Twisted Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 3), page 4
He swore.
In. Out. Yoga breaths.
Aunt Rose wasn't the formal type, and he was her only nephew. She had worked as a cleaner in the Port St Giles Cottage Hospital. Not much money in that. Not much of a pension either. Just enough for off-brand tins of baked beans, two-day old white bread in the discount aisle, and a cheap bottle of sherry at Christmas. It would be bread-and-butter sandwiches and weak loose-leaf tea for the next week. And Aunt Rose's pease porridge. She served it on a posh platter as though it were smoked salmon. Nash didn’t like boiled split peas, no matter how fancy the plate.
A deer bolted over a hedge and ran across the lane. Nash braked hard. If he was going faster, he might have hit it. Just as well the car was moving at a crawl.
He didn’t call on Aunt Rose unless he wanted something. She loved him nonetheless, was pleased as punch when he made it to detective. He smiled at the memory of her dancing around the living room as she hugged and kissed him. Then Aunt Rose told all her friends. Neighbours. Random folk she met on her weekly shop. Everyone.
That's when it hit him.
Nash looked around the empty lane furtively. He slowed the car to almost a stop to consider. Then exhaled and went for it. Aunt Rose was retired with a National Health Service pension. He'd blag a few quid from her to see him through.
"Yes," he said. "I'll pay her back from my winnings."
Chapter eight
Five or seven hundred?
Nash was wondering how much cash to hit up his Aunt Rose for, when he took a sharp bend near the Bowder Woods bus stop and saw the woman.
She was short and plump, in a long, brown duffel coat with a matching headscarf tied tight around her head. A tan backpack hung over one shoulder, and she stood beside the road on a thin strip of brown grass.
The first thing that struck Nash were her arms. Long. The second thing that occurred as he pulled his car to the verge were her clothes. He couldn't imagine wearing a thick coat in this weather, even on the trail. And she wore running shoes. Walsh trainers. Top of the line. They would be helpful on the rutted trail and equally helpful for a quick getaway. He let that thought tumble around his mind as he climbed from his car, detective face on. Cool. Calm. Reliable.
As he approached, Nash wondered what had happened. The most likely scenario was that the woman had got lost on the trail. Happens all the time in the Lake District, and with the foliage and tree cover, it was almost as dark as night. He said, "Everything all right?"
The woman stepped back. Shadows cast by the overhead trees shielded her face.
"It's okay, I'm with the police. Detective Sergeant Rab Nash. Are you lost?"
He'd seen her type before. Nervous. Fearful of shadows, of unknown men. What was she doing alone on the trail? He flashed his warrant card and smiled. He wasn't sure she saw his friendly gesture, for her head was tilted at an angle so her headscarf blocked his line of sight. He could not see her face.
"Up yonder," she said in a thick accent and turned to point at the trail. "There's been an accident. On top of the Bowder Stone."
That was the last thing Nash expected.
It was a hike to the Bowder Stone. Uphill. And with his arthritic knees and the ladder to the top… well, he half wondered if his ticker would take it.
The woman was talking, "You must climb the ladder, then you'll see her, at the top." Her voice came out in the dry rasp of a lifelong smoker. And deep for a woman. "Poor child."
"A child?" Nash asked. That changed things. Where were her mum and dad?
The woman was talking. "Be quick, my mobile phone battery is dead. Call for an ambulance."
Nash looked at the woman, and he looked back at his car, then at the trail which snaked away into the bushes. There was no mobile phone reception out here. He would have to drive to Seatoller to raise the alarm, and by then it might be too late. He rocked from foot to foot and felt the thud of his heart against his chest.
Again, he squinted along the trail but saw only dark. It seemed so quiet and still. A breeze whipped the leaves. At last, he said, "Tell me what happened?"
"We need to get medical help," she shrilled. "Use your mobile phone to call for help now."
It seemed to Nash she was on the verge of losing it. He'd seen it before with the nervous type. When they broke down, you got nowt but nonsense. He needed the facts before that happened. Rule one of policing.
He said, "Tell me what you saw."
The woman tilted her head so her face was covered in shade.
