Moonlight Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 9), page 5
The bedroom echoed with blackbird cries.
Desperate.
Pleading.
Crying for help.
He cringed, slowly turning his gaze to the mobile phone. It rattled on the rustic console table in the shadows of his tall wardrobe.
Someone wanted to speak with him and they wanted to speak with him now and they were relentless in their dialling of his number. And they sure as hell knew about his morning routine; he'd told them time and time again. Told them never to call at this time; was still troubled by what happened last time.
The blackbirds continued to scream.
Fred grabbed his tweed jacket with the patched elbows, straightened his grey tie, brewed coffee, picked up his beige doctor's style briefcase, snatched up his ringing phone and sprinted to his car.
Chapter 30
Settled in the driver's seat with the engine purring, Fred pulled from the drive and dialled.
"Fred Lowe… Hi friend…didn't hear it, shower…I guess, busy today…uh-huh…I see… Okay…that is so kind of you… But I can't be your only friend… Uh-huh… I see…Today? Lunchtime…Err…please don't cry…you don't have to beg…yes…of course… Earl Street Café at noon? Court after, so can't stay long…uh-huh…I know…I know…I'm here for you Guy…bye."
Guy Bertram was quick to flatter, put on the 'waterworks' and said he looked up to Fred as a father figure. The father Guy never had. But Fred was beginning to see the unthinkable truth. Guy never paid for lunch and bragged non-stop about his big-time screenwriting dreams. He only called when he wanted something.
And that meant trouble.
Big trouble.
Again.
Chapter 31
It was a nightmare and Fenella knew it was going to get worse.
As soon as she stepped into the incident room, the frigid atmosphere sunk so deep in her bones she shivered. Superintendent Jeffery had that effect on a place, turned everything to frost and ice.
The narrow space had two doors, a scattering of chairs, and two pine tables. A dozen people clustered in the tight space. A cast-iron wood stove vented into a chimney on the far wall. The dense summer sun shone through the curtainless window that looked out onto the lane. There was a faint scent of bleach and a stronger smell of wood smoke and incense. A giant iron crucifix hung on the wall. Above it, a happy-faced portrait of Vicar Godfrey Hume grinned down from a gilt-edged frame.
Two officers worked the phones; the others stared into laptop computers. Fenella knew the names of all but one of the officers. They were all from the Port St Giles station.
So much for cross county collaboration.
Jeffery stood before a makeshift whiteboard, hands on hips, wolfish features taunt.
"Ah, Sallow, thought I'd get things started." There was a brilliance to her voice, an almost deranged gleam to her gaze. This was a chance for the spotlight to shine on her and her alone. A chance to dazzle the higher-ups with her leadership skills and soak in their praise filled glory. "I've made it clear how important this case is to Cumbria and Northumbria. The eyes of two counties are upon us." Her eyelids lowered, a soft hum coming from her lips. "A win here will be a huge notch on my…our belts. Not that such things matter. No, no, I'm more concerned about keeping the community safe. That is our top priority. And doing so before the news impacts tourism. That is why we must move fast. Under my leadership we serve and—"
"We've not got time for a lecture, ma'am." Fenella didn't want to hear Jeffery's motivational talk because it got you down. "If we are to stay ahead of the news media and the local politicians, we will, as you said, have to move fast, right, ma'am?"
Jeffery stiffened. She wanted to practise her leadership speech and she wanted to practise it now and she wanted to perfect the details before delivering it in front of Chief Constable Rae later that day. Fenella knew this from an early morning text message from Dexter.
Jeffery paced the length of the whiteboard and paced back. "You have seen the…err… body?"
Fenella stared at the crime scene images with a detective's detached eye. "Preliminary analysis points to the use of a sharp blade."
Jeffery scowled. "A large razor for the kill, perhaps. Then a butcher's blade to dissect the victim with speed."
Fenella nodded. "That's the pathologist's best guess, ma'am."
