Resurrection Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 6), page 6
"She is my only Grandbairn. I want what is right for her."
"She won't even tell me who the father of her baby is," Shirley said. "But she has told you, hasn't she? Her bestie gran knows everything, while I am banned from asking my own flesh and blood daughter a question. I'm the one who carried her for nine months. My God, Ginger's father might be my own dad and I'd never know."
"Oh, and you are a living saint?" Ida snapped, waving her hands in the sign of the cross. "For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."
A tense silence fell over the room. An uneasy quiet as thick as the net curtained gloom.
One minute.
Two.
Three.
Fenella watched and waited, ignoring the dull thud at the base of her back.
At last, Ida said, "Have you been drinking?"
Shirley didn't answer.
"You always were a selfish child," Ida said, striding back to the table and slumping into a chair. "A ranting, complaining, amoral beast."
Again she made the sign of the cross with her hands. This time, more dramatic, like she was centre stage in a massive London theatre. Large sweeping movements so those at the back could see.
Shirley covered her face with her hands and sobbed. "I was a stupid teen when I had Ginger. A mistake that is now being repeated by my own daughter." Her voice rose to a shout. "I want to know the name of the lad that got my child pregnant."
"Your dad is rotting in the morgue and all you can think of is your own hysteric self," Ida yelled back.
Shirley fell silent.
Fenella waited, unsure whether the emotional fireworks were over.
"I'm your mam and should have been at Ginger's birth," Ida snapped. She turned to Fenella and her lips twisted into a mile wide smile. "So sorry, it is the stress. Please ignore our petty fights. We want to help in any way we can. We all loved Fred in our different ways."
Fenella's diaphragm lurched. She'd stepped into a snake nest where every move came with the potential for a nasty bite. This was not a happy family. She said, "Did Fred fall out with anyone recently?"
"No," Ida said. "He wasn't the type to argue, got along with everyone."
"What about friends?"
"He had a few mates at the allotment, that was about it," Ida replied. "He had a large plot at the back and spent much of his time working the soil."
"Let's talk about enemies." Fenella removed her notebook from her handbag, making a check of the ink with a scribble. "Do you know anyone who had it in for him?"
Ida blinked. "I must get back to Ginger. Goodness, she will wonder what has happened to me."
She dashed from the kitchen. The door clicked shut.
Fenella's gaze flitted from the door to Shirley. "Tell me about Fred."
When Shirley spoke, her voice was quieter than the tick-tock of the clock. "Dad wasn't one for confrontation."
"Really?"
Fenella found that single word often generated an interesting answer.
Shirley gazed at the closed kitchen door with a puzzled expression. "If there were a problem, he'd go around the houses to find a solution. Very private. You would never know he knew your business. You would never find out. For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. That was his favorite saying. And since we are dust it is best to do things on the quiet."
A silence. Fenella said nothing. She knew Shirley wasn't finished. The fridge gave a sudden shudder, its hum filling the void.
Shirley dabbed at her eyes. "Dad loved the garden, playing sports and enjoyed the outdoor life. He even forced me to play cricket when I moved back home. I hate the game but went along with it to keep him happy. I don't have much money and this place is rent free."
This was useful background, but Fenella wanted more. "Was he worried about anything?"
Shirley closed her eyes. "I got the sense there was something he wanted to tell me. Something important. Now I'll never know, will I?"
Chapter 13
It was three o'clock in the morning. Shirley Bickham slipped out of bed and padded to the window, her ears alert for any strange noises. She peeled back the edge of the patchwork quilt curtains and scanned the street, nervously watching the windows and doorways and gardens and the gaps between the parked cars. The light from the streetlamp cast such a feeble beam through the fog she couldn't be sure what lurked in the shadows. So, she watched, trembling with a sickening excitement at what she must do.
She tramped to the wardrobe, stubbing her toe on the bed. She held back a harsh howl of pain. Better to hobble around in the miserable dark cursing under your breath than to wake Ginger or her mam.
