Bones In the River

by Zoe Sharp

  “Don’t worry about it,” Grace said, keeping her voice light. “I’m sure it will be fine. And,” she added, making a joke of it, “it’s not as if Christopher knows where to find me…”

  99

  Blenkinship drove onto the field, feeling the tyres of his car sink through the grass and into the mud lurking beneath. Even when it was sunny for a few days, the memory of the recent storm was always near to the surface.

  He’d just handed over an extortionate amount of money, in his opinion, for the convenience of parking close to the centre of Appleby, rather than allowing himself to be shunted off into one of the outlying car parks. Some of the local landowners took advantage of visitors to the Fair something rotten. It was practically gouging.

  He locked his car and joined the crowds. The last day—a last chance to see the Gypsy horses being paraded and haggled over—always drew a crowd.

  In some ways, Blenkinship was thankful for them. It gave an illusion of safety, of cover from which to stalk his prey.

  The very fact he was thinking of Grace McColl in those terms brought him up short, put a hitch in his stride so the family behind him almost ran their pushchair into his heels. They swerved around him, giving him a scowl as they went by. The little boy in the pushchair gazed at him with sticky fingers outstretched.

  There was something almost accusing in the child’s eyes.

  Blenkinship looked away, scanned the people lining each side of Battlebarrow, leading down toward The Sands. His chances of spotting one woman among all those gathered here were slim, he recognised.

  And, even if he did find Grace, what then? Did he intend to plead with her? Reason? Threaten, even?

  The familiar acid burned in his chest. A timely reminder that guilt, like mud, was also never far from the surface.

  100

  Dylan met with Karl on St Lawrence’s Bridge over the River Eden in Appleby.

  Karl was on the down-river side, smack bang in the centre of the bridge, where a rounded pedestrian refuge butted out over the water. It overlooked The Sands and the slipway down to the river. One or two horses were still being washed and swum, making the refuge a good spectator spot, but Karl had it all to himself.

  One glance was enough to tell Dylan why.

  There was something about the set of those massive shoulders, emerging hairily out of a T-shirt with the sleeves torn off. It made people unwilling to get too close, just in case. Even Dylan found himself edging in alongside the big man.

  “Heard you been spending a lot of time as a guest of our local constabulary,” Karl said without so much as a hello. “Should I be worried, like?”

  Dylan masked his unease by taking a sip from the can of cola he was holding. Yvonne always bought own-brand stuff from one of the cheap supermarkets. It was only made drinkable by the generous slug of vodka he’d added. There were laws about drinking alcohol in public and, at Fair time, the cops would be all over him if he didn’t do it on the sly. He felt the spirit burn down the inside of his chest. Maybe it was that put the jut into his tone.

  “Worried about what?”

  Karl nudged his wrap-around sunglasses just far enough down his nose to give him a pointed look over the top of them. A look that said, “Don’t play dumb with me…”

  “I didn’t say anything about that little business deal we got goin’, if that’s what you mean?” Dylan said, checking other onlookers were too far away for eavesdropping.

  “I’m not interested in what you didn’t say, mate, but what you did, eh?”

  “Well, they got bigger fish to fry than a few fake handbags, that’s for sure,” Dylan said bitterly. “Tryin’ to fit me up for murder, aren’t they?”

  “Oh aye,” Karl said. “And did you do it, like?”

  “Which one?” Dylan muttered. “Seems any crime that’s got ’em stumped at the moment, they’re tryin’ to throw it my way. Even accused me of killin’ my own kid, for God’s sake…”

  He stared sullenly across the river toward a large group of Travellers, who were lounging on the grassy bank. Their dress and manner set them apart. They were rowdy and boisterous, raucous enough to be attracting a few irked glances. Their laughter mocked him to the point of fury,

  “High time they put a stop to all this,” Dylan said darkly. “If I had my way…”

  “Aye, well, it’s tradition, eh?” Karl said. “No matter how much trouble they cause, you can’t interfere with their ‘human rights’, or some such nonsense.”

