Resurrection Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 6), page 27
When he finished, he collapsed on his pillow. "So, you see, I'm a pawn and as much a victim as any child. I'm an innocent man who has been tricked into this mess. An innocent man, Detective Sallow. Write that in your notebook and underline it with red ink."
There was a self-satisfied pride in the way he said his words, almost boastful. He'd been wronged and was now on their side. A team, eh?
Fenella shifted in her seat. "Baby Eva almost died."
"I would have gone to the doctor in the morning."
"Really, because it looked like you'd done a runner."
"Come on, see it my way. Yes, I panicked when I saw the blue flashing lights. But wouldn't you? Your lot hasn't exactly been a lucky charm for me, so I thought it best that I scarper. I planned to call a doctor. That is the honest truth."
Fenella let that hang in the air for several seconds then steepled her fingers. "Why did you attack that lad in the alley last night?"
He stared with sly eyes. "I've no memory of last night. I hit my head when that bloody police dog pounced. Don't get me wrong, I love dogs, but that bleedin' hound ought to be put down. A bullet to Fido's brain. Happy to pull the trigger."
Fenella glanced at Jones. A thick vein pulsed in his neck; his eyes narrowed to slits. She changed track. "Do you know a lass by the name of Shirley Bickham?"
He shook his head. "It doesn't ring any bells. Shirley? Nope."
"You were in a relationship with her twenty or so years ago."
Again, he shook his head. "Too much water under the bridge. What about her?"
"It was her son you attacked in the alley on Shrimp Street."
"Look, it was self-defence. The sod got what he deserved."
"He is your son, Mr Ogden."
Den jerked back on his pillow. "I … er … my son?"
And then, suddenly, Fenella understood the final piece of the puzzle. Her heart skipped a beat and slammed against her chest. Dear God, the man is more than a monster. He's a bleedin' devil with it. She'd have to be careful to get it all out. Needle him. Trigger him. Burst his bubble of pride.
She massaged her neck. "I bet you didn't think you'd see your son again, not after you sold him off to America. Remember Shirley Bickham now?"
Silence. The rain started again. It fell in torrents, pounding against the window with sodden thuds.
"Shirley Bickham," Den said, drawing out her name. "What has the old slag been saying?"
For the first time there came a hint of menace in his voice. A hint of the real man. A hint he had been playing Fenella for sympathy. A hint something inside had long ago snapped and could never be repaired. A hint of anger bubbling just beneath the surface. And Fenella smiled.
She ignored his question and smoothed the edge of his bedsheet. "How much did you get for the lad?"
Den threw his head back, laughing. "I've always believed in a simple philosophy. I'll take care of me, if you will please take care of you. A simple way to live that brings a man everything he desires." Again, he laughed. "Everything."
"How much, Mr Ogden? Were you short changed?"
"Me cheated? No bloody way." He pounded a fist against his chest. "I'm the victim here. I'm the one who has been savaged by a mad dog."
Fenella leaned in a little, picking her words with care. "So, you sold the child you had with Shirley Bickham?"
"Is that what the cow said?"
"I'd like to hear your side."
Den stared with small dark eyes, hard and mean and greedy. "Yeah, I got cash and gave a wad to his mam. It was her idea. I only went along with it because she said it was what she wanted. Our relationship was never going to last. Look, the boy got the good life in the land where the sun always shines. A win-win."
"Selling kids is a win-win?"
"It is a job and as good as any other." He spat the words in a blaze of fury. "They leave the dark and go to the light. That is what we want for them, isn't it? A better life."
Fenella sensed from his answer, Chad Baker wasn't the last bairn he'd sold. She was on to it immediately.
"A job?" she said. "Getting young girls pregnant is a job?"
"Same as farming." He was grinning now, the thin slit of a mouth turned up at the edges. "That is what I am. A farmer. Till the soil and plant the seed, tender and reap the harvest."
The man was a mass of contradictions, and yet Fenella marvelled a little at his brazenness. The stone-hearted fiend had no shame or compassion.
She tapped a finger on the bedframe and jabbed him with a needle-sharp question. "You are a bit old for that lark these days, aren't you?"
