Resurrection Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 6), page 16
The nurse in the blue uniform signed her in and walked her to Mrs Stoke's private suite. Now she stood alone inside the hospital room, bitter and determined, staring at the unmoving figure on the bed.
So, Superintendent Jeffery wanted her to investigate the illness of Mrs Eudora Stoke. She'd almost gone berserk with relief at the jaw-dropping news. Brilliant, was her first thought as Jeffery explained. Bloody brilliant. Lady Luck was back on her side. A large black bag rested on her shoulder, left hand gripping the straps.
The room was larger than she expected with the decor you'd see in a luxury hotel. Lush furnishings and oil paintings of the beach hung on the peach walls. Six vases, vibrant with colour stood in a cluster on a broad table by the curtained window. Sweet pea, peonies and white roses were a few she recognised. The fruit in the crystal bowl caught her eye. It wouldn’t be out of place in a still life drawing class. There must have been fifty cards of all shapes and sizes. The largest with giant red and gold balloons: Get Well Soon Mummy.
Ria's second thought, as Jeffery droned on, was less knee-jerk celebration and more thoughtful. She needed a new plan. When the call ended, she packed the black bag which now rested on her shoulder. No need for the doctor's white house coat or the mask with the evil Halloween scowl. She'd left the brown porter's jacket on the kitchen table. Only one thing rested soft and easy inside the black bag. Only one thing needed. The suffocation pillow.
Mrs Stoke lay under a thin white sheet. A mask covered her nose and mouth. Her face was the colour of uncooked pie crust. Dark sunken sockets marked her closed eyes. But Ria could make out the lines of her thick arms and fat legs. Tubes and wires led to unknown machines. My, how still she seemed. How vulnerable.
Ria took a step closer, opened the black bag, hand reaching inside, feeling the softness of the pillow.
Mrs Stoke was more popular than Ria expected. All those cards, the flowers and this private room. And she was a mam with kids.
Ria sniffed. No harsh tang of antiseptic, disinfectant or rubbing alcohol. Just the sweet scent of the flowers and a faint trace of pricy perfume. She wanted to believe Mrs Stoke was a neurotic drug addict but now she had a nasty feeling it was more complex than she first thought. This cow had class and money to go with it. And that meant she knew someone who knew someone. The cow had influence.
Ria hesitated, calculating her next move.
Her business partner, Sloane Kern, sold pills to middle-class women in need of more than anger management therapy could offer. Discreet women who paid top whack for illegal supplies. A far cry from the pond scum Ria used to shake down on the streets of Whitehaven. Pond scum never grassed even when the police stole their supplies. But Mrs Stoke came from another type. Who did she know? Would they cause trouble? Ria was too new to town to know and superintendent Jeffery had held her cards close to her chest. What did Ria know about the woman's background?
She glanced at the flowers and cards: Get Well Soon Mummy. Women like Mrs Stoke had friends who might arrive at any moment with bunches of flowers and more cards. Maybe Mrs Stoke's children would show up to check on how she was doing.
Ria turned to the door, cocked her head and listened. Only the constant beep of a machine and the thud of her own heart. The beeps piqued her interest, and she listened for a while.
Beep-beep-beep.
So precious. So precise. So plentiful. The digital sound of Mrs Stoke's life. And then Ria thought of what she must do.
Thud-thud-thud.
She took another step to the side of the bed. Up close, the woman's face swelled with ugly blotches and her narrow nose flared as though trying to suck in more air. She had brown hair which faded to white at the roots. Deep lines like cracked earth snaked across her forehead. Mrs Stoke looked ancient. Like she belonged in a glass case in the British Museum. A breathing mummy fetched up from the tomb. What bloody right did she have to live and spill the beans on Ria's business?
Beep-beep-beep.
Ria took out the pillow, holding it firm in both hands. She tried to control her breathing. In through the nose. Hold. Out through the mouth.
In. Hold. Out.
In. Hold. Out.
Thud-thud-thud.
A shrill beep sounded. A jarring wail. Ria turned to the wall of instruments, unsure which had made the noise. Would the nurse in the blue uniform come running? Her fingers squeezed the pillow as she waited, alert, listening. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. One minute. Two. No more shrill beeps. No nurse on the run to help.