  “Huh, it figures.” Dylan took another swig from his can, still scowling at the Travellers. “Amazin’, isn’t it? My mate Owen goes missin’ and his body turns up buried in the middle of where that lot was campin’ at the time, and do the coppers bring ’em in for it? ’Course not.”

  He took another long swallow. The anger he’d felt when he left home still writhed just under his skin, glad of an outlet now. “Then my kid gets killed and there they are again—large as life, twice as ugly. And do the coppers haul ’em in and give ’em the third degree? Do they heck as like!”

  “So, what’re you gonna do about it, eh mate?” Karl asked, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses again, his pose apparently relaxed.

  Dylan shifted his feet, restless with the same urge to destroy something—anything—that he’d felt in the sitting room at home. He rubbed a hand over his jaw.

  “Dunno,” he said, hunched forward now, leaning on the low parapet. “What can I do?”

  “Depends how far you’re prepared to go, like,” Karl said.

  Something in his voice had Dylan’s head coming round, his eyes narrowing. “What you up to then?”

  “Well, you’re not the only one who’s been shafted by the gyppos, mate,” Karl said. “I was s’posed to be getting my hands on a nice bit of horse-flesh today. Already had a buyer lined up an’ all. But they cheated their way out of the deal, and I don’t have to tell you I don’t take kindly to that.”

  Dylan kept a grip on his impatience. When Karl got like this there was no hurrying him. Trying was likely to flip his switch, and that was the last thing Dylan wanted to do. So he gulped down the dregs of his can and waited.

  Karl lit a cigarette, taking his time.

  “I got a few handy kind of lads from up north on their way down here, right now,” he said at last. He checked the chunky stainless steel watch embedded in the fur of his wrist. “Gonna teach these thievin’ beggars a bit of a lesson, eh?” He turned his head. All Dylan could see was his own reflection in the mirrored lenses, the bitter twist of his own features. “You want in, like?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  101

  Blenkinship quickened his pace toward the far side of the bridge, trying to keep it all casual. He reckoned he’d just heard all that he needed to.

  So, there’s going to be a bit of a ruckus, eh?

  His first thought was to call it in. To let DI Pollock—or, better still—Superintendent Waingrove know. She was the one who had most to lose if the Fair did not run smoothly. She’d be suitably grateful for the heads-up.

  And he was going to need all the friends in high places he could get, once Grace McColl dropped her bombshell. Far better if he could get his side of the story—or some permutation of it—in first. As he moved onto The Sands and weaved around a couple of RSPCA inspectors standing by one of the temporary barriers, he was already reaching for his phone.

  But something stayed his hand.

  A bit of a ruckus…

  He’d recognised Karl from old mug shots. Blenkinship had talked with Steve Scott, one of the CSIs based in Kendal, only a week or so ago about a batch of ladies’ designer bags that had appeared in local markets. Rumours were, Karl was the man behind them—or the middle-man, anyway. Blenkinship tried to keep track of all the open cases in the force area. When you were in overall command of the team, it came with the territory.

  He hadn’t known Dylan Elliot by sight, but he worked out who he was fairly quick.

  So, they’ve got it in fo
r the Gypsies, have they?

  He’d no idea what kind of trouble the men had planned but any kind would do, providing it was sudden enough, and violent enough, for a little bit of collateral damage not to go amiss.

  And Grace McColl wouldn’t be able to resist sticking her nose in, getting involved and trying to play the heroine role…again.

  Even if she didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. Even if she tried to stay well clear, something unfortunate might still happen to her. After all, he knew how to make any scene look authentic. And if it seemed that she’d got too close to the action this time, and come to a sticky end, would anyone really be surprised…?

  102

  Driving east from Penrith, Nick saw the tailbacks on the opposite carriageway of the A66. Some of the Travellers were already leaving the Fair, scattering to all points of the compass.