"I've enough to go around."
He was boasting now. A cockerel at dawn. Crowing and puffing out his chest, lips stretched over his crooked teeth in a sinister smile. Never once had he turned his gaze to Jones. If he had, he would have seen the furious glare and shrank back between the covers, pulling them over his face.
Again, Fenella jabbed the needle and twisted. "Can't be easy to meet lasses who find skinflint meanness attractive. Not at your age, anyway."
Den's grin broadened and there was boastful pride in his voice now. "The ugly ones are easy pickings. Runaways and girls from broken homes. Teens. Sensitive and supple and stupid. They are eager for it. Love they call it." He laughed. It wasn't pleasant. "Easier to rob than a blind man's wallet. More fun, too. When I get them up the duff with my child, I make an offer. A very nice wad of cash for the sprog. Plant the seed and harvest."
The cold calculation in his words sent Fenella's nerve ends tingling. No remorse. No regret. Only selfish greed and stupid boasts. Repulsive. How many girls had the man got pregnant? How many bairns had he sold? She'd find out and nail the bugger for every last one.
Another silence. Longer. Den's chest heaved with violent jerks. He sucked in air and spat it out. He was trying to control his mouth, but he'd already said too much.
Fenella forced her voice to remain even. "Mr Ogden, thank you for telling me your side of the story. Very helpful. But I'd like to come back to Miss Shirley Bickham."
"Like I told you, I've no idea what the lass looks like. I have not seen her in years. I didn’t even recognise her son, and that is God's truth."
Fenella nodded. "Do you know Mr Fred Bickham?"
"Who? Don't tell me, is he Shirley's husband? I'm no detective, but I see where you are going. Well, I've never met him. Don't want to meet him neither."
"Oh come off it, you don't fool me." Fenella leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms and smiled. "We know Mr Bickham came to the police station to speak with a detective, but changed his mind. Maybe you and he met, and you persuaded him not to return to the police station. Maybe you told him you would turn yourself in. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that you killed Fred Bickham because he found out his daughter, Shirley, had twins and that you sold the boy child for profit. You killed him because he was going to speak with the police. But we know all about your seedy secret now, don't we Mr Ogden? So, you killed Fred Bickham in vain."
A sudden flash of fear oozed from Den, draining colour from his face. His jaw worked for a while but no words came out.
"And you killed Fred Bickham with a cricket bat because he was a fine player in his day," Fenella said. "I asked myself about the nails in the bat. Now I've met you, I understand. You put them in the bat out of pure spite, to cause the greatest damage, to make sure Fred Bickham would never talk."
Sweat pimpled his brow. "You've got no evidence I met that man." His voice was harsh now. As hard as nails. "You'll never make it stick."
And he was right. There were no CCTV cameras at Seaview Allotments. None on the way to the place. There was no visual evidence that Den Ogden and Fred Bickham had ever met.
But Fenella went with her gut, rolled the dice and twisted the needle again. She opened her handbag and took out the sheet of folded paper, read for a moment and sighed. "It says here you were a resident of Mrs Fassnidge's boarding house."
"Yeah, what of it?"
"Why did you kill Mrs Fassnidge?"
Den Ogden said nothing.
"I think it was because she asked you to leave," Fenella said in a sharp voice. "You killed her out of spite."
Among the blandness of his face, where Fenella and Jones focused, something moved: a shadow crossed his baker dough pale skin. Dark on light. Fenella held her breath. She counted, dead certain of what she had briefly glimpsed. Blind rage.
It took two heartbeats.
"The cow deserved it," Den yelled, eyes like two blackberries on a vine. "She threw me out on my ear without a moment's notice. She stuffed my belongings into bin bags and tossed them in the alley. No flea pit landlady does that to Den Ogden. I am somebody."
"That's right, but you've forgotten one thing. We are all somebody and nobody has the right to take the life of those folks that get in their way; that includes you Mr Ogden." Fenella turned to Jones. "Caution him. I need to get out of here and breathe some fresh air."
