Twisted Bones

  A Detective Inspector Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller

  Copyright © 2022 by N.C. Lewis

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

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  Author's Note

  Chapter one

  Monday, 1st March.

  Sprinting up the stairs, Fenella Sallow sensed she might be too late.

  Flames tore through the rear of the disused boarding house. On the landing, she stopped to glance ahead: only shadows which faded into dark and the thick stench of smoke. She shook her mobile phone until its torch flicked on.

  Six doors.

  Three on the right. Two to the left. That made five. The sixth was straight ahead.

  She paused. Which one?

  She glanced at each of the doors and lingered on the far door. It led to another set of stairs. She had counted each floor as she ran. This was the fourth. This was the floor. She could ignore the sixth door.

  That left five. If they each led to a single room, the search might take ten minutes. She didn’t have that long before the entire place went up in flames.

  And, take the young girl who yelled for help from the fourth-floor window to a hot, fiery grave.

  Again, she scanned the landing and again, she asked which door. They were all pale blue with chipped paint and brass doorknobs. No numbers. Each with a keyhole. Locked?

  The smell of smoke grew stronger. The crackle and spit of flames. Not ten minutes. Less. Five doors. Two lives. One chance.

  A dull cramp whirred in Fenella's gut. It fluttered like the slow fall of ash. She let out a breath. Then decided.

  She ran to the first door on the left, tripped on the uneven floorboards and steadied herself against the doorframe. Another breath, then she grasped at the knob, pressed down, and shoved with her full weight. The door eased open an inch, then stopped.

  "Hello?" Fenella shouted, keeping her weight on the door. "Anyone there?"

  Silence.

  There was someone or something on the other side. A body slumped against the door? That would be logical. She'd come across that in her day job for the Cumbria Police. A sudden stroke or heart attack in the kitchen, and down they go right by the door. Their bulk, deadweight. Impossible to shift unless you took the window.

  Nowt unusual in that.

  Except there were no windows in this dark hall. No glass to break. Nothing to climb through. And one other thing made no sense.

  Someone was pushing hard on the other side.

  "Police," Fenella shouted. "Open up."

  She kept her weight against the door, glanced at her mobile phone. She was not on duty, had been out for a jog when she heard the cries for help. Now she called it in.

  "Urgent assistance required. Seafields Bed and Breakfast."

  Help was on the way.

  But in a matter of minutes, flames would march through the entire building. Help would arrive too late.

  Another push against the door.

  Another push back.

  The girl who had called for help from the window was only seven years old. Was she on the other side of the door? What was her name? Fenella knew her mum, Yaz. New Age. Sandals, floral skirts, tattoos, pierced nose, dreadlocks, and eight months pregnant.

  "Peace, are you there?" Fenella shouted, remembering the child's name. She placed her right hand in the crack to feel for a latch on the other side. "There is nothing to fear. I'm with the police."

  "Go away."

  The deep-throated voice stunned Fenella. Her weight slipped. The door slammed against her left hand, bounced open in time for her to snatch it away before banging shut.

  A jolt of pain shot deep into her brain. She would have yelled bloody murder, but there was no time to waste on cursing, and the shock of the male voice dulled the sharp sting.

  That's when she heard the scream.

  A child.

  Peace.

  Adrenaline kicked in. She'd not let a child come to harm.

  Not on her watch.

  Never.

  Now she knew three things. First, she had the right room. Second, Peace was inside, and third, the child was with a man who didn't want them to get out… or the police to get in.

  One, two, three heartbeats to think. What was Yaz's boyfriend's name?

  She pounded on the door with her right hand. "Liam, Liam Frisk, open this door now. The building is on fire. Get out."

  Liam Frisk was Yaz's long-time boyfriend. He was a local. Wore white capes and danced barefoot at the Solstice. He and the other New Agers had a thing about the Bowder Stone.

  Fenella said, "We don't want your daughter to come to harm. Open up."

  The yells from the other side of the door became frantic. Not one voice. Two. Peace and Yaz. And they screamed like lambs in the slaughterhouse.

  Tendrils of smoke drifted along the hallway. Fenella tugged the doorknob and shoved. Liam was tall and stringy, six foot and some. She expected resistance. The door flew open with such speed, she tripped and slid across the hardwood floor, coming to a stop by a pile of bedding.

  In a heartbeat, she took in the room. The sour stench of marijuana. Scuffed walls speckled with cryptic letters. Brown water stains streaked across the paint-flaked ceiling. Cardboard boxes everywhere. No tables, chairs, or television. A squat.

  Fenella clambered to her feet, and again scanned the room. Yaz lay on a stack of blankets with one hand on her pregnant belly. A sprinkle of freckles covered her face, a dark contrast to her bright green eyes. Her child, Peace, sat next to her. They were both shouting and looking at the window.

