Resurrection Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 6), page 24
"Wonder if Den Ogden is the type to leave a key under the doormat," Fenella said.
But at the dormer door there was no doormat under which a key might lie. No flowerpots either. Just the flat wall with a solid white door with paint peeling in giant slithers and a peephole which looked like a clouded eye.
Dexter's voice dropped to a low hiss. "A bit too still, guv. The place is like a bleedin' graveyard."
A hollow pang buzzed in Fenella's gut. Like the persistent ring of an internal alarm, soft and quiet and warning of trouble. Always the same feeling when she stepped into the unknown. And on this dark night with the rain and fog she sensed what lay behind that door might lodge so deep in her mind it could never be purged.
She knocked. "Mr Ogden, this is the police, Detective Inspector Sallow. Open the front door now."
She waited sixty seconds and pounded the door again. No stirring from inside. No angry mumble of voices. Nothing.
"He ain't home guv," Dexter said, eyeing the door. "Or he's knocked out in a drunken stupor with a dozen ale cans at his side."
"That means he might be in danger and in urgent need of medical help," Fenella said, knocking again. "We'll have to break down the door."
"Aye, guv," Dexter replied. "Wonder if it is as solid as the one downstairs."
It certainly looked sturdy, made of the type of thick wood used to guard a tomb. Fenella reached for the knob and twisted. The door swung inward. A gust of stale air rushed out.
"Police!" Fenella waited in the doorway for a heartbeat. "Mr Ogden are you here?"
The answer came in a soft whistle of wind. She stepped through the dark doorway. Where was the light switch? She couldn't find it and it took several more seconds for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.
The curtainless window was the source of the breeze. It let in an orange glow of town light. Fenella scanned the room. An electric outlet on the wall. A camper's double ring stove on the counter by the sink. A television on a pine table. Against the wall, a narrow fold-up bed. Then she saw the cot.
Driven by some primaeval instinct, she ran toward it. Behind, she felt Dexter move into the room, heard his gruff voice curse. They'd worked together for so long she understood his frustration. Den Ogden wasn't in the place. But in that instant, as her legs carried her forward, she no longer cared about the man. She cared about what was in the cot. What lay hidden beneath the covers?
From the edge of her vision came the hazy orange glow from the street. It lit the two ringed stove and the counter littered with baby formula bottles. In that instant, the heavy scent of the room crept up her nostrils, hitting her memory banks hard. A pungent aroma of soggy nappies and the sweat of sleepless nights. A memory from long ago when her bairns were small and new. Fenella hurried.
As she reached the cot, Dexter grunted. "Found the lights, guv."
They flickered on. A thin weak ray from a single unshaded bulb. It hissed and spluttered as if at any moment it might go out, and lit the room with the brightness of a candle in a tomb.
Fenella peered into the cot, blinked and looked again. Cold horror crawled from the base of her spine. Bolts of tension tightened on either side of her neck; a mass of sinew and veins pulsating in ghastly horror. The bulb flickered out for a moment then spluttered back to life. A weaker glow this time, ghostly pale.
Fenella gasped. A baby lay tucked between the sheets. On it's back. Face blue and unmoving. Hands, winter day grey. Eyes clouded and wide. And Fenella knew it was baby Eva Fisk.
"God Almighty," Dexter said. "Jesus Christ."
Fenella had no memory of scooping the bairn into her arms. But she felt the coldness of the tiny body against her warmth and the eternal stillness.
"Oh God," she said. "Oh God."
With care, she lay the limp bairn back in the cot. Dexter was already on the phone, shouting fast, demanding medical help right now. His furious voice faded from Fenella's hearing. She was in a tunnel, dark on all sides, a speck of light in the distance. Nothing mattered. Nothing but that speck of light. Her training kicked in, everything on automatic. She eased the bairn's head back and lifted the chin, checking the mouth and nose for obstructions. All clear. She blew steady breaths into the bairn's mouth and nose. Slow rescue breaths, counting, watching, as the small chest rose and fell. Keeping the bairns head tilted, chin lifted, she eased her mouth away, two fingers on the chest, pushing down, watching for the chest to fall.
