Twisted Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 3), page 3
Jim said, "Our Jade will be as right as rain. You'll see."
Sal was wide awake now and didn’t know what to say. Again, she glanced at the clock as though she had somewhere to go. She didn’t and said, "Is that the time?"
Her dad didn’t seem to hear the question. "The police are out looking. They know she'll die without her injection. They'll leave no stone unturned. I've put up flyers in the post office and Grange Bake Shop Café. I even called the newspaper, spoke to a nice chap who said he would help. We are off to a grand start, eh? Won't be long now. Our Jade will be home tonight, back here where she belongs with her mum."
Sal's gut tugged, and she turned away. She didn’t want him to see her face. Her dad could read her like a book. Again, she touched the stud in her ear and said, "Fancy a cuppa?"
She didn’t wait for a reply and hurried into the kitchen. All the while her gut churned with dread. Don't worry, she told herself. The fuss over Jade will soon die down.
Jim followed her to the kitchen. When the kettle boiled, Sal plopped a tea bag in each mug, added water, sugar, a splash of milk, and stirred. They sipped for a while. Like old times, Sal thought, when Mum was alive. Before Jade.
Her dad had moved on with his life. Multiple girlfriends, and she was sure they'd been one-night stands. But she couldn’t move on. Couldn't leave her mum in the past. She let out a ragged breath and gazed at her dad.
Jim drained his mug and put it down slowly. His pale, drawn face frightened Sal. Her dad doted on Jade. Called her his little miracle girl. Now that Jade was gone, it might… kill him. Not her, though. She hadn't even cried. Knew that wasn’t right, but how was a normal mum supposed to act?
Jim said, "That husband of yours—"
"Don't, Dad."
"He should be out looking for his daughter, not gallivanting about in that damn business."
"They came all the way from China to meet with him."
"Bloody money," he hissed.
"Steve says if they sign, it will mean more cash flow for—"
"That's all the sod thinks about."
"That's not fair." Sal took a slow sip of tea. "Steve works hard."
"His only child has gone missing, and all he can think about is the next deal. That ain't right, Sal. And he'd better not go off prancing about the countryside dressed in a cloak and swinging his Japanese sword at imaginary beasts until our Jade is back home."
"It's a role-playing game, Dad. Lots of people do it, and it helps Steve relax. He's the gamemaster this year."
"I don't like it. It ain't right for a man of his age. And what about all those daggers and swords he keeps? One day he'll cut someone's bleedin' head off."
"Dad!"
"All I'm saying is that if Steve wants to swing a weapon, he should have joined the army. That's what real men do. Served in the Royal Logistic Corps, I did."
"Yes, Dad. I know that."
"Well, tell Steve to treat me with a bit more respect. I put my neck on the line for the likes of him. The least he can do is help us search for Jade."
The doorbell rang.
"Is that the postman?" Sal asked.
The postman never rang the bell, and anyway it was too late. He came in the mornings.
"That'll be the police," Jim said. "I called them. Gave the buggers hell. They said they'd send someone back. I wanted to be here when they did. I want my grandbairn found."
"But your job, Dad."
"Sod Freshco." His eyes filled with rage. "Sod their clogged toilets. Sod their bleedin' ragged mops. Sod it all. I want my little miracle girl home."
Sal had never seen him like this. She thought about crying so he would change the subject but knew he would see straight through her. So, she touched her earlobe, then toyed with her mug.
Jim said, "Sal, honey, we have to find Jade and bring her home. She can't speak. Can't walk. Can't let people know what she wants." Thin veins streaked along his neck, and his chest heaved with sharp jerks. "But we know. We know what she needs. The police will find her and bring her back home."
Sal watched a vein pulsate in his neck and thought of the weed killer she sprayed on the lawned yard. Fat green shoots shrivelled in a day. Dead in a week. Jade was killing him. Killing them all.
Jim was on his feet and about to turn and head for the front door when Sal said, "I don't want to speak with them." Again, she felt a tug in her gut. "I mean, we've answered all their questions. Send them away, Dad. What more can we tell them?"
