Moonlight Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 9), page 22
"Ain't nowt wrong with moving about the place these days." Dexter thought of his ex-girlfriend, Priscilla, singing her heart out in a band touring the United States. "There are digital nomads wandering all over the place. A way to share your superpowers with the world, eh?"
She laughed, but it wasn't a joyous sound. "My special skills were not cool back then. I wrote with my left hand in school. The teachers called me 'kaggy handed,' and scoffed. A devil child. A weird outcast who dresses in dark robes. A freak who speaks with ghosts and sees visions of the future. They threw stones at me…"
Her voice fell away.
Rupert let out a soft moan.
Dexter waited. A sudden bout of depression gripped him. Visiting the mystic was a long shot. Was it even worth a go?
Dr Wychwood's plump lips curved up. "I've read your life pulse." She let her right hand drop from his chest and moved back a pace. "It's a bit like the lifeline on your palm, tells a story unique to each person."
"Were it strong?" Dexter was curious. There was no harm in asking. "Because me grandad lived to a ripe old age and me mam said I take after him."
Dr Wychwood laughed and colour came to her cheeks. She talked about Dexter's life chances, about her grandad, about his long life as a carnival mystic, about how you can't fight the hand of fate. Dexter mumbled and nodded and encouraged her. She began to talk easily and steadily as if they were old friends. It was with smiling eyes that she turned to him with a question.
"You asked me about Wilfred's enemies?"
"Aye, arguments, disagreements, fights, people hanging around, anything you can think of."
"I've thought of nothing else since he…passed."
Dexter ran a hand over his chin, his breath fast and eager. "Go on, Dr Wychwood. We will chase down every lead."
"That's why I'm here." She choked back a sob and pulled a faded Old Holborn tobacco tin from the green canvas bag. She flipped the lid, tipping out a deck of tarot cards. "To ask the spirits to guide me, show me because I haven't got a clue who'd want to hurt that wonderful man."
Not what Dexter expected.
Not by a long shot.
Chapter 131
The ruins of the Abbey groaned in the silence. The rustle of a passing breeze. Dexter glanced at the tarot cards then at the base of the stone archway then at Dr Wychwood. He coughed, then rubbed his chin. This was a long shot. A very long shot.
Once more, he hid his surprise and tried to sound causal. "Ah, well, what do them cards tell you?"
"Nothing."
"And the spirits?"
"They have not come through."
Dexter sucked his teeth and changed direction. "Was he seeing another woman?"
"Willy?"
"Aye."
"I suppose you heard the rumours about a show down at high noon?" Dr Wychwood didn’t wait for a reply. "Don't believe a word. Nothing but gossip whipped up for publicity. Business is not what it was."
"Thought it didn’t smell right." Dexter rubbed his grizzled chin. "Hope what you are going to tell me next has a sweeter pong."
Dr Wychwood smiled. "Younger women gathered around Willy like a gaggle of geese. There is money in antiques and it glittered in their eyes. But he always came back to my comfort. He needed a mature, giving, gal."
Dexter took his time now. Careful and cautious and slow. "I don't want to upset you, but can you give me a name?"
Her smiled dimmed to a straight line. "A name? You think I keep their names?"
"It would be helpful."
"We were never going to get married, you know?"
"Oh aye?"
"I was meeting with him at Le Petit Toon Café to break the news."
"You saying it was over?"
"It would have been… if I met him. Alas, the hand of fate decided otherwise and now guilt has shredded a hole in my soul."
Dexter said nothing.
A gust blew through the building in a mournful howl.
Dr Wychwood sighed. "I'm sure he was seeing someone. Some Frankenstein bimbo created at the hand of the plastic surgeon's knife. But I've never set eyes on the witch."
Dexter tried another direction. "Tell me about the lass you saw running away from Le Petit Toon Café."
"She wasn't running away." Dr Wychwood placed the tarot cards in the tobacco tin and dropped it into the green canvas bag. "I might have said that but I was confused. She was striding towards the café."
"Eh?"
"Fast. Fighting her way through the crowd like she was excited and eager to see the hell of it. A bloody gawker."
