Moonlight Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 9), page 13
But she didn't wait for a reply and strode into the alley.
Chapter 81
The alley led to an indoor market criss-crossed with stalls.
Women's clothes wrapped in clear plastic hung on iron hangers. Men in flat caps pushed giant barrels of fruit and wheeled vegetable carts stuffed to the brim. There were fishmongers, butchers, and bakers with fresh loaves cooling on racks, a Texas fried chicken stall, a curry shack and locksmiths galore.
There was even a stall with a sour-faced man selling giant stuffed carrots, like an evil vegetable version of a child's teddy bear but with dark button eyes and nasty snarls. Not that anyone paid attention to the giant carrots. Most were setting up their wares for the day, the longest line at Benny's Eatery.
Fenella stopped and looked around, unsure if they had time to wait. The sour-faced man with the giant carrot teddy bears sprinted to join the line at Benny's. No one would nick one of his items, not even the homeless woman pushing a shopping trolley filled with rubbish. She wore a ragged brown dress and prowled the market, her grimy hands darting at any object when the stall owner wasn't looking. She gazed at the stuffed carrots and shuffled on.
Dexter pointed at the Texas fried chicken stall. "I hear them chickens in America are bigger than a Christmas turkey, guv." He gazed as though he wished the stall was open. "Bigger than that Bernese Mountain Dog you petted. Don't know how they do it, and them spices they put in the flour make your tongue tingle with flavour. Never had Texas fried chicken, though. Bet those birds are even bigger."
Fenella said nothing. At the weekend, she'd visit the stall to sample a plateful of its offerings with Nan. Eduardo was on a strict diet. They'd leave him at home.
It was then she saw the old man, and her mouth dropped wide in shock.
Benny Slyden!
He wore a white uniform with a chef's cap at a slant and was stuffing a giant bacon sandwich between his gaunt lips. He was eighty if he was a day, but he moved between the grills with the grace of a ballet dancer.
"It ain't changed much, guv." Dexter was looking around with the same wonder he had whilst they were on Nun Street. "Just how I remember the place. Might have to wait a while. It'll be worth it, though."
The last fragment of resistance broke in Fenella. They joined the queue, and she decided to go for a sausage sandwich with a squirt of ketchup and a mug of tea. Then, refuelled, they'd be ready to have a poke around Mr Peter Quelch's last known address — a flat less than five minutes' walk.
They shuffled forward a few steps, the line of hungry patrons behind them growing. Benny continued to cook and eat and serve; his job made easier by two middle-aged women — his daughters. One daughter looked up, her pink, plump face flushed. She waved at Dexter and flashed a gapped-toothed grin.
Fenella remembered the woman. She remembered Dexter's fling with the woman. She remembered the trouble it caused. She snatched another glance at the grinning woman. The resemblance to a demented Halloween pumpkin was startling.
It was best to keep quiet, let sleeping dogs lie and all that, but Fenella was too nosy to stop her lips flapping. "Benjamina's looking well."
"Aye, guv." Dexter's eyes glittered like he was thinking about good times from long-ago with Benjamina. They gleamed like he was thinking of good times to come. "The lass ain't changed, either. Looks right tasty."
Fenella knew better than to poke her nose in or pry into his private life. But he'd brought up the lass, and as his manager, it was her duty to keep on top of things. She lowered her voice. "When did you see her last?"
"Years ago, guv." His eyes continued to gleam and glitter, with his lips curved up in a dolphin smile. "Now I'm wondering why I've left it so long."
Fenella said nothing. Had he forgotten that he once called Benjamina a "devil woman"? Or her wild screams and random rants? What about the cursing and the flying fists in that horrible incident at the church altar? It wasn't her job to remind him of the hell that lass caused. Not that it was all Benjamina's fault. Dexter shared part of the blame, and in truth, so did she.
They shuffled two steps forward. Fenella wondered if visiting Benny's was a mistake. It was difficult to forgive the unforgivable. Difficult to forget the brawl in that church.
A quick bite to eat, then on our way before old memories get stirred or Benjamina begins to rant and the fists fly.