"You have to, honey," he said. "You have to do it for Jade. We must find my grandbairn. I asked them to come."
"I can't."
"You have to."
"What can I say?"
"Tell them about the nanny." Jim was shouting. "Tell them about Liz Slough."
"I hired her, Dad. How do you think I feel?" Sal drew a deep breath. Yes, Liz Slough was odd. She'd known that from the first day. Smelled booze on her breath, thought she took drugs too. But it wasn’t easy to find a nanny to help with Jade, and Liz was cheap. "I've told them all I know about her."
"Tell them again. Tell them what you know. They might find a clue in what you say. God knows we need all the help we can get. Tell them again, Sal."
Sal didn’t like the wild stare in her dad's eyes. "Okay," she said. "If you think it will help."
Now Sal worried. The police back again! She'd hoped they would go away, search for Jade, lock Liz Slough away. But they were back, and Dad had invited them into her home. A finger to the stud in her ear to think, the bird-shaped earring was a gift from her dad. A crow, her lucky charm. Yes, there'd be more questions. More ways to trip up. Think Sal, think. How to act? Fall down in a fit of tears? Wail and scream for their help? For once in her life, she wished she'd watched the afternoon soaps. They were a masterclass in fake emotions. And she needed to fake it now. Big time.
Jim was at the kitchen door. He turned back and ran a hand through his thick head of hair. "They are here to help, Sal. The police are our friends."
"I know," Sal replied, placing a hand on her throat. "But give me a few minutes to go upstairs and freshen up. I want to be wide awake so I can give them all the help they need."
"Good girl," Jim said. "And don't lose hope. They'll bring back Jade. Like I said, they'll find her before nightfall alive and well. My grandbairn will be back home soon. She is my little miracle girl. They'll find her. I can feel it in my bones."
Chapter six
Dawn Ross sat alone at the pine table with a syringe in her right hand. Things could not go on like this.
The one-room bedsit on Hope Street had a microwave, electric kettle, scuffed steel sink, half-size fridge, a two-ring gas stove, and a pine table. A worn Japanese futon rested in the corner by the peeling, brown-stained wallpaper. Above it hung a hand-painted scene of the beach. There were no windows, only a thin door with its broken lock. Nowhere to run if the hall outside caught fire. The place smelled like fried grease.
"Come on," she said, staring at the door. "Come on."
The room was so small, she could leap from the table and land on the sagging black frame of the futon. Not enough room to swing a cat. Not that Dawn Ross would do that. She was forty-seven and a vegetarian. Didn’t eat meat. Couldn't stand the smell of it: boiled, grilled, or fried.
For the past two months Dawn had visited this flat on Hope Street. Every Wednesday after work. Every Saturday afternoon on her day off. Not that she took time off. Not really. A social worker is always on the go. And the young girl who lived here with her on-and-off boyfriend had just turned eighteen, just left Port St Giles child services care, just been given the flat, and was now on her own. Dawn knew that and wanted to help.
She sighed. Yes, she was obsessed with her girls, gave them her best advice, but she couldn’t stop them making wrong choices, no matter how hard she tried. She dropped the syringe on the pine table, stood, reached into her handbag, and glanced at her mobile phone. After a moment, she put it back, then fished around for her purse. Fifty pounds in tens. She didn't use cash much, preferred credit cards, but cash had its uses.
For a while she peered at the wall above the futon with the brightly coloured painting of the beach. She could make out the lighthouse amongst the swirls along with the barnacled pilings of the pier. The young girl who lived in the bedsit had talent. If she went to art school, they would hone her skill to a fine point. And who knew where life would take her then.
Again, she took out her mobile phone and clicked on the BBC Radio 3 app. Camille Saint-Saëns’ The Carnival of the Animals smoothed through the speaker. The melody transported her to the past—a child playing with her pig, Wilbur. He was a gift from her grandma in her tight headscarf printed with sunflowers and her soiled, brown apron. Grandma ran a small shop in town and smoked a Dublin pipe.
"Cream of the crop is the potbelly hog," Grandma had said, handing her the pig. "A beautiful beast."
