Moonlight Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 9), page 7
Normal sounds.
Everyday sounds.
Just the hallway of an old building. Nothing more.
Except she was here in secret and didn't want anyone to know.
One hand touched the olive-wood crucifix. The other spasmed into a fist. Creeping around in the shadows unnerved her. She'd been doing it for months and didn't like how it made her feel, what it made her do.
Soon it will be over with. Soon it will be done. Soon I'll know my next steps and move on.
Louise exhaled a yoga breath and the air broke with a throaty scream. A high-pitched, inhuman wail. Mumbled words from somewhere deep in the building. What were they saying? Asking for help? Crying in shame? Or was it like that time at the end of the funfair ride where everyone howled in terrified relief?
The scream came again. Shrill and sharp and sour. A babble of jumbled words. Mumbo-jumbo through the thickness of the walls.
Louise sneaked a glance back the way she came. She was about to retreat to the front door when a very short man with an angry face hustled from a side entrance. She wasn't sure if he was called a dwarf or a midget these days, but he could pass as a small child. She settled on dwarf, didn't want to stare but couldn't help herself. He wore a white cape and carried something in his hand. Long and pointy. In the gloom of the hall, it looked like a metal stick.
"Louise?" He had stick legs, a massive bald head, thick scaly skin and eyes the colour of rust. "Are you Louise Bertram from the village of Gilsland?"
That disturbed Louise. She only gave her first name on the phone call and told them she'd pay in cash. Three times the normal rate to get a quick appointment. She didn't mention where she was from.
"I asked you a question." He was in front of her now, on the tips of his toes, face holly berry red, nostrils flared. "Are you Mrs Louise Bertram, lives in Plum Cottage?"
Louise nodded.
"You are late. Do you think we've nothing better to do than wait around all day for you?"
"I…err —"
He waved a hand, looking beyond Louise to the front door. "You on your own?"
"Sorry?"
"Folks often bring a loved one with them. Didn't bring your husband with you?"
"He's busy."
A frown crinkled his brow. "Don't suppose Mr Bertram has much time these days. He must be rushed off his feet writing all those films. It's Guy, isn't it? "
That shocked Louise and she fell mute.
The dwarf snorted. "That last lot came here in force even though I told them one only in the consultation room. Didn't stop the older woman barging in. When they got what they came for, they wanted to touch. It's a wonder they didn't ask to take bleedin' photos. My God, we ain't miracle workers. We can't bring them back from the dead." He jabbed a scaly finger. "No flash photography."
Louise began to edge away.
She couldn't go through with it.
There had to be another way.
The dwarf grabbed her arm. "Everything is prepared for our special guest. We turned others away to make room. You got the cash?"
From somewhere in the building came a rush of flowing liquid. A bubbling, gurgling, hissing. Like someone filling a huge bathtub with steaming hot water.
Louise thought of the nuns in her Catholic school and she thought of the Irish nurse with the wild eyes and she thought of the child growing fast in her belly. She drew several breaths, smelled a faint trace of bleach, ran the fingers of her free hand along the black beads of her necklace and touched the crucifix.
"I'm ready."
Chapter 41
Had Louise known how it would turn out, she would never have visited this place; would have turned and hurried from the hallway; would have fled at full pelt from Barrow-in-Furness.
The dwarf led her to a windowless, white-walled chamber with two armchairs separated by a round drinks table. Against the wall was a cocktail cabinet. It was a tall walnut piece with two doors at the bottom and a lift down lid, lowered. Small bottles lined the two shelves, their reflection off the interior mirror making it seem like an endless supply. On the floor, a yellow and gold oriental rug covered much of the bare concrete. The air, heavy with incense, contained a faint trace of rum, pea soup and something chemical.
The dwarf pointed at the cocktail cabinet. "What is your pleasure?"
Louise couldn't think of alcohol, not after throwing up. "Soda water."
"Had you down as a gin lady. You sure you don't want a splash?"
She patted her midriff. "Unsettled tummy."
He nodded and squirted water into a crystal glass. "The money?"
