Moonlight Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 9), page 10
Goose cursed.
His face pimpled with sour sweat.
Bicycle wheels crunched on the gravel in the lane. Vicar Hume rang his bell. Goose eased away from the door. He ducked and sprinted across the garden into the shadow of the garden shed. He dropped to a crouch and crab-walked deeper into the shade, praying the vicar, who was now at the front door, wouldn't turn around. No matter how tight he squatted, a keen eye would easily spot him.
Vicar Hume knocked, then turned to face the garden shed.
Goose lowered flat on his stomach and slithered deeper into the shade. His breath hissed through dry lips. Air vibrated deep in his chest. If he threw a straight ball, it would bounce right off the vicar's black shoes.
The vicar took a step away from the door.
Then another.
He raised a hand to his brow.
The front door flew open. Louise hurried out. Laughing, she flew her arms around the vicar and dragged him inside.
Chapter 63
It was a day Fred Lowe would long remember and an evening he'd live to regret. He stood by the window in his office, holding a glass of red wine. Leather-bound books furnished the bookcases that ran the length of one wall. Legal tomes of various sizes were piled on a coffee table and around the coffee table and in piles near the door. Crates of books were stacked against a side wall. On his executive desk, a miniature replica of his beloved cottage stood next to a crystal paperweight. He kept his beige doctor's style briefcase at the side of his desk, hidden from view.
Below, the Carlisle rush hour had begun. Commuters hustled along the pavement, weaving, dodging, sidestepping in a relentless throng. Traffic crawled both ways along the road, the hoot of car horns fouling the city air.
Fred enjoyed the view. He rubbed his hands. Tonight, he'd catch up with Guy Bertram over a pint and pub dinner.
I'm like a father to that lad.
The sound of a vacuum cleaner travelled from the hallway.
Time to go home.
Fred drained the glass then slipped on his tweed jacket when a fist rapped his door.
It opened.
Mrs Raleigh, the office manager, a dour Scottish non-smoking teetotaller, strode into the room. She was a tall, thin, sharp-featured woman with a mouth crowded with small teeth. She always wore black. Black Mary Jane shoes with thick soles. Black cotton stockings in the summer and black wool in the winter. Black kilted skirts and black high-collared blouses. Even her grey hair, tucked in a tight bun, was coloured with dark streaks. The thick lenses in her black-framed glasses magnified her eyes so she always looked startled.
"Mr Lowe!" She showed her small teeth, glanced around the office and pitched her voice two octaves lower. "We need to have a wee chat."
When Mrs Raleigh showed up after hours for one of her wee chats, there was news.
Bad news.
Fred hurried to his desk, sat, and sucked in a breath. "Ah, I was meaning to ask you about the new receptionist. Is she sick?"
Mrs Raleigh closed the door. "I had to let her go." Her face crimsoned. "The employment agency, well…they wanted more money, and they wanted it in advance."
Fred stared at the window. "I see."
"Mind if I sit?" She didn't wait for his reply and folded her thin frame into the chair used for clients. She exhaled a slow gasp. "This is terrible."
Fred smelled cigarettes and strong drink on her breath. "Mrs Raleigh, are you quite alright?"
Mrs Raleigh's raspy breaths filled the silence. Tufts of grey hair poked from her flared nostrils. "Goodness me, Mr Lowe." She swivelled to look at the door. When she turned back, something bright flashed in her eyes. "Oh dear, oh dear."
Fred shrank back in his chair and watched with growing concern as her flat chest rose and collapsed. If she continued to breathe so hard, she'd never get the words out.
He took the initiative. "Did those two men come back?"
Mrs Raleigh eyed the bottle on the cocktail table and hesitated. "Who?"
"The two men in the shabby brown suits."
"Ooooh!"
"A glass of wine?"
Mrs Raleigh waved a skeletal hand. "I see the priest later."
"You Catholic now?"
"Well, he calls himself a priest." She was sitting on the edge of her chair, half-turned towards the wine. "Runs his own free congregation in Bardon Mill — Prophet Godfrey Hume. I am one of his women. Do you know him?"
