Twisted Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 3), page 12
Just as his head dipped to review his betting slip, his phone hummed.
Aunt Rose.
He debated.
Then he answered. "Can't talk long… I'm at work… Don't make supper… No, I won't be back. Found a new place… Yes… you can have your bedroom back… No… might visit at Christmas or in the New Year… It's work, you know. Uh-huh… uh-huh…"
He glanced up at the sound of the store door opening. A man in a baseball cap, black shirt, and dark leather trousers gazed about. He carried a black backpack, clapped his gloved hands to shake away the cold, and hurried to the short line at the counter. A beanpole of a woman followed him into the store. She grabbed a betting slip, marked her selections, and joined the queue.
Nash continued, "A break-in at your place… Cash gone from a box under your bed… No, don't call the police. I'll take care of it… Lot of it going about... okay... uh-huh… Nowhere is safe these days. Be sure to lock your doors and check the windows… You don't have any cash for food... No… I can't give you any back, and I don't get paid till next month… make do and mend, eh? I know… I know… You can stretch your stash of dried peas until then… I'll let you know... Of course… I'll miss you too. Bye."
Since he had a few days off, it might be worth organising a jolly in Spain. This weekend? Yes, fly out on Friday, back Sunday night. He'd text Dexter, see if he was up for it. The Old Amigos back in the game, and this time they'd be rolling in cash. He could still drink his friend under a bus. Nash grinned.
He scrolled through his phone, searching for Dexter's number. As he pecked out a text message and pressed send, he had the unshakable feeling that someone was watching him. He turned to his right. The man in black he vaguely recalled coming into the store peered at his betting slip.
"You look like you are on a winning streak," the man said. "I'm thinking about a flutter on Presuming Ed for the eleven fifty-five a.m. at Market Rasen. What do you think?"
"Fast Deal to win," Nash replied, then for the first time, took in the man. He had a thin face with deep-brown eyes and a wispy devil's beard, the colour of faded carrots. He wore black with a youthful figure. Except he was in his late forties at least, and that devil's wisp and those staring eyes gave him the look of a deranged toy doll. "Do I know you?"
The man shook his head, gaze never leaving Nash's face.
"We've never met."
The door opened. Not that Nash paid much attention. He said, "Not local to these parts, are you?"
"No," the man replied. "Not a local. But you are Rab Nash, right?"
Instantly alert, Nash was on his feet and took two paces back. He'd put a lot of folks away in his time. You never knew when a long-forgotten perp who'd been released might come back to wreak revenge. And the crazy-doll stare of the man rang an alarm bell in his memory banks.
"Who are you?" Nash demanded. "What do you want?"
Before Nash reacted, the man with the devil's-wisp beard reached into his backpack, pulled out a large envelope, and thrust it into his chest. Instinctively, Nash's arms closed around it.
"For you," the man said.
"Courier, are you?" Nash asked. Again, he took in the man. Not more than five foot in height. Had a girlish look, if you ignored the face. No weapon. Still, it didn’t feel right. "Stay right where you are. Don't move."
"Okay," the devil's wisp said, palms raised. "Just doing my job."
Nash tore open the envelope: one sheet inside, folded. He glanced back at the devil's wisp. "Don't budge, and keep your hands where I can see them."
He unfolded the sheet and read:
We know what you did.
His head jerked up. "How the hell do—"
A firm hand gripped his shoulder. It clamped as tight as a crow's claw and came from behind. Nash spun.
"Thought I'd find you here," hissed his ex-girlfriend. She wore a red silk blouse too sizes too small, and she fixed him with the stare of a python.
Behind, stood her brother, biceps the size of cannonballs. For a moment Nash thought he could make a dash for the door. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the devil’s wisp scurry from the store.
The brother gripped Nash by the arm with an iron clasp of steel, and gazed at him the way a cat regards a wounded mouse.
Chapter thirty-five
It did not matter whether Fenella believed it.