  Liam Frisk stood by the large French panes. The same window where Peace had yelled for help. On his feet were fur-lined boots, brown, shaped like hooves. A helmet with two giant goat horns rested so low on his head it was impossible to see his eyes. In between the boots and the horns, he wore no clothes.

  Naked.

  Except for the Japanese sword, which he swung in his right hand. And he was laughing like a chimpanzee in the zoo.

  It took less than a heartbeat for Fenella to take it all in. A hostage situation? Cumbria Police brought in expert negotiators for such incidents. But they came from Carlisle, and the traffic on the A596 wouldn’t help. They'd not get here in time, even if she had dialled it in on her phone. And she hadn't. She'd called in a fire.

  Fenella said, "Liam, put down the sword and step away from the window. Now."

  He didn't step away but moved with a serene calm to open the window with his left hand. Warm air swirled around the room, stirring up the sour stink of weed and mixing with the faint trace of smoke. In the distance, the bleat of a police siren.

  "What's going on, Liam?" Fenella kept her voice soft. The big thing was to get him talking. Keep it all calm. Normal. "Come away from the window so we can chat. Mind you, we don't have long. The house is on fire."

  Still laughing, Liam Frisk clambered onto the windowsill and jumped.

  Chapter two

  Friday, 26th March.

  It was Friday morning, and Liz Slough was running late.

  Despite her rush, she checked the car mirror for the tenth time and kept well within the speed limit. She normally drove the narrow-hedged lanes of Borrowdale like a speed demon.

  Not today.

  She checked her mirror again.

  No one following.

  Thank God.

  She knew the route to Bowder Woods by heart. But at the gate to a field of fluffy white sheep, she doubled back on herself, then pulled the car to the verge near the brow of a hill, cut the engine, and waited. If she was being followed, she'd hear the growl of a motor and turn around and drive straight back to Red Thistle Cottage. There'd be no need to explain her absence. If asked, she'd say she fancied a drive, just to clear her head.

  Liz lowered the car window, took a swig from her water bottle. It was metal with a large black lid. She listened. Only the whoosh of unseasonably warm late March air and the distant bleat of sheep. Nothing moved in the fields. The hedgerows and bushes were still.

  She exhaled.

  At last, the long plan was nearing its end. She closed her eyes and went over it again. She might only be a nanny, nothing more than a modern-day servant, but her thirty-seven-year-old brain was as sharp as a tack. And her slender body was that of a Paris model. With careful make-up, she could pass as a teen. She had street smarts. Lived life hard and fast. Again, she took a slow sip from her water bottle.

  Vodka should not be rushed.

  Clear and discreet, it was her drink of choice during the long days of nannying. No smell. Who'd think a nanny's water bottle was filled with booze?

  She kept her eyes closed and went over the checklist in her mind. This she also knew by heart, had run through a hundred times each day for the past month, marked each recital with a black pen in her red, leather-bound notebook. Still, she went through it again. That was her way. Careful. Calculating. Clever.

  Yes, digital camera.

  Yes, Mr Moff, the one-armed, pink teddy bear.

  Yes, mauve butterfly pyjamas.

  And, yes, four-year-old Jade Marsh bound and gagged in the back seat.

  Liz paused, listening again to the bleat of the sheep, breathing in the warm air with its scent of damp hay and wild lavender. She took a swig from her water bottle and half turned to look at the child.

  Jade stared back, eyes wide and glistening. She was small for four years, not much bigger than an eighteen-month-old.

  Easy to snatch.

  Easy to carry.

  "Don't look at me like that." Liz turned back to stare at the lane. "It will be over soon."

  That's when she remembered the dagger. She'd missed it when she went through her list.

  Mistake number one.

  It was wrapped in clear plastic and buried deep in her handbag. It had a long, razor-sharp edge with a dull grey handle.

  Japanese.

  Fancy.

  Must have cost a packet, Liz had thought when she first saw it in a rosewood case in the drawing room of Red Thistle Cottage. She knew then she would find a good use for it. She liked knives. Knew how to use them.

  "It will be quick," she said. She did not turn to look in the car's rear. Did not want to see the face of the innocent child. Best that way. No regrets.

  Once again, she closed her eyes. She had tested the blade on a slab of raw beef before she left Red Thistle Cottage. Only the slightest of touch. The severed flesh had sent a quiver along her spine. Yes, she was ready. Now she went over the checklist again. She had to be more careful. No more mistakes.

  But there was one more. Mistake number two. She'd forgotten to pack medication. Without her daily injection, the child would not live long. Her jaw tightened, but she did not speak. Then she remembered the iced fairy cakes were still in the fridge and cursed.

  Jade whimpered.