Dawn smiled.
When the trills of the pianos, wind instruments, harmonica, and xylophone faded in the finale, she turned off the app, folded her arms, considering. Art school cost money. And then there was the boyfriend: thickheaded with no drive outside his next fix. Drug users needed lots of cash.
The jangle of a key came from the other side of the door. It opened and Paige Hoyt shuffled in. She was rail thin, with the face of a twelve-year-old, and a belly the size of a watermelon. Pregnant. Twins. Only just eighteen.
"Don't know why I bother with a key," Paige said. "Lock’s busted."
"I'll see about getting it fixed," Dawn replied. Her voice carried the concerned tone she used at work to get people to confide. "I want you to feel safe."
"I suppose."
"Boyfriend not with you?"
"Nah. I haven't seen him since Thursday." Paige flipped on the kettle and sat at the pine table. "Don't know where he is at."
Dawn was secretly grateful. She wanted to talk with Paige alone, and the boyfriend, with his gaunt, pockmarked face and wary eyes, made that difficult. She walked back to the pine table, watched the kettle for a moment as the steam hissed, and sat down.
"I hoped things would be different," Dawn said, looking at the syringe.
Paige didn't speak, tilted her head to stare at the floor. After a moment, she looked up, lips twisted into a weak smile.
"Water's taking a long time to boil."
"What's with the syringe, Paige?"
"It ain't mine. Shouldn't even be here."
"The boyfriend’s, then?"
"He don't do drugs no more. He's got a job, says he'll provide for me."
"I'm not daft, Paige."
"It ain't mine."
"Next, you'll tell me this is not your flat and that's not your kitchen table. I'm not blind either."
"You can't tell me what to do."
"It's not about you any more," Dawn snapped. "It's about the twins."
"Look, I don't do much of the stuff. Just enough to get by. It helps."
"That's not good enough."
"It won't hurt."
"Do you want the babies to be born sick? Do you want them in care homes and foster families? Do you want them to go through the hell that you've been through?"
"Please don't make a scene," Paige said. "I ain't going to hurt them. They are going to have a good life. I want that for them."
The kettle clicked off.
Dawn went to the sink, rinsed out two mugs, and poured hot water over two tea bags. All the while she took short sharp breaths. If she lost it, things would go downhill. Anger at Paige would only make things worse. Best to be professional, polite. But she was furious. Drugs would hurt the babies. She checked the mini fridge for milk, sniffed, then splashed in a few drops.
As she sat back down, she took a slow breath and said, "What about art school? Once you've got the cash. That's your dream, Paige, isn't it?"
Paige gazed at the painting on the wall. Her eyes filled with tears.
"It's all I've dreamt about since I was nine. Each year it seems to get further away. Do you think it will happen?"
"That's down to you and the choices you make," Dawn replied.
"I know," Paige whispered, and started to sob.
Dawn sighed in relief. Tears were a sign she was getting through. The only thing she wanted from life was to keep kids safe. That was her secret mission, and she worked twenty-four seven to achieve it. Nothing would stop her doing right by the kids. Nothing.
"That's why you need to stay on the right side of the tracks," Dawn said in a soft voice. "Do the right thing now. Once you cross over, it is hard to get back."
Paige wiped the tears with the back of a hand, then took a long sip of tea. Once again, her lips twisted into a crooked smile, this time bearing small white teeth.
"I'll paint a picture of you when I get some cash. A gift for when the twins are born."
Dawn glanced at the syringe and she glanced at Paige, with her childlike smile, and she glanced at the painting on the wall. With no thought, her hand moved to her handbag and pulled out her purse.
It was against social services' rules to give money to clients, especially from one’s own pocket. But Paige wasn't a client. Not really. Since she turned eighteen, she fell under the care of adult services. Not Dawn's area. She worked for the child protection unit. Still, if her boss found out, she'd lose her job.
Rules were meant to be broken, Dawn thought as she breathed in the stale grease that filled the room. She counted out fifty in ten-pound notes.
That's who she was.
That's what she did.
"For you and the babies."
