Twisted Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 3), page 20
"Can't put my finger on it, Guv, but there were something off about the woman. Wouldn’t mind a poke around their garden and that freshly dug vegetable plot. Any chance of a search warrant from Jeffery?"
He knew the answer. So did Fenella.
She said, "Jones, find out everything you can about Mrs Marsh and send me the file. We've enough to chew on for now, eh?" She waved her hands in a shooing motion. "Let's get to it."
"What about you, Guv?" Dexter asked.
Fenella's lips quirked. "I'm off to the magistrates' court."
Chapter sixty-one
Nothing good ever came out of the magistrates' court.
Or at least that is how Fenella felt. She didn’t want to spend her morning in the oak-panelled room, but it came as part of the job. It was like the files and reports she was supposed to read and sign, except she couldn’t put court off. There was a chance she'd be called. She sat on the hard bench next to a uniformed officer, trying to look attentive, her mind on Sal Marsh.
"Can you repeat that for the court, Mrs Brill?" the magistrate said. He was an elderly man with white whiskers, hooked nose, and a bald head. Everyone called him Magistrate Hulme even when he wasn’t in court.
"That thing they put hot water on and make out is so tasty," the woman replied. She wasn't much younger than the magistrate and stood tall in the witness box in a long, brown duffel coat with a matching headscarf tied tight around her small head. "You've seen the adverts? Young people munching and dancing like they'd won the lottery. What do they call it again?"
Fenella glanced around the court. There were usually a gaggle of bored-looking reporters on the benches at the back. Not today. They were camped out at the Port St Giles Town Hall. By nightfall they'd be outside the police station. Fenella sighed and brought her mind back to the court.
The magistrate looked at his notes. "Pot Noodle. You saw him put a Pot Noodle in his bag?"
"Yeah, yeah," the woman said. "He took his time choosing and all. Went for sticky rib."
She pointed at a horse-faced man in a worn brown suit with a shaggy mane of white hair. He looked like a street peddler from the days of Charles Dickens. All that was missing was a battered top hat. He sat next to a sharp-suited solicitor with even sharper eyes and her hair swept into a harsh bun.
"And he put it in his bag and left the store without paying?" asked the magistrate.
"'Course he did, and this ain't the first time, neither. He used to be a schoolteacher but now he's retired, he goes about nicking stuff. It ain't right. No wonder the kids have gone off the rails." She pointed in the general direction of Fenella and the uniformed officer. "I've been on to them lot about the bleedin' sod, but they are too soddin’ lazy to—"
"If I may interject," the solicitor said, jumping to her feet. "My client feels that he has been set upon by a rather zealous and…"
Fenella felt the buzz of her phone, slipped it from her handbag, and read.
I'm worried about Rab Nash. Left him a ton of messages. Nothing. Can you help? Gail.
Chapter sixty-two
Rab Nash kept his head low and squinted through his car windscreen towards the entrance of Marsh Industrial Chemicals Limited.
He was waiting for Steve Marsh. There were no other cars in the car park. He'd parked at the far end, next to a row of large metal bins which overflowed with trash.
He flicked on the radio and listened. The weather girl said it would remain cold with fog on the way. Nash sipped the lukewarm dregs from his coffee flask as his stomach grumbled. Where was Mr Moneybags? Where was Steve Marsh?
He scanned the car park. Just the new sheen of asphalt which stretched all the way to the building.
No birds.
No plants.
Not another living thing.
Even in a church graveyard in the dead of night, you'd hear an owl hoot. Nowt here but the black stuff covering the soft soil and, at the far end, the glass and steel of Steve Marsh's headquarters. A tombstone to mark the passing of his once thriving business.
A sudden chill ran down Nash's spine. It wasn’t exactly a premonition. No crisp clear view of what lay ahead. But Nash sensed something was off. It just didn’t feel right. Yes, something was wrong.
He took out his black notebook and put it on the passenger seat as his mobile vibrated. Another message from Gail Stubbs. He regarded it for a long moment, then flipped off the phone. Dark clouds rushed across the ice-blue sky. They crowded out the weak March sun. The wind picked up as the temperature dipped. Rain was on the horizon no matter what the weather girl said.