  Liz opened her mouth to hush the child but closed it at the low growl of an engine. It echoed along the valley and up the brow of the hill. The number 78 bus from Keswick sped towards her. It grumbled along the lane like an angry dog. And she knew at once she'd made another mistake.

  How did she forget about the bus?

  Inwardly, Liz kicked herself. There'd be locals and one or two tourists on board. And it stopped near Bowder Woods on its way to the hamlet of Seatoller. The bus stop was near the trail she planned to take to get to the Bowder Stone. She watched in horror as the bus made quick progress towards her parked car.

  "Get down," Liz said. The two words came out as a savage bark. Jade whimpered but didn’t move. "Down!"

  Liz shoved the child so her body twisted in the car seat. Then she lowered her own head, clutched her damp hands tight on the steering wheel and, for the third time that day, prayed.

  The growl grew louder. The car shook. Liz held her breath.

  The bus drew alongside. It slowed to a crawl. Liz looked up in time to catch the stare of the driver. With a slight tilt of his head, his eyes slewed round until they looked sideways into the back of the car. A child thumped the window and pointed.

  And then the number 78 bus was gone.

  Liz felt her guts turn to water. They must have seen Jade with the tape covering her mouth and arms bound by red twine. How could they have missed her? She watched the lane, half expecting to hear the growl of the bus as it came back. Should she give up, head back to Red Thistle Cottage? Pretend it was a normal day?

  Jade would say nothing to her mum or dad.

  The child couldn’t talk.

  Couldn’t walk either.

  Helpless.

  Adrenaline surged through Liz's body like shards of fine electricity. She felt suddenly alive. Like she was dancing on stage with her favourite band, or worshipping at a charismatic temple. If only she hadn't forgotten those damn cakes to go with her booze, then she'd ride this high all day long. Yes, her task was more than physical pleasure. It was spiritual. She would not turn back. This was not a normal day.

  Liz reached an arm and yanked Jade upright in her seat. The child stared back, vacant eyes glistening.

  "We are going to Bowder Woods to see the giant stone." Liz took a slow sip from the water bottle. "You remember the ladder that goes to the top, don't you? It leads to an altar. Do you know what that is? It is where Druids make child sacrifices to appease the gods."

  Chapter three

  A giant sun shone in a clear blue sky with no hint of a breeze. It was Saturday, 10:00 a.m., and Fenella Sallow leaned back in her chair and let out a frustrated sigh. Her mind was empty of work, yet she couldn’t relax.

  She sat at a table on the mowed lawn of Grange Bake Shop Café. The last week of March had brought warm weather. The sweet scent of baking mingled with the tang of fresh-mown grass. Holly-blue butterflies flitted about a hedgerow. A soft splash carried from the river Derwent. It mixed with the low voices of patrons. Soothing. Easy on the ears.

  Fenella glanced at the box that leaned against her chair. It was the cause of her frustration. Thirty inches long, ten inches wide, an inch in depth, wrapped in brown butchers paper, and tied with a length of red twine. The village of Grange Flea Market always turned up odd items. Fenella usually enjoyed the hunt.

  Not this time.

  She had fought back a scream when she first saw it, struggled to control her breathing. But she could not walk away. Took her time with the purchase. It was only as she fumbled for her purse that a deep sense of unease settled in the pit of her stomach. And then it was too late. The stallholder had slipped it into a thin box and wrapped it in brown butchers paper, tied tight with red twine.

  "What you got there, then?" The question came from Eduardo, her husband. He carried a large tray with a blue china teapot, cups, and a plate filled with fancy pastries. He placed the tray on the table and smiled. "A gift for me?"

  "Why would she buy a lazy sod like you a gift?" This was Nan, Fenella's mother. "We were supposed to walk the trail to Castle Crag while my daughter poked about the flea market. And how far did we get?"

  "It wasn't my fault I pulled a muscle." Eduardo rubbed his left calf. "Can happen to anyone. Even elite athletes in the Olympics."

  "Yeah, but they don't get the cramps next to Mr Softie's ice-cream van," Nan replied. "You don't see gold medallists wolfing down a double-dipped cone as they race around the track. They don't lick their fingers and go back for a refill either."

  "I wasn't designed for exercise," Eduardo said. "I draw comics for a living. We visual artists have to stay out of the sun to protect our eyes." Once again, he rubbed his left calf.

  "You're a crafty bugger," Nan said. "It was your right calf earlier."

  "It moves about."

  Fenella laughed. "Why don't you both sit down so we can enjoy that pot of tea."

  "Got some tasty pastries too," Eduardo said as he sat next to Fenella and gave her a peck on her cheek. "Not like when we were students. Back then, I had to do unspeakable things just to put a few breadcrumbs on our plate. Fancy cakes were not in my price range. I lived on Pot Noodle."

 

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