Moonlight Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 9), page 11
"Actors and filmmakers and wannabe novelists!" Fred snorted. "All between gigs and dearly in need of paid work."
"I've other friends."
"Yeah right, from your days in the circus. Snap your fingers and Koko the clown will find you a regular job, right?" Fred leaned in. "Have you told Louise?"
Guy rubbed his moist eyes. He looked weary, wilted, all colour gone. "Louise will go nuts if she finds out I've been…let go."
"You can't hide this from her." Fred shook his head. "Guy's latest triumph, eh?"
"I'll do anything now." Guy's voice came out in a pleading sob. "Any job, just to show her that I'm trying. I want our marriage to work. I love her so much it hurts."
Fred hesitated. Guy had spent years hanging around a screenwriting crowd and creating fictional worlds. Before that, he worked in a travelling circus filled with wild animals and clowns. The man was out of touch. He had no formal qualifications, either. At fifteen, he left school to try his luck with life. So far, his teenage dreams had delivered a big fat zero. Then there were Guy's other activities. Criminal activities and his police record. If he couldn't last a day as a trolley attendant, what could he do?
Fred sighed. "I've a friend who is looking for a water closet engineer."
Guy brightened. "Sounds interesting. What do I do?"
"They supply rubber gloves and your first scrubbing brush." Fred tried to sell it. "It's a tremendous opportunity to get your foot on the first rung of the ladder, and you get to work on your own."
"But what's the job?"
"Toilet attendant."
"I'll… err… " Guy glanced at the four old-timers as though he wished he could swap places. "…think about it."
"I'm doing this as a favour, putting my neck on the line to get you on the first step to your future."
"Yes, yes — Fred, yes, yes, yes, I see that, but scrubbing toilets?"
"When you are down on your luck and someone offers you a job, your only response is: 'Yes, please.' Is that clear?"
Guy sighed.
Fred jabbed a finger. "Is. That. Clear?"
Guy bobbed his head.
"Say it."
"Fred!"
"Say it." Fred folded his arms. He wanted Guy to take it seriously. He, himself, was deadly serious. "Say it now."
Guy muttered a low curse. "Yes, please."
"Louder."
"Yes, please."
"Are you sure?"
Guy rolled his eyes and spoke as if humouring Fred. "Yes, please, I want the closet engineer job."
"Good. You start tomorrow morning at seven. I'll text you the details."
"Eh!"
"Already spoken with my friend. I said you would do an outstanding job."
"Fred!"
"Everything bright and sparkling. Toilet bowls shimmering with gleam. You've got the green light and no fisticuffs, please."
"Toilet cleaner?"
"That's right."
"It's a nasty job."
"Someone's got to do it. This is your big chance. Take it."
Guy stood then sat and his eyes became glassy. "What do I tell Louise?"
"The truth."
"Oh, come on Fred. If I tell her I'm cleaning toilets, there'll be a massive bun-fight."
"She didn't marry you for your money."
"I…err…suppose so."
"Remind her it is temporary. This, dear boy, is the chance to create your new life. A chance to step into your future. Fate is calling."
Guy nodded but didn't look convinced.
Fred pushed on. "And tell your good wife that I found the job for you." He steepled his fingers. "Anyway, you and Louise fell for each other when you were a circus hand with nothing but empty pockets and big dreams. It's like a romance story from a Hollywood film, isn't it? True love, eh? Nothing can touch that."
Chapter 68
A moment before Fenella's phone pinged, she suffered a bout of anxiety.
It was seven the following morning. She waited in a clearing on the trail near the Popping Stone, massaging her neck muscles. The leaves rustled in the soft breeze. Warmth from the strengthening sun lifted woodland scents.
Her stomach churned.
She hoped her mad hunch would pay off and glanced back the way she had come. Seeing no one, she leaned against the trunk of an oak tree and looked at the sky. An osprey winged across the cloudless blue. It soared above the tarns and rivers, hunting for fish. As the bird dipped over the horizon, her phone pinged — a message from Dexter:
Got the name of the Popping Stone victim, guv. A Mr Peter Quelch from Newcastle. When he was ten, he got thrown out of school for thumping his English teacher. His life went downhill from there. The lout's got more form than animals in the zoo: con man, supplying a controlled drug, blackmail, robbery with violence. A nasty piece of work with gangland connections. Suppose that's why no one has come forward to say he is missing.