Chapter 65
At exactly four in the afternoon, Fenella and Dexter went into Mrs Stoke's hospital room. Within five minutes, Mrs Stoke was comfortable enough with Fenella to begin to speak freely, to admit mistakes, to explain what happened as best as she knew. They chatted for a full hour and a half, Mrs Stoke going over it all in a miserable rasp. She told Fenella about the other women involved, counting them off on her fingers and naming them one by one. All middle-class. The horsy type who liked hunting and downing bottles of wine and going to tea with the vicar. Women of influence with husbands who were part of the elite.
Fenella had her go over her answers again and again, asking her questions from different angles. Mrs Stoke slumped against the pillow as a medical device beeped. Fenella cooed and soothed and encouraged her on so that she talked steadily, never noticing the scratch of Dexter's pen on paper or the soft click of his recording device.
When it was over, Fenella shook Mrs Stoke's hand and planted a kiss on her cheek. She had it all now, every last bit, in black and white on paper and in bits and bytes on a recording device.
They left Mrs Stoke with a smile of relief on her worried face. Then Fenella gathered her team and they drove to Ria Leigh's home.
Chapter 66
Ria Leigh heard the screaming and thought the rats were back in the garden and trying to get at the bird feeder. But she hesitated a fraction of a second longer than normal, realised it was the screech of brakes and dashed to the window in the front room.
Acid churned in her stomach and surged up her throat. Detective Inspector Sallow was out in front, striding along the street. PC Beth Finn, PC Woods and Jones hurried behind. They were headed for her house, coming to her door.
This is it, she told herself, feeling her body wilt in shame. They'd cart her off and toss her in a cell and throw the whole bloody book at her. For a moment she remained frozen to the spot, thinking about all she had won and now lost. And where was her business partner, Sloane Kern? Fled from town? On a beach in the Costa Brava? Chugging sangria and eating calamari with a bronzed Spanish waiter? Or was she already in a prison cell blabbing her mouth and pointing the finger?
The room swirled around her. She grasped for the wall, turning away from the window like a cockroach frightened by light. She glimpsed her pale reflection in the glass, a shadow of herself. A ghost. She wondered if she knew the person looking back at her.
And like a cockroach, she scurried across the dark shadows of the front room. There was a chance she could get away if she dashed along the garden path and out through the back gate. Then what? She didn’t know, all her focus was on getting away.
She ran hell for leather through the hall, her heart pounding fit to burst, sprinting the way a criminal scarpers from a crime. She skidded to a stop in the kitchen, staring at the back door in shock. Two eyes peered through the glass. Dexter's face pressed against the pane.
"Oh God save me," Ria cried as she felt her legs give way and her world turn dreamy then black.
Much later, as Ria sat up in the hospital bed, heart monitor beeping and in that mental fug induced by drugs, she could do no more than listen.
Dexter sat at her side, rubbing his unshaved chin. "Just as well we arrived when we did. You passed out, lass, and hit your head. That's why they had to bring you in. Same wing as Mrs Stoke. Private suite, eh? Fancy that."
Ria opened her mouth but no words came out. Her head throbbed with a dull pain and she felt too weak to move her limbs. What the hell had they pumped into her?
Dexter was still speaking. "Funny thing that. Same wing, I mean. But Mrs Stoke is in the upmarket bit. I suppose that is how it goes sometimes."
He looked around the room as though checking no one was listening. "You'll find out in due time, lass. Me and Detective Inspector Sallow had a chat with Mrs Stoke. A good long chat. We got it all down, even got her to sign a statement. So it is over."
Ria felt her eyes widen, jaw drop, but only a dry croak came out.
"Doc says you are to take it easy," Dexter said, turning to look at the heart monitor whose beeps had increased to an alarming degree. "Try not to move, don't want your heart to pop."
He turned to watch the heart monitor for several moments, then turned back to Ria.