Louise clicked the clasps on her grandmother's quilted leather-framed handbag, pulling out a brown envelope. She handed it over.
There was no way back now.
Once more, she touched her talisman, the olive-wood crucifix, and once again she fiddled with the black beads.
The dwarf counted the money.
When he looked up, a huge grin touched his ears and his rust eyes shone. "It all appears to be here."
Louise said nothing.
He caressed the brown envelope, speaking as if to himself. "We have all the time in the world, my dear. Especially since you paid for the works, and business isn't exactly brisk these days. I guess people aren't watching the telly like they once did. Competition, I suppose. Lots of options for punters." He stopped and placed his scaly hand briefly over his mouth. "But this is the right place for you. I felt it the moment I saw you. Congratulations on making the right choice."
"How…" Louise swallowed to slow her thudding heart. "…long will it take?"
"Dr Wychwood won't be rushed. Sometimes there are unforeseen complications." He was still caressing the brown envelope. Like he couldn't believe this was real, like he couldn't believe it was true. "If you have friends that require our services, please send them our way. Discretion guaranteed. Are you ready, Mrs Bertram?"
Despite sipping a mouthful of water, Louise's throat was terribly dry.
She nodded.
Chapter 42
It happened fast after that.
The dwarf danced to the far wall and Louise noticed three things. First, the amber eye painted high on the wall. Second, below the eye, she traced the faint outline of a doorway. Third, he held a long metal object in his scaly hands.
A flute.
He lifted it to his lips and began to play. A haunting melody. Louise recognised the opening notes of Syrinx by Claude Debussy.
The hidden door opened.
She followed the flute playing dwarf through the dark doorway.
Chapter 43
The air smelled of incense with underlying tones of pea soup, wine and burnt ashes. The blood-red curtains were pulled closed. The only light came from the dancing flames. Twelve candles flickered in a gothic style candelabra. It stood on a side table near the door.
The flute faded to stillness.
The dwarf raised his arms. "Our guest is here."
Dr Teresa Wychwood reclined in a plush, throne shaped chair behind a broad oak desk. She wore gold hooped earrings and giant rings on every finger. Her hands were very fat. A plum robe with gold trim wrapped her plump form and three black silk scarves were tied around her thick neck. The oversized white turban atop her head watched with the same eye painted above the secret door in the waiting room. Deep lines creased her face. In the flickering candlelight, they looked like bottomless crevasses.
Behind Dr Wychwood, a walnut frame held an ancient world map with gold lettering in a delicate, cursive, flourish of Olde English. In front of the desk, a cherry wood upholstered armchair waited.
Dr Wychwood fixed Louise with a pair of amber eyes. "Mrs Bertram?" Her voice, full of husky tones, sounded mysterious. She stood. Her earrings jangled. "Such a pleasure to meet you at last."
Louise approached the desk.
Dr Wychwood extended her bejewelled, plump hand. Louise grasped it like a rope thrown to a drowning man.
"I do hope…" Dr Wychwood's voice lost some of the huskiness."…Rupert explained I can offer no guarantees."
"She's paid in full. Cash." The dwarf, Rupert, raised the brown envelope. "Counted it twice. Three times the going rate!"
He turned and danced from the room.
"There are additional services that I offer." Dr Wychwood's eyes gleamed brighter. She waved Louise into the armchair and eased her considerable frame back down on her throne. "At an…err… extra service fee."
"Anything, but please, I need your help." Louise felt foolish blurting it out like that. She didn't believe in showing her cards but she was in a corner. She placed her right hand on her abdomen. "It is urgent."
Dr Wychwood rubbed her plump hands. "We must get one thing clear. I am a medium, not a raiser of the dead. This is a reading room, not a parlour of cheap tricks." She glared at the door and snorted. "There are some patrons who, once I contact their loved departed, expect me to manifest their physical form in this room so they can…touch them." She shook her head, the eye on the turban watchful. "You can't hug a presence."
"I'm not here to speak with the dead." Louise didn't mean to sound upset or desperate, but she knew from the way her voice twittered that she'd failed. "I'm here on a different matter."
"That is what I sensed." Dr Wychwood leaned forward. "You came here on…err… on other business?"