Her phone pinged again:
Taken two years ago, guv. That's the last time we had contact with him.
The photograph showed a middle-aged man with a narrow face, greying hair, a sly grin, hooked nose and small, ice-blue eyes. Taken at a police station, judging by the pale background.
Her phone pinged for the third time. Another text message from Dexter:
Superintendent Jeffery has ordered an 'all hands-on deck' meeting for nine-thirty. Big shots from Carlisle will be at the station. I'm updating the State of the Investigation document with details of Mr Quelch.
"Sorry I'm late." Mr Brad Pomfret strode along the trail with a gnarled staff in his left hand. A pair of binoculars hung around his neck. His stick-thin features were even more twiglike than when Fenella first saw him. Shep, on a leash, trotted at his side. "Glimpsed an osprey. Had to stop and watch."
They chatted for a few minutes about the weather, the osprey, the chances of rain, and the reason for her meeting him here. That's when he became still. An intense look etched on his grim face as though he feared stumbling across another gruesome body. As though he were considering turning around and heading home. Then he grunted and nodded, tapping the staff on the ground and talking in a soft voice to Shep. By the time they set off, Fenella was confident she'd made the right decision.
Chapter 69
Mr Pomfret followed the trail through a stand of ash trees then turned off, clambering over a stone wall, down a grassy bank and along a narrow track that snaked through a patch of brambles and deep into Irthing gorge.
Fenella kept up, legs stiff, calves sore, breathing hard, thankful for the cooler morning air. Their footfalls crackled over twigs and crunched the dry ground. Trees creaked as they brushed past. They moved so steadily, she almost missed Mr Pomfret's whispered words.
"Over there." He pointed with the staff. "Is that what you are looking for?"
Fenella followed his gaze, seeing only brambles and bushes and trees. "Where?"
Mr Pomfret eased forward, brushing aside twigs and branches with his staff. "There!"
Fenella saw a tangled pile of wood and corrugated iron. Junk dumped by a fly-tipper on a long-ago moonless night. Then she got the shape of the thing — a man-made shelter. It looked like a run-down shed.
She turned to Mr Pomfret with a broad smile. "Aye, that's it!"
Mr Pomfret crouched to pet Shep. "That's the hut where Goose stays when he is in this area. Never been inside, got a thing about cramped spaces. Watch your head."
Fenella hurried ahead and found an opening that passed as a door. "Hello?"
Nothing.
"Mr Gosbee?"
Silence.
"This is Detective Inspector Fenella Sallow. Trevor, I need you to come to the door."
She waited thirty seconds, then ten seconds more. Hearing nothing, she flipped on her phone's torch and slipped inside.
Chapter 70
It was dark with a low ceiling.
The dank air held the lingering scent of unwashed bodies and alcohol; a stench so thick it soured the tongue. Fenella stooped as she shuffled across the dirt floor and aimed her phone at the far corner. Its beam picked out a scatter of ale bottles, baked bean cans and fast-food wrappers. A chaotic stack of boxes lined one wall — rusted metal, plastic and cardboard. A cock-eyed workbench squatted in the corner. Its slanted surface crammed with old tins, each with a faded handwritten label. In a windowless corner, a clump of sacks and straw formed a makeshift bed.
She stepped further inside, swinging the beam from left to right. There was no sign of Trevor Gosbee. Nothing except the piles of rubbish and the foul smell.
Then, as she peered down at the straw bed and saw a crumpled card. She picked it up with gloved hands and smoothed it out. It was the size of a postcard. A photograph. Grainy and faded with stains on one edge. Two men sat at a table, each with a pint of ale. Neither smiled. A third man, with a grey goatee, watched in the background.
Fenella glanced around once more, then shuffled back through the opening. She blinked and then peered at the evidence bag with the photo inside. In the brighter light, more of the image revealed itself. There was an ashtray on the bench table. And a smoky look to the image. The faces of the men were flushed as though a moment of excitement had just passed.
