Steve placed an arm around her shoulder. "Jim is not dead yet, else they would have said. The old goat survived the army; he'll not croak tonight. Do you think the canteen is still open? Hamburger and fries, or beans on toast?"

  It was one o'clock in the morning when Sal finally dozed off. She snoozed in a plastic chair in the waiting room of the cardiac care unit. She dreamt of her vegetable plot and giant potatoes to roast on Bonfire Night. The piercing scream of a crow broke into her dreams as she handed the detective with the grizzled face a blob of butter to go with his spud.

  Her head jerked, and she awoke to the smell of antiseptic. For a while she stared at the light which seeped under the closed door and wished she were not the only person in the room. Steve had gone back to the canteen to find something hot to eat. Not that Sal thought he'd find much more than a cold ham sandwich. But if Steve didn’t eat, he wasn’t a happy bunny, so she'd encouraged him to go.

  Then it all came flooding back. The shock of seeing her dad lying on the bedroom floor. He looked so frail and old. He'd always been strong. When was he last ill? She couldn’t recall.

  It wasn't fair. Everything had gone askew, just like when Mum died. And Sal knew that was her fault, no matter what her dad said.

  Now Sal stared at the door, willing Steve back. She didn’t want to be alone when news of her dad came. That's what happened with her mum. Her eyes closed, and she was in the past.

  Soft snow fluttered on the hard ground that Christmas Eve when Sal led the young policeman to where her mum lay in the garden's vegetable plot. His face paled at the blood, and he ran on wobbling legs for help. And dear God, the crows. Six of them, and they'd been at her mum's eyes.

  Everyone said it was a tragedy.

  That they saw it coming.

  That it could not be helped.

  The vicar with his sagging voice said no one knew the mind of God. But no one asked what was on Sal's mind. No one asked her what happened. Sal's eyes snapped open.

  A plump nurse in her fifties with a crumpled uniform and wisps of stray hair hurried into the room. A name tag hung at an angle—Nurse Gail Stubbs. She looked flustered, tired, and sad.

  Fear seeped into Sal's bones. It was supposed to be her and Dad against the world. Like it was in the old days when Mum was alive and Jade didn’t exist. Her heart beat in wild thuds, and she tugged at the stud in her ear. Bitter tears ran down her cheeks.

  Gail said, "Mrs Marsh, your dad is stable now. He'll have a comfortable night's rest. We'll monitor him closely, and the doctor will see him in the morning. Does he have a history of heart disease?"

  "I can't believe this has happened," Sal replied, not quite hearing the question. "He was in the army, worked a manual job, and never gets sick."

  "A military man, eh?"

  "Royal Logistic Corps and proud." Sal felt her back straighten a little. "Tough as old boots, my dad."

  "Aye," Gail said, then added, "No complaints of chest pains this evening?"

  "I don't know. We spent some time together in the kitchen, then he went to his room. When I went to check on him, he was on the floor."

  Gail said, "Anything stressful happen before?"

  "No… er… I'm not sure…" Sal sniffled. "We've been through… are going through a difficult time."

  "Don't blame yourself," Gail said. "Stress can trigger a heart attack, but it would have happened sooner or later. It is not your fault."

  But Sal thought of what had happened to her mum and slumped. She wished Steve was here. She needed to talk, and said, " When my mum died, I blamed myself. If it weren't for Dad…"

  "Not your fault," Gail said again. "The body can only go for so long before it needs a little medical help. Your dad is in good hands."

  Sal wiped her eyes. "Can I see him?"

  "He is sedated; better let him rest, eh?"

  "They wouldn’t let me see Mum."

  Gail stared for a long moment, then lowered her voice. "Tell you what, I'll take you to his room for a brief visit, if you like."

  "Oh yes. That would be so kind," Sal replied.

  "On one condition." Gail folded her arms. "When we are done, I want you to go home, get some sleep."

  "I don't know."

  "Come back in the morning."

  "But—"

  "Your dad needs you wide awake and alert," Gail said. "I'll be here when you get back. I'm working a double shift and won't tell anyone you went home for a nap."

  "But I'm waiting for my husband," Sal replied.

  "I'll tell him you can both go. Doctor's orders."