"Beef stroganoff," he said with a flourish. "Who'd have thought a bunch of middle-class women would have got food poisoning from that? Never knew bad beef stew could lead to paralysis, respiratory failure and unconsciousness. Severe, it were too. Knocked half of them ladies for six, and the other half weren't much better. Poor Mrs Stoke is blaming herself, since she provided the dish for a pot luck. She ate a big bowl of it and got sick the day before their social gathering, but was in hospital knocked out and couldn’t warn anyone. It were her cook who stored the food at the wrong temperature and then took the dish to the party. Two giant pots of it. They all ate it. Still, no one died and there are no charges."
He rocked to his feet and strode to the door. "Like I say, it is just as well the team came to your house to see how you were doing, ain't it? Get well soon, lass."
Chapter 67
It was seven in the evening on the following day when Fenella and her team sat around a table in the Sailors Arms pub. A popular spot for serving and retired police officers. They'd finished a meal of beefeater chips, steak and green peas and were now enjoying a pint, except Dexter who sipped from a glass of orange juice.
Fenella took a long slug from her half pint of lager and lime, mind going over the day. She'd popped into Johnny Dew's Organic Garden Centre in the early evening to return the eggplant shaped brooch to Cherry. She had been surprised by two smiling faces. Cherry Dew, and at her side a black dog with pointed ears, a green headscarf tied around its neck and a snout so filled with teeth it gave the appearance of smiling. Her dad had got him from the animal shelter—Elfrid. Two cute faces sell more plants, Fenella supposed, but she knew better than to say anything.
She took another sip from her lager. "That meal hit the spot."
"Ain't nowt like pub grub, guv," Dexter replied.
"Can't beat it when the mood strikes," PC Woods said, mopping up the last of his gravy with a wad of chips. "Think I'll have a smoke once I've downed the blackberry crumble with custard."
Jones and PC Beth Finn sat next to each other, arms touching, saying nothing.
The barman ambled over to shake Fenella's hand and slap Dexter on his back. He was a retired desk sergeant and had heard the news.
When he returned to the bar, Fenella took another sip from her lager. "That Den Ogden was a cool one, but we got it all, eh?"
"Brass neck is what we used to call it, guv. Not an ounce of shame." Dexter picked up his orange juice and sipped. "He'll go down for so long that when he gets out the world will be in a new century and he'll be in a box."
Jones raised a hand like he was in school. "What shocked me most was Shirley Bickham's confession that she went to her dad's flat dressed in black."
"That weren't the shocking part," Dexter said, unable to stop himself from butting in. "It were the reason why she went to his flat in the first place. To put her dad's medals back. But she couldn't find a key and so took them back home. It seems her daughter, Ginger, had stolen them to pay for the wedding with her lad."
There was a moment of silence.
Fenella picked her words carefully. "Ginger cried her heart out over stealing his medals. Blames herself now her grandad is dead. The young don't think, do they?" She took a long pull from her lager. "Shirley Bickham discovered what her daughter had done, knew we'd ask about the medals and tried to put them back before we discovered they were missing. Mams protect their bairns."
"What about her son, Chuck Baker?" Jones sounded indignant. "She sold him for cash. What type of mum does that?"
"Naïve actions of a young girl." Fenella put her glass on the table. "I reckon she has long regretted it. Shirley is an alcoholic whose life has been one downward spiral of misery. Selling her son ruined her life. They'll be charges, though. It is with the Crown Prosecution Service now."
PC Beth Finn edged closer to Jones. "I can't understand why people get themselves in such a tangle. I mean, in the end it was Shirley Bickham's choice."
Fenella didn't respond. She was thinking about planting the tray of eggplants out in the garden rather than the greenhouse. They had predicted a hot summer and she thought the fresh air would yield a bumper crop. Plenty for salad. Plenty for gifts, and the remainder she would store in the freezer.
The barman began to whistle, dragging a rag across the counter. Two men in flat caps clinked glasses and downed their pint mugs of ale in one swallow. A slender woman carrying a canvas bag came through the main door, and sat at a table in a corner, waved at the barman and gazed at her phone. The dessert came. Steaming bowls of blackberry crumble with dollops of hot custard. And Fenella decided. She'd visit Chuck Baker again in the hospital, just to find out how he was doing and to watch his face when she told him what went into black pudding.
