Moonlight Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 9), page 20
"Not my department." Fenella smiled. At least it was out in the open. Mrs Gorman's fear. "Your nephew, PC Raintree, told you I'd be here?"
Mrs Gorman nodded, but there was still a wariness to her. The wariness of the seasoned hen before the fox. "Aye, the lad's a sly toad, but he loves his old aunt. Knows about my little… side business. Turns a blind eye, like you, eh?"
"I'm not here for that, Mrs Gorman."
"Call me Joy." Her tongue flicked across her thin lips. "Doesn't sound so official."
The sight of the pink-clad woman sitting there with peacocks dancing on the wallpaper sent a flicker of memory shooting through Fenella's brain. Had she been here before? In this very room?
She held Mrs Gorman's gaze, her voice low and confidential. "Joy, tell me about Mr Quelch."
"He moved in eighteen months ago. I don't like them to stay too long, but he paid me a little extra… so… I thought, why not?" She rubbed her plump hands and flashed a thin-lipped smile. "No rent. No room. That's the rule, and he was out most of the time, anyway. He slept here and liked to use the library." She nodded towards the television and the narrow green door to one side. "He is… was the only one I allowed in there. Mr Quelch even had his own desk. His to do what he wished as long as he paid the rent."
Fenella took out her notebook. "Do you have his mobile phone number?"
"He didn't have one. Said they were a nuisance."
Fenella said nothing.
Mrs Gorman's lips twisted. "But he had one alright. One of those pre-paid phones. The type crooks on the telly use. A burner phone. Cor blimey, it was a nasty shade of green. I know because I saw him use it. He was outside in the street and didn't see me peeping through the curtains." Her lips twitched into a satisfied smirk. "And before you ask, I don't know what he used it for or who he called. None of my business. But he was jabbering away like an angry parrot."
Fenella let that settle then tapped her notebook. "When did you last see him?"
"I thought he was avoiding me because the rent is past due." She gave a sour smile. "Hadn't seen him since last Tuesday, so I called my nephew and found out the crafty sod was dead." She stopped and blinked as though realising the harshness in her tone. "I'll say a prayer for him on Sunday, and ask Prophet Godfrey Hume to pray, too. I'm in Reverend Hume's congregation. Do you know him?"
"Had lunch with him last Thursday." Fenella made warm sounds in her throat. "Delicious food."
Mrs Gorman flashed a sly grin. "You'll…err… mention that we spoke and that I…err… helped you out?"
Fenella's lips quirked. "I'm sure what you have to tell me will be of great help."
Mrs Gorman's sly grin bloomed into a broad smile. "He's quite the preacher is Prophet Hume. As fierce as a lion and as sharp as a blade with his sermons. He is into hypnotherapy, you know?"
"Really?"
"Not that he needs it; he has a fine way with words. Persuasive. Makes you think things you never thought you'd think; do things you'd never thought you'd do. It's like when you are on holiday and one of those fast-talking salespeople sells you a timeshare flat you never knew you wanted. Know what I mean?"
Fenella didn't want to get off track and turned the conversation back to Peter Quelch. "Did you call anyone about his death?"
"Like who?"
"His girlfriend?"
Mrs Gorman sat very still and stared at the dancing peacocks. "Aye, he had a lass. He liked the posh type. Snooty." She sniffed. "She wasn't from around here, though. She reminded me of an actress. Something fake about her. Think she was from one of the villages."
"Where?"
She shrugged. "He spent a lot of time in Gilsland."
"What is her name?"
"I don't pry. Women come and go."
Fenella tried again. "Is there anything you can tell me about her?"
"I saw the snooty cow once. That's it. A brief glimpse." Again, Mrs Gorman stared at the wallpaper. "Funny thing about her is that…"
Fenella waited for a count of thirty and when no more words came from Mrs Gorman, she prodded with another question. "You were talking about Mr Quelch's girlfriend."
"That's the funny thing." Mrs Gorman shifted on the sofa. It squealed under the strain. "I remember the superior curl to her lip and the way she looked down her nose, but I can't recall what she looked like."
"Try."