  Sal wasn’t sure. She wanted to stay in the hospital close to her dad. But if she had a shower, took a pill, and grabbed a few hours' sleep, the fog that fluttered in her head would ease. And Steve wouldn’t want to stay if the nurse said he could go.

  "Okay, it's a deal," Sal whispered.

  "Like I say, it'll be our secret." Gail flicked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. "And your mum, how did she die?"

  "A tragedy," Sal replied in a strangled voice. "She slit her throat with a butcher's knife."

  Chapter fifty-nine

  Tuesday morning at 7:00 a.m., Fenella peered through her windscreen at the rain. It meant a slow crawl to Port St Giles. She turned the key in the ignition of her Morris Minor and gave a wave to Eduardo, who stood on the porch. With a travel mug of Nan's coffee to sip and the heater turned up, the drive gave time to plan the team briefing.

  She switched on the radio—a dial-in show where locals aired their concerns was on. A thin, trembling female voice asked if Bowder Woods was safe. "Not that I like to walk about the woods," the woman said. "But if I did, would I be next?"

  "Yes, you're right to be terrified," replied the host, spitting his words like fire. "Who's gonna visit these parts in the summer when they find out about this tidal wave of death? It's a ruddy disgrace."

  "What I want to know is what those in town hall are doing about it," said the woman. "It ain't right to be trapped in your home cos of fear."

  "Don’t' get me started on our useless politicians," yelled the host. "And the bloody police don't have a…"

  Fenella jabbed off the radio and her mobile phone rang—Rodney Rawlings. She debated for a heartbeat, then pulled the car to the verge, and let the engine idle.

  "Oi, Fenella, thought I might have a word before you get to the office. What you got on the body in the lake?"

  "Come off it, you can't expect me to talk about that."

  Fenella knew that was exactly what he expected. They both knew the rules of the game. What would he offer in return?

  Rawlings said, "I did a bit of digging on our wonder boy, Flynn."

  "Oh aye," Fenella said, interested. "Go on."

  "His dad, you met him?"

  She said, " I've had the pleasure of meeting Pastor Bain."

  "You didn’t recognise him?"

  "Odd-shaped eyes," Fenella replied. She didn’t want to say they looked like a snake's orbs, not with him being a pastor. And, she thought, it might whip up another outlandish headline from the press man. Still, she was certain she'd never met Pastor Bain before. She'd have remembered those eyes.

  Rawlings said, "He's one of those TV evangelists. You know the type that wear white suits and shiny black shoes. All glittering teeth, wide smiles, and like to wave about a tombstone-sized Bible. Not like our vicars who wear nowt but black. Don't have diamonds in their teeth either."

  Fenella said, "Pastor Bain is famous, is he?"

  "Wouldn’t call it fame, well, not like a movie star."

  "How'd you mean?"

  "He has a small, devoted band of followers. The kind who'll do what he commands."

  "Go on," Fenella said. "I'm listening."

  "Known for his preaching on child sacrifices and a pagan god called Molech. All fire, brimstone, and rivers filled with blood. Manic when he gets going. Powerful, though. Even stirred my stone-cold heart."

  "It takes all sorts, Rodney," Fenella replied. She'd met an odd assortment of pastors, priests and vicars over the years. They were all a little odd. You had to be to go into that profession. Same for the police.

  Rawlings said, "And his boy, Flynn, is part of the show. I hear they are in England to recruit troops to their cause and grow their pile of cash." He paused, let out a snort. "They target old folks with deep pockets and youngsters with their heads full of ideals. You ought to look into that."

  "Not against the law," Fenella replied. She'd seen plenty of advertisements on the television that target both.

  Rawlings said, "Always thought you should have been a priest. Maybe you should sign up as one of his devotees?"

  He snorted, followed by a round of coughing—the hollow hacking sounded as though his lungs were held together by a string vest. A threadbare one, at that.

  Fenella said, "Okay, but why are you telling me this?"

  "Aren’t you interested?"

  "Why should I be?"

  "Because you met with Pastor Bain and his wife yesterday lunchtime at the Seatoller Guest House. Not a social visit, from what I heard."

  Fenella eyed her phone and wondered what else he'd dug up. "You have new information that is relevant to my investigation?"

