Moonlight Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 9), page 17
Louise didn't like that. Just her luck to bump into a genuine nosy parker. She was thinking about what to say when excited chatter carried from the other people in the queue.
"Burnt to the ground." A man with a red face and a drooping moustache stood at the centre of a small crowd. He waved his arms and moved around, acting out his words. His was the face of a gossip, that was for sure. A man who enjoyed telling stories. "La Petit Toon Café gone up in smoke." He smacked his lips together. "Nothing but ashes left."
Louise's heart sped up. She knew better, but she couldn't help herself. "Did… anyone die?"
The man rubbed his moustache, clearly enjoying being centre stage. "I heard they carried a body bag out. Poor sod."
"A man, right?" The moment the words spilled from Louise's lips, she regretted the question. "Just a guess. That café is always full of rich men."
A murmur went up from the crowd, everyone turning to look at Louise. Drooping Moustache held up both hands, palms out, as though asking the crowd for quiet and calm. His gaze darted from face to face and he licked his lips. "That's right. A man."
A gasp rose up from the crowd.
"Thank God it was just the one." This was Blue Rinse, dabbing a handkerchief at her eyes and puffing out a blast of cheesy-fishy-onion breath. "That's a popular place for them with money in their pockets. Gives a pensioner like me the shivers when I look at their menu prices. A cup of coffee in that café is more than my purse can stand. So sorry for the person that burnt to death."
Again, Louise felt the urge to put her oar in. "Didn't they…burn traitors at the stake?"
"What!" Drooping Moustache stared at her through narrowed eyes. "No, no — Missus, no, no, no. That's what they did to witches."
Louise turned away, her gaze raking the road for her bus. She wanted to get away from Newcastle. Away from the talk of fire, witches and death. Away to the village of Gilsland to work on the next phase of her plan.
Chapter 104
The fire was out, and the air outside Le Petit Toon Café smelled of despair. It came to Fenella in the acrid stench of melted plastic and the vile odour of charred wood. It smeared the blackened glass of the windows and streaked the cracked window frames. It hung over the lace curtains, clung to the gaping hole that was once the café front door, and hovered over the muttering horde that gathered behind the police cordon.
Traffic to and from that part of Hood Street had come to a stop. Horns blared. Engines growled. Curse words yelled through lowered car windows smeared the smouldering air. Fenella was only partially aware of the kerfuffle. She and Detective Constable Maggie Banville were in their own hellish bubble.
"I heard about it and came straight here, ma'am." Maggie's gaze was fixed on the smouldering rubble. "Jeez, it's like a scene from an alien planet." She shook her head. "Or the Coventry Blitz."
Police officers jostled to keep the crowd back. Eager gawkers worked their phones, snapping and posting their photos online. Others nattered into their phones to unseen friends. A few watched in silent awe, rapt by the gloom, the chaos, and the speed at which the emergency services worked. It was the silent ones Fenella focused on, taking in each face.
A tall woman in a stylish charcoal suit pushed to the front of the crowd. She talked into a microphone while a fat man in a black T-shirt worked a video camera. The first of the journalists had arrived. Others would soon follow.
Fenella continued to scan the crowd, thinking about the blaze, about Mr Peter Quelch, about the tawny owl in the birdcage, about the ivory dagger removed from Trevor Gosbee's chest, and most of all, she was thinking about Mr Wilfred Ash and his shop filled with antiques. Something linked it all together. What was it?
Her gaze flicked to the blackened morass of the ruins. Firefighters worked huge hoses to dampen the smouldering embers. An icy slab of sadness twisted in her gut, and with it came a burst of manic panic that whatever this was about wasn't over yet.
More trouble was coming.
She sucked in a breath of the foul air, her lungs straining to extract fresh oxygen. But still, she could not find a link. It was then she became aware, once more, of Maggie at her side.
"What did you say?"
"The blitz, ma'am. I saw a picture of Coventry Cathedral in ruins. The Luftwaffe unleashed hellfire in their nighttime raids. Didn't break Coventry's spirit, though. They rebuilt the cathedral and left some of the ruins as a monument to peace."