The clock tick-tocked to the ten o'clock hour as she pulled the Morris Minor into the kerb at Harbour View Terrace. It was a narrow cobblestone street with a derelict canning plant on one side. Twisted steel and rubble and rotted wood. Opposite, stood a terrace of brown-brick Edwardian homes with boarded windows, smashed tile roofs, and doors bolted shut. You could smell the rot and decay.
Fenella did not believe Liz Slough died at the hand of cannibals. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t check out Dr Mackay's idea. She wanted a quiet chat with Yaz about her boyfriend, Liam Frisk. She'd got word from PC Beth Finn that Yaz and her daughter had moved into a squat with a group of Highland travellers. The ragtag bag of New Agers moved south from Scotland every winter to spend the dark months in the north of England.
She scanned the empty street and got from the car, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the morning sun which shone through chinks of thick cloud. The thin rays of gold did little to raise the chill. Was the death of Liz Slough an act of some cultish group? What about the kidnap of Jade Marsh? Why would a gang of weirdo worshippers snatch a disabled child? A wave of frustration surged at her lack of answers. She tilted her head to ease a growing knot of tension, then considered.
Fact: Bowder Woods was in a quiet and rural part of Cumbria where tourists ambled along the trails, ate in quaint cafés, and shopped in flea markets. The worst they'd meet on a weekend hike was bleating sheep, not bloodthirsty worshippers with knives.
No! Druids and witches sacrificing humans on top of the Bowder Stone for their dinner seemed like wizards and fairies, pure fantasy. Something you'd read in a fairy tale or watch in a horror movie. A long shot.
There was only one problem. In her line of work, long shots often came through.
She peered along the street, squinting against the glare of the sun. Which house? It turned out to be easy. The plume of smoke billowing from a chimney pot gave it away.
A thin sheet of plywood secured with two hinges made up the front door. No need to knock, a sharp shove eased it open. A whiff of boiled vegetables, mould, and damp carried on the warm air. Dim inside it was, but doable with the naked eye. A long hall with a flight of stairs to her left showed, and four doors to her right.
No point searching the place; they'd have heard the door creak.
She shouted into the dim, "Detective Inspector Fenella Sallow, come for a chat with Yaz."
A slurred voiced called back from the shadows. "Are you here to serve notice of eviction?"
She'd expected a wild-eyed Highlander with a square jaw and shaggy beard. But the man who stepped into the hall was stick thin with an Oxbridge accent. He wore dark trousers, a shirt with a striped tie, and held a mug in his left hand.
"I'm not here to evict anyone. I'm with the police. And you are?"
"Mark Stowe, social worker." He stared with a bleary gaze. Definitely a whiff of alcohol about the man. He raised his mug, took a long sip. "Along the hallway, second right for Yaz's room."
"Anyone else here?"
"People come and go."
He drained the mug, placed it carefully in a crate, which rested to one side of the door, gave a curt nod, and hurried out into the cold.
Chapter thirty-six
Fenella stepped into Yaz's room, took in the peeling wallpaper, water-stained ceiling and piles of cardboard. The mingled scents of sweet marijuana and sour sweat filled her nostrils.
Yaz sat cross-legged on a pile of blankets pushed against the wall. Her head was bowed with both hands on her swollen belly. The soft sobs might have been taken for gentle laughter if it were not for her tear-stained face.
"Go away."
Fenella pushed a pile of cardboard into a rough mound and sat opposite Yaz.
"How is the pregnancy going?"
"Pigs!" Yaz covered her face with her hands.
Was she living in this room alone? Where was Peace?
"I just saw Mark Stowe," Fenella said. "Is he your social worker?"
"Damn pigs!"
"Are you talking about me or Mark Stowe?"
Yaz waved her hand. "Them."
"Them?"
"Social workers in general, you know?"
"No, luv. I don't. Why don't you tell me?"
"They've taken Peace from me. That's why Mark came. He said I could cope on my own but was overruled by the 'pig.'"
"Does this 'pig' have a name?"