Something nasty fluttered in Dexter's stomach. "Can you describe this woman?"
"I've thought of nothing else." Dr Wychwood's eyes sunk deep in their sockets. "Black yoga pants with shoulder-length grey hair. I'd know that hawk-eyed face if I ever saw it again."
Dexter sighed then blew air between his lips.
Dr Wychwood rubbed her palms together. "You know this woman?"
"Aye, it's my boss, Detective Inspector Sallow. And she was running towards the café to help."
Chapter 132
Rupert crouched in the corner of the archway with the flute in his hand and exhaled a strangled breath. The sound carried with the softness of a sigh.
Dexter rocked back on his heels, flexed an arm, stared towards the daylight and the grass lawns. It took him three heartbeats to realise that Rupert's exhale held a string of words. Now Rupert repeated them, louder, like the distant rumble of thunder that grows until the storm breaks overhead.
"There was that other person you saw." Rupert looked at his flute, his words aimed at Dr Wychwood. "We both saw."
Dexter looked from Rupert to Dr Wychwood and back to Rupert. "Who?"
Dr Wychwood gripped the handle of the green canvas bag and shook it. "Rupert, how can you be so sure when I have such doubts?"
"It comes to me sometimes, too, you know." Rupert tapped his nose with his left forefinger. "That sixth sense."
"But there were so many people fleeing that café." Dr Wychwood bit her lip. "We mustn't point fingers at the innocent."
Dexter clapped his hands, the boom shaking the quiet air. "Maybe someone can give me the details."
"Please don't waste his time." Dr Wychwood frowned. "I am sure you are wasting his time."
Rupert sprang to his feet and joined Dexter and Dr Wychwood near the entrance of the arch. The sun broke free from a dog-faced cloud and drooled down rays of golden light. Dexter cocked his head and studied Rupert, waiting to hear his next words.
"I wouldn't have noticed except for the heat. We have had a glorious summer and despite the rain, it was still warm that morning. T-shirt and umbrella weather." Rupert jabbed his flute at the sky. "I don't know if it means anything, but I saw a figure in a thick tweed jacket fleeing Le Petit Toon Café moments before the bang."
Chapter 133
"I don't know what you think you'll find in here." Mrs Gorman's eyes rolled up. "You'd be better off dashing to the city dump and digging for those bin bags."
They stood in the library of Mrs Gorman's boarding house. A tiny brick room entered through a narrow green door by the massive telly. A pantry converted into a tiny study a long time ago. Sunlight shone through a frosted slit window and lit the space with an orange glow. A dressing table with a vanity mirror stood against one wall. Tucked against the opposite wall was a plastic table, a wooden chair, and a stained-glass floor lamp.
It reminded Fenella of a prison cell, an office cubicle, and a monk's private chamber. The air smelled of damp and boiled vegetables and vinegar. There were no shouts from the graveyard in here, only the quiet hiss of the house.
"That's mine." Mrs Gorman pointed to the dressing table. On the surface were a scatter of lipsticks, eye shadow palettes, brushes, and three mannequin heads. Each wore a wig: black, blonde, redhead. "Not that I go out to fancy places much these days, but when I do, I know where my war paint is."
Fenella hustled to the centre of the room and caught sight of a Bentwood coat rack standing in the shade of a dim corner. A tweed jacket with patched elbows hung from one of the six hooks. A flutter of excitement danced in her gut.
"That jacket." She moved towards it with a light-footed skip. "It belongs to Mr Quelch, right?"
"Gracious me!" Mrs Gorman breathed out a sluggish sigh. "I'd forgotten about that. You know how it is, don't see the thing that is right under your nose." She was smiling her thin-lipped smile and nodding her lardy head. "It belonged to my grandad and has hung there for donkey's years."
Fenella choked back her disappointment. "Your…err… Grandad?"
"Tweed jackets were popular back in Grandad's time, and they are popular once more. My nephew wears it once in a while to keep the chill from his bones. What goes around comes around, ain't that what they say?" Mrs Gorman's voice turned sombre. "I keep it for sentimental reasons. I'll talk to Grandad about it on my next visit to the graveyard. He'll like that."