Rab Nash waited.
It came to his ears as a soft purr which slowly grew to a roar. An instant later, he saw the sleek car. Steve Marsh pulled his silver Mercedes into his private parking spot. The engine died, but the big man did not get out.
Nash let out a low whistle. It was a top-of-the-line model. Not like his beat-up Rover 75. He eased up a little higher. How many cars did the bugger have?
The Mercedes' door swung open. Steve Marsh climbed out, headed up the steps and through the front door without glancing around. For a big man, he moved with the grace of a cat. What did he carry in his hands? Nash couldn’t see clearly.
He waited for a count of ten, then scrambled from his car, circled Steve's quiet Mercedes, and let out another low whistle. A bit of cash and a lucky bet and he'd own one of the beasts. He glanced at his faded red Rover. Nowt but a cornflake box on wheels.
With a surge of energy, he dashed up the steps to the front entrance. His knees screamed in pain at the climb. He ignored them and tried the door handle. Locked. He leaned against the glass. Nowt but the darkened lobby.
He stepped back and considered. It was clear Steve Marsh didn't want anyone else in the building. What was the bugger up to?
The wind picked up, splattering down a few cold drops of rain. Nash tilted his head to look at the sky. His knees complained with sharp stabbing pain.
"I'm too old for this lark," he muttered. But knew he'd see this one through. He'd finish the job. It didn’t matter he was on sick leave from the regional crime squad. It didn’t matter he wasn’t on duty.
What mattered was that he got inside. He tried the handle again and then gave the door a hard shove. Yes, it was locked. And, yes, either he waited until Steve returned or went back to his car to get his special keys.
Moments later, Nash slipped a key into the lock and eased the door open. Life ain't nowt if you don't take a chance.
He hurried across the concrete floor and made his way up the stairs. There were no creaks or footfalls as he moved. Stealth was his friend here. He knew where Steve Marsh had gone. Sal said he lived in his office.
There was a hidden safe.
Steve Marsh would be counting his money. Second door on the right. Best take him by surprise. In and out in a flash.
He eased onto the top step, turned onto a windowless hallway, and stopped. Less than ten feet ahead, Steve Marsh leaned on the door jamb of his office. He held a petrol canister in his left hand and a Japanese sword in his right.
Nash eased back a handful of steps and pressed his back flat against the wall. He hadn't expected the man to be hanging about in the hallway. What the hell was he doing with a can of petrol? And that sword looked bloody sharp. He sucked in a breath, held it tight, and willed the man to enter his room.
That's not what Steve Marsh did.
The big man's head slowly turned so that he had Nash in his full glare.
"Well, if it isn't our local bobby and my wife's ex," Steve Marsh said, left eye twitching. There was no surprise in his voice, only a hint of tired resignation. "Sal always said you'd end up in the gutter. I hear you love running with rats. How's life with the police?"
Nash didn’t speak but moved from the shadows. There was no point hiding now. No way he'd surprise the big man either.
Steve Marsh waved the sword and said, "Rab, I hope you have paperwork, else you are trespassing." His lips twisted into a sneer. "I will press charges."
Nash didn’t have paperwork. Hell, he wasn’t even on duty. It would be one hot mess if he were turned in. His eyes darted about. No CCTV. Good. That meant his word against Steve Marsh's if it ended up in court. There'd be no contest if he got out of this place now. Could he make it down the stairs and across the lobby? Yes, he'd easily outrun the fat slob.
Nash took another step back. He'd make a run for it on a count of three.
One.
Nash said, "Steve, listen. Sal wanted—"
"Sal put you up to this, did she?"
"Come on, Steve, we can talk about this."
Two.
"Think I didn't already know that?" Steve's chest heaved. "I knew all right. Where's my bloody money?"
Three.
Steve let out a high-pitched scream. Primeval. Nash turned to run, felt his knees go, and stumbled. As his head clattered against the wall, he saw Steve Marsh moving towards him at speed, mouth opened so wide his tonsils looked like daggers. Nash's hands flew up to protect his head; he felt a stabbing pain, then his world went black.