In. Hold. Out.
Thud-thud-thud.
In the silence as quiet as snowfall, Ria leaned over the bed.
"Mrs Stoke, can you hear me?"
Nothing.
"I'm a friend of Sloane Kern. You know Sloane, don't you?"
Mrs Stoke's face remained blank and pale. Her chest rose and fell.
Beep-beep-beep.
"Sloane gave you pills to help you out. Do you remember?" Ria spoke in a soulless monotone. "Sloane told you how to use them and gave you detailed instructions. But you got greedy, didn’t you Mrs Stoke?"
Ria's hand's twitched as she eased the pillow close to the woman's pale face.
In. Hold. Out.
Thud-thud-thud.
Breathy breaths now from Ria. Short breaths. Shallow. In. Hold. Out. Eager to finish the job.
"But you didn't listen to Sloane, did you, Mrs Stoke? Instead, you overdosed and ended up here. Have you any idea of the problem you have created? I'm Detective Constable Ria Leigh, Civic Officer of the year three times in a row. This year will make four. A record. I'm a legend, Mrs Stoke. They'll talk about me in history class one day, use me as an example of what girls can do. I can't let your greed for pills stand in the way of that, can I?"
Ria was in the light now. Bright and white with no hint of shadow. All she had to do was drop the pillow on Mrs Stoke's face, press and wait. And then she'd crawl back to the dark. The glorious dark where her underhand dealings went unseen. Freedom from worry. Freedom from fear. Release.
Beep-beep-beep.
It would all be over in a handful of minutes. Her mission complete and the misery lifted. A handful of heartbeats to freedom. Mrs Stoke's heartbeats. Beat 'em down and beat 'em down again.
"Next time we'll be more careful who we sell our happiness pills too," Ria said, fingers squeezing the pillow. "Suicidal maniacs are a curse on society. A blot we must wipe out."
Ria closed her eyes, gripping the pillow with strong hands, heart kicking hard against her chest.
Thud-thud-thud.
Earlier she'd wandered the hospital, checking the location of CCTV cameras. The nurse in the blue uniform had been good enough to tell her there were none on this ward. Once they know you are with the police, they'll tell you anything. Now she knew where the CCTV cameras were, she knew how to avoid them. She looked down on Mrs Stoke's peaceful face.
And then, suddenly she lurched forward, face grimacing, hands firm on the pillow.
Thud-thud-thud.
The mask! Mrs Stoke's mask was still on her face.
Ria stopped, dropped the pillow on the bed and shoved the mask to one side. It left a red indentation. She picked up the pillow with both hands.
Thud-thud-thud.
Mrs Stoke must never wake up. Never tell what she knew. Never give Ria's business cause for concern. The dead don't speak. Only the living lie.
The door opened. The nurse in the blue uniform marched in.
"That's ten minutes. I'll have to ask you to leave. Mrs Stoke needs her rest." She turned and headed for the door. "This way, please."
Ria quickly replaced the mask and leaned so close her lips were an inch from Mrs Stoke's ear. "If you push a person to the brink, they will do terrible things. This is a dry run to get the lay of the land. No one will see me when I come back tonight to finish the job."
Chapter 39
Fenella didn’t want to stop, but when her stomach growled, she realised she had not eaten all day. It was noon. Tea Jug was the nearest café, at the end of Marsh Street, Barrow-in-Furness. She parked her Morris Minor and went inside.
There were six tables scattered about the small space, brown tile floors and a high counter where a fat man in a chef's garb which might once have been white sat on a stool reading a newspaper. An American soap opera played on the large screen TV with the volume turned down. A faint trace of fried food hung in the air, remnants of what they served at breakfast. The glass case on the counter caught Fenella's eye. It was filled with fresh tarts and cakes and pastries.
"Welcome," the fat man said. He put down the newspaper. "Ain't from around here, are you?"
"No, luv," Fenella replied. "Port St Giles."