"Please call for medical help," she said.
"What's your name?"
"Jo, Mrs Jo Pitt." She stepped deeper into the shadows. "From Old Hen Lane, St Bees. Just out to walk the trail, you know, for the weekend. Please call an ambulance, else it will be too late. You must be quick. Hurry."
Again, Nash glanced along the trail, felt a twinge in his knees and said, "Ain't no reception out here."
He held up his mobile phone to make the point and glanced up and down the lane hoping to see a car or bus.
Nothing.
"You have to help," she said. "That poor lass is alone, and with those crows…"
"Tell you what, Mrs Pitt," Nash said, reacting to the bleat of her voice and still thinking. "Why don't I have a quick look, and you wave down the next car you see. When they stop, have them stay until I get back. Can you do that?"
He didn’t wait for an answer, left Mrs Pitt standing by the roadside under the deep shade of the trees and made his way along the trail, praying as he went that he had made the right decision.
Chapter nine
Fenella could not have imagined this day, not in a million years. Who would have?
Alone and deep in thought, she walked to a bench in the shade of an oak tree on the lawn of the Grange Bake Shop Café. Her gut churned. The flea market find had struck a raw nerve. Eduardo's eyes went wide. There was no hiding the tears of Nan.
Fenella sat on a bench and breathed in the tang from the river and the smell of damp hay, which carried on the light breeze. Eduardo had gone with Nan to buy fresh gift wrap. Nan wanted better than brown paper wrapped with red twine for Gail Stubbs’ gift. But fancy paper and a bow tie wouldn’t answer their questions about what lay inside.
Fenella gazed at the shale banks of the Derwent River. A small boy in a pea-green T-shirt played at the edge of the water. He poked at a rock and squealed with joy. Chicago accent, she thought and glanced around. His mum and dad sat at a bench on the lawn. The dad read a broadsheet newspaper; the mum watched the boy.
A sharp shard of pain pulsated in her neck. She massaged the base, kneading it as though it were risen dough and closed her eyes to help focus. The pain eased. When she opened her eyes, the boy in the pea-green T-shirt stood in front of her. Like greased lightning, Fenella thought. Kids, you've got to watch them. The boy was on the balls of his feet, left arm outstretched with a damp paper bag clutched tight in his hand. His right hand held another bag, much larger.
"For you," he said in a small voice. "So you can help me feed the ducks."
Fenella grinned. She'd had five kids of her own, and every one of them had fed the ducks on the banks of the Derwent. Same for the grandbairns. A family tradition. "What is your name, pet?"
"Flynn." But it wasn’t the boy's voice. His mother hurried towards Fenella. "I'm so sorry he disturbed you, ma'am. We keep telling him to respect folk's privacy. Not that he listens."
"They never do," Fenella said, taking in the soft nasal vowels of the whippet-thin woman. She was sure now. They were from Chicago. "I've had an army of the nippers, and each one does things their own way. Best we can do is set them on the right track and get them going. I'm Fenella."
The woman relaxed, extended her hand. "Vale Bain, and this as you now know is my son, Flynn."
There was a warmth to her voice. They shook hands. There was a warmth to her grip also, and it was strong. Fenella liked that and said, "Flynn here has me baffled. You see, I can't make up my mind and I don't usually dither."
Flynn said, "You can have the big bag if you like, seeing as you are old."
"Flynn!" The mother looked horrified. "That is not okay."
Fenella ran a hand through her hair. She'd let it go white years ago. Eduardo didn’t mind, said it gave her a distinguished look. He had a thing about older women. And yes, she was no spring chicken, but she kept fit, ate greens, and didn’t drink too much, most of the time. Nowt wrong with being in your fifties. Nowt wrong with getting old either. So long as it came with good health, family, and friends.
Fenella said, "It is kind of you to share, but the bags of bird food are not what I can't make up my mind about."
"Oh," Flynn said, eyeing her with curiosity. "Don't you want to feed the birds with me?"
"Aye, lad. I'd like that. But I'm trying to work out which part of Chicago you are from: Loyola, Rogers Park, or Six Corners?"
Flynn said, "Mom, where is Loyola?"