She held it out to Mr Pomfret. "Do you know either of these men?" She pointed at the second man and then tapped a finger at the man watching in the background. "Are they familiar to you?"
Mr Pomfret glanced at the image. "That's Goose, Trevor Gosbee. Snapped in the Gilsland Arms because that man in the background with the grey goatee is the pub landlord, Simon Reade." He twisted Shep's leash in his left hand. "I've seen the other guy in the village, not local. Don't know who he is."
But Fenella knew. She recognised the narrow face, hooked nose, sly grin and ice-blue eyes of Mr Peter Quelch.
Chapter 71
An hour later, Fenella was at the Gilsland Arms. She wanted a chat with the pub landlord, Simon Reade. The sun was well above the rooftops; the day threatening to be another hot one.
She stood by a side door in a cobbled alley, listening to the sounds of the village. A tractor rumbled from the lane against the fading dawn chorus. Footsteps clattered on the pavement. A woman's voice called out and a small child laughed. The warming air held the scents of mown grass and leaves and the tang of ale.
She glanced at her watch.
Best be quick.
After, she'd head to the Port St Giles police station for Superintendent Jeffery's "all hands-on deck" meeting.
She was about to knock when the door flew open. A man with darting eyes in a black dressing gown and bare feet stepped out, peered both ways along the alleyway, rubbed his grey goatee and scowled. He held a cigarette in his right hand.
"A bleedin' day late!" His eyes moved back to the alley as he spoke. "I don't like that. Where's the van?"
"Mr Simon Reade?"
The scowl deepened. "Who are you?"
"I'm with the police, luv." Fenella flashed her warrant card. "Mind if I come in for a chat?"
His eyes, still moving, grew wider. He took a long drag before replying. "What's this… err… about?"
Fenella hesitated. He was the man in the photograph. Older, greyer, more flab about the gills, but it was him. Still, she wanted confirmation.
"You are Mr Simon Reade, the pub landlord, right?"
"Aye, that's me." He nodded, the colour vanishing from his face. He took another drag. "If this is because of —"
Fenella raised a hand. "You'll have heard about the body by the Popping Stone. I've a few questions."
"Oh that!" Relief rippled in his voice and his body visibly relaxed. "Thought you lot would be searching the woods."
"For what?"
"Well…I don't like to gossip."
"What you tell me is confidential."
"Locals are talking…saying things."
"Like what."
"That it's the work of the Gilsland Ghoul… a woman in grey who carries—"
"Aye, I heard about it, luv. What can you tell me about what you actually saw?"
"Me! I didn't see anything. Haven't heard anything either. So sorry, but there is nothing I can tell you. I've told as much to PC Raintree, this being one of his watering holes. I feel sorry for the poor sod that got topped. We all do. Wish I could help."
He moved to step back inside, readying to close the door.
Fenella raised her voice. "Tell me about your relationship with Mr Peter Quelch."
That stopped him.
He took a long drag on the cigarette, then nodded her inside.
Chapter 72
Mr Simon Reade led Fenella to a sparse kitchen with lemon walls, a massive window overlooking a garden, and a gas cooker three decades out of date. A pot of coffee simmered, its aromatic scent filling the room. From outside came a sudden burst of birdsong. Light and cheery and optimistic.
Fenella sat at the pine table and watched him stub out his cigarette and fill two mugs.
"Black?"
He had his back to her as he spoke, but Fenella sensed nerves.
"Aye, as it comes."
He lumbered to the table, taking his time, one mug in each hand, eyes focused as though thinking about what he might say.
With a tremendous sigh, he sat. "So, it's him, eh?" He took a gulp from his mug. "It is Peter you found at the Popping Stone?"
"Aye, that's how it looks." Fenella, too, took a sip. Strong. Flavoursome. A tasty brew. "A friend of yours?"
"I know lots of people." He raised the mug to his lips but did not sip. "Comes with the job."
