Moonlight Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 9), page 16
"Miseri what?" Fenella had no idea what any of these daggers were, but only half remembered the name of the last one. "What's that when it's at home?"
Dr Dinwiddle laughed then tapped on her phone to pull up an image which she showed to Fenella and Maggie. "Misericorde is derived from the French word for 'mercy.' A wonderful name for a deadly blade, don't you think?" She was speaking fast now, the words tumbling out as if she had been waiting all her life to be asked this very question. "A deliciously long, slender, stiff blade with a triangular or square cross-section. It was thrust into narrow openings or weak points in armour to devastating effect." She licked her lips, her face flushed. "It is used today in knighting ceremonies to remind the recipient of their responsibility to be merciful. Any other questions?"
Maggie grinned. "The Bollock dagger, what the hell was that used for?"
"Gets its name from its shape, rather than its use. Two oval swellings at the guard of a wooden hilt." Dr Dinwiddle flashed a sly smile. "The Victorians called it a kidney dagger to avoid using its original name."
"That doesn't sound like the weapon used on Mr Gosbee." This was Fenella. "That knife had an ivory handle."
Dr Dinwiddle clapped. "That's what caught my attention. Elephant ivory, if I'm not mistaken. Quite distinctive to a collector's eye. It might have been stolen from a museum or a private collection. Whoever lost it will want it back. My ex-husband, Wilfred Ash, runs a boutique antique shop over on Hood Street. He is a collector of knives." She flashed a sad smile. "That is how we first met. Why don't you have a word with him?"
Chapter 99
The first sign of trouble came at seven that next morning.
Ash Antiques lay at the end of a dank, narrow alley off Hood Street in Newcastle. Huge black wheelie bins lined both sides of the grime-smeared cobblestones. The sour reek was faintly disturbing.
Fenella wanted a word with Mr Wilfred Ash before his antique store opened; a natter about daggers with ivory handles and the blade plunged in Mr Trevor Gosbee's chest.
Yellowing net curtains hung in the shop window. They cloaked the thick frosted panel of the shop door. Fenella leaned against the glass, straining to make out the strange objects that lay beyond the frosted panes.
It was impossible.
She stepped back, rested a hand on the iron railings, flicked a speck of dust from her black yoga pants then ran a hand through her shoulder-length grey hair. A wooden plaque to the left of the door proclaimed the store's name but there was no hint of shop hours. Nothing to welcome the casual passerby inside. Next to the plaque was a single bell button.
It's like Mr Ash doesn't want folk to know his shop is here. Doesn't want anyone to see inside.
She jabbed the button. A peal of bells clattered.
Nothing.
She rang the bell again and waited.
More clashing chimes.
She stepped back, tilting her head upward. Mr Ash lived here, that was for sure. The top floor of the building held dormers — not that unusual for a collector to live above their hoard. Still, she worried that it was too early and that she ought to come back later when the man was awake. She'd not want police pounding on her door at seven in the morning.
Her gaze drifted to the sky. Gunmetal clouds threatened a morning downpour. A brilliant flash streaked across the darkness. A thunderclap throbbed. The sky looked about ready to break.
Once more, she rang the bell and then struck a fist against the door.
Still nothing.
"Hello! Mr Ash. Anyone home?"
Fat raindrops splashed down. They clattered against the cobblestones and crashed against the walls and splashed off the frosted glass on the front door.
A disturbing smell rose with the trembling rain. It was part festering sewer, part rotted fruit, part milk left to curdle in the sun. Fenella glanced at her phone, scanning through text messages to find out if there was any news about Mr Gosbee from the hospital.
Nowt.
She wasn't sure whether that was good or bad, decided it was good and focused her gaze on the front door of Ash Antiques.
She stabbed the doorbell.
A screech, clatter, and rusted squeal came from behind.
Fenella spun.
At the head of the alley, an old woman in a ragged brown dress watched. Her wizened, leathery face was unreadable; her eyes were two dark blobs. Her hands clutched a shopping trolley overflowing with plastic bags.
Fenella stepped away from the shop door. "You okay there, luv?"