"Our home town, son." Vale laughed and stared at Fenella. "You've got a good ear, most guess we are from the States but don't have a clue about where. We live in the Lower West Side. How on earth did you know?"
"Just a wild guess." Fenella winked at Flynn, then lowered her voice. "And I've a cousin from Six Corners. I've lost count of the times I've walked the waterfront on North Avenue Beach."
"We've been there too," Flynn said and turned to look at the Derwent. "It looks a bit like here but with more people and tall buildings and less trees."
Vale made a face and gave a slight eye roll. The two women laughed. They walked to the water's edge.
"See that one with a flash of green on its head," Fenella said, pointing. "That’s a teal."
Flynn dipped his hand in the bag and threw food for the bird.
"What about that one?" he asked. He gazed at a bird with a head of green feathers. "I saw them on the pond by our hotel. What's the place called, Mom?"
Vale said, "Seatoller Guest House, and that bird is a mallard duck, isn't it?"
"Right you are," Fenella replied. "A thing of beauty is the mallard. See how the head gleams in the sun?"
"Wow!" Flynn said, his mouth open in awe. "Like green gold."
Fenella pointed again. "And that big white one is a mute swan. It glides as though life on the water is no effort at all."
They fed the wildfowl in silence. When both bags were empty, Vale said, "I suppose you run a stall at the flea market?"
"No, luv," Fenella replied. "I'm with the police."
Something shifted in Vale's face. "The village bobby?"
"I don't get out on the beat much these days. I'm a detective."
Vale flashed a tight smile, then turned to look at her husband. "Look, Dad is waving at us. Flynn, it is time we went back."
Fenella watched them hurry up the grass bank, Vale tugging Flynn by the arm. He twisted several times to give a wave. She waved back.
Something niggled at the back of Fenella's mind, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. Flynn twisted again and flapped his arms, then as Fenella gave another wave, she realised what it was.
Vale's husband.
He sat at the table reading a newspaper and seemed in no hurry to gather his family about him. Nor did he look up when Vale said he was waving at them to come back. How could he? His head was tilted down, nose deep in the pages.
The rev of an engine pulled Fenella from her musing. It rattled and spluttered with the rasp of a smoker's chest. She glanced across the car park and saw Detective Sergeant Robert Dexter's battered old Volvo. It had rusted door handles and windows that didn't quite shut. That it kept going was due to Dexter's mechanical skills. The motor squealed as the car shuddered to a stop.
Dexter had been her second in command for over a decade. He kept his ears close to the ground. So close, Fenella wondered if he spent his free time tuning in to the police radio. She watched as he strode from his car. He walked so fast it was almost a run. That's how she knew her weekend was over.
"Guv, thought I would find you here," Dexter said as he glanced about. His gaze settled for a moment on the Derwent River. The mute swan waddled onto the bank. "There's been an incident in Bowder Woods."
"Oh, aye," Fenella said and waited.
"On top of the Bowder Stone. I hear it's a nasty one, Guv. Real nasty."
Chapter ten
Something unexpected had happened.
Dexter pulled his Volvo to the grass verge. A fire truck's lights flashed. Police vehicles littered the lane. Two ambulances lined up near the dirt path that snaked into Bowder woods.
And Fenella knew it wasn’t good.
They stepped from the car. The tang of moss and damp leaves ebbed and flowed in the slight breeze. Dappled light filtered through the canopy. Somewhere, a police radio crackled. In the distance came a deep-throated shout.
There were no crew in the ambulances. They usually hung out near their vehicle. That was odd. Fenella scanned for the telltale signs of a thin wisp of grey smoke curling from some shaded bush or tree. Saving lives was a high-stress job. Many smoked even though it shortened their own.
Again, she scanned for telltale signs.
Nothing.
That meant the crew were on the trail or at the Bowder Stone. Why both teams?
At last, Fenella said, "What we got here?"
"Don't know, Guv," Dexter replied. "But whatever it is, it don't feel good."
A police photographer scurried from a van and onto the trail. In a far corner, under the shade of ancient oak trees, a group of white suits clustered. The crime scene techs stood in a tight half circle. It was hard to see what they stared at.