It came to Fenella slowly, like the rising chorus of birdsong at dawn. His hesitation. The nervous twitch of his lips. A flicker of dread in his eyes. And the words of her old mentor, Jack Croll, flashed across her mind: "It's the guilty buggers we want, not the poor sods caught up by happenstance."
She leaned forward, tapping a finger on the side of her mug. "I'm only interested in his death. Nowt else. Tell me about Peter."
Mr Reade put the mug down. "Not a friend exactly, a bit rough around the edges for me. He was more of an… acquaintance."
Fenella took a sip and thought about that. "You did business with him?"
Mr Reade squeezed his eyes shut for an instant. "Off the record?"
"As long as you give me the entire story. No fragments. No puzzle pieces. Nothing to make me come back and ask you more questions."
He blew out a long breath. "Peter was good at getting deals; finding low prices on all sorts."
"Booze and cigarettes, eh?"
He tugged at his goatee. "Look, margins in this business are wafer-thin. I'd be a fool to turn away a gift horse."
The birds were singing again. Blackbirds, thrushes, wrens and finches, filling the air with their melodies. From an unseen field, cows mooed.
Fenella took a long gulp from her mug. "When I knocked, you were expecting someone else. Didn't even notice me at first. You were expecting a delivery from Mr Quelch."
Mr Reade's face scrunched. He said nothing for a long while. When at last he spoke, it was in a feverish rush. "I paid the bugger fifty per cent up front. They should have delivered new stock yesterday. Peter always got the goods to me on time. Not like the other rascals." He shook his head. "This is the first time it has been late. My God, I didn't know he was dead and was… hoping he'd still come through. This is mad, the worst thing that can happen to me. Fifty per cent up front and nothing to show for it!" He snorted. "You lot should be out looking for my money. Fat chance of that!"
Fenella didn't want him to get distracted by his woes and pushed him back on track. "When I knocked, you thought it was Peter with his van?"
He rubbed a hand over his goatee and plucked at a stray hair. "Peter never delivered the goods himself, too canny. He used a driver. Someone he trusted."
"Who?"
"Not relevant."
"I'll be the judge of that."
He glanced at the ashtray on the counter and licked his dry lips. "A bloke called Trevor Gosbee, nicknamed Goose. But he hasn't shown up, either."
Fenella leaned forward. "Are you telling me that Mr Gosbee and Mr Quelch were in business together?"
Mr Reade nodded then sighed. "Peter has a flat in Newcastle; don't know where else I would be kicking down his front door. Can't believe he has got himself killed. This mess has struck me right in my wallet, and that's a barbarous crime." He picked up his mug and slammed it down. "And don't ask me about Goose. I've no idea where the bugger is hiding. No idea what game he is playing. All I know is that he hasn't delivered the goods and that's left me out of pocket."
Chapter 73
Exactly thirty seconds before his day fell apart, Goose let out a contented snore.
Crowds swirled along Market Street in Newcastle that morning. Workers hurried to their jobs, some in expensive clothes, others in worn jeans and ragged T-shirts. Men and women, young and old.
"Hey, you!"
The woman's fierce voice rose above the hubbub. Goose rolled to his side, limbs twitching with sleep.
Who?
Where?
Gradually, his surroundings came into focus.
He was in a shop doorway; the marble flooring polished to a slick shine. A high-end fashion store. A blank-faced mannequin wearing lemon dungarees and a pink straw hat stood in the window. A white sign with large red letters proclaimed: Everything fifty per cent off.
He rubbed his eyes, his nose twitching at the scent of posh perfume. A stout-legged redhead on stilt heels with long pink fingernails scowled. She wore a tight cream blouse, a black leather miniskirt and clutched a Louis Vuitton handbag.
Goose judged her to be about five feet tall and thirty-five years old. She had a narrow mouth, perfect for sucking cocktails through a straw and spitting phlegm with precision in your face.
"You can't stay here, man." The redhead's nose twitched the way a child does when faced with an intolerable smell. "What do you think this is, a doss house?"
She glared at his squalid form as though he was something moist and nasty she trod in. As though he were something sinister that had crawled up from the gutter. As though he needed a high-heeled kick to slither back into the slime.
