Moonlight Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 9), page 25
They crossed the alley and stood by the railings. The air changed. Dank and sour and disturbing. The siren came again. A screaming rage. It surged and ebbed in fierce wailing waves. Fenella heard it then, and its meaning sank in.
Time was passing.
They went to the front door and put on gloves and shoe protectors.
"A quick poke about." Fenella couldn't hide her eagerness to peep inside. "Before the crime scene manager shows up and boots us out."
"Aye, guv." Dexter moved, arms and legs a swirl, ahead of her and through the front door. He was nosy too, although they called it curiosity in men. "Just a brief look, guv."
Chapter 150
A brass doorbell rang as they stepped inside. A rusty, dull tone that echoed in the stillness. Underfoot, the oak floorboards creaked.
It hadn't occurred to Fenella to ask herself — or Dexter for that matter — what they were looking for. Now she wondered what they would find.
Optimistic and eager, she flipped the lights on, her eyes taking everything in.
Along one wall stood tall display cabinets. One held blue and white Staffordshire pottery. Another held porcelain figurines and cranberry glass vases. Yet another held decanters and perfume bottles. Sturdy oak shelves lined the opposite wall. They were heavy with dust-laden leather-bound tomes. A step stool, used for reaching the upper shelves, lay on its side on a threadbare oriental rug.
"It's like one of them pyramids archaeologists crack open, guv." Dexter moved to the centre of the room. "A tinker's cave full of wonders."
An ancient cash register rested on one side of a weathered counter. Next to it was a glass lid case full of oddments and curiosities: bone-handled magnifying glasses, wire spectacles, and pince-nez glasses. A pair of false teeth grinned from a velvet-lined case.
Dexter hustled to a table crowded with glass domes.
"What we got here, guv?" A bird stared out from under each dome: barn owl, nightjar, long-eared owl, short-eared owl. "Looks right creepy."
Fenella wasn't a fan of taxidermy and hustled behind the counter. "See if anything else catches your eye. There's another room back there; I'll have a nosy."
She stepped into a dank-smelling chamber with a vaulted roof. It was a storeroom filled with an odd assortment. She strode by a framed portrait of a stern-faced military man, hustled past a grandfather clock, and paused at three life-sized figurines of naked women. Then she turned to look at the bookcase. It had a narrow mahogany frame with a slight lip running the length of one side — a corner unit. It held no books but shone as though recently waxed and polished. Scattered on a low table were piles of magazines.
From somewhere above the rooftops, an owl hooted. Its wail came gradually to Fenella, like the creep of night. She placed her hands on her hips.
The chamber pressed down its miserable mood.
Windowless, cluttered, cramped, and that smell.
It was a cubbyhole. A place to dump stuff you didn't want. A dark space to store broken things that you hoped might be useful for parts. And then, one day, you cleared the cubbyhole out and tossed it all away.
Whatever she was looking for didn't jump out of this mess. But what was she looking for? She tilted her head, scanning the room again, seeing everything and nothing.
Her neck muscles began to tingle. A terrible sourness crawled up her throat. Her gaze returned to the grandfather clock and still nothing jumped out.
"Crime scene folks are here, guv." Dexter's voice carried in a whisper from the doorway. "Didn't see ought interesting. Nothing caught me eye except for those stuffed birds."
Chapter 151
It was just before three that morning and Fred's head was spinning. His nerves tingled at the jangle of the detention officer's keys. His nose twitched at the acrid scent of bleach, sweat and urine. As the holding cell door swung wide, he held his breath and stepped inside.
It was a small, whitewashed room with a single bed, stainless steel toilet, sink, and the ever-present glow of ceiling lights. Fred needed to check on Guy that all was well. But he didn't like small spaces, especially windowless rooms.
"At last!" Guy rolled from the metal bed. "They caught me in —"
Fred raised a hand and turned to the officer. "That will be all. I'll bang when I want to come out."
"Very good, sir." The officer stared at Guy and shook his head, long and slow, with a sad curve to his lips. "Don't waste your time."