A siren screamed from a police car. A long, high-pitched wail. It threaded through the traffic to the police cordon. The woman in the stylish charcoal suit pointed. The fat man in the black T-shirt aimed his camera at the police car. Dexter and Jones climbed out and began working the crowd.
Fenella, still mulling over theories about the link and still taking in the crowd, queued up her next question. "What did Mr Tony Connelly say?"
"The café owner, ma'am?"
"Aye."
Maggie flipped through her notebook and read for several long seconds. Fenella thought the lass well remembered but was taking her time, being extra careful. She liked that and waited.
Maggie glanced up. "He said he was in the kitchen when he heard a big bang. Like an explosion. By the time he got to the eating area, the café was ablaze, with folks scrambling through the front door. Patrons raced ahead of a group of waiters followed by the kitchen staff."
"What about Mr Ash?"
"Mr Connelly confirmed Mr Ash was a regular. A pleasant man who appeared on Mr Connelly's local television show about a year ago. It was a special on knights and medieval banquets. Mr Connelly cooked a traditional meal with Mr Ash acting as one of the knights." Maggie scanned her notes. "Mr Connelly says he yelled for everyone to leave the café, ma'am. Shouted it three times. It was a melee with customers and staff squeezing through the front door. Except…" She stopped and ran a hand through her black curls. "… for Mr Ash. He remained at his table."
Fenella thought that over. Antique collectors weren't foolish or careless. It took a careful eye and caution to succeed in that business. If he didn't get to his feet and follow everyone out, the man had a good reason.
"And what did Mr Connelly do…" Fenella massaged her neck. "… to encourage Mr Ash to leave?"
Maggie's gaze went to her notes. "He yelled and rushed towards Mr Ash's table, intending to take him by the arm, but the swirl of the stampeding mob swept him from the café."
"Was that the last anyone saw of Mr Ash?"
"As far as I can tell, ma'am. Mr Connelly said he glanced back but didn't see Mr Ash at his table and assumed he joined the fleeing crowd."
Fenella's gaze flicked back to the blackened building. "But he didn't flee, did he? Not unless you call being carried out in a body bag an escape."
Chapter 105
Fenella heard footsteps and looked back towards the police cordon. Someone was coming. She recognised the width of his stride, the quickness of his step, and she knew that Dexter brought news.
"A terrible thing to happen when you're eating your high-priced breakfast in a posh shop like that, guv." His voice grated with the peal of a rusty bell. As though smoke filled his throat. As though the shock of what had happened had not yet settled. "Jones is still working the crowd. We've got five names and addresses from folk in the café. Every one of them swears they heard an explosion. A God Almighty blast."
Maggie nodded. "That's what Mr Connelly said, although he reckoned it sounded more like gun shots." Her gaze travelled to the blackened café. "But yes, Mr Connelly is certain there was a blast."
"I've seen that bloke on the telly." Dexter rocked from foot to foot. "Whenever he is on, I stop what I'm doing to watch."
"He's great, isn't he?" This was Maggie, face flushed in admiration. "Cuts a fine figure with his chef's swagger."
"Makes some right tasty French grub, too." Dexter raked a hand over his chin and returned Maggie's grin. "Didn't like the look of that dish with them slimy garlic snails, but that Boeuf Bourguignon whipped up me hunger."
Talking about food and the celebrity chef was a chance to take their minds off the grim and gruesome that lay before them. A crack of sunshine in the dark. Fenella knew this. Knew it was needed and said nothing.
Maggie's eyes half-closed as though remembering the show. "I'm going to make that tarte tatin."
"Aye, that caramelised apple tart with its buttery pastry crust looked good." Dexter nodded. "Would be right tasty made with Bardsey apples. Me grandad used to grow those in his orchard." His gaze darted to the crowd, his head moving in quick hawklike jerks. "Can't buy them in the shops, neither. An old-fashioned variety. You have to grow your own."
Fenella continued to wait.
There was something Dexter had for her. It shone in the quickness of his eyes and radiated in the twitch of his head. After all their years working together, she knew those giveaway tells.
Still, she said nothing.
