Moonlight Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 9), page 19
"And there was me thinking it was go-go-go for you lawyer types. I guess I'm not disturbing you after all."
There were many things Fred wanted to say — that this was his private time — that he needed it to recharge; that he didn't like the sly shine in Guy's gaze or the whiff of stale booze that cloaked the man in a savoury shroud. He knew those things meant trouble. But most of all, he wanted to tell Guy to leave. Right now. This instant.
"Let's talk on Sunday evening in the pub."
Guy pressed his hands on the table. "What I'm going to tell you can't wait. It is big. Hollywood big." He slurred his words, lifted his mug to his lips and gulped a mouthful of flat white coffee. "Massive."
Where had Fred heard that before? It was the same every time Guy had something to sell. Well, it was time to put this nonsense to a stop.
"I'm not donating any more of my hard-earned money to your harebrained screenplays."
"You don't mean that."
"Tossing ten pound notes in the toilet, flushing, and watching the cash whirl down the drain is more exciting than one of your scripts."
"Stop it."
"I'm tired of your idiotic dreams and broken promises."
"Please stop it."
Fred jabbed a finger with a viciousness that shocked him. "No. More. Money."
Guy flinched; a dreadful sheen of moisture shone in his eyes. "You are like a father to me. Like the daddy I kneeled at my bed and prayed for every night when I was a child living with my disabled mum. She drank, you know. Gin most mornings and then she'd slumber until noon. Only ale in the afternoons, though. She wasn't a drunk. I think booze helped ease the burden of her life. Medicine really and she was a good mum but I still wish my dad was around. Then she left me at the children's home…"
Fred looked away. He couldn't stand the glistening tears; couldn't stand Guy's sad gaze. And he couldn't stand the guilt rising in his gut.
Guy was still speaking."…a real father." A sob caught in his throat. "Always ready to listen. Always there when needed. Always encouraging."
Fred sighed. "And I'm encouraging you to forget it. Your talents suit other things. None of them involve writing." He pressed the top of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. "You and Louise are dear to my heart. It's just that… I want the best for you. It makes me angry to see you throwing your talent away."
Guy shuddered out a booze-laden breath. "What? Yes, yes — Fred, yes, yes, yes. I've been such a bonehead over these past few years. A horrible and selfish man. But now the baby is coming…well, it's changed me." He lifted the mug to his mouth and took a slow sip. "You are a friend and a father all rolled into one. Both to me and Louise. Our Miracle Daddy. The baby's godfather. That's why I came here. Can I have your ear?"
It was clear Guy wanted to talk and he wanted to talk now but he always wanted to talk and he was very good at talking money out of your wallet. Fred looked at the empty tables craving their privacy. His gaze flicked back to Guy.
"Haven't you heard of the telephone?"
"I had to see you in person." Guy glanced around the café, reached for his coffee, and lowered his voice. "It's a strange deal that I've got for—"
"No more sleazy deals." Fred raised both hands. "Not another word."
Guy lowered his eyelids and began to sing. Low and slow and under his breath. An intense whisper.
"O mio babbino caro…"
It seemed to Fred that Guy was trying to figure out what to do next. He hoped when the man finished singing that he would leave. He wasn't giving him another penny.
"Mi struggo e mi tormento…"
Again Fred gazed with yearning at the empty tables. There was still time to enjoy the sights and sounds of the café. Yes, that would be perfect. No more rubbish about deals. He might yet squeeze an ounce of joy from the morning.
"O Dio, vorrei morir…"
Should he do something different? Order a triple espresso and a lemon slice? Read the news on his phone? Move to another table? Fred decided against it.
"Babbo, pietà, pietà!"
Guy fell silent.
The rain drove vicious fists against the windows. A violent growl grumbled from the coffee grinder. Fred sighed but did not speak.
Guy's eyelids rose. He flashed a dazzling smile. "You still want to be the godfather, right?"
Fred's left hand dropped to the plate. "I've always wanted a child." He lifted a croissant to his lips and took a huge buttery bite. It tasted like sawdust. "Never found the right woman."