Paige looked as if she would cry again, but Dawn's mobile phone rang, breaking the moment with an intrusive clamour.
"It's for you," Paige said with a grin.
"I always said you were a genius," Dawn replied as she pulled out the phone and stared at the number. Steve Marsh, an old client from a few years back. He lived with his wife, Sal, in a posh house in the village of Grange. Red Thistle Cottage, wasn't it? Her heart skipped a beat. What the hell did he want?
Dawn stood, walked to the futon, and turned so she faced the painting of the beach. The phone continued to ring. She drew in a slow breath, pressed the phone to her ear, and clicked.
"We have to talk," Steve Marsh said. "Something bad has happened to Jade."
Chapter seven
Rab Nash cared about two things—his job as a detective in the regional crime squad, and getting the money for his next bet.
He glared through the car windscreen at the road ahead. He did not see the clear sky and warm sun. Nor the hedgerows or trees with their branches laden with leaves. He did not turn to glance at the gently sloping fields with their flocks of cotton-white sheep. It was hard to take much joy from a fine day when fuming inside.
He was on his way to Aunt Rose's shack in the village of Seatoller. He tried to focus on the road, slowing the car at a sharp bend in the lane. The hundred pounds he had won on electronic roulette was placed on bets on the dogs and horses. He felt in his gut they were winners.
Lost them all.
Quick Bet Bookie Store refused to extend his loan. Told him his account was frozen. Debts were past due. He was no longer welcome. Nash felt the quick beat of his heart, shook violently, blinking through tears.
It hit him hard.
Quick Bet was the last bookie in Port St Giles to give him credit. The others had banned him, sent their debt collectors after him, harassed him with lawyers' letters, and harsh-throated telephone calls.
Nash wondered if his day could get much worse.
The motor revved hard as he eased the car up a steep hill. At the brow, the lane narrowed, so it seemed the vehicle might brush the hedgerows and low-hanging branches. This part of the drive to Seatoller was always made at a crawl. He kept the windows down to let in the warm breeze but mostly to let out the alley stench of his damp trousers.
His chest tightened as he considered what to do. But he could not find an answer to his cash woes. There was no solution hidden in plain sight. Again, he felt the quick thud of his heart. Morose thoughts clustered like black clouds on a winter's day. There'd be nowt but rain ahead. Hard. Cold. Icy. Then he remembered the yoga breaths taught by his first wife and breathed at a count of twenty.
In. Out. In. Out.
A week at his aunt's place, and his life would be on the right track. Yes, his run of bad luck would be as brief as a sheep's bleat, his next streak of good luck as long as a ship's foghorn. He'd put money on that.
Only one problem.
He didn’t have any.
Nash squinted at the glare of the sun. One week until payday. No friends to beg cash. No girlfriend to squeeze him for ten-pound notes either. Not now. No point going to the bank. He was overdrawn and they'd written letters.
This was it, then. This was his life. Dodging those he owed money, kipping at his Aunt Rose's place, while pretending everything was great at work. How did he end up like this?
The answer came in a flash. Bad luck.
In. Out. In. Out.
He kept his gambling debts hidden. The Cumbria Police didn't know. He had managed that trick for years. Got good at it. Would do anything to keep it that way. Knew one day his luck would turn, and he'd win a monster bet. It was just a matter of upping the ante until he got his big break. Then he would pay everyone back, top up his retirement accounts, and give the rest to those in need. The dog pound was top of his list, and the homeless shelter.
Nash said, "A man with a heart as big as mine ought to be in line for a touch of luck."
The road narrowed further. Trees formed an arch over the lane. Branches blocked out the sun. It was dark. He flicked on the headlights, thought about the roulette wheel on his phone, and his mouth went dry.
He hadn't seen his aunt for two, no, three years. She always left him a message on his birthday. She'd sing and say how proud she was of him. Tell him to call back. Maybe he should call ahead, let her know he was on the way?
He reached for his mobile phone, hovered a moment, then withdrew. No signal. There would not be a bar until he reached the hamlet of Seatoller, and by then he would be all but there.