"Aye, luv, happen he will."
Fenella was about to leave when she caught sight of a large brown envelope trapped between the plastic table and the wall. It must have slipped off the table and become stuck against the brickwork.
Mrs Gorman's gaze travelled in the same direction and she let out a little gasp. "What is that doing here?"
"You recognise it?" Fenella moved towards the table, cautious and slow. "Have you seen it before?"
Mrs Gorman spoke in a rush, her face flushing as the words tumbled out. "Over the past few weeks, Mr Quelch took to carrying a brown envelope about with him. I wondered what was inside but never got the chance to snatch a glimpse." Now she slowed, punctuating each word in a stunned voice. "It. Looked. Like. That!"
Fenella put on gloves and reached for the envelope, noticing its weight. She held her breath as she emptied the contents onto the tabletop.
A set of keys jangled out first. She counted ten. House door keys by the look of them. Next came the flutter of a folded sheet torn from a magazine. Fenella opened it and smoothed it out — a sudoku grid, partially filled with numbers. Finally, a postcard dropped out. It landed face down on the table. On the back, scrawled in blue ink, was a single word followed by two letters:
Love HB.
A photo of a woman was on the front of the card. She wore a clown's frizzy wig and sported a broad smile, her eyes reddened by the flash.
Fenella tried to piece it together then tapped the photo. "Do you know this woman?"
Mrs Gorman's lardy face crumpled into a mournful scowl. She reached into the pocket of her pink dressing gown, pulling out a pair of reading glasses and studied the photo. "Yeah, she looks familiar."
Fenella waited.
Mrs Gorman leaned forward, exhaled a long breath and snorted. "Nah, I was wrong. That face doesn't ring any bells."
That almost crashed Fenella's theory, so she tried again. "Take a close look, isn't that Mr Quelch's girlfriend?"
"What!" Mrs Gorman leaned in closer. "No, no — Inspector Sallow, no, no, no. I've never seen that woman before and have no idea who she is."
Chapter 134
Whenever Ted felt anxious, he thought of his special Friday and Tullie House.
He was smitten the moment he discovered the museum tucked on Abbey Street, Carlisle. The Jacobean mansion, with its modern additions, sprawled in a warren of fascinating galleries. He enjoyed wandering from room to room, but it was the Roman horde in the underground vault that brought him back every day for two straight years until he became a volunteer docent.
Fifteen years straight, one Friday a month at noon, he left his law office early to lead an educational tour of the Roman artefacts. It was the one time in the week when he was oblivious to the problems in other people's lives. As a Family Law solicitor, he welcomed the respite.
Fred raked a comb across his bald spot, patted down the strands of hair, slapped on his lawyer's smile and led a group of local teens, with their eagle-eyed teachers and a handful of inquisitive parents, to the underground Roman Frontier Gallery.
He ambled around the darkened space, pointing out the Roman goatskin tent, the bone hair pins, and the pottery scrawled with graffiti. He stopped longer than usual in front of the heavy oak sword next to the human shaped ash wood dummy. Both were used by Roman soldiers for practice. Lethal practice.
He might be an old-timer, but he still had a surprising move or two. He acted out a Roman swordsman's thrusts with savage zeal. He waxed lyrical about the angle of the blows, stabs and jabs etched deep in the wooden doll's belly.
With a jabbing motion to the dummy's head, he explained how Roman soldiers used the sword to pluck out the eyes. Sweat ran in warm rivulets down his forehead. His chest rose and fell with wild jerks. For every scar in the ash-wood doll, he described the artery, organ or bone the oak sword gorged, severed or shattered. And then, watching the teens' faces, he delivered his most enjoyable lines.
"Butchery wasn't seen as gruesome in Roman times. It was just the way they lived. A simpler way of life. One wonders if we might not be better off going back to."
When his demonstration ended, he leaned against a display case, panting hard and cracking jokes. But they were a miserable group and stared at him with blank faces that made him feel as though he were an exhibit.
And he got the unshakeable sensation that this group was trouble.