"Pardon?" The smell hit Fred again. Stronger in here — animal scents of panic and fear and something else. He exhaled and breathed in. Yes, that was it — the pungent tang of human waste. From that lidless toilet, no doubt. He peered at the dull bowl, a curl coming to his upper lip. Yes, there is something brown bobbing in the dank water. He shuddered. "What did you say?"
"No need to bang, sir." The officer nodded towards the metal panel on the wall. "Press the button and someone will come to let you out."
The cell door clunked shut.
There was silence for a moment, and then the footsteps of the officer poured through the edges of the door. They clattered, bouncing off the walls, cartwheeling along the floor and fluttering away into the quiet.
Guy ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper shoulder-length hair. "They wanted to give me a duty solicitor, but I insisted on you. You were the first person I thought of."
"It's three in the morning!" The first flicker of rage ignited in Fred. "Saturday morning."
"I'm sorry, Fred."
"You've been up to your old tricks again, haven't you?" Fred snorted. "Breaking and entering. Face mask. Dressed in black. Creeping about in the dead of night with a large sack."
"Listen to me, I can explain—"
"Burglary with—"
"I was doing it for —"
"And you told me that life was behind you. In the rearview mirror, right?" Fred plucked a comb from his pocket and jabbed it. "Not my words, but from your very own mouth. And to think I believed you. You've played me like a damn fool."
Guy scrubbed his palms against his eyes. "The detective in charge said I could call someone."
"Oh, let me see. That's a tough one, isn't it?" Fred combed hair across his bald spot and dropped the comb in his jacket pocket. "What about your wife, Louise?"
Guy clawed at his hair but said nothing.
"You didn't call her because sweet, kind-hearted, Louise would be even more disappointed than I am right now. My God, how long do you think it will be before the police dig up your criminal record?" Fred couldn't stop himself. The smell and the cramped space and the early hour had ruined his morning routine. "You know that the owner of Ash Antiques is dead?" He couldn't take his eyes off Guy. "Murdered, if what I read in the newspaper is accurate."
Guy said nothing.
It dawned on Fred then, and he spoke in a whisper. "You knew him, didn't you?" He pointed his finger. "You knew Peter Quelch."
"So?"
"And you know Goose."
"We all do."
"And you knew Wilfred Ash."
"What are you trying to say?"
"You were caught creeping about his shop and stole a box of knives."
Guy said nothing.
Fred didn't want to shout but couldn't help himself. "You've failed at everything in life. Failed circus hand, failed supermarket trolley collector, failed to keep your word. Goodness, look at the state of that toilet. Can't you lift a finger to give it a shine? Give you a chance and you snuff it out, kill it with stupidity and greed. Breaking into a dead man's shop! How could you sink so low?"
Guy's eyelids fluttered shut. He began to sing, soft and sweet and sad. "O mio babbino caro…"
When he finished, Fred paced to the door and back to the centre of the room. "Someone must tell Louise. She'll be worried sick." He sighed. "I suppose that duty falls to me. I'll stop by on my way home. What a rotten mess!"
Guy blasted air between his lips. "Thought you might ask how I am."
"You've had a bad day. A relapse. That's what we'll say. And we shall tell the judge you are holding down a good job."
"You think the judge will be impressed by toilet cleaning?"
"It's a job damn it. And for God's sake, puff your chest out like you are proud of it when you are in front of the judge. Smile and tell the court it is what you were born to do; what you live for." Fred glanced at the dark water in the toilet bowl. "I would like to tell the judge that you are so keen on your duties, so committed to your job that you…" His voice fell away as he shivered at the brown bobbing object in the lidless bowl. "… set to work on that toilet so it shone with the gleam of a polished mirror. Can you do that?"
"I…err…well…"
"Of course you will do it. Fall on your knees and scrub. For Louise, for the new baby, for your future release." Fred raised his hand and his tone softened. "We won't mention you knew Mr Wilfred Ash. You are not a bad man, not really. Just pig-headed and stupid with sticky fingers and greedy eyes. A genetic defect, I suppose. God only knows how you wriggled a ring on Louise's finger."