Fred refused to let surprise crease his face. He'd heard on the grapevine that the vicar had a way with women. But stern, stiff-faced Mrs Raleigh!
He scrambled to his feet and hurried to the cocktail table. "You must have wine."
"Aye, I suppose it will give me something to confess." She moved her spectacles up her nose so her eyes grew very large. "And fortify me for what is to come."
Fred's left hand grabbed the bottle and the wine in his stomach turned sour. He poured. "It's not so bad, is it?"
She licked her thin lips. "You'd better pour yourself a stiff one."
Traffic rumbled from the street. A bark of laughter carried through the window.
Fred wasn't long in filling two glasses. When he was back behind his desk, he took a big gulp and forced a smile through his tense lips. "What's wrong?"
"There is something I have to tell you." Mrs Raleigh's eyes were unusually wide. The veins in the whites were startling. "You are no going to like it, Mr Lowe. No going to like it one little bit."
Chapter 64
Things would have turned out differently if Fenella hadn't returned to the Port St Giles police station and brooded over the misery of the Popping Stone crime scene.
She paced around her small office unable to shake from her head the frustrating search for Mr Trevor Gosbee and the thought there was more killing to come. Not that she'd mention it to her team. She wanted to keep their spirits high. But it was Monday afternoon. She was hot and tired and frustrated and making no progress.
"A homeless man can't just vanish." She returned to her desk, easing down into the chair and massaging the soreness in her calves. "And this Goose bloke is nowhere to be found."
"Aye, guv." Dexter, leaning against the wall, reached a hand into his pocket and pulled out a blue packet of peanuts. "He's like a bleedin' ghost, but he'll turn up alive and well and clueless."
None of Mr Gosbee's regular camps showed the signs of recent use. That worried Fenella. And that he had a camp near the Popping Stone that PC Raintree couldn't find added to her concern. She pushed a stack of files to one side and tapped her fingers on the desk.
"He's hiding from us." Fenella didn't like that thought or what it might imply. "Or else he's got himself in a spot of bother."
"Guv, you think he's sprawled in the bushes in a drunken stupor?"
Fenella couldn't rule it out. "Don't know. Thoughts?"
Dexter tore open the packet, shaking nuts into his mouth. He munched. "Reckon he's at an alehouse right now, supping a pint, eating a bit of supper and thinking about where he's going to sleep. Homeless folks are always desperate for a place to rest their head. Bet Mr Gosbee doesn't know we are looking for him."
Fenella pulled a face but said nothing. For the first time since taking on the case, she sensed they were getting bogged down. Outside, a police siren wailed from the courtyard. A woman's voice called out from beyond the closed door. The irritated buzz of a fly echoed as it flitted against the window. Normal, like every other day in the police station. Like before she took on the case.
But this afternoon differed from any other. She'd seen the crime scene. Seen what had happened, and a weekend had passed since the discovery and she wanted to understand what had happened and why.
Dexter must have read her thoughts. "It were a vicious attack, guv." He shook more peanuts into his mouth, munching slowly, his grizzled face crumpled. "Like a demented religious sacrifice with the Popping Stone as a hideous altar. Might be dealing with a spiritual maniac, a devout bloke who has lost his marbles."
Fenella shifted to the edge of her chair. "I'd better have a chat with the vicar."
"Vicar, guv?"
"Godfrey Hume, vicar at St Mary Magdalene. He's also a freelance pastor and uses the hall at the back of the Bardon Mill police station for his congregation."
"Is he the bloke above that giant crucifix in the Incident Room, guv?"
"Aye, and he's an artist, likes to paint landscapes." Fenella was beginning to feel better, like there was some light in the dark tunnel. And a natter with the vicar was bound to deliver some gossip bombs. She'd time it for lunchtime in the hopes he'd dish up something delicious. Her lips quirked. "He'll have heard something, might have an idea where Goose is holding out."
A light tap echoed from the door. Detective Constable Maggie Banville hustled in. Wayward strands of curly black hair escaped her two pigtails so she looked wild. Her peach face and grape-shaped eyes surveyed the room. She dashed to the desk, her thin frame crumpling into a chair, but she did not speak.