Chapter sixty-three
Sal was deep in a dream when she heard voices. It sounded like the crows out in the lane. But the sound lingered, twisted into words, and then came the sudden blast of the doorbell, followed moments later by fists pounding on the door.
She sat up dazed, glancing about as though in a foreign hotel. What time was it? Where was Steve? Slowly, it all came creeping back. Her dad in the hospital. The two sleeping pills and a glass of white wine. Steve snoring at her side. She snatched a glance at the clock. Almost eleven! Dear God, she was supposed to be at the hospital by now.
"Police. Open up."
Stunned, Sal threw on clothes and stumbled down the stairs. Her dad! They must have come about her dad. Half in a dream and half filled with fear, she hurried to the front door. She paused a heartbeat to touch the stud in her ear, then flung the door open wide.
Detective Sergeant Robert Dexter stood on the doorstep, his arm out at eye level, hand clutched tight to a sheet of paper.
"Mrs Sal Marsh, we have a warrant to search these premises."
Sal gasped and reached for the door handle intending to slam it shut, but the detective was already in the hall. A sea of uniformed officers followed.
"No. No," Sal screamed. "You can't do this. This is our home. Get out!"
Sal felt a warm hand on her elbow, turned to see the friendly face of PC Fay Bright.
"Come on, Sal, let's sit in the kitchen, out of the way," the family liaison officer said. "The sooner we let them get on, the sooner this will be over."
Sal's mind filled with fog, and her body trembled so hard, she let PC Fay Bright guide her to the kitchen. She sat with a thud on the chair, elbows rested on the scrubbed-pine table.
PC Fay Bright flipped on the kettle, searched the cupboards, and brought out an old china teapot. It was white and deep blue with etched drawings of tall trees and birds which looked like crows. Sal's special teapot used when Steve's business guests came for dinner. Sal stared as the kettle hissed. Behind her blank face, her mind raced. Suddenly she stood.
"Please, sit down, Mrs Marsh," PC Bright said. "I'll make us both a nice cuppa, and we can have a chat while they go about their work."
"You don't understand," Sal said. "They mustn't go into my vegetable plot. Keep them away from the garden."
"Come now, sit down." PC Fay Bright spoke in a motherly tone as if she were talking to a half-witted child. "Shall I pour?"
Sal glanced at the kitchen window and felt a stampede between her temples. She slowly sat and said, "They are going to dig up my vegetable plot, aren’t they?"
PC Fay Bright pulled out a notebook. "I noticed brown butchers paper and twine in your cupboard. Is there something you want to get off your chest?"
In the garden, the crows screamed, and there came the hard crunch of boots on the soft gravel path that snaked to the vegetable plot. Sal ran to the window. Detective Dexter was out in the lead with two uniformed officers behind. They carried shovels.
"Please come and sit back at the table, Mrs Marsh," PC Fay Bright said.
"But—"
"Now, if you don't mind."
Sal turned and shuffled back to the table. She slumped in the chair, wished Steve were here, but knew she'd have to find her own way out.
From the garden came the screams of crows and the grunts of officers as they began to dig.
"I'm sorry," Sal said, flashing a weak smile. Best to act calm. But how could she? It all came as a shock. Think girl, think. You caught Steve with your fishing net. You can get free from this mess. She took a long slow breath. Controlled. "I'm sure this is all some terrible mistake."
PC Fay Bright poured tea into two dainty cups, spooned in sugar, a splash of milk, stirred, and said, "Why don't you tell me what happened to Jade?"
Her voice sounded friendly, but there was a hardness to the eyes that frightened Sal.
"I think I should have a solicitor with me," Sal replied. "Steve will sort that out."
"And where is Mr Marsh?"
Sal looked down at her hands.
PC Bright said, "Mrs Marsh, where is your husband?"
Sal touched the stud in her ear. Think. Maybe he went to the hospital to keep an eye on Dad? But she didn't believe that. If Steve wasn't home, then he was at the office. She wished she could concentrate, but those pills made her brain foggy. What did the officer ask her?