"What I thought. We don't do much business between noon and three. An early rush and a late rush is how I make ends meet. So, I figured you are not from here. You've got the place to yourself. What is your pleasure?"
"Those cakes fresh?" Fenella asked.
"I trained in France, Paris," he replied. "Them cakes are made fresh every day, and those I don't sell go to the homeless shelter. No reason why folks down on their luck shouldn’t eat good food."
Fenella ordered a pot of tea and a giant custard slice: two crisp flanks of flaky pastry with a dollop of custard sandwiched between; the top flank was layered with sweet icing with brown swirls added for an artistic touch. She took her food to a table by the window. She wanted time to think about the questions she would ask baby Eva Fisk's parents.
The fat man went back to reading his newspaper. She took out her notebook and read for a while then stared through the glass panes at the street. A young woman, twenty at most, in a floral dress and flyaway black hair held a toddler in pink shorts by the hand. Was she the mam? Or the big sister? An aunt? A child snatcher?
The bairn looked in the café window, planted her feet and pointed at Fenella. The young woman with the flyaway hair, turned, followed the toddler's gaze and waved.
"You from the police?" The fat man placed the newspaper on the counter and was regarding her with curiosity.
"Aye, pet," Fenella replied.
"Thought so."
He picked up the paper and continued to read. Fenella nibbled the custard slice, closing her eyes to savour the delicious vanilla flavour. Moist and sweet and crisp and crumbly. Perfect.
The café door pinged. Fenella opened her eyes and took a gulp of tea as the woman with the flyaway hair strode in. She was laughing. The toddler tapped her arm and pointed at Fenella.
"I want one of those," the toddler said, voice carrying across the empty café.
Again, the woman waved at Fenella. "Sorry about my niece pointing," she said, and went to the counter to order a custard slice. Fenella's eyes dropped to her notebook.
When the café door pinged again, she looked up expecting to see the girl and bairn out in the street. Instead, she saw a dark green beat-up Ford parked by the kerb. It wasn’t in the street a moment before. No way. She'd have spotted it and left by the back door. Her eyes bounced from the Ford to the café front door as a sinking feeling flooded her gut.
A rat-faced man in a scruffy duffle coat dashed into the café. He paused, nose twitching, eyes darting around. What did Rodney Rawlings want?
He was a reporter for the Westmorland News. One of the last from the old school who drank hard, chased stories like a fox and foxed around with women like a hound. If he had a crooked bone in his body, Fenella would have tossed him behind bars by now. But he was on her side of the law. The right side. The side that puts bad people away.
"Ah, there you are," he said, scurrying to Fenella's table. He glanced through the window, his eyes darting along the street. "We need to talk."
He shuffled to a chair on the opposite side of the table, so his back was to the window. Fenella supposed it gave him a wide view of the café like a secret agent in a spy novel. Or a crook watching out for an old enemy intent on revenge.
She wrapped both hands around the mug and took a sip. "How did you track me down?"
"I have my sources." His nose twitched. "That custard slice looks good. Is it fresh? Not something I can afford on my salary. People think the newspapers are glamorous, they aren't. Not these days."
"Wait here," Fenella said.
She went to the counter. The woman with the flyaway hair held a custard slice in one hand and was grinning at the toddler. The toddler grinned back, a smear of custard on her lips.
"I got what you got," the toddler said. "And it is good."
"Aye lass, can't beat a custard slice when the mood strikes. And it strikes me often."
The woman with the flyaway hair laughed. Fenella watched them leave, ordered two custard slices and a flat white coffee and returned to the table. Whatever Rodney Rawlings had to tell her it was worth at least that, probably more. He tracked her down for a reason.
She slid the coffee and one custard slice across the table. She kept the other for herself. A jog on the beach tonight would soon burn it off. Rawlings sniffed the custard slice. He took a bite, yellowed teeth like fangs. He turned to the coffee, sniffed and took a gulp. His nose twitched, pointy face and dark eyes unreadable.
Fenella said, "So?"
Rawlings glanced around as if someone in the café might be watching. The man with the fat face was reading the newspaper. There was no one else in the place.
"Heard something that might take your interest," Rawlings said in a half whisper. "I'm writing a feature on baby Eva Fisk. I hear you are working the case now."