A squall blasted the windows. The barrage clattered with such an uproar that Guy slid back in his chair, almost toppling over. He righted himself, toyed with his mug. "If anything happens to me…" He looked around and rocked from side to side. "… I want you to be my lawyer."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's Louise. I'm worried about her."
A tall man in a well-fitted black suit hurried into the café. He carried a green umbrella in his left hand, his right clutching a stack of papers. He was about fifty, with oiled, black hair parted straight up the middle. The man glanced around the café, raised his umbrella in greeting at Fred, then strode to the counter to order a lemon slice and a triple espresso.
Fred knew this. Knew what the man ordered. Knew he would sit at the fourth table with his back to the window. The man had raised his hand to Fred in greeting before. Every Friday for the past ten years. Neither had ever exchanged a word. A novelist, he was told by the barista, although no one knew the man's name or the title of his books. But Fred had seen him from time to time wandering about the countryside with his notebook out, pen in hand. Historical novels, he guessed. Set in the northern counties of England.
Fred turned his thoughts back to Guy and lowered his voice. "Sweet Jesus, Guy, what wacko thing have you done to upset Louise this time?"
"Hear me out." Guy's voice dwindled to a breath. "Please."
Fred leaned forward with his hands on the edge of the table. "She is pregnant; any stress might harm the child. What have you done?"
Guy's moist eyes moved deep in their sockets. "It's what Louise has done that frightens me."
Chapter 114
The storm had passed, leaving pools of dark water in the courtyard. Piles of glistening leaves were strewn about flagstones and on the courtyard tables. They clung to the huge windowpanes that protected the cosy café.
Guy pressed his hands together and squeezed his eyes closed. "I still don't know what happened to Louise that night she came home late from the Popping Stone."
"You said she got snagged by brambles on the trail from her aunt's place." Fred gazed at the soggy courtyard. "Wasn't that the same night someone murdered Peter Quelch?"
"Yeah." Guy said it as though he didn't want to say it. As though he were stretching a piece of gum, hoping it wouldn't snap. "And Goose is fighting for his life in Newcastle. Everyone in the village is talking about it."
Fred reached into his jacket pocket. He carried a gold cigarette case but he only smoked in the best of times. And on Friday's outside on the Cathedral Café patio when the weather was good. He looked at the case for a long while then dropped it back in his pocket and frowned.
"Do you think Louise knows something about what happened?"
Guy let out a low moan. "She is my wife."
"Have you spoken to the police?"
"What would I say to them?"
"But you think she —"
"I don't know. I don't want to know."
Chapter 115
"Listen to me, Guy." Fred wetted his lips. "This is very important. Tonight, you will make Louise a special meal and pour her a glass of fine wine."
"I'd rather take her to a fancy restaurant."
"Do you want my advice?"
"But —"
"Dinner and wine at home. Got that?"
"Okay. I can do that."
Fred smiled. "As you are eating, you will ask her about her day."
"She'll get upset."
"She'll be grateful you are taking an interest in her needs for once."
"Ah…I see what you are up to." Guy leaned back, folding his arms. "You crafty sod."
Fred's smile swelled to a grin. "Then you will demand to know what happened that night she came home late from the Popping Stone. Demand she tell you in vivid detail. Demand she tell you the truth and nothing but the truth."
Chapter 116
At eight that same Friday morning, rain lashed the Bardon Mill Police Station. Fenella stood by the whiteboard in the incident room, trying to beat back her panic. From the chimney above the cast-iron wood stove came a strange wail. It ebbed in a hiss and flowed in a howl. The air smelled of wood smoke, incense, brewed coffee, and doughnuts. It tasted of damp heat.
Fenella's gaze swept to the giant iron crucifix. Above it, in a gilt-edged frame, the happy-faced portrait of Vicar Godfrey Hume watched. She turned to face her team.
"Some good news. I've got the preliminary report on the fire at Le Petit Toon Café."
"What does it say, guv?" Dexter rocked from foot to foot, unable to hide his interest. "Did one of them fancy pastries catch fire?"
Fenella felt a moment of glee. Dexter usually beat her to the news, but not this time. She waved the printout of the report. "It says a firework caused the fire."