Again and again.
Soft and slow and steady.
With the care of a mother who'd had five.
Not lost one.
Would never lose one.
Not on her watch.
She didn't hear the wail of the ambulance. Didn't hear feet pounding up the stairs, the mumble of urgent voices in the room. Didn't hear any of that. Only felt the soft hand of Dexter on her shoulder, easing her away from the bairn as the medical crew went to work.
Chapter 58
They brought in the big guns to track down Den Ogden. Officers with snarling dogs which yanked at the leash. Patrol cars, out in force, scanning the streets, searching the places where a man on the run might hide. And as the night-time mist receded back out to sea, a helicopter hovered low over the town, watching with an eagle eye. Meanwhile, a tech team were on site, to tear his room apart, searching for anything they might find.
It was the waiting time now. Time for a breath between the action. Everyone expected news of some sort, but when it came, it wasn’t what anyone expected.
The three detectives sat at a window table in the Eggshell Café, eating bacon rolls and sipping from mugs of steaming hot coffee. The café owner, a short greasy-haired man with a huge forehead, shocked at what they found, offered them a free breakfast to show support.
"It is terrible," he said, accent clearly French. "C'est terrible. C'est horrible. And it takes place above my head!"
He returned to the counter, shaking his head and looking up at the tiled ceiling as though wishing for X-ray vision. The mood was sober, air filled with fried food. Outside, three patrol cars waited by the kerb, blue lights flashing.
Fenella poured milk into her coffee which she normally drank black. "Not an easy night. I thought the bairn had left us."
She had called Mrs Jill Fisk and told her the news. Mam and dad were at the child's bedside.
"Didn't look like she had much life left in her guv," Dexter replied squeezing ketchup onto his third round of bacon rolls. "Any longer and she'd not have made it."
Jones took a vicious bite from his bacon roll. "I wish Den Ogden was in his flat tonight, boss. Wish he'd tried to escape so I could have clobbered him. A couple of blows to his head and half a dozen to his gut. Might even have slipped in a few low strikes to his groin just for the hell of it."
That wasn't like Jones, Fenella thought. The terrible find of baby Eva Fisk, the long night, and the wait for news was getting to him. It was getting to her too. The coffee didn't help, made her edgy.
Den Ogden was on the run and lying low. There was no debate he was aware of the police presence at his flat. He'd have seen the flashing lights and ran into the shadows and the alleyways. To where? The more time passed, the greater the chance he would escape their tightening net. They had a matter of hours before he slipped from town and vanished in the throng of a big city. The clock had started and was ticking fast.
Fenella took another sip, noticed Dexter's lips beginning to work up to say something and waited.
"Knocking people about ain't what we do these days, lad. But it is a sodding good idea for the likes of Den Ogden."
Jones was nodding. The lad's knackered, Fenella thought. Tiredness has taken over his brain. Jones followed the rules, black and white without a hint of grey. And Dexter was, well, the opposite. But they both agreed Den Ogden would benefit from a good kickin'. A visceral reaction to a tough night. And how did she feel? Huge relief that they'd found the bairn. Horror at the conditions in the dormer. Joy that the bairn survived. Now her entire focus was on Den Ogden. She'd nail the child abduction case tighter than the lid of a coffin … once they'd got him.
And anger stirred in her, too. Hot and wild, a giant rolling ball of rage. But she clamped it down, breathing slow. "Our job is to catch the bugger. Justice is for the courts. The good news is baby Eva is in safe hands with her mam and dad at her bedside. She'll recover and have no memory of what happened."
They fell into silence. The warm smell of fried food swirled up their nostrils with grease laden fingers. Black pudding and bacon and fried things from the past. And their minds were all focused on one thing. When would they hear news of Den Ogden? Today? Tomorrow? Or months from now would the data be transferred in digital bytes to the cold case files in Carlisle?
The café owner, aware of the sudden stillness moved from behind the counter. The tea urn hissed with a long high-pitched blast of steam. And the detectives' phones pinged. All three at once. A nerve-jangling buzzing sound like wasps about to attack.