Jeffery glanced at her mobile phone. "I gather the remains are those of a middle-aged man. Your first priority is to track down his identity." She waved a hand and sniffed. "Let's hope he is not local. The last thing we need is a mob of villagers baying for revenge. We don't want this to turn into a witch hunt. Do you think he was a tourist up from London?"
There was slyness in Jeffery's eyes and Fenella knew better than to give a direct answer. If she did, it would be all over the news media, leaked from a secret source in Northumbria's police force. Jeffery was crafty that way.
"Ma'am, we have no idea who he was or why he was attacked so savagely." Fenella glared at Jeffery. "Once we have his name, I suppose you'll want to inform his family?"
"What!" Again Jeffery waved a dismissive hand. "No, no — Sallow, no, no, no. Must I remind you that you are the lead detective? I'll leave that to you."
"Thought you'd say that, ma'am."
Jeffery smiled. It did not touch her wolfish eyes. "Less media fuss if he is an outsider. Less risk if things go belly up." She pointed at a twig thin woman, in her forties with a peach face, grape-shaped eyes and a tangle of curly black hair tied in two thick pigtails. "Detective Constable Maggie Banville, from Newcastle. She is the Receiver responsible for all incoming documentation and key developments. She is also the Incident Room Manager."
Maggie Banville did not look up, so focused was she on her laptop screen.
Jeffery's upper lip lifted over her teeth and she lowered her voice. "Keep an eye on her. She is one of Northumbria's motley crew, handpicked by Superintendent Wright. And a…err…" Her voice dropped to a wisp of breath. "… a known troublemaker. I can get rid of her if you like. Just give me the nod."
Thoughts of all the ways the investigation could go wrong swirled in Fenella's mind. "What are you saying?"
"Do you want me to spell it out?"
"I think you should."
Jeffery cast a sly glance at Maggie. "Let me remind you of the way our world works. Its dog eat dog, and some of the dogs are put in the place just to mess on things, cause a stink, and bark at meaningless shadows. Have a little think about it, will you?"
Fenella said nothing.
"Good, then we are agreed."
Fenella recalled the words of her mentor Jack Croll: "Don't be rushed or pushed about by anyone. That path leads to mistakes. It's the guilty buggers we want, not the poor sods caught up by happenstance." Still, she took a moment to weigh her response.
"I'll take all the help I can get, ma'am. And that includes help from Superintendent Wright's best officers."
Jeffery's gaze turned cold and she jabbed at the whiteboard, her voice returning to normal. "This is a fantastic opportunity to solve a sickening crime. A joint operation where I…me…we can shine. A win-win for everyone. Nowhere in Cumbria or Northumbria are the local police more ready to serve. Remember that Sallow. It is a message I will soon take to the top."
And with those words of motivation, Jeffery marched from the room, arms swinging at her side.
Chapter 32
Only later did Fred Lowe realise the terrible consequence of his heartbreaking decision.
He was disturbed by the news about the Popping Stone. Disturbed by the vicious death. Disturbed by the police presence and the village chatter. And he didn't like being disturbed.
He hustled through the lace-curtained doors of Earl Street Café, his beige doctor's style briefcase swinging in his hand. The place hummed with the Carlisle lunchtime crowd: dark-suited men and sharply dressed women from the nearby court. Crisp white tablecloths, silver cutlery, crystal glassware and linen napkins. Classical music played low in the background: Beethoven's Ode to Joy from symphony No. 9. The floral-scented air mingled with delicious scents from the kitchen.
None of it delighted Fred.
Not today.
His resolve was firm.
The pleasant surroundings and taste of fine food wouldn't soften his decision.
A phantom thin arthritic woman, dressed in black with a white apron, white cap and a gold heart-shaped brooch pinned to her chest, led the way. She walked with a stiff gait to his favourite table. Fred liked to sit by the window and watch people in the street. He recognised some faces, even knew some of their names.
And Fred knew the name of the woman in black — Cleo North.
She'd worked in the café for as long as he remembered. Since before he'd qualified as a solicitor. Married five times, all ending in divorce. He'd worked the legal docket on the last three. In gratitude Cleo confided in him — she prayed it was sixth time lucky.