"You what, Guv?" Dexter stood very still. "Fireworks?"
Jones, sitting with his legs stretched on the first row, nodded as if he suspected that all along. "I knew it wasn't natural; always thought it was gangland related."
Fenella read on. "The firework, most likely a banger, lit the net curtains in the windows. And we know what happened after that." She let that hang in the air for a moment. "Ideas?"
"Might not have been not meant to cause a fire, Guv." Dexter rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "Suppose it was only meant to be a distraction and went wrong."
"But why?" This was Detective Constable Maggie Banville. "Why would you want a distraction?"
"To draw folks’ attention away from the knife attack." Dexter was still rubbing his neck. "All men, eh? Makes you wonder if it ain't one of those black widow women. Saw a show about one on the telly. This lass lived in Alaska, loved the rich life, but couldn't hold down a job. Not even flipping burgers or working a mop. She dolled herself up like a maggot on a hook. Caught men by the dozen." He ran a hand over his grizzled chin. "She didn't wait to get married half the time and did them in on the seventh date."
"Why?" This was Jones.
"For the joy of it, lad. And she reckoned seven was her lucky number. Sometimes she didn't even break into their bank account to steal any money." He shook his head. "They have all sorts in Alaska. Must be the frigid dark nights. I hear it don't get light at some times in the year. Nighttime twenty-four-seven. Ain't no surprise the lass went half mad. Ain't no surprise she went bonkers."
"It could be a warning of some type." This was Detective Constable Maggie Banville, her voice low as if still working out the idea. "Or a punishment to warn others away."
Jones sprang to his feet. "If it was a warning, then it is even more fuel for my gangland idea. It must be a turf war or maybe someone is settling an old score."
Fenella didn't think they'd get anywhere with speculation and changed direction. "Another win. They've found a thumbprint on the knife used in the attack on Mr Trevor Gosbee."
A cheer went up.
"Don't get too excited, no match as yet." Fenella aimed a question at Maggie. "Any word on Mr Gosbee's condition?"
"Nowt new, ma'am." Maggie sat in the first row and sipped a huge mug of steaming tea. "The last I heard, he was stable but could take a turn for the worse at any time. It's fifty-fifty, according to the doctors." She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "It surprised the nurse that Mr Gosbee is still with us. He might be gone by nightfall."
Fenella's gaze travelled to PC Woods. He leaned over the table at the back of the room, hand hovering over a plate of fresh doughnuts. He snatched up a jam, iced, and a fistful of chocolate doughnut holes, then turned to the custard slices.
Fenella stroked her chin. "PC Woods, I want you back at the Royal Victoria Infirmary and don't move from Mr Gosbee's bedside. If he wakes, you know the drill." She thought it was a long shot, but there was nowt else to do except grasp at straws. "That's your priority."
PC Woods, his mouth filled with jam doughnuts, saluted. Outside, thunder clashed with lightning and dark clouds spat bullets of rain.
Fenella discussed the fire at Le Petit Toon Café, CCTV, the strange knife wound on Mr Wilfred Ash's corpse, and the tawny owl in the ornate Victorian birdcage with the chattering digital recorder. Then there was a silent time, where it seemed that each person was trying to piece together the madness of the puzzle.
Chapter 117
At last, the storm stopped. The defiant dark clouds gave way to the brutal summer sun. Its vibrant rays began to dry the puddles that shone like black eyes in a bruised face.
"There might be another death, guv. And I ain't betting against it being a man." Dexter ran a hand over his grizzled chin and paced the length of the incident room. "Them mind Docs will have a medical term to explain it away, but I ain't got no doubt the killer's nuts. Two slices short of a full loaf and the dough didn't rise neither."
PC Woods nodded and munched through a doughnut hole. "Saw a show on the telly about this demented woman who liked to bake bread. French sticks, crusty cobs, barm cakes, yeasty soft baps, the works!" He licked his lips. "She married rich men, did them in with her stilettos, turned their bodies into sludge with acid and flushed their remains down the toilet. She cried a bucketful of tears at the memorial service, but they caught her on camera grinning as she left the bank."