"Average height. Dark hair… no light… oh… err… I don't know." She fiddled with her pink curlers. "I should take more notice, but I only get nosy when the men don't pay up. Like I said, women come and go, and Peter Quelch's girlfriend is nowt but a blur."
Chapter 120
They sat in silence. Fenella thinking about her next question and Mrs Gorman watching through narrowed eyes.
Fenella waited.
Mrs Gorman shifted in her chair. "Some say it was to be expected."
"You what?"
"What happened to Peter…err… Mr Quelch."
"Go on. I'm listening."
Mrs Gorman swallowed. "I thank God it wasn't me who discovered the body."
"Walk the trails a lot, do you?"
"A figure of speech, Inspector Sallow." Mrs Gorman licked her lips. "I'm not one for gossip; you understand that?"
"Of course not."
"Tittle-tattle is not my thing."
"Understood."
Mrs Gorman's left hand flew to her curlers. "Prophet Hume is like a raging beast against loose lips and I'm one of his women…err…flock. 'Meddle not with him that flattereth with his lips,' is what he says at the start of every sermon." She fiddled with the curlers for a moment. "No, no — Inspector, no, no, no. Gossip is not for me. Give me the facts and I'm a happy lass."
"So what facts have you got for me?"
"We ladies in the flock get together to…err…discuss things."
"Go on."
"There is talk of disturbed ground."
"Eh!"
"Around the Popping Stone. All that work at Gilsland Hall has disturbed the aura." Mrs Gorman widened her eyes. "And that's why she is back."
"Who?"
"The Gilsland Ghoul."
Fenella opened her mouth then closed it and then massaged her neck muscles.
It came to her then.
This street.
This house.
This living room.
There was no doubt about it.
She had been here before.
Chapter 121
Fenella leaned forward, absolutely convinced her next few words were correct. "Mr Bill Duncan, the cartoonist, lived here, right?"
Mrs Gorman stared without blinking. "Aye, until he went to London to work in the government's wartime propaganda department — 'Keep Calm and Carry On' and such malarkey." Her gaze flicked to the wallpaper with the dancing peacocks. "That's original, is that. And this room ain't much different from how it was when Bill Duncan was a lad. Except the telly."
Fenella gazed around with renewed interest. Were the yellowing net curtains original too?
"Must be an honour to live in his house, eh?"
Mrs Gorman snorted. Long and hard with her nostrils flaring. "I suppose."
Fenella wasn't one to share her private life, but this time she couldn't help it. "My hubby is an artist, draws cartoons for a living. I saw this place in one of his books. I knew I remembered it from somewhere." Again she gazed around, wondering how she hadn't got it sooner. "Last week we visited Bill Duncan's grave at St Mary Magdalene in the village of Gilsland."
"Fancy that." Mrs Gorman smiled, but she looked far from pleased. "You don't see many cartoonists these days. Their numbers are falling every year. A dying profession, right?"
"You'd be surprised." Fenella was off track, going down a rabbit hole, but she couldn't stop herself. "Art is booming, growing in leaps and bounds. They even have tours where you visit the homes of local artists and learn to draw. Art pilgrimage vacations are very popular with Americans and Canadians."
Mrs Gorman's lardy face crumpled and she let out a groan. "If this house gets on the tourist map, it's curtains for my little business." Her eyes darted to the door, then the windows and back to Fenella. "The council has been going on about putting a blue plaque on the wall, but if they do that, they might get ideas about jacking up the rent, too. I don't want the buggers poking around. Folks around here don't want this house turned into a tourist trap."
Fenella changed the subject. "Was Mr Quelch often late with the rent?"
"No rent. No room. That's the rule." Mrs Gorman blew air between her lips. "This was the first time I've let that lapse. I'm a damn fool. The bugger was such a sweet talker."
Fenella's lips quirked but she said nothing.
Mrs Gorman settled back on the sofa, folding her arms across her chest. "I smelled it in the air. You get that way if you've been in the business as long as I have. A whiff. A pong. Something was up. Something big. Very big. And when he didn't cough up the rent, I knew it was time to ask what was going on." She sniffed. "Never got the chance. But he was excited, though."
Fenella's disappointment hid behind a forced smile. "Are you sure he didn't tell you anything?"