She stared at her shadowed face in the mirror and ran a hand over the loose skin and deep hollows in her face. It wasn't the booze, she told herself. She'd been born with bad genes into a life of bad luck. Slowly, she eased open the wardrobe door and fumbled through piles of clothes until she felt cold glass. Tense and impatient, she poured a long splash of gin into a shot glass, sipping it like fine wine. Her mind cleared. Did she have everything?
Yes, black yoga pants and matching top.
Yes, black gloves, so thin they didn't hamper your fingers.
And yes, ski mask.
From the bottom of the wardrobe she found the pricy trainers she'd bought from a posh sports shop. The salesman with the fake American accent called them midnight black sneakers, said they'd be good for her gym class, hiking, and running fast.
Shirley sat on the bed in the eerie quiet and brooded over her plan. She gazed at the bedside clock. Time to go on the wild ride, she told herself. Soon she'd be back in bed, under the thick covers and no one the wiser.
She tiptoed to the bedroom door, opened it, and heard snores drift from her mam's bedroom. She listened for Ginger, but her daughter slept like the dead and with the pills, she'd not stir till noon.
As she stepped out into the hallway, a noise came from downstairs. A creak. The front door closing. A shuffle of feet. Someone climbing the stairs.
Shirley crept to the stairs and peered down into the darkness. A figure detached from the blackness. It shambled up the stairs. She watched in horror until she saw the pale face and vacant stare of Ginger.
Her daughter climbed one step at a time, hunched like a bare-knuckle fighter, right hand carrying a bread knife, left hand grasping a cricket bat. Ginger reached the top of the stairs, turned and plodded to her gran's door.
"Oh God," Shirley whispered into the dark, shivering. "It has started again."
A loud clatter broke her desolate thoughts, and she sprinted after Ginger. Her mam's bedroom had a queen-sized bed shoved against one wall and a dresser under the window. An intense scent filled the chill air—fresh mint. Her mam swore it calmed the nerves. Shirley inhaled deeply as she took in the scene.
Her mam lay on the bed, snoring in great bursts of rattle. Ginger snuggled next to her gran with a blissful expression on her face. She held the bread knife loosely in her hand. The cricket bat had dropped to the floor.
Shirley sidled to the bed, eased the knife from Ginger's grip and pulled a sheet over her. She picked up the cricket bat and tiptoed from the room. What else could she do? Confronting Ginger by shaking her awake would result in a painful row.
When Ginger was six, she suffered from nightmares. They were so terrifying she would scramble from her bed in a sleepwalk. Most nights she'd go straight to the kitchen and return to her bed with a knife and a big stick. "The dream," Ginger would say in her small voice. "I had the dream."
The soft voiced doctor who prescribed the pills said it was normal for a child to wander in their sleep. Quite natural to dream about being chased. Shirley didn't tell the medic about the knife. Or how Ginger swung the big stick with brute force as she sleepwalked. Or how the dream always ended with Ginger wide awake and screaming about being sliced in two.
Shirley went to the kitchen, put the bread knife away and gazed through the window. Let's start the clock, she told herself as she closed the front door and crept out into the dark fog laden street. Her dad's bedsit would not take long to search.
Chapter 14
Shirley Bickham dashed along the quiet street unable to stop the alarm bells ringing in her mind. She urged her feet on, each step a dizzying fight against fear. There were so many things that could go wrong.
Was someone watching? The neighbours liked to meddle, fingers twitching their speed dial for the police when they suspected something odd.
She kept her head down, gloves and ski mask jammed in her pocket. No, she told herself, there was nothing to worry over. No one could see her in this mist, and she had a copy of the front door key to the building and knew where her dad hid the key for his room.
She turned left at the traffic light onto a cobbled road. Shops lined the street, their graffiti-stained steel shutters drawn down. The street lights faded to darkening pools of shadows. A wasteland ahead. Grim houses with boarded doors and alleyways smeared with brown stains. You had to keep an eye out for drunks and nut jobs and God only knew what else lurking in the alleys.