Curiosity rippled through Fenella. She wanted the name of the show, but she wanted to keep things on track. "Any other theories?"
Dexter paced the back of the room. "It's a bleedin' mystery, guv." He stared through the clouded windows. "I'll have another word with the vicar, then nip over to Barrow-in-Furness to speak with Dr Teresa Wychwood, the mystic. She saw a lass hurrying away just before the blast at Le Petit Toon Café. I'd like more details."
Jones raised a hand. "Boss, there's been a delay in the warrant to search Mr Wilfred Ash's premises. It is being held up by Superintendent Jeffery." He lowered his voice. "Politics."
Fenella said nothing. She loathed the pungent aroma that oozed from Superintendent Jeffery when the boss was in her career ladder-climbing mode. A great cloud of self-interested stink. At least Jeffery wasn't interfering. Yet.
Chapter 118
PC Raintree slouched into the incident room. His soulful gaze rested on the whiteboard. He grunted, shuffled to the tea urn and poured a mug of tea. Fenella saw it in his morose face. A glimmer under his thick lids.
He had news.
Big news.
She arched an eyebrow. "You have something for me?"
"Had the feelers out, ma'am." The loose skin around PC Raintree's jaw trembled. He gulped from his mug. "Got a result."
"Don't keep us in suspense." A knot of anticipation tightened in Fenella's neck. "Out with it, man."
"It might be nothing, ma'am." PC Raintree sipped. His lips puckered as though the tea was too sweet and he liked it. "But I have a contact in Newcastle, a relative and —"
"Don't you dare tell a long and winding story!" Fenella couldn't help herself. She wanted to know, and she wanted to know now, and she wanted all the details. "Give us the gist of it, and in as few words as you can manage."
"My aunt, Mrs Joy Gorman, comes here on Sundays to attend…" PC Raintree's slow eyes moved to the picture frame above the giant crucifix."…well, she…err… runs a boarding house in Newcastle — Elswick. It's on West View, opposite the cemetery. It's… err… unofficial…a council house where she lives and rents out the other rooms. All men. Labourers. Most stay less than three months. Except one." He snatched a gulp of tea. "An upstairs bedroom. I just found out she has rented it to the same person for the last eighteen months."
"Let me guess." Fenella knew where this was going and smiled. "To Mr Peter Quelch?"
Chapter 119
Mrs Joy Gorman's "unofficial" boarding house was on a leafy street of red-brick Edwardian buildings and close to the main gates of Elswick cemetery. Fenella did not remember when, but she'd visited this part of Newcastle before.
The sun shone bright and hot as she climbed whitewashed stone steps to a solid black door with white columns on either side. There was a sour smell about the place: boiled vegetables and vinegar. From the graveyard came the growl of a lawnmower.
Fenella hesitated, eyeing the brass lion's head door knocker and trying to recall a distant memory. Had she visited this house before?
A mechanical rattle caused her to turn away from the door. Across the road, under a stand of oak trees, a yellow digger excavated soil for a fresh burial plot.
"I knew you'd show up."
The middle-aged woman stood in the doorway, a ball of soft pink — slippers, dressing gown, lipstick, curlers. But her voice was flint hard. It matched the stony glare on her lardy, thin-lipped face.
"Mrs Gorman?" Fenella didn't like being surprised, but the woman had caught her off guard. She held out her warrant card. "Mrs Joy Gorman?"
"You'd better be quick." She nodded Fenella inside. "Police ain't good for business."
They settled on a lime sofa in a narrow room with green wallpaper of leaping peacocks and a deep brown shag pile carpet. A huge television filled most of one wall. It flickered and flashed, the volume on mute. An oak and chrome drinks cabinet lined the other wall. Thick net curtains blocked out the sunlight, but not the mechanical scraping from the cemetery.
"I'd offer you tea, but you ain't staying long." Mrs Gorman's hands went to her curlers. She fiddled for a moment. "You here about that toe-rag, Peter Quelch?"
"I hear Mr Quelch rented a room."
"You sure you're not from the council?"