Chapter 135
With a flourish Fred swaggered to the final display case and waited for the group to gather around and swoon over the amber ring of Minerva. He raked the comb across his bald spot and wondered how much younger he would look with a head full of green spiky hair.
"I'm going to tell you something you've never heard before." Fred always began with those words. They had come to him bit by bit over the years so that they flowed with the upbeat smoothness of a stage actor. He always got "oohs" and "ahhs" followed by quiet anticipation as the group gathered around. He beamed in anticipation. "Something you'll remember for the rest of your life."
"You mean about Minerva being the Roman goddess of wisdom and war?" This from a bespectacled teenaged girl with green hair, gargoyle eyes and greasy spots. She spoke in a know-it-all sneer. "And if we look close, we will see her likeness in the relief of the ring."
That stopped Fred. His smile vanished and his voice lost its upbeat actor's lilt. "You've been here before?"
"Ten times." She turned to her friends, stretched her mouth wide and mimicked a yawn. "And every time you say those words."
Fred tried to smile but didn't make it.
The teen squeezed a spot on her chin until it oozed. "And the ring is from a single block of Baltic amber, transported to north-western Italy, where it was carved into a complex spectrum of molten orange." Her voice mimicked Fred's with astounding accuracy. "Look at the edges, see the darkening glow? It reminds one of the last flickers of light in midsummer." She jabbed a finger, jeering. "Always the same words and in that creepy actor's voice."
A grim mutter of agreement rose from the teens.
Tightness gripped Ted's chest. He stared at the spotty face girl and he stared at the stern-faced teachers and he stared at the parents rolling their eyes with their lips twitched up in eager grins. He wanted to swear but said nothing, repeating his positive mantra.
I'm a winner. Best of the best. Today, I exorcise all doubts about my age and relish the day ahead.
The teen barked out a laugh of pure scorn. "Tell us something new, Grandad."
A cheer went up. All the teenage voices as one. A parent or two joined in. The teachers kept their lips quite still. But he saw laughter in their eyes. And pity.
Sweat oozed from Fred's forehead. He stooped like he was an old man and shuffled with grandad steps back to the exhibit of rusted Roman swords. He cleared the lump in his throat, then cleared it again with a burbling rattle. "I…err…" He rested a hand against his damp forehead. "…well…let me see."
An exceptionally tall lass in filthy blue jeans, ragged tie-dyed blouse, and freaky pink hair stepped forward. Fred realised she was a teacher. The lead teacher. A woman the teens and parents respected.
Freaky Pink flashed a sympathetic smile, like the nurse gives when you become doddery and must move into the old people's home. "If you want to tell us again, that would be…err… wonderful."
"Have you also…" Fred regretted speaking, but his stuttered words were already half out. "…been…on my tour…before?"
Freaky Pink raised both hands, palms out with her fingers stretched wide. She clenched her fists then stretched the fingers wide again. "Twentieth visit."
Fred's lips parted but he could only manage a groan. He closed his eyes and saw his hands snake around Freaky Pink's neck. He felt, actually felt, her soft flesh give way as he squeezed. He trembled so hard that his eyelids lifted and he found that he was smiling.
Freaky Pink flashed him another pitiful look then clapped. "Class dismissed."
The spotty faced teen with green hair raced up the stairs. The other teens followed. They jostled with parents and teachers in a frenzied stampede to hit the museum café.
Freaky Pink was the last to leave. At the top of the stairs, she turned and flashed Fred a sad look. Slowly, she pressed both hands together, bringing them to her chin as if she were a priest muttering the final benediction at his funeral. She stood there for some time, her head moving from left to right in a slow shake. Finally, she raised a hand in farewell and hurried from the gallery.
Fred didn't know what depressed him more, Freaky Pink's sorrowful wave or the terrible realisation that he was out of touch and well past his sell-by-date. He stalked from the Roman Frontier Gallery, head bowed, thinking depressing thoughts about both.
Chapter 136
It was seven in the evening and Louise watched from across the dining room table, trying not to let her eyes narrow to slits.
Guy lit two candles, sniffing, smiling, and nodding. "This is romantic, isn't it?" He looked around and stepped towards the window. "Let me draw the curtains."