A twinge tugged in Fenella's gut. She touched Dexter's arm. They walked closer and heard a familiar voice. The head crime scene tech, Lisa Levon, was the focus of the half circle. Another shapeless white suit, but glitzy with her auburn hair, raven eyes, and a twenty-year-old face, which did not age, was close to forty, was speaking low, like a mother humming a lullaby to her newborn.
"No matter what you have seen in the past, brace yourself. This… well, it will be a sharp jolt to your nerves. For those of you who are new to the team, if it is too much, I want you down from that stone and away. No fault, no foul. Clear?"
A murmur rose from the white suits, soft as the wail of a ghost. The group broke up to grab their tools. In ones and twos, they made their way along the trail. Lisa hung back, saw the detectives, and flashed two neat rows of white teeth. Even under the shade of the trees, they shone with a Hollywood gleam.
"Not a nice one for you today," Lisa said, face as pale as her teeth.
"What have you got for us?" Fenella asked.
"I just don't know." Lisa shook her head. "You're the detective. Best take a look. See for yourself. I can't work it out."
They walked in single file along the trail, Lisa Levon out front. A white glow leading Fenella and Dexter, like Hansel and Gretel through the woods.
They were on a steep incline when they heard a woman shout.
"Clear the way. Coming through."
A constable, face flushed, moved fast. Behind her jogged four officers, each holding one arm of a stretcher. A paramedic ran alongside holding an IV line. The clear liquid sloshed, but the man atop the stretcher lay still, his unseeing eyes open so wide the whites protruded like golf balls. They matched the pallor of his face. Pale as death.
The detectives and Lisa Levon stepped to the side to let the troop of officers pass.
"Cor blimey, Guv," Dexter whispered. "That's Detective Sergeant Rab Nash, regional crime squad. "
"Must be a touch of the shock," Lisa Levon said, an upbeat lilt in her voice. Despite the job, her outlook always seemed positive. Bright. "He'll be back on his feet in no time."
That sounded too hopeful even though Fenella wished it were true. There was no way shock did that to him. Not to a seasoned regional crime squad detective. He's at death's door or crossed through, Fenella thought. Her heart fluttered a morose beat.
It was after the officers had vanished from sight, and Fenella turned to look ahead to the dark trail that led to the Bowder Stone, that the name rang a bell.
Rab Nash!
She'd heard of him. Medals for courage. Awards for service. The man had a stellar reputation. Did she know his wife?
Fenella made a point of getting to know the wives, had formed a group that cooked meals for officers whose spouse fell ill. She thought for a long moment.
No.
She'd not met his other half. Didn’t matter. She'd visit the hospital, pay her respects whether or not he'd crossed over the threshold. It was the least she could do. And, of course, she wanted to know what had happened.
They continued their trudge along the trail. It seemed suddenly quiet. Just the crunch of their shoes on the dry earth and the distant bleat of a police siren. A warm breeze rustled the leaves, but an icy shiver ran down Fenella's spine. She emptied her mind of the image of Rab Nash laid out on a stretcher. But one question would not leave her alone.
What the hell would they find at the top of the Bowder Stone?
Chapter eleven
Fenella gazed at the Bowder Stone with the same sense of wonder she felt on her first visit.
The brown slab rose above the trees and tilted at a sharp angle as though about to roll over. But the rock had not moved an inch in eons. That fact brought tourists in droves during the long days of summer. A site to take snapshots for some. A place of mystery for others.
A steep ladder ran up the side of the rock. Lisa Levon climbed with the ease of a ballerina. Fenella grunted and strained, thighs as tight as cords of rusted steel. The custard slice and scone with plum jam didn’t help. She should have picked a healthy snack at Grange Bake Shop Café. At the rear, Dexter cursed.
The top of the stone was as rugged as the moon with thin trees and clumps of short grass. A soft wind wailed, bringing with it wisps of warm air and the scent of dry earth. There was already a lot of activity with white suits spread out like pieces on a chess board. They stooped and knelt and crouched, heads moving slowly from side to side, hands outstretched like some alien probe.