She slowed her walk, scanning for danger. A strange confidence gripped her as she touched the knife in her pocket. Wrong night to mess with this lass. For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. But as she turned onto the street of her dad's bedsit, she felt afflicted by doubts and misgiving.
"Can I go through with this again?"
She stopped at the steps of Mrs Fassnidge's lodgings and peered at the front door. It was vital now that she focus. First, chase away the doubts. Second, stick to the plan. She gulped and gasped and pictured herself dashing up the stairs, opening her dad's bedsit door, searching, finding, and galloping into the night. No need for the gloves. No need for the ski mask. No need for the knife.
"A brilliant plan."
Shirley climbed and hesitated, peering at the row of bell buttons, each with a nameplate. A chaotic mix of students, nurses and those down on their luck rented rooms in the glum building. Her finger hovered over the button marked in bold letters: Mrs R Fassnidge—Landlady.
She continued to scan, saw her dad's nameplate and became excited. That meant Mrs Fassnidge had not heard of his death. When the news broke, the witch would clear his room, dump his stuff in the alley and rent the hovel to someone else.
"Lady luck is on my side. In and out and no one will know. Ideal."
Shirley tried the door handle because you never knew.
Locked.
Not a problem. All the residents would be inside so there was no shock in a locked door. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the front door key, put it in the lock and turned, anticipating the magic click.
Nothing.
She tried again.
Shirley stepped back in bewildered shock. Only slowly did she realise what must have happened—Mrs Fassnidge had changed the lock.
She tried a dozen more times, then gaped in furious disbelief. Distressed, she tried again, feeling defeated as the key groaned and buckled. No point, it won't work she told herself and glared at the solid door fighting back hysteria. What if the police searched her dad's room before she got in?
"Hullo there."
Shirley whirled. A short figure scurried from the dark fog into the glow of the streetlamp and stopped at the bottom of the steps.
"Is this Mrs Fassnidge's place?" asked the woman with a faint Irish brogue.
"Aye, it is," Shirley replied, trying to stay in the shadows.
"May you live to be one hundred years. I'm new to town, just back from a hellish nursing shift and lost my way. If you had not been standing in the doorway, I might have missed it. Amazing luck, eh?"
She climbed the steps with great haste, door keys in hand and plunged the key into the lock. A quick shove and the door opened. She turned. "Going out?"
"That's right," Shirley replied. "Just thinking where I parked the car."
"Be careful there are sickos creeping about at this hour."
"I will."
The woman looked puzzled. "Day shift nurse?"
"Someone has to do it," Shirley said.
"Not me. I've dealt with vital signs, viruses and human waste all night. I'm knackered, time to purge myself with sleep. You ought to give it a whirl."
They both laughed.
"Good night," the woman said. "Or should I say good morning?"
She disappeared into the dark hallway before Shirley answered.
Pure adrenaline jerked Shirley's right hand to the handle before the door slammed shut. She stepped inside. The air reeked of damp clothes and beef stew gone sour. She waited until the woman's footsteps faded and she heard the click of a door then cast an anxious glance at her watch. The plan was taking much longer than she expected. But now she was in, she only had to climb the stairs and then she'd be at her dad's flat. Might take ten minutes and she'd be on her way back home.
Shirley crept up two flights of stairs and along an unlit hallway. She huffed with relief at her dad's bedsit door and savoured the moment. Her tough-mindedness got her this far. Now for the easy bit.
A coconut husk doormat lay by the door. Shirley smiled. Dad kept a spare key under the mat. She stooped to lift the edge. A heartbeat later she staggered back in shock.
The key was gone.
Chapter 15
Fenella arrived at Fred Bickham's place anxious because of the early hour. It was six on Sunday, and her back still hurt. She wanted a nosy in his room before word spread to the public about the crime and asked Dexter to meet her. A sea mist hovered over the street, darkening the sky and threatening a cloud burst.
She peered through her car window at the run-down boarding house and grimaced. It was in a row of grand Victorian houses. Once picturesque and upscale, the rich had long abandoned the area, leaving landlords with rock-bottom room rates, their garish signs washed-out with age. She hurried through the mist, her car door shutting with a solid clunk.