  His hands tightened around the rim of the Subaru’s steering wheel. If they didn’t manage to track down Smith and Doherty before the end of today, then the truth about Owen Liddell’s death was never likely to emerge.

  If I don’t manage it.

  Oh, he had a good idea who was going to carry the can for this one. He hadn’t dealt much with Superintendent Waingrove since her arrival, but he got the distinct impression she was not the forgiving type.

  On impulse, he called up Grace’s number on his mobile. It took maybe half-a-dozen rings before she answered.

  “Grace, hi.” And when she didn’t immediately respond. “It’s Nick. Is everything OK?”

  “Er, yes,” she said, the doubt in her voice almost turning it into a question. She must have heard it herself because she cleared her throat. “Yes, I’m fine. What can I do for you?”

  In the background he heard a burst of loud voices.

  “Are you still at the Elliots’?”

  “No. There was something I needed to do over at the Fair. I’m in Appleby, why?”

  “Perfect. I was going to ask if you knew where I might be able to find the Gypsy woman who was at your mother’s—Queenie? I really need to talk to her brother. Thought getting her on-side might be my best chance. What do you think?”

  “Hm, you may be right. And I’ve just been speaking with her, as a matter of fact.”

  “Great. Look, I’m just coming up to the turn-off. Can I meet you somewhere?”

  “If you can get close to Fair Hill, I’ll be there.”

  “That would be fine…if I knew where Fair Hill was.” He glanced across at the packed sea of caravans off to the left of the road, which seemed to go on for field after field.

  He expected her to laugh but there was no hint of a smile in her voice when she said, “Turn right when you get to the T-junction. It’s the first big field gateway on your left.”

  “OK. Grace…are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Not really,” she said, “but I will be.”

  And she disconnected the call before he had a chance to ask which of them she was trying to convince.

  103

  Queenie stood with her arms crossed, defensive. She had refused to go down to the gateway itself. Too many people would see her there and she wasn’t convinced she wanted this meeting in the first place, never mind for all to gossip over. Instead, she stood partway up the sloping field, between a couple of horse trailers, and kept a watch on the entrance from there.

  “I’m still not so sure about this,” she said, nerves lending an edge to her tone.

  “Don’t worry,” Grace told her. “You can trust Nick to do what’s right.”

  “Aye, but there’s often some distance travelled between what’s right and what’s right by the law.”

  “And he knows the difference. I’d stake my life on it.”

  She snorted out a breath, like the old piebald after a steep grade. “Easy words.”

  “Not when they come from experience.”

  Queenie shot her a quick glance but the other woman’s face was unreadable.

  “I’ll hear him out,” she said finally. “Can’t promise more than that.”

  “I can’t ask more than that. Ah, there’s his car. Shall I bring him to your caravan?”

  Queenie nodded and watched the tall redhead walk away.

  The fair-haired copper had stopped to talk to one of the marshals through his open window. Whatever he said to the man was enough to get him permission to leave his car inside the gate. He climbed out and met Grace on the way up. Queenie eyed the two of them together, looking for signs of tension. Signs that he might not be quite as open-minded with regard to the law as Grace had promised.

  Instead, she saw tension of a different kind.

  Ah, it’s like that between them, is it? No wonder that he risked his life for her…

  The pair started up the hill and Queenie hurried for the vardo, wanting to be there well ahead of them.

  As she climbed the steps to the front porch, she looked through the open doors and saw her husband and her brother already inside. Bartley was laid on the bed, shirt open to reveal his bandaged ribs. Vano had taken the locker seat nearby. He rose at the sight of her, bullish.

  “What is this?” Vano demanded.

  “A reckoning,” Queenie said. “And not before time.” She glanced at Bartley. “Did you sell the colt?”

  “I did, but—”

  She flashed up a palm. “Then let that be the end of it. I don’t need to know any more.”

  His face twisted. “Queenie, listen—”

  But a firm knock on the wooden side panel cut off whatever he’d been about to say. She moved to the doorway. Grace and the gavver, Nick, waited below. She jerked her head without speaking and they climbed up.