From somewhere in the crowd came a sorrowful wail. It shrieked above the muttering throng. A howl of wild pain from the depths of a tormented soul. And somehow Fenella knew that pitiful sound related to Dexter's news.
Chapter 106
Dexter cast an agonising glance at the blackened ruins, his face grim. "Had a word with Dr Teresa Wychwood, guv."
"I've heard of her, seen her on the telly in flowing plum robes trimmed with gold." Maggie must have been on pins and needles waiting for his news, for she spoke fast and furious with the force of someone who simply must know what comes next. "That oversized white turban with the weird eye gives me the creeps. She is…was Mr Wilfred Ash's girlfriend, right?"
Dexter nodded. "She's a mystic, guv. That's her you heard crying. Jones is with her now."
The three detectives turned towards the crowd. Jones was calming a woman clad in purple robes and a white turban. She stood next to a very short man with a massive bald head, thick scaly skin, and eyes the colour of rust. He clung to her arm as though his slight frame was too much for his twiggy legs. The woman reporter in the charcoal grey suit raced towards them with a cameraman trailing behind. She'd spotted the celebrity mystic. That was big news. A chance to top the headlines.
Dexter blew air between his lips. "Dr Wychwood claims to have powers to see the future, speak with the dead, and so on. Works from Barrow-in-Furness for the most part and has been seeing Mr Ash for about two years. They met because he was one of her clients." He half-turned to stare at the wailing woman, his face crumpled with sadness. "Says she planned to meet Mr Ash at the café today but got delayed."
Fenella was eager to hear it all but could not stop herself from asking a question. "Delayed by what?"
"The hand of God, guv."
"Eh?"
"That's what Dr Wychwood said." Dexter snatched a quick glance at Jones and smiled as though he approved of the way the lad was handling the reporter and keeping her away from the mystic and her pint-size male friend. "Dr Wychwood's car wouldn't start. She arrived at the café half an hour late. Claims she saw someone running away from the café just before the blast."
"Who?" Again Fenella asked, this time keeping it short.
Dexter shrugged. "She didn't recognise the person. Can't recall what they were wearing or any real details." He puffed up his cheeks, then blew air between his lips. "But Dr Wychwood swears it was someone familiar. Swears it was a woman."
Chapter 107
It was noon and pitch dark in the bathroom at Plum Cottage. Louise struck a match. With a trembling hand, she put it to three vanilla-scented candles on a ledge above the bathtub. The soft flames crouched low. They simpered. They hissed. Three cold glimmers struggled to ignite.
She was alone and light-headed and naked.
A thin haze rose from the shivering flames.
She stepped back.
Amber flickers cut through the dark. Marigold tongues shimmered and swayed. Louise touched the black beads around her neck, then the olive-wood crucifix. With each touch she chanted, willing on the restless flicker atop the blackened wicks.
Not with words of prayer.
Nor solemn incantations.
But with a strange, chattering, whistling and cheeping.
A weird warbling.
Birdlike chirps.
Her chest moved hard. Sweat beaded her naked body. She threw her head back tweeting, fully embracing the mania that sometimes overpowered her. She trilled, cooed and cheeped, until her throat went dry and a cosy blanket of warmth enveloped her. Then she doubled over, gasping for breath.
Tangerine flames leapt and twirled.
She understood the truth, now.
This morning was a sign meant just for her.
She was on the right track.
With joy she filled the Margaux cast-iron clawfoot bathtub with hot water and swirled in a quarter bottle of L'Occitane en Provence bubble bath, chirping and warbling as the floral scent foamed.
Thick plumes rose from the bubbling froth, pressing moist fingers against her naked body. She breathed in the fragrant air but wasn't yet ready to plunge into the cleansing water.
There was one more thing she needed to do.
Breathing hard, she peered towards the Italian mirror above the towel rack but could not see for the steam.
No. That mirror won't do.
Louise skipped across the tiled floor, bobbing her head rhythmically with each step. At the gold leaf-framed Louis-Philippe mirror, she stopped.
The vast slab of misty glass wept vanilla scented tears.
With deliberate and careful movements, Louise worked a rag across the clouded surface until her breaths became even and her mind calm. Only then did she let her gaze fall to the reflection of her abdomen.