Dexter hunched against the front door; his finger jammed on the bell. "Ain't got no reply, guv." He glared at the door. "The landlady is a heavy sleeper. I hear she is a bit of a hothead, heartless with it."
"Mrs R Fassnidge," Fenella said, reading the name below the button. "Having a Sunday morning lie in, eh?"
"That's what I reckon, guv," Dexter replied. "No one has come in or out since I got here."
He staggered back, tilted his head and scoured the windows. There were no lights on in the rooms. No twitch of the threadbare curtains.
Fenella said, "Can't see much with all this fog."
"Think I should start ringing the bells at random, guv? Get someone up so they can open the door?"
"Nah, might cause havoc. We have enough on our plates without a stampede of complaints to Town Hall about the police ruining residents' sleep."
Fenella didn’t want to waste time, neither did she want to face a rant from groggy renters grabbing a bit of shut eye after a gruelling workweek. They'd find the elusive landlady then search Fred Bickham's room. Minimal fuss was best on a Sunday at six in the morning.
"Think the door needs a good shove," Dexter said. "Looks rotten."
He grunted and threw himself, shoulder first at the door. He bounced with a painful cry. "Cor blimey, guv, think it is made of steel."
They stood in glum silence for a few minutes, then Fenella spoke. "Keep trying here, I'll have a nosy around the back."
A narrow alley ran at the rear of the houses. Everywhere hulking dustbins leaned against brick walls. The fog seemed to trap and compress their rotted contents to a hideous stink. Fenella walked quickly stopping at a pile of black bin bags next to an oversized dustbin. She wasn't certain why, but she lifted the lid expecting it filled to the brim. It was empty.
Why not put the bags in the bin? Curious, she jabbed the nearest bag with the tip of her shoe. Soft. She poked the second with her heel. Same. She swung her leg in a wild kick and whacked the third bag. More of the same. Not household rubbish, it felt like something else. She stooped, held her breath and opened the bag hardly able to credit what she saw. There was no doubt about it. She pulled out a pair of corduroy trousers and a broken pair of mirrored sunglasses.
From deep in the fog, there was a loud scurrying sound. Fenella listened. A door slammed. She straightened and picked her way around the black bags, feeling the slickness of the cobbles and noticing the stink of urine and dog waste.
A high brick wall ran the length of the alley with a gate at the far end. The gate had a latch but no lock. With any luck someone would see her as she entered the garden, she'd flash her warrant card, and they'd let her inside the building. All legal.
She pressed the latch and shoved, only hearing the hurried footfalls as it squealed open. Instantly alert, she shifted her body weight but it was too late. The gate creaked inward and she stumbled, sliding across the damp grass in the yard. A shard of pain burst around the base of her spine, causing her to gasp. As she lay dazed on the ground, a figure in black sprinted past.
Fenella struggled to her feet, fuming as her hand squelched dog filth. "Hey you come back here. Stop. Police."
The figure didn't stop. They continued to sprint, slipping on the slick grass and stumbling through the gate. By the time Fenella scrambled to the alley, they'd vanished into the fog. Which way did they go?
She listened, heard only the rattle of a tin can and the soft hiss of the breeze. Vexed, she bent over her knees, huffing out ragged breaths of fury and wiping her soiled hands on the ground.
"Over here, guv. Quick."
Dexter's call came from behind. It carried such alarm Fenella spun and dashed back into the yard. Fog clouded her view as she moved toward his voice.
"God Almighty, guv." He stood in a doorway to the house and took a sharp breath. "Ain't seen anything like it."
A hollow pang bombed Fenella's gut. She opened her mouth to ask if he had seen the figure in black, then closed it, catching sight of his hollow-eyed stare.
Dexter said, "Gave the front door a shove and it swung wide. Went straight to Mrs Fassnidge's place and banged her door. It opened, so I went in and found myself in the kitchen. The door leads out here." He turned to point back at the house. "Guv, I found the landlady slumped over the kitchen table with her face smashed in. Mrs Fassnidge is dead."