Fenella said nothing.
Rawlings pointed his sharp nose at the counter. It twitched. "Snatched child, tearful parents, that sort of thing. The sad sob shifts a lot of newspapers. We will sell a ton because the story is local."
"You are losing me," Fenella said. "What do you want?"
"Give me a chance."
"I want the headline version, not the feature."
"Okay, okay. Now where was I?"
"Baby Eva Fisk. You have news?"
"That's right." He took a bite of the custard slice. His pink tongue slid from between his lips, mopping up the crumbs. "The thing is, I'd like to share. But I mean, I have costs." Again, his nose twitched. "This job is like running in a sewer full of rats. Not sure how long I can take it."
"Twenty years isn't bad, pet."
"Almost thirty."
"I'm sure you will survive until paper is a thing they keep under a glass case in a museum," Fenella replied. "They might even wheel you out to tell the kids what it is."
He grinned. "Damn right. Now, how about a deal?"
"Tell me what you've got and I'll have a think about it."
He took a long slurp from his mug. "Look, those other journalists are a pack of bleedin' rats. One whiff of cheese and they will be all over it. This is for your ears only."
"You will always be king rat in my book. I won't share your cheese. What have you got for me?"
He stared, biting his lip. "I've tried every trick in the book to get in contact with the parents of baby Eva Fisk."
"Let me guess," Fenella said, finishing her custard slice. "They won't speak with you. It might be that your tatty duffle coat is putting them off."
"Do you think so?"
"No."
"What then?"
It was hard to trust a rat-faced man, but Fenella didn’t say that. "I suppose they've got so many requests they don't know where to start."
He was too old a hand to believe that. He grunted. "The police record shows there has not been a ransom request."
So that is what he wanted. The police hadn't confirmed or denied that fact. The entire case was confidential, wrapped tight in bureaucratic red tape. Rodney Rawlings wanted an affirmative answer. Why?
Fenella sipped from her mug, considering. "I cannot deny that, but I can't confirm it either."
She put special emphasis on the word confirm.
Rawlings stared at the remains of his custard slice like he was lost in thought. "I see. Then you'll want to know…" His voice trailed off and once again he glanced around. "I'm writing a story on human trafficking. Baby Eva Fisk is no longer in the country. My sources reckon the bairn was shipped to Turkey a few days after she was taken. I have solid information that she met her new family in Istanbul. They are Canadian or American. The Yanks buy their kids on demand with three easy payments. Look, I'm sorry to tell you, but I'm certain the bairn is gone."
Fenella's chest heaved in disappointment. "How certain is certain?"
"My feature is due on Friday. It will run in the Sunday paper."
That meant he was pretty certain. He'd double-checked his facts and was filling in the gaps. Fenella was silent for a long while.
She said, "I'll want to speak with your source."
Even journalists as seasoned as Rodney Rawlings got it wrong sometimes. She'd triple check, get it from the horse's mouth, provided he revealed his source. She folded her arms and waited.
"Oh come on, you know the rules of the game. I can't give you that." He smiled, bearing yellowed teeth. "I heard there was an incident at Seaview Allotments."
Again, a statement with hidden meaning. He wanted to know what had happened and in return, he'd tell her what he knew. Not the name of his contact, she was sure of that, but something useful. She considered. Fred Bickham's death would break soon and she saw no point in denying it. Time to trade.
Fenella told him the details, missing out two important facts. First, the suspected murder weapon was likely a cricket bat lined with nails; second, the death of Mrs Fassnidge. No point showing all her cards.
Rawlings rubbed his hands. "My God this is juicy. I can see the headline—Man Slayed in Town Turnip Patch." He glanced over his shoulder. "What do you think?"
"You might have to work on that title."
"What was the murder weapon? Please tell me it was a bunch of prize-winning rhubarb."
Why did she feel, whenever he asked a question, she'd been sprayed in farmyard muck? She said nothing.
His nose twitched. "Got a name for John Doe?"
"Fred Bickham," Fenella said. "He was a husband with a teenage granddaughter. Write that down and spell it right."