Slowly, she traced a finger over the vivid tattoo, around the edge of the ornate Victorian birdcage, and stabbed at the tawny owl perched inside.
Chapter 108
The strange news came at seven the next morning while Fenella, Dexter, and Jones ate breakfast at the Royal Victoria Infirmary in Newcastle. They were waiting for word of Trevor Gosbee. The phone call sent them hurrying from their table, leaving their food behind.
It was a lass's voice on the telephone line, but the words were snatched at and the details held back because it wasn't official and no report yet written. But there was news; there was no doubt about that. A new angle to grasp. And Fenella wanted all the facts and she wanted them now and she wanted the background details too. To push the case forward and satisfy her nosy gene.
Not quite panicking but close to it, Fenella rounded a sharp corner and studied the windowless hallway ahead. Its flagstone floor sloped into the shadowed void, the cold air stale and still. This was where they shuttled the unfortunate ones. Here, deep in the bowels of the hospital. Here, at the end of this ill-signposted corridor. Here stood the ancient steel doors of the mortuary.
"Ain't never been in this part of the woods, guv." Dexter's voice echoed off the low ceiling and bounced off the flagstones. "Ain't so sure I want to come back, neither."
Jones let out a nervous laugh, but no words followed the cackle.
Fenella hurried along the corridor.
Dexter lingered a pace or two behind, muttering. "And if I do come back, remind me to do it before I've had me breakfast, guv. Them fried eggs, bacon, sausage, and black pudding are swirling in me gut. You'd think those three rounds of toast would mop it up, but it ain't working."
Jones laughed. "Same here, and all I had was yoghurt and black tea."
The mortuary doors were less than ten yards away.
Fenella pictured the scene inside and swallowed. It did nothing to quell the sourness fluttering in her gut. It hovered with the fast beat of butterfly wings — the thrill of news mixed with revulsion at the brutal reality of uncovering the biological truth. Always the same acidic sensation as she prepared to enter the chamber where the dead awaited their final review.
Chapter 109
The vile smell came first.
And there the stench lingered, a vast and sweetish odour. A weightless signpost of lost life hovering outside the mortuary's steel doors. Fenella turned to face her team and she wondered what horrors lay ahead. There was always a chance when you entered a mortuary that you saw things you didn't want to see. Always a chance the pathologist was a by-the-book tight-lipped rule follower. Always a chance that you came away with nothing really new.
"Do you know…" Fenella took a shallow sip of air. Her breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon solidified into a grease ball. It rolled around her gut. "… anything about the pathologist, Dr Hawkins?"
Dexter shook his head. "A new name to me, guv. It takes a deviant bugger to work as a pathologist." He sniffed and, by the way his face crumpled, didn't like the scent. "Who in their right mind wants to spend the day slicing and dicing the dead?"
Jones glanced at his phone. "Came down from London, boss. University College Hospital near Euston station."
Fenella took shallow sips of breath, gathering her thoughts. "Why the move from London to Newcastle?"
Dexter glanced at the closed steel doors. "Guv, most of the time them high-class Docs are running the other way — to London and the big money. Why has Dr Hawkins come sprinting this way?" He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "It don't make no sense."
They fell silent. Jones swiped and tapped his phone. When he looked up, there was something troubling in his gaze.
"Boss, it says here that Dr Hawkins was involved in a disciplinary issue."
"What, lad?" Dexter got in ahead of Fenella. "What type of trouble?"
Jones scrolled for a moment then shook his head. "Something to do with unauthorised access to dead bodies. It doesn't say much else."
"Must have caused big trouble to send her scurrying to the edge of England." Dexter stared at the steel doors with the intensity of a mystic reading the tea leaves. "Big trouble."
Fenella felt the breakfast-grease-ball roll in her gut. She turned to Jones. "Anything else?"
"Fluent in German, French, Italian and Swahili, boss." Jones stared at the steel doors as though they held secrets he'd rather not know and let out a ragged breath. "She is a genius, with a steely hand for wielding the knife. Not what you would call tidy with it, but very thorough."