Guy's forehead crumpled. "Perhaps I should find another solicitor."
"After dragging me from bed?" Fred didn't want to lash out in rage, but this place put him on edge. Now wasn't the time for anger, though. Now was the time for a cool head; a time to be extra careful. "As you wish. I suppose we can call the duty solicitor."
"What! No, no — Fred — no, no, no. Don't condemn me to that." Moisture came to Guy's eyes. "You've been like a father to me. The father I never had. You listen and don't judge and—"
Fred let out a frustrated breath. "I will apply for bail later this morning. Burglars are ten-a-penny. If they kept them locked up, there'd be no room for the serious criminals."
Guy placed his hands together as though in prayer. "All I want is to go home to Plum Cottage and hold Louise in my arms."
Fred strode to the metal panel and pressed the button. "I'll have you out by noon." He flashed an encouraging smile, the one he used with clients. "There is nothing for you to worry about. Now get some rest. One of us needs to be fresh in the morning and I know I shan't sleep a wink."
Chapter 152
There were a lot of things Fenella would never have believed until she visited Plum Cottage.
Dark clouds poured over the village of Gilsland. They tumbled in billowing waves, strangling out the pale morning sun. They cast long shadows over the stone houses and neat gardens. Dark smudges swirled in tall towers, threatening to spit icy pellets.
She stepped out of her ancient Morris Minor, car keys in hand, and cast a long glance at the sky.
Seven in the morning and as dark as dusk.
A deluge was coming and coming soon. A dam burst of rainfall, for sure. Her gaze went to the garden gate of Plum Cottage. She began to walk with quick steps. She wanted to speak with Mrs Louise Bertram before the agony of the day ahead unfolded its wings of gloom. There were interviews to be done with Mrs Bertram's husband, statements to be taken, and charges to be filed.
All in good time, Fen.
A throb of thunder shuddered in the dullness. Lightning streaked. A flicker of doubt caused her to stop. Was this such a terrific idea?
Shock sent people one of three ways:
Into rage.
Into silence.
Into talking too much.
Fenella picked up her pace, eager to roll the dice and see which side landed for Louise Bertram.
Chapter 153
"Morning, ma'am." Detective Constable Maggie Banville stepped from the side of an ancient oak tree. She yawned, head tilted skyward. "Looks like a giant storm is about to slam down. Wild and fierce by the way the wind is shaking the trees. A giant downpour, I reckon." She turned her gaze to the dark windows of Plum Cottage. "It's been a while since I've done a red-eye watch, but all is quiet here now."
It was the first time since Fenella stepped from her car that she really took in the view — the tall trees, lawn, flowerbeds, path, shed and the cottage. The edge of a curtain twitched in an upstairs window.
Fenella jangled her car keys. Was she right to ask Maggie to watch the place? A gut call and her gut often called it right. "I've seen this house on a chocolate box cover. Think I can smell a strawberry cream."
Maggie laughed. "That's what I thought when I arrived. Gorgeous, isn't it?"
Fenella's gaze remained on the garden. "Wonder what they keep in that shed?"
Maggie shrugged and reached for her notebook, flicking through the pages. "Only two visitors since I got here at three."
"Oh aye? Well, don't keep me in suspense."
Maggie went on, quicker now, as if spurred by the electric-charged air. "Mr Fred Lowe, the solicitor, arrived at four seventeen."
After they talked about what this meant, Fenella turned her gaze back to the upstairs windows. "Mr Fred Lowe is Guy Bertram's solicitor, and that spells trouble." Her lips compressed. "What else have you got for me?"
"Vicar Hume."
"What about him?"
"He stopped by twenty minutes ago." Maggie glanced up from her notebook, her face unreadable. "He was wearing green shorts and a yellow T-shirt splattered with red hearts. He pounded the door with both fists. Thought he might force it open."
"What did he want?"
"To offer spiritual guidance, I guess." She shrugged and flashed a half-smile. "Why else would the vicar come here so early?" Her gaze flicked to the bedroom windows. "News travels faster in a village than in the big city. Bet everyone knows about Mr Bertram's arrest. I've never met a vicar who wasn't tuned into the news grapevine. Goes with the job, I suppose."