Fred shared that he was single and wished her good luck. A mistake. She'd called him after that, in the evenings and at weekends, at home in his grey stone cottage. He didn't know how she got his private number and stopped answering the phone.
He didn't reply to her messages.
He just couldn't bring himself to love a woman with five ex-husbands and lopsided hips.
Cleo's voice mails moved from suggesting they have dinner to pleading to begging and then became angry. Eventually, she called him a crusty old man stuck in his ways and the calls died. Two years later, Cleo North was still on the lookout for husband number six.
By God, it won't be me.
Her relentless pursuit still unnerved Fred, as did that unreadable twinkle in her clouded eyes.
"I do hope you enjoy your meal today, Mr Lowe." With a flourish, Cleo removed the menu from the table and wagged a bony finger. "Don't want to temp you with dessert. Got to watch our waistlines at our age, haven't we?"
She flashed a sly smile and wandered back to the greeting station.
Fred flicked at a speck on his grey tie. He loosened it at the neck; then he ran a comb through his hair to cover his bald spot. Age bent, twisted, sagged and drooped him in ways he didn't like. He snatched a glance at Cleo. It was worse for her. She stooped and shuffled, her wizened body like something dried in the Mediterranean sun.
He tried to stay positive and repeated his mantra. I'm a winner. Best of the best. Today, I exorcise all doubts about my age and relish the day ahead.
But another insufferable annoyance drummed in his chest. Guy Bertram had beaten him to the café and was sitting on the opposite side of the table. Fred liked to be first so he could watch everything that was going on.
Guy grinned. "I've ordered lobster in a creamy sauce with a Waldorf salad and a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet Chardonnay." He chuckled, running a hand through his shoulder-length hair. "Rather lavish for lunch but well worth it. I hope you don't mind."
"Very good." Fred nodded, hiding his irritation. Guy always chose the most expensive items, as if money didn't matter, always expecting him to foot the bill. "A splendid choice."
Guy Bertram tied his shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair into a ponytail. He wore an Italian suit with a black silk shirt. No tie. "I want to tell you something about my childhood, Fred. Something so disturbing it still makes me cry."
Fred folded his arms. "You talking about your dad leaving home when you were three months old, and how you never saw him again?"
Guy picked up a napkin and stared at it. "I grew up in a children's home. It was a curse to have no dad. It made me different from the other kids. A bloody curse." He dropped the napkin on the table. "Mum struggled to find work and most of the time couldn't pay the bills —"
"And that's why she left you on the steps of the children's home when you were two years old and vanished into the night?" Fred felt a momentary surge of pleasure. He would not listen to Guy. Would not believe a word that rascal said. He jabbed the comb. "You never saw your mother again, either, did you?"
Guy's mouth became a thin line. "That's right but —"
"And you thought she would come back, so you waited every Friday by the front door of the children's home, hoping she'd pick you up."
Fred dropped the comb in his inside pocket, his pleasure fading to guilt at the reddening face of Guy. But he couldn't stop. Not yet. It was Guy who broke into his morning routine. Guy who demanded they have lunch. Guy who ordered the most expensive items on the menu expecting him to pay. And it was Guy who was flush with the zest of youth with hair long enough for a lush ponytail.
"Then it was downhill all the way until you ended up working as a circus hand, sleeping rough, with low pay, and scavenging food from the travel animals. And that led to your…let's just say, distasteful past. A past you left behind on the morning Louise became your beautiful wife."
Guy blinked. "You've heard it before?"
"How is Louise?" Fred smiled and touched his left ear. "Are you taking my advice?"
Guy blinked again. "I was telling you about—"
"I hope you are listening to her." Fred's brow crinkled and for some reason he couldn't explain. He placed a hand on his beige doctor's style briefcase, fingers fiddling with the latch. "I hope you are listening to your wife."
Footsteps echoed behind and Fred turned to see Cleo approaching, bony hands clutching two bowls. She shuffled to the table and placed a bowl of salad in front of Fred and another in front of Guy. She stepped back, touched a skeletal hand on her heart-shaped brooch, clapped and smiled.