Suddenly the crows stopped screaming, so that the only sound was the soft scrape of shovels as the police officers worked the moist soil.
"My vegetable plot," Sal said and again touched her ear. "They'll ruin it."
PC Bright leaned forwards. "What have you buried in that vegetable plot?"
What could Sal say? Her eyes darted about the kitchen looking for escape. The door that led to the hall was open but an officer stood guard. Her gaze settled for a fleeting moment on the door which led to the garden. There were no officers guarding that exit.
"Did you hear what I asked, Sal?" There was a hardness in PC Fay Bright's voice now. "Is Jade in the vegetable plot?"
"How dare you say that," Sal yelled.
She sprang to her feet, shoved the table so it knocked PC Fay Bright to the floor, and sprinted for the door to the garden. Her arms pumped hard, legs moved fast. All that digging of soil had made her fit. She was at the door and yanking the handle before PC Bright's first cries for help.
Sal's mind spun. What was her plan? Get to the car and away. Time to think then. And she knew the path from the kitchen door through the garden to where her car was parked would take a matter of seconds. Her ex-husband, Rab Nash, would help. He'd got the money, hadn't he? She smiled despite herself. The police didn’t have a clue.
She yanked the handle, so the door flew wide open, then staggered backwards.
"Going somewhere are we, Mrs Marsh?"
Fenella stood in the doorway. Behind her were two uniforms. On the lawn, Dexter led officers who carried a coffin-shaped box.
"I think we'd best have a chat down at the station, pet. Then you can explain all about that box we found in your vegetable plot."
Chapter sixty-four
No way in the world Superintendent Jeffery would order a search warrant in the village of Grange. Not with the pressure from the politicians to curb police powers and the quaint place packed with the wealthy and powerful. Then there was Jeffery's Safe Fells and Trails plan.
Didn’t matter to Fenella.
She had bided her time at court, then put in her request to the magistrate. Kill two birds with one stone. The white-whiskered judge had looked down his hooked nose and said, "The village of Grange, are you sure?"
"Oh aye," Fenella had replied. "A discreet police operation in a house that is surrounded by shrubs and trees and bushes."
He rubbed his chin. "What about all those flashing lights and sirens?"
"The bare minimum, Your Worship."
He did not look convinced and said, "And what does Superintendent Jeffery have to say about this?"
"She wants to keep the trails and fells safe for everyone to walk."
"I see." There was a cluster of doubt in his face. "And the disturbance will be kept to a minimum?"
"Doubt if the villagers will even notice."
"See that is the case," he had replied, then issued the search warrant with a flourish of his gold-tipped fountain pen. "I live in the village: don't want my neighbours up in arms, now do I?"
Chapter sixty-five
"We'd best get to the station, Guv," Dexter said.
They were in the lane outside Red Thistle Cottage. The sun had long since slipped behind a bank of dark clouds. There'd be rain soon. Icy cold shards. Sal Marsh had been carted off in a patrol car. She didn't go quietly, cursing bloody murder in a high-pitched trill. A foul-mouthed crow ripped from its nest.
Dexter was still speaking. "We'd best question Mrs Marsh while she is hot. If we can get the facts nice and neat, we'll have it wrapped up with a neat bow before Jeffery squawks about the search warrant."
Fenella didn’t reply. She gazed up at the darkening sky and back at the cottage. Two crows watched from the rooftop. One had a red thread in its beak. Officers hurried about. White-suited crime scene techs climbed from a van. Neighbours were out in the lane, mobile phones glued to their ears.
Dexter said, "We'd better get a move on, Guv. Won't be long before you get a call from the boss." He looked at the throng of sharp-eyed neighbours. "These folks are so well connected, they'll be onto our political masters before we get to the interview door."
Two patrol cars screamed along the lane, lights flashing, sirens wailing. More neighbours poured into the road. A tall, distinguished man with a mop of black hair collared a young uniformed officer and demanded to know what was going on. Still Fenella didn’t speak.