Chapter 82
More vendors flowed into Grainger Market, their voices echoing, footfalls clattering. A short, fat woman with a happy face worked a broom across the way at the Texas fried chicken stall. They'd not open until eleven to catch the first flush of the lunchtime crowd. She put the broom aside and ambled over to join the queue at Benny's.
"Too long, guv." Dexter's gruff voice rose and fell in a strange singsong. "Way too long."
"We came here to track down Mr Quelch's place. We've not got time for a chinwag with old flames." But Fenella was curious about what Benjamina had been up to since the punch-up in the church. Her nosy gene, she supposed. "Maybe ten minutes for a quick natter, eh?"
A rail-thin man in a ragged apron appeared from the Texas fried chicken stall. He wandered over to the short, fat woman with the happy face, said something and pointed at Benny's menu. They spoke for several seconds more. Then the man ambled back to the stall and disappeared.
Benny snatched a slurp from his mug, munched on his bacon sandwich, and poked at sausages on the grill. Then he cracked open seven eggs. They sizzled and spat. Music played from overhead speakers. An old Jackson 5 song with Michael singing the lead. Benny shuffled and danced to the beat, his daughters laughing at his antics.
Dexter whistled a single note. Long and slow and merry. "Makes you think, don't it, guv?"
"About what?"
"What you might have missed."
"Eh!" Fenella hoped he wasn't still thinking about the good times with Benjamina. "How'd you mean?"
"Whether them doctors have it right. Look at Benny. Here day after day on his feet serving grease and slops." He paused and gazed at Benny. "And eating bacon sandwiches." Again he paused and the dolphin grin returned. "With the zeal of a chain-smoker puffing their way through a never-ending pack."
"Can't be good for him." Fenella didn't share Dexter's admiration. "All that saturated fat."
"The man's as fit as a fiddle, guv. Look at him! Heart as strong as an ox. Reckon one day the folks in white coats will tell us grease is good and pop it in pills for us to take daily." His voice dropped to a confidential whisper. "Might get me hands on Benjamina's phone number. Give the lass a call for old time's sake. Forgive and forget. What do you think, guv?"
Fenella stared straight ahead, thinking of a suitable reply when the screaming began.
Chapter 83
For a while, no one moved.
Fenella didn't know exactly how long the stillness lasted. The pop songs from the crackling speakers blurred to white noise.
Another scream echoed from the rafters. It split the air with the edge of shattered glass. As Fenella pinpointed the source of the cries, she heard Dexter's grizzled voice.
"Uh-oh."
Benjamina tilted her head back, eyes stretched wide, mouth even wider. A bone-chilling wail blasted from her lips as she raised her right arm, index finger pointing.
At Benny.
He clutched his chest, chef's cap gone and his face the colour of bleached bone. It was his eyes Fenella would always remember, stretched double the width of his wide mouth. He staggered against the grill and another withering wail trembled across the market.
This time it came from Benny.
Fenella couldn't recall how she got to the old man's side. She felt her arms around his bony form and glanced at Benjamina. Dexter held her in his arms, flashing his warrant card at the agitated crowd.
She turned her focus back to Benny. His bleached bone face frightened her. As did his wide eyes and mouth, an oval of pinkness visible inside. Her mind ticked over the cause of his sudden transformation. His hands were clutching his chest. Yes, she knew all about heart attacks, their sudden onset, and how to use a defibrillator. But where to find one?
Benny continued to clutch at his chest, the words unable to flow.
Maybe it started this morning when he rose from bed, feeling a bit off. Maybe a tingle of pain shot through him as he warmed up the grill. Maybe that last bite of bacon sandwich and dancing to the Jackson 5 tipped the scales the wrong way. There were so many maybes that flew through Fenella's mind but maybe wasn't an answer.
She leaned in close to his ear. He smelled of sausages and bacon and fried eggs and rancid grease. She hoped he didn't remember the incident at the church altar. Hoped he'd forgiven and forgotten. Hoped he didn't remember her face. "Chest pain, Mr Slyden?"
His face turned. He blinked. A flicker of recognition creased his scowling brow. "Fenella!"
"Aye, pet." Fenella kept her voice low, relaxed, soothing. She swallowed. "Your heart?"
"Don't be daft, my ticker's stronger than a teenage ox. I'm as healthy as a goat — a randy goat." He turned, his arm rising like Benjamina, index finger unfurling to a point. "Look!"