The woman rubbed an arthritic hand over her grimy face. "If you are looking for Mr Ash, you'll not find him inside."
"Oh aye." Fenella wondered about the woman's posh accent. She thought she recognised her but couldn't be sure. "And who might you be?"
The old woman ignored the question. "Mr Ash is a man of routine. A kind man. A good man. A man a police officer like you will want on your side."
That stunned Fenella. "What makes you think I'm with the police?"
The old woman said nothing. The rain eased.
Fenella wanted an answer but didn't think she'd get one. Then she remembered where she'd seen the woman before — in Grainger Market, shuffling past a stall that sold giant stuffed carrots. The woman was clearly homeless, and the homeless knew things. She changed tack.
"And where would routine say Mr Ash is right now?"
The woman muttered strange squeals and clicks. She rocked the shopping trolley back and forth. Fenella was about to ask another question when the trolley stopped.
The old woman pointed back the way she had come. "You will find Mr Ash in Le Petit Toon. He is eating a croissant and reading The Guardian on his phone. I know because he buys me a coffee most days and a bite to eat. Did so today."
"Le Petit Toon?" Fenella thought she recognised the name. She had walked past the café on her way to Ash Antiques. "Has lace curtains in the windows?"
The old woman's head bobbed. "It's a charming café, owned by Tony Connelly. He has a show on the local television station. It is about the delights of foreign cuisine. As for Mr Ash, like I said, he is a man of regularity — coffee and croissants and the Guardian. Never deviates from his weekday routine."
Chapter 100
It was way too early to be chasing after antique dealers on an empty stomach. That's what Fenella thought as she hustled along Hood Street towards La Petit Toon Café.
Menacing black swirls hung low over the sandstone Victorian buildings. The dull light hid their decorative stonework. It flattened the fine detail of their ornate columns. Her thoughts drifted to questions for Mr Ash. She only half noticed the rising tide of footfalls hurrying towards her. Fast and strident. Some running.
Late for the office?
And not for the first time, by the look of desperation on their faces. Not that she was one to point fingers. She'd been late so many times that there was no point in keeping count. She recalled the miserable day when she arrived at a meeting with police bigwigs. It wasn't so much the meeting that trembled in her memory. It was the fact she arrived a full twenty-four hours late.
It can't be helped. Rushing about keeps me fit.
A tall man in a well-fitted black suit hurried towards her. He carried a green umbrella under his arm, his right hand clutching a notebook. His breaths were hard and heavy, his fifty-something face flushed with exertion. It was his oiled, jet-black hair that caught Fenella's eye.
Late too, eh? And not too many men use that much grease these days and that parting makes him look like he stepped from a black and white film. Office worker? No, he's got the look of a bloke that lives a life of leisure.
It was then she saw the pimple-faced youth in a black hoodie, blue jeans, and white trainers. He raced towards her and she noticed three things: First, the hoodie, pulled down tight over his head, covered a mop of black curls. Second, it wasn't an ordinary hoodie. There was quality in the cut, a designer brand. Third, same for the blue jeans and those sparkling white trainers. If the lad was from Newcastle, he lived with his parents in a huge house in the suburbs.
A flicker of concern rippled through Fenella at his wide eyes, wide mouth, and the pinkness of his cheeks. She wondered about the unsteady wobble in his legs.
Another one late for work?
A second after his footfalls faded into the shuffle of the crowd, she realised his wide mouth huffed a single word.
"Run!"
She whipped around. The hooded youth vanished into the scurrying hoard. And that's when she saw them.
Really saw them.
The crowd.
They were scuttling, sprinting, scrambling, scampering, fear on their faces and panic in their eyes. Everyone dashing in the same direction as the hooded youth.
Everyone running towards Fenella.
Chapter 101
Fenella hesitated.
Something inside told her to turn and run, but she moved forward, fighting against the throng.
A gigantic man in his fifties, wearing tight jeans and a cream shirt, lumbered towards her and grabbed her arm. A pretty young woman in a peach floral dress clung to his other arm.