News. Big News.
Fenella scrambled her mobile phone from her handbag. She read with speed, then leaned back, folding her arms. Dexter grinned. Jones took another savage bite out of his bacon roll and chewed with his eyes wide and wild.
Fenella dropped her phone into her handbag. "So, they've found a cricket bat in Den Ogden's flat, eh?"
"A bloody big one," Dexter added, rubbing his hands. "Lined with bleedin' sharp nails."
Chapter 59
Fenella woke at six thirty the next morning from a deep and restful sleep. Not eight hours. Nowhere near as her head hit the pillow after three. But all the tired brain fog had lifted and the events of a few hours ago seemed a lifetime away. Morning light shimmered at the edge of the curtains. She eased from the bed not wanting to disturb Eduardo who kept artist hours. He was working on a comic strip for a firm in Beijing. An ancient tale based on Chinese myth with a white snake as the hero and an icy turtle as the foe.
Fenella padded to the window and pulled the curtain back at the edge. The overnight rain had long stopped and the mist lifted. The countryside glistened under a deep blue cloudless sky.
She inhaled, held her breath, then exhaled for a count of ten. The past few days had been one huge ball of mad tension. A wild ride on an epic adventure. An adventure which was far from over. She exhaled the last of her yoga breaths, refusing to foul her mind with thoughts of Den Ogden.
The last anyone had seen of the man was in the dank alley on the opposite side of the street to the Eggshell Café. Not yet, she told herself. Not at home. Save work for work. The only thing she wanted right now was to enjoy her time at home. She let her mind empty and slipped out of the bedroom, easing the door shut.
In the kitchen, her mam, Nan, fussed at the stove, humming a little snatch of a song. She boogied to the sink, did a twirl, saw Fenella in the doorway and smiled.
"You came in very late last night, Fen."
"Aye," Fenella replied. She never talked about work at home, preferring to keep those lives separate. "The cock was about to crow by the time I drifted off."
Nan did a pirouette on the tips of her toes. "Bacon and eggs with toast?"
"What's got you so merry?"
"I'm always joyful."
"Righto," Fenella replied, watching her mam closely.
Nan was humming, her whole body vibrating with joy. She cracked an egg into the frying pan, spun in a tight circle and gave a howl of laughter.
Fenella said, "What are you howling about?"
"Coffee? I've some fresh beans from Grainbowl café. Their Kenyan roast must be the best coffee I've had the pleasure of drinking."
"Are you going to tell me what all this joy is about?"
"Eat first."
They ate their breakfast in peaceable silence. Well, apart from Nan's humming which Fenella thought she was doing deliberately to ramp up her curiosity. And it worked. She had to know what all the joy was about.
When they finished, Nan cleared a space on the table and flipped on her tablet computer. She used it for surfing social media sites, watching internet videos of cats and looking up recipes of exotic dishes to cook.
"Now then," she said, swiping the screen. "Here it is. Everyone is talking about it Fen, and I mean everyone."
Her eyes glittered, and she grinned so wide it reminded Fenella of a friendly Halloween pumpkin.
"What are you on about?" Fenella said, unable to hide the curiosity in her voice.
"Oh, you just go back to your daydreaming. You were always a big daydreamer even when you were a nipper."
"Who's a big daydreamer?" Eduardo stood in the doorway wiping sleep from his eyes.
"None of your business, you nosy sod," Nan replied as her smile broadened.
Eduardo ignored the jab and sniffed. "Is that sausages?"
"You are on a diet and can't have fried food," Nan replied, wagging a finger. "I'll mix up some porridge made with water like they do in Scotland. One or two pinches of salt?"
Eduardo gazed at Nan with wide puppy eyes. "Oats block my tubes. What about two small rashers of bacon? A bit of fat helps to get things moving."
"You are a crafty sod," Nan said, on her feet and heading for the stove. "I was just saying to Fen that she was always a big daydreamer."
Eduardo said nothing.
Fenella folded her arms. "Are you going to tell us what everyone is talking about?"
"Yeah," said Eduardo, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What's the news?"