At that moment, a shout rang out from the fat woman with the happy face. An alert that set the crowd screaming and pointing, some running.
At first, Fenella thought it was a wounded bird. A chicken crawling through a gap from the Texas fried chicken stall. Except it was featherless and bigger than any bird dipped in seasoned flour with hot oil frying it to a crisp.
It was a man.
A naked man.
He crawled into the alley and rolled over, the ivory handle of a dagger visible in his chest.
Chapter 84
The police station in Bardon Mill buzzed with activity. At ten in the morning, the windows in the incident room were flung wide. Whatever breeze blew inside did little to cool the fevered atmosphere.
Still trembling from the shock of Grainger Market, Fenella stood before the whiteboard, trying to marshal a tumult of thoughts into order. Her phone pinged — a message from Superintendent Jeffery:
Heard about the Grainger Market incident. Not good, Sallow. Not good at all. As the Senior Investigating Officer, I urge you to get a grip. Now, about the matter we discussed earlier — changing certain members of your team. I shall proceed with the change request unless I hear otherwise. As always, you have my full support.
Fenella's grip tightened on her phone. She blinked then turned to scan the whiteboard. There were three fresh photos of Mr Peter Quelch — police mugshots taken over the years. In each, he stared at the camera with an expression of surprise. Only his ageing face and thinning hair revealed the passage of time.
Hastily taken snapshots of the crime scene at Grainger Market were placed next to the photos. Fenella lingered on the images, a sorrowful sensation welling in her chest.
She turned to face her team to settle. Dexter prowled the back of the room. Jones crouched in the front row with a laptop open on his knee. Detective Constable Maggie Banville sat next to him, chewing a pencil. At the door, PC Raintree, mug in hand, watched. PC Woods piled a plate with biscuits and waddled to the front row to sit next to Jones.
Fenella jabbed a finger at her phone. A reply to Superintendent Jeffery:
I'm satisfied that I have the right team.
Her gaze flitted to the last image on the whiteboard — a shot of the naked man with a dagger in his chest.
"Mr Trevor Gosbee, known by everyone as Goose." She quelled the tremble in her voice. "A homeless man and a known associate of Mr Peter Quelch."
The weight of regret pressed down on Fenella for not tracking down Trevor Gosbee before he was knifed. A wave of guilt washed over her. She thought about how Jack Croll would have handled it and felt like she'd messed up. And she thought of her old friend, Superintendent Algernon Wright, and the faith he'd put in her. She didn't think she deserved it. If they'd tracked down Mr Gosbee sooner, this whole mess might not have happened.
And now a terrible fear gripped her-the fear of yet another killing. She fought back a panic attack and continued. "We found Mr Gosbee next to a fried chicken stall, stripped of his clothes and stabbed in the chest with a fancy dagger. No witnesses." She nodded at Dexter. "That's right, isn't it?"
"Not even Mr Keith Heath or his wife Lizzie saw anything, guv. And they own that Texas fried chicken shack." He shook his head. "Ain't got a clue how it could happen in broad daylight in a big city like Newcastle. It's a bleedin' mystery."
Fenella glanced at the whiteboard. The case was growing more complex by the second. "Usual routine. Check CCTV in the surrounding area. Interview the witnesses from Grainger Market." She was about to mention the forensic report when she noticed Jones closing his laptop lid. "You have something?"
Jones jerked to his feet and looked around to ensure he had everyone's attention. "I think I've got it."
"Go on." Fenella was eager to hear what he had to say.
Dexter must have felt the same way. "Don't keep us waiting, lad. Lift the veil on what you've got for us. Go on, give it your best shot."
And the room fell silent, everyone waiting for Jones.
Jones took his time now. A smirk of satisfaction crossed his lips. "Boss, we all know Newcastle, like most other port towns, is awash with dodgy goods. Here's my theory: Mr Quelch was part of a gang with contacts in the Far East." Once more, he gazed around with a look that indicated what came next was important. "What better way to get rid of counterfeit booze and cigarettes than to sell them to pubs and clubs? I reckon we ought to have another word with Mr Simon Reade, the Gilsland pub landlord. There is a chance he is more than he says. Might be the linchpin. He might be Mr Big."
