still striding in the air. She gave a shriek of fury and struggled against his grasp, but to no avail. He had her fast.
Bartley jumped down from the vardo, wincing as he landed. He’d refused to go to the hospital, insisting that the ambulance people on The Sands simply patch him up. They had stitched or glued him back together, but it hadn’t held. Blood now seeped through the top layer of the dressing.
Still, as he stood there without his shirt, there was no mistaking the wiry strength of his build, the numerous old scars of his chosen craft, the tattoos and the battered knuckles.
“Leave her be,” he growled.
Karl ignored him, continuing to hold Queenie off the ground without apparent effort. She took as deep a breath as she was able to with her ribs being crushed, then bent her knees and kicked back her heels as hard as she could.
One foot missed but the other boot thudded into Karl’s knee. She heard the graunch, the groan, felt him sag and his grip slacken.
“You little—”
That was as far as he got before Bartley was upon him, putting his all into the blows even though it made him nearly cry out with the effort of doing so. The blood escaped the bandage and overran his belt.
Karl let go of Queenie so abruptly that she dropped on all fours, scrambling away from the pair of them and jumping back to her feet. She whirled just in time to see the other gorgio wrap the leather foal slip over Bartley’s head and yank him backwards.
She threw herself back into the fray. Her father had taught her how to punch—wrist straight, fingers tight, thumb tucked outside. She used that knowledge now. Taking a run at the man with the headcollar, her fist connected with the side of his jaw hard enough to spin him off his feet. He went down like a cut tree in the forest.
In her blinkered frenzy she barely saw the blur of a figure coming in from her right. She jerked, expecting another attack. It was no gorgio, she saw, but one of Jackson’s pals. The man who’d been with him that day he threatened Bartley, and she’d threatened him right back.
Only, now he was grappling with Karl on her behalf.
More men arrived, of her own clan and the others. Anyone nearby, until the three gorgios were surrounded a dozen deep.
“Dosta,” Queenie shouted. “Enough.”
It took a moment—and a few blows—more before they fell back into a wide circle with the three left swaying in the centre. She pushed through them and stepped out to face Karl.
He stared at her over a split lip as he spat blood into the grass between them.
Queenie flicked her eyes around the group. She noted familiya, extended family, other members of her vitsa, her clan, and even kampaniyi, those from alliances of other families. All standing beside and behind her.
She straightened, her father’s daughter. “We agreed terms, you and I,” she said. “You broke those terms.”
“You cheated me.”
“You cheated yourself.” She sensed someone move up by her shoulder—Bartley, holding his side, pale, but still on his feet. She gave him a grateful nod, turned
back to the gorgio. “Now, I suggest you leave while you still have your legs under you.”
As if by command, the circle parted, created an opening, a line of retreat. Two of the men shuffled toward it, one of them limping. It took Karl longer to move. And before he did so, he stabbed an accusing finger toward Queenie’s chest.
“This,” he said, “is not over.”
86
The knock on the door came suddenly. Sharp enough that Dylan jumped, the tea slopping out of his mug and straight down the front of his T-shirt. Damn those bloody coppers, setting him right on edge!
He stomped into the hall and yanked the door open with a rising temper, that ebbed as he took in the startled figure standing outside.
“What you doin’ here?”
Lisa had been looking around, as if afraid someone was going to see her. At the edge in his tone she stiffened, bristling. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
He stepped back. “Yeah, ’course. Go on through.”
He followed her into the kitchen, his eyes on the way the floaty little sundress she wore alternately outlined and fluttered around her trim backside.
Inside the room, she hesitated, turned to face him with hands twisted together.
“Now then, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, calmer now. He put down the mug of tea, took a bite of the toast slathered with peanut butter that he’d been making when she arrived.
“You told him!” Lisa blurted out. Her voice rose. “How could you? You told Nick—about us!”
He tried a cajoling smile. “Didn’t have no choice, did I? They had me down the cells, grillin’ me about the boy. No alibi, otherwise. What else could I do?”
“I don’t know—anything but that!”
The knuckles of her linked hands gripped white, shoulders pinching upward. “We’ve got a kid, Nick and me. You might have…”
“Look, if I could’ve done it any other way, I would’ve. You gotta realise that. But you don’t know what it’s like, havin’ the cops after you! Always had it in for my dad and got it in for me, too. They’ve never given me a break, and this time it’s worse than ever.”