Fenella said nothing.
Thunder rolled overhead.
Maggie held out a hand, waiting for the first pitter-patter of rain, but none came. "Mrs Bertram didn't open the door."
"Eh?" That was not what Fenella expected. "Did I hear you right?"
Maggie shrugged again. "Thought I'd seen it all. The vicar looked like an angry hamster as he strode away. To see a man of the cloth get so red-faced was a real shock. He leapt onto his bicycle and pedalled like a maniac."
It was dawning on Fenella that the situation she faced was more complex than she had first thought. A new idea formed — an idea she didn't like. She pondered its meaning and considered her next steps.
"Jones will be here in twenty minutes to relieve you. Go home, grab a shower and a nap, and meet me at the Newcastle police station at three."
Maggie beamed. "Will do, ma'am."
"Is Mrs Bertram still inside?"
"Poked her head out the door ten minutes after the vicar left." Maggie nodded towards an upstairs window. "Saw her moving about in the bedroom a few minutes later. The strange thing was, she looked like she was dancing."
Fenella slipped her car keys into her handbag. "Did Mr Fred Lowe or Vicar Hume see you?"
"I kept deep in the shadows, ma'am. I'd be surprised if they saw anything. They were very focused. Both men moved with… I dunno… urgency, as though a huge fire had been lit under their backsides."
Chapter 154
The door swung open before Fenella's first knock.
Mrs Louise Bertram, wearing a black silk robe, stood in the doorway. "I knew you would come. Knew they would send a detective, and I've been waiting, waiting, for the knock."
The lass looked like she'd been up all night. A nasty shock with her hubby behind bars and a detective at her front door, no doubt. And there was the whiff of stale booze on the lass's breath.
Fenella said nothing.
Mrs Bertram turned. "This way, please."
She led Fenella into a lavishly furnished living room: a mahogany bookcase, oak dining table, and polished floorboards with a huge Persian rug. Two plush leather armchairs stood on either side of a wrought-iron fireplace.
An opulent space with more than a dollop of class. Except for the stale air. It held the tang of lime zest from a spray can but that did not mask the unmistakable odours of wine, cigarettes, and male sweat. An empty wine bottle and two crystal glasses stood on the table next to four empty cans of beer. A stack of fast-food cartons stained yellow with curry and flecked with grains of rice added to the savoury tang.
Then Fenella saw it.
Is that a bottle of champagne? Good God, it is.
She eased down into a comfortable armchair by the fireplace with a view of a wide window that overlooked the garden. Louise joined her in the adjacent armchair and fiddled with the black beads of her necklace.
Fenella smiled. "I'll not take much of your time, Mrs Bertram."
"There is no rush." Louise smiled back. "I want to be helpful. Want to understand what is going on."
Thunder rolled overhead, dimming the room two shades darker. Drops of rain splashed against the window. They smeared the glass, blurring the view.
Fenella nodded at the table. "Bit of a do last night, eh?"
"Please forgive the mess. Guy and I had a takeaway supper." Two watchful eyes set deep in a pale dough face blinked. "Just…err… a simple supper."
"That bottle of champagne looks expensive. An ordinary supper, you say?"
"Every once in a while, we like to pop the cork."
"Really?"
"At random, and last night was one of those times." Louise fiddled with her black beads on the necklace. "I was too tired to tidy up after we'd eaten."
Fenella gazed around the room, slow and deliberate, taking everything in. "Random bottles of champagne, eh? I like that, but I doubt I'll convince my hubby."
A giggle bubbled up from Louise's throat, her right palm flattening the black beads against her collarbone. "We've been doing it since our honeymoon, a tradition, now, I suppose."
Fenella looked at the woman, really looked; and she knew then, but didn't say anything.
Not yet.
She smiled. "Are you alone in the house?"
"Quite alone." Louise shifted in her chair. "Tea?"
Fenella's lips quirked. "No photos, Mrs Bertram?"
"Pardon?"