  "Why else would I call?"

  "Name?"

  "Eh?"

  "I need the name of your source."

  "Come on, Fenella, I can't tell you that."

  "This is a murder investigation."

  "Reporter's privilege."

  Fenella thought for a moment. "So you spoke to the woman on the reception desk. Plump, waspish face, thin lips, and likes to eat Twix—Hilda."

  "I can't reveal my sources."

  But in the tone of his voice, he already had. He coughed again, then said, "Thought you might like to know Pastor Bain also had a meeting with a person of interest to you."

  Fenella felt goose pimples prickle her arm and said, "Who?"

  "Sal Marsh. My source told me they talked about Jade. There was mention of a substantial amount of cash." The line went quiet for a moment. "A juicy lead for you to follow up on, eh?"

  Fenella thought for a moment and said, "And what do you want from me?"

  "The name of the person found in the boot at Bowder Lake."

  Chapter sixty

  "What do we know about Dawn Ross?"

  Fenella stood at the whiteboard in Incident Room A, travel mug of Nan's coffee grasped tight in her hand. The team seemed flat, defeated. Not in a mood for discussion. Another death, and they were no closer to finding Jade Marsh. She glanced at Dexter. He stared back with a blank face.

  Fenella said, "Dawn works for the social services child protection unit and ends up in the boot of Liz Slough's car at the bottom of Bowder Lake. Why?"

  The question hovered in the air as the tea urn hissed. No one raised a hand. No one spoke up. She scanned the room for an eager face. Found none. She raised a hand to point to someone, then let it drop to her side. The instructor in the management training course said pointing at people and picking them out put them on the defensive. It was not good practice these days to do that. She was supposed to stand bright-eyed with an encouraging grin on her face and let conversation ooze out.

  That's not what Mrs Cole did when Fenella was in school. Her teacher picked a bairn out with a stern glare and pointed finger. It kept the kids on their toes. Today it was deemed damaging to the psyche and frowned upon.

  "Ideas, anyone?" She planted a smile on her lips and did her best to look encouraging. Not an easy task with Jade Marsh still missing and Dawn Ross on a cold slab in the morgue.

  PC Woods got to his feet, hurried to the back of the room, and refilled his cup of tea. He glanced around, then snatched a jam doughnut from the tray and ambled back to his seat.

  Again, Fenella scanned the room. Dexter, PC Beth Finn, Jones, and a handful of other uniformed officers stared back.

  She waited.

  Fay Bright, the family liaison officer, shifted in her chair. PC Woods took a huge bite of his doughnut. The tea urn continued to hiss. The scent of bitter coffee from the percolator filled the air. Someone had put a tall table to one side at the front by the whiteboard. Fenella half wondered what it was for, pointed to Jones, and said, "What else do we know about Dawn Ross?"

  "Not much on her social media profiles," Jones replied and stared at his laptop screen. "A few pictures of her shaking hands with bigwigs in posh-looking offices. No family photos or snapshots of friends. Seems Dawn Ross was a bit of a recluse."

  "Or had her head down in her work, so that she didn’t have time to fool around with posting stuff," Dexter added.

  Fenella said, "A workhorse, eh? Let's go with that. A woman dedicated to her job." Now she went back to her original question. "How did Dawn Ross end up in the boot of Liz Slough's car?"

  Silence.

  Then came a knock on the door. A man in a hard hat peered into the room.

  "Sorry to disturb you. I'm early," he said. Then closed the door and was gone.

  Fenella fumed. She was supposed to be like kindling. Her questions were meant to light a fire. Today, she felt as if the team had given up. Where was the energy? Maybe they'd be better off working on a building site; at least they'd work up a sweat.

  PC Woods munched on his doughnut and took a noisy slurp of tea. Fenella's mind drifted over her question and focused on Liz Slough's car. That's when the idea struck. Was Dawn Ross the figure Flynn saw as he peered through the window on the bus? Was she the Ghost? If so, what was her connection to Liz Slough?

  Now her thoughts picked up speed. One, Rodney Rawlings had dug up a link between Sal Marsh and Pastor Bain. Two, there was mention of a large sum of cash. She hit a question. Did any of that have anything to do with Dawn Ross? She didn't know, but another question formed. Were Dawn Ross and Liz Slough friends?