That disturbed Fred.
The clapping and nodding and smiling at the delivery of the food. It happened all the time in fancy restaurants. It made him think they squirted something nasty in the dish.
"A special treat for you, Mr Lowe." Cleo's smile carried in her voice. "Hope you enjoy it all."
Fred forced a smile and clapped his hands. "Delightful."
Cleo poured wine into his glass.
Fred sipped and again clapped his hands, still smiling. "A wonder how you find such treasures."
Cleo dropped to a half curtsy, the full version beyond her arthritic knees. "We do our best to serve." Her lips curved at the edges, less smile, more smirk. "With flavours we know you will like and deserve. I hope you enjoy the chef's special savoury…" Her eyes glistened, her lips curved up high at the edges. '… sauce.'
Fred's eyes narrowed. "That apron."
Cleo's gaze fell to her white apron. "What about it?"
"There's a spot on it."
"Comes from serving tables."
"For these prices, you wear a fresh apron every day. One that is spotless and clean and smells of rose petals."
Cleo's face turned ugly. Then she gazed at the salad bowls, gave a satisfied grunt, fiddled with her brooch, turned and hobbled back to the greeting station.
Guy picked up a fork and began to eat. "Looks delicious. I chose it because a man that works as hard as you in legal matters deserves something special."
Fred poked his fork around the salad and said nothing.
"I've missed our lunchtime chats." Guy's eyes glistened. "Really missed them."
Was that, Fred thought, tears forming in the corner of Guy's eyes? Good God, it was, and they were still on the salad. He reminded himself of his resolve — no more money and no free legal advice that involved spending hundreds of hours pawing over dense screenwriting contracts.
He sucked in a long breath. "What do you want?"
Guy shovelled salad into his mouth. "The special sauce is good, warm…a little salty."
"I won't give you another penny for that damn film script."
"That's what I came to speak with you about."
"The answer is no."
"Hear me out. This is big. Hollywood big. Massive."
Fred refused to listen. Refused to believe any of Guy's bloody sob stories. "I'd rather throw my wallet in a snake pit. How much time and cash have you squandered on that stupid dream?"
Guy sipped wine. His Adam's apple bobbed. "I've given up on being a screenwriter."
"What!"
"I'm going back to acting."
"Give me strength."
"And I'm writing a bestselling novel on the side." Guy shovelled more salad into his mouth, watchful. "Thought I'd base the lead character on you."
"Me?"
"I've never told you this, but I admire you." He forked salad into his mouth. "I'm your number one fan."
Fred felt his resolve soften. "I'm just an old codger, past it, on my way out."
"No, no — Fred, no, no, no. You've still got it."
"I'm sixty-three, you know."
"Good heavens, you look twenty years younger."
Fred plucked the comb from his pocket and scraped the hair across his bald spot. "Is Louise okay with this…new direction?"
Guy gulped a mouthful of wine. "That's why I need your help."
"How many times have I told you that you need to listen to Louise, hear what she is saying and do what she asks?" Fred's resolve firmed once more, and he jabbed a finger. "You are a very lucky man. Louise is one in a million. How many women would spend their inheritance on someone else's dreams?"
"I'm not someone. I'm her husband."
"You are not listening to me. Louise is special, a lucky charm. Listen to your wife!"
"I know, I know." Guy glanced around the café, his voice a whisper. "Look, I need your help."
"You want me to donate to your acting fund?"
"Don't be daft."
Fred lifted a fork of salad to his lips and sniffed. He was confident he now knew what the meeting was about. "Free legal advice from your good friend?"
"Eh? No, no, Fred — no, no, no. You've given me more than enough of that over the years. More than any friend could expect."
Fred placed the fork down. He glanced through the window at the street and he glanced at Cleo by the greeting station and he glanced at his fingernails. He turned his gaze back to Guy.
"What then?"
"I'm going to tell you something I've never told anyone else."
Fred leaned forward. "Go on."