"Do I look like a priest?" Mrs Gorman laughed and it wasn't pleasant. "He didn’t knock on my door late at night for confessional."
Tendons tightened on Fenella's neck. This was not what she expected. Not what she wanted to hear. She swallowed against the lump forming in her throat. "You've no idea what Mr Quelch was excited about, then?"
"He's dead, ain't he?" Mrs Gorman's lardy face scowled as though she'd sucked on something nasty. "Wouldn't be the first man to get excited about the thing that killed him. Wouldn't be the first to think they've found gold but dig up nowt but a pile of rust and rot. Half the men here think they are on their way somewhere. Think they'll strike it big. It doesn't happen in my experience. The gruel of manual work breaks them physically and emotionally. Sooner or later. That's why I don't let them stay long. They turn bitter when they figure out the truth — life ain't easy and it doesn't do what you want, neither. I hope Mr Quelch died quick so he didn't know the truth. It ain't right for a man to die bitter."
From outside, the mechanical groan of the grave-digging machine screeched. Between the scraping and scratching came the gruff shouts of men's voices. Hard work in the hot sun for wages that barely paid the bills. They'd live in cheap digs, too, with a landlady like Mrs Gorman.
Fenella clasped her hands, hopeful for something new to chew on. "Do you know why anyone might have wanted to harm Mr Quelch?"
"Keep my nose in my business and that's about it."
"Any recent visitors?"
"Nah. Only the girlfriend, and that was ages ago."
Fenella rocked to her feet. "I want to see his room."
Mrs Gorman gave a loud sniff. "I have rented it to another gentleman."
"What!"
"I tossed Mr Quelch's stuff into black bin bags and dumped them in the alley. No rent. No room. That's the rule."
Chapter 122
Dexter arrived at Barrow-in-Furness later that morning. He wanted to speak with Dr Teresa Wychwood, the mystic, about what she saw outside Le Petit Toon Café. And he wanted to dig into her relationship with Mr Wilfred Ash, get a better handle on Ash Antiques and find out what Dr Wychwood knew about her late boyfriend's business acquaintances. You never knew what might crawl from under those stones. He was cautious but optimistic.
He turned from the red-brick houses of Brown Street into a narrow cobblestoned alley. Another thought popped into his mind. No, not a thought. A feeling. Someone had their eyes on him. Watching from the shadows.
He stopped and scanned: black bin bags next to giant brown bins, a white skip with "Environmental Healthy Dumpster" written in white paint on the side, and a brutal sickly-sweet suffocating stench of rot that lingered inside your nostrils and clung to your clothes. On a low wall, several magpies watched.
Dexter counted: One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl…seven. Seven for a secret, never to be told.
He walked the length of the dingy alley, checking left and right, up and down, spinning to look behind, until he was sure no one followed. The magpies preened themselves, unfazed by his presence.
He walked back the way he had come, this time stopping by the stone steps that led to the mystic's front door. Again he looked both ways. But even as he told himself that the alley was empty, he had the unshakeable sensation once more of being watched.
He climbed the steps and, once again, turned to survey the alley. From here he had a better view of the brick walls and slate roofs. The narrow passageway was silent and still. A stray ray of sunlight broke the shade and a blueish film of slime glistened on the cobblestones.
His gaze travelled to the low brick wall.
The magpies were gone.
From Brown Street came the grumble of a bus, hiss of brakes, shuffle of feet and mumble of voices. Then another hiss and another grumble that faded into the distance.
Someone was definitely watching.
Dexter's gaze scraped over the black bin bags, the closed doors that served as entrances to the brick buildings, and then he took in the shuttered windows. His gaze lingered on the skip. There was something odd about the slant of the shadow. It spilled in a dark bulge, crumpled rather than silk smooth.
Then he saw it.
A figure in a rat-like crouch, peeping from one side, their head pressed flat against the cold metal.
Chapter 123
Fenella held her breath for as long as her lungs could take it. She stood in the centre of a small bedroom. The air smelled of boiled vegetables and vinegar and the lingering stench of unwashed bodies. From outside came the faint clawing and scraping of the yellow grave digger.