  As before, Grace left her boots on the porch. Nick, Queenie noticed, kept his on but he did at least tap any loose dirt off them against the top step before he came inside. She accepted the compromise for what it was.

  “What is this?” Vano repeated, harsher now. “What are they doing here?”

  He was still on his feet, making the floor space overcrowded.

  “Sit down,” Queenie told him. “We will have a reckoning. One we should have had a long time ago.” And when still he made no move, she said, more quietly, “Don’t make me have you called before a kris Romani.”

  She saw him pale at the words, as well he might. It was the highest court, with the power of marimé—of banishment. It was capable of ordering permanent separation from his family, of declaring the very blood in his veins changed to gorgio.

  It was not a threat ever to be used lightly and Queenie did not do so. She meant it.

  Vano sank back onto the locker seat with his mouth agape. Even Bartley held his tongue.

  She waved Grace onto the locker seat opposite the stove, hopped up onto the edge of the bed alongside Bartley, letting her feet dangle, and nodded to the copper.

  “Shut the door and ask your questions,” she said.

  He nodded back, closing them in before he let his eyes skim across the three, coming to rest upon Vano.

  “I’m not going to spin you any tales or try to trip you up,” he said. “I’ll level with you, and I hope you’ll do the same, OK?”

  “Go on,” Vano said cautiously, which was no reply and he knew it. Queenie scowled at him fiercely. He ducked his head as if she’d swung for him. “All right, yes.”

  “We know you were in Kirby Stephen the day before Owen Liddell disappeared. And we think it was you who camped at Water Yat that night.” He paused, expectant.

  “I hear no question there,” Vano said with the same stubborn tilt to his head he’d had since they were tawnie yecks.

  She did swing for him then, letting the toe of her boot thud into his knee—something she had done since they were children. He clutched at it and cursed her more than the injury warranted.

  “Yes, I was there.”

  “I also think,” the copper said, speaking more carefully now, “that you went to the Elliots’ farmhouse, looking for Owen. What I hope you’ll tell me is what happened
when you got there.”

  Queenie was suddenly aware how important this answer was to her, by the fact she was holding her breath.

  Vano looked down at his hands, braced on his thighs. She saw his fingers clench briefly. Then he looked up.

  “We found him dead on the floor,” he said. “In the kitchen there, and not another soul in the place.” He cleared his throat. “So we cleaned away the blood…so much blood…and took him back with us and buried him near the river. And the next day, we moved on.”

  Queenie scanned Nick’s face. He seemed thoughtful rather than disbelieving, for which she was thankful. She’d listened to her brother lie many times over the years. This had truth woven into it, she could tell.

  “Why take him?” Nick asked. “Why not call for us or simply leave him to be found by someone else?”

  “Because we’d been there and we knew, if you had reason to look closely, you would prove it—what with DNA and tyre prints and all of that scientific stuff.” At Nick’s raised eyebrow he shrugged and said, “We do have a television set at home, you know. And if a man dies by violence and there are Gypsies nearby, we know we’ll always be your first port of call. Besides, we’d…history with him, you might say.”

  Grace had remained silent. But now, once again, the phone in her pocket began to buzz. She pulled it out and checked the display.

  “I’m sorry but I think I’d better answer this,” she murmured, and took herself off outside, closing the doors behind her. Queenie heard her slip on her boots and descend the ladder.

  “The man you had with you when you were pulled over in Kirkby Stephen,” Nick said when Grace had gone. “He gave his name as Patrick Doherty.” His eyes flicked to Queenie. “That name keeps coming up. You told me he was ‘no longer with us’, which is not quite the same thing as saying he’s actually dead, is it?”

  Queenie felt the denial on her lips but there it stayed. He’d been true to his word, this gavver. He’d kept his mind open, questioned them, yes, but not questioned their word. She couldn’t bring herself to repeat the evasion.