  As if mirroring her thoughts, Dexter said, "Guv, social work don't pay much. Maybe Dawn Ross was in league with Liz Slough to shake Steve Marsh down."

  "You might find this interesting," Jones said, tapping into his laptop. "Liz Slough grew up in Whitby House."

  The care home in Whitehaven was the last resort for children with no chance of adoption. The staff were known for their dedication, but what hope can you offer a child who knows it isn't wanted? Not a happy place which turned out more than its fair share of delinquents.

  Dexter said, "Guv, looks like Liz Slough did well for herself. Graduates of Whitby House don't usually travel much farther than the nick. Not our Liz, though. Works in a fancy house where the owners have lots of cash. Next thing you know, Jade Marsh is gone and someone is asking for a ransom." He cracked his knuckles. "But where does Dawn Ross come in?"

  PC Beth Finn raised a timid hand and said, "Maybe they met when Liz lived in Whitby House. Social workers often keep in contact with their children, even when they become adults. I grew up in a child home after my dad died. Mum was too ill to cope with me. I still write to my social worker. He's retired now."

  Fenella couldn’t argue with that. She penned an annual letter to her high school teacher, Mrs Cole, even though she'd not done well in the History of Cumbria class.

  She said, "Jones, find out if Dawn Ross ever worked in Whitehaven."

  Jones closed the laptop, reached into his pocket, and jotted a note in his notebook.

  Nowt like pen and paper, Fenella thought and said, "What have you got on her financials?"

  "Still digging," Jones replied.

  "Well, hurry it up, will you? I want to know if her bank accounts were healthy. Did Dawn Ross drive a fancy car, have a big house in the country, vacation in expensive resorts?"

  Jones was back on his laptop. "From what I can tell from her social media posts, she lived a modest life focused on helping children." He paused and looked up. "There are a couple of photos of her outside a cottage, looks French."

  Dexter said, "How do you mean?"

  Jones set his laptop down on the table at the front of the room and pressed a button on the wall. An image flickered onto the whiteboard.

  "They are doing away with the old-style boards," Jones said. "Everything is going digital."

  This was news to Fenella. She preferred actual paper to pixels on a screen. There was something about holding a photo in her hand that made it more real. It gave a sense of the thing, the feel of the person. Still, she'd not stand in the way of the future. Not if it made things more efficient.

  Now she took in the image—a middle-aged woman with wild brown hair. She wore a flimsy floral-print dress, held a large glass of wine, and stood in front of a garden gate. Behind her was a stone wall, telegraph poles, and a broad sweep of sea.

  "What makes you think it is France?" Fenella asked.

  More tapping on the keyboard. The image zoomed in so the telegraph pole became like the trunk of an oak tree. Next to it, on a metal post, stood a road sign—Rte Du Fort.

  "Hey, that's where I go with my wife," PC Woods said. "Bretteville in France."

  "Posh, is it?" Fenella asked.

  "Quaint cottages, cheap food with a view of the sea. Don't suppose there are many millionaires living there, just working-class folk who like the good life, and a ton of Brits."

  Fenella said, "So Dawn Ross enjoyed a jolly overseas. Who did she go with? Dexter, have a snoop around, see what you can find out about her social life."

  "Aye, Guv." Again, he cracked his knuckles. "Liz was a nanny, spent her days looking after Jade. I'm betting she and Dawn Ross planned to snatch the kid."

  "No!" PC Beth Finn was horrified. "A social worker would never hurt those in their care. They sign up to the job to help, not destroy."

  Fenella's heart tugged. She didn’t like to think the worst of Dawn Ross, but her years on the force told her to keep an open mind.

  "It would be a shame if Dawn Ross were involved, pet, but look where we found her body. Why don't you visit social services, have a talk with the team? Her boss is Claire French. See if you can track her down for a quiet chat. Oh, and I forgot to ask Yaz if she or her boyfriend knew Liz Slough. Check up on that, will you?" Fenella let that settle for a moment, then turned to Dexter. "You spoke with Sal Marsh; what did she have to say?"

 

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