Fenella remembered Maggie and Dexter spent the day in Newcastle. Now she hoped they had something good to say, something to move the case forward.
She brightened. "How'd it go in the big city?"
Maggie shrugged. "Feel like an old lady, ma'am. Out of touch, you know what I mean?" She cast an unfocused gaze at the window. The fly crawled up the glass, buzzing. "Things change fast on the street. It is hard to keep up. And it has been a while since I knocked on doors." She pulled out a notebook, opened it, and jabbed a finger at the page. "Half of my old contacts are no longer working the streets, and the other half had nothing to report. No one's gone missing from the crowd; they knew nothing about drug dealing in Gilsland; most don't know where it is."
Dexter grunted. "We've drawn a blank with the Newcastle gangland idea, guv. If there is a link between the body at the Popping Stone and that city, we ain't got a clue what it is. Reckon the vicar is the best shot now."
The room darkened. It began to rain. A slow pitta patter, smearing the window with large drops. The fly continued to fret against the glass.
Fenella cast her gaze at the widow. "Any joy with the victim's name?"
"Radio silence, guv." Dexter crumpled the empty packet and tossed it in the bin. "Not much of a result today. Nothing on Goose. Nothing from Newcastle and nothing on the victim's details. House-to-house inquiries have turned up nowt." His gaze moved slowly from Fenella to Maggie and then to the closed door. His voice dropped an octave. "Let's hope the slaying was a one-off, with no more killing to come."
Chapter 65
At first Fred Lowe didn't believe it.
He sat in a dim corner of the Gilsland Arms nursing a pint of milk stout, his stomach churning, mind picking over what he'd been told. All he knew about what had happened came from Mrs Raleigh.
Ahead, the landlord ran a rag across the scarred mahogany counter, whistling a popular tune. He paused, looked around, touched his pointed grey goatee and resumed his melodic whistling. Four old-timers gathered around a long bench table playing Monday evening dominoes. On Tuesdays, they played darts. At seven, the game would end. They'd ease to their feet, wave at the landlord, chatting and laughing and enjoying the summer evening light as they ambled home for their supper. On Wednesdays, they dined in the pub with their wives. More chatting and laughing and gossip. Fred knew. He joined them, had done so for donkey's years.
On Mondays, though, the old-timers left him alone. It was his time to relax after the first day at the office, and when he got to know Guy, it was their time to chat quietly over a plate of pub food. Louise introduced them then whispered under her breath.
"You'll be like a father to him."
Fred sipped, tasted bitterness, but not from the hops. Mrs Raleigh, the office manager, had dabbed her eyes and gulped her wine as she relayed the details of what had happened. Her Scottish brogue became more and more unintelligible as she went on. He got the gist, though. Understood her shock. He took a slow sip and glanced at the door, waiting for Guy Bertram.
And an explanation.
Chapter 66
The landlord wandered over. "How do."
Fred picked up the beer mat, looked underneath it and grunted. "As I suspected, dirty."
The landlord wiped the table with a cloth. "Better now?"
Fred stated at the wet lines left behind and frowned. "I hope this does not reflect on how you keep your kitchen."
The landlord shook his head. "Two men came in and asked about you. Both were wearing shabby brown suits. Looked like a pair of tramps fresh from their scavenge in back-alley dustbins."
Fred shifted his weight. "Nothing important, I'm sure."
The landlord wandered away, whistling. The tune trilled with the merriness of a skylark. At the bar, he slapped the counter as if playing the congas in his own fictional band. Two tourists ambled through the door, their bright green cagoules and new red rucksacks giving them away. They bobbed their heads at the barman, then hesitated, eyes glued on the menu scrawled with chalk on a blackboard.
Fred undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his grey tie. He usually relished his Monday catch-up with Guy. A pint, a chat, and a plate brimming with pub food. A pleasant way to spend a summer evening for a sixty-three-year-old, thrice-divorced man. A family of sorts. A son he never had.
His phone pinged.
A text message.
Against the background of gruff grunts from the dominoes game, the savoury smells swirling from the kitchen, and through the excited yammering of the tourists asking about the steak and ale pudding, Fred read on. Then he sent a reply.