"I do my best to run a neat place." Mrs Gorman stood in the hallway, peering into the room, her lardy face flushing. "But this ain't the Ritz. Mr Peter Quelch understood that. And like I said, it's rented to another bloke now."
The bedroom was plain and uncluttered. Pushed against the wall was a single bed with a frayed yellow quilt and a lime pillow with brown stains. The worn carpet matched the bedsheet and faded saffron curtains hung in the clouded window. Fenella wondered when it was last opened and noticed the rust on the latch.
"Not a huge room." Fenella glanced at the window and fought back the urge to force the latch open. "A place to sleep, and that's about all."
"I won't take them in if they are not working." Mrs Gorman's hand went to a pink curler, fingers fidgeting. "I keep the rent low to make it affordable. The men have a place to sleep and I have a bit extra to help pay my bills. I like to keep things simple. Quiet. Under the council radar, if you know what I mean."
Next to the bed was a green plastic chair, an empty cream desk and a battered brown suitcase with a sticker on the lid.
There was nothing else in the room.
"That suitcase…" Fenella spoke in a burst of breath and she took another shallow sip. "… does it belong to the new resident?"
Mrs Gorman shuffled from foot to foot. "Most have one or two bags. I won't let them bring more. Like I say, the men don't stay long."
Fenella held the woman's gaze. "You haven't answered my question."
A drop of sweat formed on Mrs Gorman's forehead and ran down her lardy cheeks. She tightened the belt on her pink dressing gown. "The new gentleman brought it with him. He is… err… out right now."
Fenella's gaze darted around the room. There was nothing belonging to Mr Peter Quelch left. Not a trace. A man lives his life, dies, and before his burial, there is nowt left of him, even in the place where he lived. That filled her with sadness.
Mrs Gorman tapped a pink-slippered foot on the floorboards. A dull plop-plop-plop. "Seen enough?"
A squeal came from the graveyard. A boom and a mechanical groan. Like the snap of something metallic. Like the smash of metal bones. Shouts followed in a thunder of men's voices. They screamed with the rage of thugs. Soon the cries fell away to the murmur of the breeze, the soft rustle of the trees, and the plop-plop-plop of Mrs Gorman's pink slipper.
Fenella stepped towards the brown suitcase. "What have we got here?"
Mrs Gorman choked back a gasp. "I didn't give permission to search my new resident's things."
Fenella looked at Mrs Gorman and she looked at the brown suitcase and she looked around the sparse room. She didn't immediately say anything but stretched a hand towards the case and pointed.
"Are you sure that doesn't belong to Mr Quelch?"
"Positive." Mrs Gorman laughed nervously, then her thin lips curved into a forced smile. "I helped the new bloke carry it in. I swear."
Fenella edged closer to the brown suitcase. She wanted a poke about and she wanted a peep and she wanted to see what was inside. She couldn't help herself. Her nosy gene, she supposed.
"I'll have a quick gander, won't disturb a thing."
Mrs Gorman clasped her hands. "You can't do that." She gasped out the words in a huff of wild breaths. "You can't waltz in here like a bleedin' gale and search without paperwork."
Fenella watched the panic swarming up Mrs Gorman's reddening face and tapped her lip. "Mrs Gorman, what is the name of this new bloke?"
"I honour my client's privacy."
"Want me to come back with paperwork to search?" Fenella's lips quirked. "I'm not saying that flashing lights and officers in uniform will attract the council's attention, but it wouldn't come as a surprise, would it?"
"Jesus! You are a nasty piece of work. Picking and pecking and poking until you get it out. All of it."
"His name?"
It was the slight twist in Mrs Gorman's lips, a downward tightening at the edges. The way she tilted her head, eyes darting to the battered brown suitcase. The rapid blinks. And Fenella knew then.
Knew what the suitcase contained.
Knew where it came from.
Knew who it belonged to.
And still she hoped she was wrong.
Mrs Gorman snorted. "That suitcase belongs to one of your lot. My nephew, PC Jamie Raintree."
Chapter 124
Dexter made out the pea-green duffle coat but the face was nowt but dark. "Ain't no point hiding, mate." He kept his eyes focused on the crouching shadow. "Stand up and step into the light."