"This way, Missus." His high-pitched voice squealed with the wail of an air-raid siren. Sweat pimpled his forehead. Droplets dribbled down his cheeks. "This way. Quick!"
Fenella twisted, yanked her arm free, and hurried on. Through the churning, frothy, storm waters of people. She dashed against the urgent rivulets of footfalls, ignoring their wild, tormented cries and the tide of fear rising inside. Seconds later, she hustled through a gap.
Ahead was a commotion.
Figures in black with white aprons were running. People in white caps scuttled a pace behind. Smoke billowed in choking plumes through the doorway of La Petit Toon Café.
Chapter 102
A moment before the stunned shock seeped into her bones, a weird sense of power overcame Louise Bertram. A feeling that she was invincible. A certainty that she could get away with anything.
She stood, breathing hard, at a bus stop on Market Street, Newcastle. Sandstone buildings clustered on both sides of the road. Broad and so tall, they merged into the dull grey sky. She was just another anonymous face in an ever-growing queue of locals awaiting the rumble of their bus.
Being a weekday, the street buzzed with activity — cars, buses, trucks, and people. Most were heading to shop or the last stragglers racing to work. The air smelled of damp from the earlier rain, and the grey sky threatened more drizzle.
Louise wore a peach headscarf and a lime Macintosh, both from the discount rack in a charity shop.
Cheap and nasty and off-the-peg. A style no one remembers from a designer no one knows.
Her shoes were of the same vintage — grey trainers from a no-name brand. On her face, she wore black sunglasses, although the day was dark and glum. Her walking stick umbrella, brown speckled with white spots, remained unfurled. The drab items allowed her to merge into the hoi polloi and disappear into the crowd. Except her handbag, a Kurt Geiger London recycled quilted bag. But it was black and she didn't think it stood out. Anyway she needed something fashionable and elegant to help her get through this difficult day.
A siren drifted from a nearby street.
She craned her neck to peer along the road. Where was her bus? When she got home, she planned to have a long soak, then flop onto the sofa with a box of Belgian chocolates and a bottle of good French wine. Then she remembered the growing baby.
A bubble bath will have to do.
Again, the siren blasted. The wail of a fire engine or a police car or an ambulance, she couldn't tell. A purple bus hissed to a stop. Louise's heart thumped as she scrambled on board.
Wrong number!
Not her ride.
She turned and climbed from the bus then cast an anxious glance along the road. She wanted to slip away.
Clean away.
Unseen.
Maybe a taxi?
It was only the briefest flicker out of the corner of her eye but it was enough to set Louise's heart racing.
It couldn't be, could it?
Slow and careful and inch by inch, she turned her head to get a better look. A stooped woman in a hooded pink trenchcoat shuffled towards her. From her nose hung a gold hoop, her sunken eyes watchful.
Miss Enid Singleton, Vicar Hume's housekeeper!
Louise spun away, hunched to make herself smaller, hoping she'd blend into the bus stop crowd. She began to count, expecting at any moment a tap on the shoulder.
One, two, three…
She pictured turning and staring into Miss Singleton's sunken eyes; pictured the woman's questioning frown; pictured her own mouth opening, mind scrambling for lies.
…twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two…
When she reached fifty, she turned back to the street.
Miss Enid Singleton was gone.
Breathing hard, Louise scanned the crowd looking for a flash of pink. A flock of pigeons fluttered to the kerb. A scrawny bird with the filthy feathers, gammy leg and crooked beak gazed at Louise. She opened her handbag and pulled out a white paper bag. She'd eaten half a ham sandwich on the ride in but didn't have the stomach for the rest.
Maybe I should go back to being vegan.
She crumbled a chunk and scattered it.
The gammy legged pigeon pecked, soon followed by the other birds. She turned away.
Forget a taxi. Best stick to the plan. I'll be away from here soon. Far away.
A streak of lightning forked, followed by the rumble of violent voices. The outburst was so deep and guttural and filled with despair that Louise spun around. Astonished, she realised it came from the sky. She blew out three hard breaths.
Nerves. Only paranoid nerves.