"Dawn Ross. She used to visit me in the old squat. I looked forward to it, a chance for an adult chat. But today she said she was in charge of the show."
Fenella had spoken with the head of the social workers. Her name was Claire French. Who was Dawn Ross?
Yaz was speaking. "The pig came here yesterday, turned nasty and ordered them to take Peace away today."
Fenella's stomach tightened. "They'll take her someplace safe. Did they give you an address?"
She nodded. "Mark stayed to explain but I don't really understand. He said they will take my babies away when they're born. Pigs!"
They sat in silence for a moment. Fenella looked around the room, focusing on the mound of cardboard and crumpled sheets against the wall. That must be Peace's bed, she thought and saw why they'd taken the young lass into care. Same for the bairns when they showed up. All the same, she'd not like to be the one to order a child taken away from its mother.
Yaz said, "After the fire at Seafields Bed and Breakfast, we came here. Peace went to school, did her classes, and came home with the other children in our camp. What did I do wrong? Why are they picking on me? Why not the others with kids?"
Fenella wondered how many children lived in the squat. It dawned on her that New Age travellers were just families moving around the country. She'd have a word with the woman Yaz mentioned, Dawn Ross, see if they couldn’t work something out for the lass. A decent place to live, for a start.
Yaz said, "I miss Liam."
"Tell me about him."
"Love at first sight." Yaz rubbed her stomach. " We met two years ago on the June solstice. A happening at the Bowder Stone."
"Oh aye?"
"He was into the mystical. Not me, though. Women must be more practical. But it was a fun time, chanting and dancing and drinking at sunrise. And we did our best to leave the countryside untouched." She stopped and sighed. "I don't know, but these past few months he turned weird."
"I'm not with you, luv."
Yaz waved her hands. "Life was a quest for Liam. You know, one of those adventure games where you pick up clues as you go."
"Aye, luv. My grandbairns play them."
"No. Not kids' games. Adults play these games in the real world. Swords, knifes, shields, magical powers."
"Magic?" Fenella tried to make sense of that but gave up. "You'll have to help me out, pet. My old brain cells aren’t keeping up. What is all of this about magic?"
"We smoked pot and that helped with the…" Yaz stopped as if suddenly aware she was talking to a police officer.
"I'm listening, luv."
"You are the police."
"It's a big force, pet. I'm not with drugs. That's the regional crime squad in Carlisle. I'm local."
"Still."
"Won't go any further than these four walls."
Yaz let out a long breath. She needed to talk.
"Liam smoked pot. It helped him get deep into the games so they felt… real." She held Fenella's gaze. "I joined in until the babies started to show. Then a few weeks ago, he turned odd."
"How do you mean?"
"I don't know. Moody, weird." She stared at Fenella as if she were going to cry. "He kept saying our problems would soon be over. That we'd build our own eco-friendly house with the money."
"What money?"
"He did a bit of work for the Yew Tree Inn in Seatoller; didn't pay much, though." She stared at Fenella through wide eyes. "Then on the day of the fire, he wouldn't let us out of the room. He stripped off his clothes and started swinging that samurai sword. We tried to stop him from jumping through the window, but it was like he was in his own world."
Fenella said, "Had he been smoking pot?"
Yaz didn’t answer, covered her face with her hands. "He looked back at me, smiled, then jumped. It was horrible. His screams… like a wild animal."
Fenella kept quiet. Liam Frisk had not gone quick when he hit the ground. Suffered. She moved the conversation on.
"Where did he get his gear from?"
"The sword?"
"And the helmet and goat-hoofed boots?"
"The Ghost."
"Is that a fancy-dress store?"
"Nah, just a nickname."
"Man or woman."
"Don't know."
"You didn’t ask?"
"I dunno. It was all a big secret." Again, she looked at Fenella with those large, innocent eyes. "Liam started to go weird after he met the Ghost. But in my condition, I didn’t want more fights. Not good for the babies."
Fenella thought about that and said, "So you two argued about the Ghost?"
"I wanted Liam to myself, but the Ghost took all his time."