Nan, who loved drama, did a little shuffle of a dance. Eduardo was on his feet and joined in, lips twisted in a sly grin. He was trying to butter up Nan so she'd cook him a fry up of bacon and eggs. Fenella knew her husband well. She'd confiscate half for herself. She watched them twirling around the kitchen and laughed. Her mam was nuts. And so was her husband. She wondered if drawing comics had made him that way, but he was like that when she met him. An artist, with his head in another world which wasn’t quite this one. Not that she minded. She, too, was mad, in her own way. And she knew her mam was playing with her curiosity, drawing it out like chewing gum stretched into a fine string. And it worked. She had to know now.
"Come and sit," Fenella said. "Don't want you so out of breath you can't talk."
Nan sat at the table opposite Fenella. Eduardo joined them, huffing. He had pounds to lose and wasn't winning that battle. He gave a drum roll on the table. "Now for the news."
Nan said, "Everyone is saying you are a hero, Fen. The hunt for Den Ogden is all over the news. All my online friends are talking about you saving baby Eva Fisk. Of course, I let them know you are my daughter and I would expect nothing less."
Fenella felt her face flush, opened her mouth to protest but her mobile phone rang. A familiar ring tone. She picked it up, placed it to her ear, knowing her work day had just begun.
"On my way over to your place, guv," Dexter said. "The American, Chuck Baker, is awake. Didn't think you'd want to wait until visiting time to speak with him."
Chapter 60
When Fenella arrived at Chuck Baker's hospital room, she was surprised to find him sitting up in bed digging into a plate of fried bacon, eggs, beans, black pudding and toast.
He did not look up; instead, he jabbed a forkful of black pudding into his mouth, then went after the fried bacon.
A medical device beeped in soft low tones as she stood in the doorway. "Hello, pet. How are you doing?"
He glanced up, his mouth working a chewy strip of bacon. He raised his hand beckoning her further into the room, but did not speak. He swallowed the bacon and went after a fat slice of black pudding.
A wave of relief washed over her. He wasn't as badly beaten as she'd feared. She would have been even more pleased if they had Den Ogden, his attacker, in custody. That thought faded into the background as she regarded him closely. She was struck by his youthfulness. He had dark intelligent eyes and a crop of thick black hair. He couldn't be over twenty-five, possibly younger. And he was twiglike with everything thin including the bruised face and the sunny smile upon it.
And it was his face she focused on.
There was something familiar about it, but she didn't know what and wished Dexter or Jones were with her to put their finger on it. She'd left Dexter at the hospital reception where he'd gone to check up on Mrs Stoke. Jones wasn't due in at the station until eight, and Ria Leigh was off sick. It was ten past seven.
She sent a text message to Dexter to join her, then walked to the bedside and sat in a chair. "Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb your breakfast. I'm Detective Sallow, but you can call me Fenella. Can we talk?"
He waved his fork. "Not a problem at all. This black sausage is fantastic, never had it before. Is it made of beef or pork?" He spoke in a soft accent. Educated. New England. Boston, maybe.
"Aye, can't beat it for breakfast," she said.
Did it matter what went into black pudding if he enjoyed it? Anyway, it was too early to be talking of boiled pig's blood and fat and oatmeal. Best let him eat and digest it first. She changed the subject.
"What part of Boston are you from?"
"Not Boston, but Wayland, a town not too far from the big city. Have you been to Boston?"
"Aye, for the marathon. Not to run in it mind you, just to watch and wonder. How can anyone run for that many miles?"
Chuck laughed. "I could have done with faster legs last night." He dropped the fork on the plate. "Might have saved me, how you say over here, a bit of bother. And to think, I'd spent the whole night watching that street in my kit."
"Kit?"
"My brown trilby and green trench coat. I watch a lot of old British movies. Thought I'd wear the get-up for my adventure over here. Never thought I'd get into a, as you say, punch-up."
Fenella smiled. Chuck brought up the attack rather than her drawing it out of him. A good sign that he'd be all right once his physical wounds healed. Now to find out what happened. All of it.
She said, "Do you own a cricket bat, Mr Baker?"