Slowly, like a fog rising at dawn, Louise became aware of the elderly woman standing next to her. She had not noticed her before but had a strange feeling that the woman was always there. And she sensed something else. Something that disturbed her. The woman had been watching her from the moment she hustled to the bus stop.
Chapter 103
The bus ride to the suburbs would take a very pleasant forty-five minutes. Time enough to reflect on the crazy turn of events that had changed and stained Louise's life. Time enough to let her paranoid thoughts fester on the next steps of her plan. She felt a tremor of hunger. A good sign. Perhaps she would finish that sandwich on the ride out.
A grunt came from behind, followed by the clearing of a phlegm-filled throat. Louise turned, her nerves trembling with the same anxiety as when the thunder grumbled.
"Your name?"
The question came from an elderly woman with fishy breath, a shrill voice, and stark green eyes. She wore a blue headscarf that matched the colour of her rinsed hair. It was the same woman whom, moments before, Louise had sensed watching her.
The woman coughed, deep and throaty, rattling with phlegm. "And your address. I must have your name and your address."
"Pardon?" Dread crawled along Louise's neck, dragging with it a cloak of misery. "What did you say?"
"Your name and address, Miss?"
"What for?"
"The police." The woman took a cheese and onion sandwich from her handbag and nibbled. "Thought you'd slip away without being seen, eh?"
"No…no…err…no."
Blue Rinse's eyes glistened. Two bright pools in a sea of doughy wrinkles. She took a big bite out of the sandwich. "You look shook up, lass. I always shake them up."
"Eh!"
The woman's lips lifted into a crazy grin. "Got your heart knocking, right?" She cackled, showing all her teeth and bits of bread in-between. "Is it beating fast?"
Louise got it and tried to keep a sunny disposition. They were like this in Newcastle. Always pulling each other's leg. "I've nothing to hide." Louise kept her lips lifted in a friendly smile. "Well, at least not crime-wise." She forced a vigorous laugh. "And, yes, my heart ticked up a beat. Good joke. Nice one!"
Blue Rinse nodded as though satisfied, her eyes shining with a trickster's gleam. "Saw you hurrying to the bus stop, looking behind as you went. Like a thief; like you'd hoyed some lass's handbag." She finished her sandwich and her gaze fell to the Kurt Geiger. "That's expensive, is that. Designer. I couldn't resist having fun at a lass who carries one of those and has to catch a bus. You should have seen your face when I mentioned the police. You sure you ain't up to mischief?"
The woman laughed again, her throat rattling with phlegm. Then she began to cough. Hard and deep and from the bottom of her lungs. She doubled over, hacking, gasping, sucking in breaths. Choking.
Louise moved to Blue Rinse's side and placed a protective arm on her shoulder. An image of the flashing lights of an ambulance tumbled through her mind. The policeman's suspicious face and prying questions soon followed. What was Louise's full name? What was her home address? What was she doing in Newcastle?
Louise scrabbled for her phone to call for help when Blue Rinse stopped coughing, a devious gleam shining in her green eyes. She puckered her lips. "Since you are going back to Wardley, remember to change buses. Take the East Gateshead Orbit at the change. It will drop you off near where you parked on Manor Gardens. That is bus 51 or 52. By the way, how was that ham sandwich?"
Louise inhaled a sharp breath. Bitter city air. She swallowed and — because she couldn't help herself — her jaw dropped.
Yes, she was going to Wardley.
Yes, on her way in, she got confused and almost missed the connecting bus because she was nibbling at her ham sandwich.
And, yes, she parked her car under a broad-leafed oak in the quiet residential street — Manor Gardens. An out-of-the-way place, in case Guy followed her in. But that was her paranoid side. Guy didn't know she was here. She told him she was visiting her aunt.
Blue Rinse grinned, her eyes twinkling with delight. "Don't remember me, do you?"
"I'm sorry?"
"We rode the early bus into the city. I sat in the back row. Noticed you park, run and clamber aboard. Manor Gardens. Posh car. Half a ham sandwich for breakfast. I keep an eye out, you see. Always watching."