It still wasn’t clear to Fenella. She said, "Are you saying you argued with Liam because he spent his days playing adult adventure games with the Ghost?"
"Games? No. No. Liam was involved in a new business venture. Top secret." Yaz began to sob. "He said the Ghost would make us rich beyond our wildest dreams."
Chapter thirty-seven
When the detective came, Sal was standing by the curtains in the drawing room staring at the lawned garden and the gravel path that led to the vegetable plot.
It wasn’t the doorbell with its soothing classical melody that stirred her from her muse, but the hard pounding of a fist and sharp slap of the brass door knocker.
He had called ahead, Detective Sergeant Robert Dexter, said he'd stop by to see if there was any word from the kidnappers, and to update her on the case.
Sal jumped at the thump of his fist and hurried to the hall, touching the stud in her ear as she went. She paused at the oak door and counted to ten. I've done nothing wrong, she told herself repeatedly until the words felt like solid planks of truth. Still, she'd keep him away from the garden, didn’t want him nosing around in her vegetable plot.
Another hard knock followed by the rat-a-tat of the brass knocker. Why didn't he ring the doorbell? It was less jarring on the nerves. Sal sucked in a long, slow breath, pressed down the latch, and flung open the door.
"Morning, ma'am." Dexter glanced at his watch. "Ten thirty is not too early for you, is it?"
"Any news?" She'd not expected any word but felt she had to ask.
"Couldn't put the kettle on, could you?" He clapped his bare hands, and Sal noticed he was in a shirt with no jacket. "Nowt like a drop of tea to warm the insides."
"Of course," she said turning to lead the way.
He followed her to the kitchen and sat at the pine table, glanced about, and said, "Must have been a terrible shock for you, Jade gone missing and your husband and dad in hospital?"
Sal kept her back to him as he spoke and fussed in the cupboards for a large mug. He'd not want a china teacup. Not with that cold outside and him with no jacket. And she needed time to gather her thoughts, concentrate, so she did not seem nervous.
He said, "How are you coping, Mrs Marsh?"
Only then did she realise this was his second question. She did not turn around, continued to fuss in the cupboard as though making a mug of tea was as delicate an operation as brain surgery. Then she heard the caw of a crow and thought about the kitchen window. It looked out over the vegetable plot. Should she draw the curtains?
The detective was speaking. "All this must have been a terrible shock for you, Mrs Marsh?"
"I cry myself to sleep every night," Sal said, spooning sugar into the mug. She couldn't turn around to face him. Not yet. Not until she forced a drop or two of water into her eyes.
There was a moment of silence.
Dexter said, "Your dad is doing well. Bet that'll be a relief for you, won't it?"
She turned, eyes glistening. "Oh yes. At his age the shock of all that has happened… well, I worried it might kill him. But he slept well and is out running errands. Dad likes to help."
He looked at her with X-ray eyes. She supposed they trained detectives to stare like that, put you on edge, make you want to talk. But she held her tongue and again turned away.
He said, "Your husband, Mrs Marsh."
"What about him?"
"You haven't asked how he is." He took a sip from the mug, eyes never leaving her face. "Me and my Priscilla are getting wed soon."
His change of direction confused Sal. "Who is Priscilla?"
"My other half. She's a singer. Works at a nightclub in Whitehaven."
"That must be nice," Sal replied, not sure where he was going. "To be a singer, I mean. My voice sounds like the crows at dawn when I sing."
"Me and you both, eh?"
Sal relaxed. When they said they were sending a detective, she'd had visions of being told to sit at the table under a bright light. Lots of questions too. Just like in those old black-and-white prisoner-of-war movies. But the man was so normal, she'd not look twice at him in the street. And he seemed more interested in talking about himself than anything else. This would be easy.
"Aye, my Priscilla has the voice of an angel." Dexter opened his mouth as if about to sing, appeared to think the better of it, and took a long sip of tea. "Have you thought of getting your voice trained? You can do that these days, you know."