And Dexter did something Fenella never thought he'd ever do. He turned to Jones. "Aye, lad. There is a chance Mr Reade is our boy. Well done, me training is paying off!"
Fenella didn't know if she agreed, but she nodded to encourage the harmony of her team. "I've spoken to Mr Reade, but a second round won't do any harm. Get details on his whereabouts over the past few days. See to it, Jones, will you?"
Jones eased back into his seat, beaming. Maggie took the pencil from between her lips, ran a hand through her tangle of curly black hair, and cast a sly glance his way. Fenella picked up on their chemistry, although she wasn't sure whether it was healthy admiration or rotten jealousy.
None of your business, Fen. Focus.
She continued. "PC Raintree, go with Jones. A local face will calm Mr Reade's nerves. If the pub landlord has remembered anything else, I want to know the second it hits your ears."
PC Raintree nodded and ambled to the tea urn to refill his mug. Jones had more to say. Fenella nodded at him to go on.
"It might be dead simple, boss." Jones lowered his voice, clearly relishing his role in the spotlight. He cast a sideways glance at Maggie, his lips twisting in a high smirk. "A turf war over supplying under-the-counter goods to pubs, clubs, and inns. A rival Newcastle gang could have taken both men out." His voice crackled with electric energy. "Violent men will crush anything and anyone that gets in their way. Are we witnessing the first blows in an all-out gangland war?"
"Certainly possible." Fenella smiled. She didn't want to discourage his theory, although she thought the truth lay much closer to where they found the body of Mr Peter Quelch — the Popping Stone. "See what you can shake loose from the lips of Mr Reade. Focus on his other suppliers. I want names."
But there was another reason for her reluctance to accept Jones's theory just yet.
Mr Trevor Gosbee wasn't dead.
He was alive.
Fenella pointed at PC Woods. "Any word on Mr Gosbee's condition?"
"Nothing from the Royal Victoria Infirmary yet, ma'am." PC Woods slouched in his chair and folded his arms. "Last I heard, he was fighting for his life."
"I want you over there, sitting outside Mr Gosbee's hospital door." A thought struck her, and she glanced at Dexter. "Any word on his clothes?"
"Crime scene officers are searching, guv." Dexter gazed at the whiteboard and rubbed a hand over his chin. "Nothing to report on that score yet."
Fenella massaged her neck. "Track down Mr Gosbee's relatives."
Maggie's grape-shaped eyes gleamed in her peach face. "Ma'am?"
Fenella picked up the tone. Picked up the urgency. Picked up the importance before Maggie uttered another word.
She nodded at Maggie. "What have you got for me?"
"A man fitting Mr Gosbee's description attacked a woman at a high-end fashion store on Market Street."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
That cheered Fenella. They were making progress. "Details?"
"Miss Ruth Baily, the owner of Baily Fashions, reported a male vagrant lurking in her shop doorway. She tried to open up the shop and hurry inside, but the man lurched at her handbag. Tried to hoy it." Maggie popped the pencil between her lips and chewed for a moment. "Miss Baily put up a fight, and he legged it. Uniforms searched a nearby alley but found no one."
Fenella bounced on the tips of her toes. They were building a picture of Mr Gosbee's last known movements, and that cheered her even more. She flashed an encouraging smile at Maggie. "Have a word with Miss Baily, will you?"
Maggie nodded, making a note with her pencil.
Fenella clapped to signal the end of the meeting. "If anyone wants me, I'll be back in Newcastle. Time for a poke around at Mr Peter Quelch's last known address. Dexter, with me."
Chapter 85
A moment before Fenella's gloved hand touched the door handle of Peter Quelch's flat, before she noticed the scratches around the lock, before she staggered back in shock at the strange contents of the tiny bedsit, unease fluttered in her gut.
It was a top-floor room in a decrepit Victorian brownstone. Up four flights of creaky stairs and along a sour smelling windowless corridor with faded floral wallpaper and threadbare purple carpet. A single low-wattage red bulb dangled on a wire from the ceiling; its feeble light splashed the walls in blood-coloured hues. The only noise came from the creak of floorboards as they approached Mr Quelch's front door.