He sipped his ale but tasted only bitterness.
Then the pub door opened.
Guy Bertram shambled through the doorway, his face pale and eyes damp.
Chapter 67
Guy wore a ragged black T-shirt and grimy blue jeans. He gazed at the tourists, then shuffled to Fred's table and slid into a chair.
"You've heard?"
"Mrs Raleigh told me." Fred lifted the pint to his lips, tasting nothing. "How could you?"
"It wasn't my fault."
"What do you mean? Don't you realise how much it meant to her? She's been like a mother to you and look how you treat her!"
"It was a…" Guy hesitated and rubbed his jaw. "…mistake…err…an accident."
"Running down customers with your shopping cart is no accident. Nor is swearing at a co-worker." Fred dipped a hand into his inside pocket, pulled out a comb and raked hair across his bald spot. Then he jabbed a finger. "Nor punching the store manager who happens to be Mrs Raleigh's cousin! What were you thinking?"
Guy's shoulders slumped. "I got fed up being bossed about. Got mad at the never-ending customer questions, and that co-worker was asking for it. I swear, I'd rather get stung by a swarm of bees than put up with an idiot like that. And the manager drove me right up the wall. I'm not cut out for the supermarket cart lark."
"You need a job." Fred thumped his fist on the table. "They almost called the police. You've got Louise to think about. With all your spreadsheet planning and a bit of luck, she'll get pregnant, and you'll be a dad."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it." Guy raised his hands. "I'm sorry, really I am."
Fred tapped a finger on the table. "If you ever get into trouble again, call me. If the police haul you in, don't use the duty solicitor unless you enjoy spending time behind bars. Got that?"
Guy bobbed his head, lips turning up in a broad grin. "When she gets pregnant, I want you to be his godfather."
"Me?"
"If it is a boy, we'll call him Freddy. Frederica for a girl. What do you think?"
Fred smiled. Big and broad and wide. "Either name sounds wonderful. Frederica, eh? Well I never."
Guy wiped his eyes. "I love Mrs Raleigh and will make it up to her." He puffed up his cheeks and let the air out. "What I need is a job where I work on my own."
Unfortunately, Fred wasn't surprised by the turn of events. He wasn't sure he could blame Guy for what had happened. Nor was he blind and deaf to the future that lay ahead for an unqualified middle-aged man with an unsavoury past.
He sighed.
Soon the scales would fall from Guy's eyes, and he would know where his road ended. That day was almost upon the poor man. The day he looked back upon his shattered dreams and ahead to an appalling life, ageing and trapped in low-paying menial work. To make matters worse, he was married to a woman who insisted on the finer things in life. Their marriage charade wouldn't last much longer. The cracks were already worrying. Still, Fred wouldn't say that. Wouldn't drag up the past to knock Guy down. He didn't want to drive the man away. He wanted to keep him close. For Louise's sake.
The four old-timers laughed at something that happened in the game. One of the men jerked to his feet and did a twirling jig. The others clapped and cheered, their voices roaring with joy. The barman waved a rag above his head, joining in the fun.
Fred pushed his pint away. "What the hell do I say to Mrs Raleigh's cousin when I meet him at the golf club?"
"Tell him I'm sorry."
"Me!" Fred slapped his hand on the table. "Tell him yourself. Oh, and by the way, he has the right to press charges."
Guy's eyes glistened. "I'm down on my knees, Fred. I need your help. Can't you talk him out of it?"
The barman ambled over with a pint of beer on a tray. "Usual for you gentlemen?"
Fred nodded.
The barman placed the ale in front of Guy. "Steak and ale pudding with green peas and chips coming right up."
He wandered back to the bar, whistling.
Guy dabbed his eyes. "Can't you pull a few strings?"
Fred started to say something about it being Guy's fault, then changed his mind. "Look, I'll speak with him, smooth things over. But your job at that supermarket is over. You are banned from the store for life. Don't go near the place, not even on the bus." Again he jabbed his finger. "And you still need a job."
"Not a problem… err… I have countless friends." Guy swallowed a mouthful of ale. "I'll ask around."