"I want to know what I should do."
"About what?"
Louise became cautious. "My next step."
"Ah…yes…err…yes…I see."
The candlelight shifted. From a shadowed corner of the room, two dark eyes watched.
Louise gasped.
A black parrot stirred on its perch. Its head tilted to one side. Its beak opened, but no sound came out.
The light shifted and the parrot vanished in the murk.
Dr Wychwood raised both palms, eyelids drooping. Her voice became husky. "I am a psychic medium and tap into supernatural energy to commune with the departed. I am also gifted with the spirit of insight about the past, present, or the future." Her hands fell to the table, palms spread. "It is the future you are here about?"
"I told you that."
"I sense negative energy. A blocking energy."
"I'm sorry."
"I will do my best for you, but you must let the scales of disbelief fall from your eyes."
"I'll try."
Dr Wychwood glanced at Louise's wedding ring. "You must seek out and enjoy the finer things in life. Relax in their comfort and joy."
"I haven't come here about that."
"Yes, yes — I can sense that, yes, yes, yes. You are here on other matters." Dr Wychwood drew in a long breath, holding it until her face turned red. Her eyes snapped wide. Two orange orbs burning through the dim. "My first message is coming through."
Louise leaned forward, eager for answers. What to do about the baby? What to do about Guy? What was the best way forward given the hell of what happened at the Popping Stone? What was the next step for her plan?
Chapter 44
The parrot stirred on its perch.
A soft flutter of feathers.
Dr Wychwood uttered a low mumble of strange words and then spoke in a whoosh of breath. "If I said there was a big disappointment in your life, would that mean anything to you?"
Louise's throat went dry. "Yes." It came out as a croak. "Yes, yes, yes."
Dr Wychwood began to hum. Low like the buzz of bees. "I am being told that you must not worry. It will clear itself up on its own."
"That can't be right." Louise was on her feet. "Something must be done. It can't wait. I can't not do anything. I must act now. In a few months I'll be…" She stopped, not wanting to give anything away and slumped back into the armchair. "That's why I'm here — to find out what to do."
There was an awkward silence.
Dr Wychwood touched a bejewelled finger to her plump lips. "I will lose the spirits if they sense an angry presence. There is a malign force that we must defeat before we go on. I will do my best to rid the room of it. There will be an extra…err…fee for this special service. Please be still."
Dr Wychwood began to hum. Then she mumbled and then she spoke in a high pitch cackle. Nonsense words to an English ear, repeating over in ever-higher squealing tones.
"Yah-ta tat-tat ta-ta too."
A chill gripped Louise. It slithered down her spine. The flickering candlelight and smells of incense and the dancing shadows were suddenly threatening.
"Ye-te ta-te ta-ta too."
An overpowering sensation of something sinister pressed Louise's lungs flat. A sense of awful doom cloaked her sweating body. She wanted to touch the olive-wood crucifix but didn't dare move. Could the mystic hear her thudding heart?
"Ya-le ma-ma tam-ye-too."
Dr Wychwood fell silent. She tapped a slow finger on the desk.
Tap. Tap. Tap…
Like she was assessing.
Like she was thinking.
Like she was coming up with a plan.
Tap. Tap. Tap…
Dr Wychwood smiled, raised both palms and groaned. "We are in luck. The spirits are coming through again."
Louise's hand went to the crucifix. A frightful and disturbing feeling that something was moving in the room came to her. Something walking on the edge of the shadows. A hooded form wearing monk's robes. A diabolical presence intent on wrapping its poisonous cloak around her. She wanted to run but did not stir.
"Does…" Dr Wychwood stared at Louise but her eyes were blank orbs of translucent glass. "… the word 'baby' mean anything to you?"
Louise jerked straight in the armchair but said nothing.
Dr Wychwood's lips twisted into a strange smirk. "Okay. The joyful coming of a baby. Does that mean anything to you?"
Louise didn't move. She felt only the involuntary widening of her eyes.
"The spirits are very strong in their suggestion of a baby. They say it wasn't created in…" Dr Wychwood's eyes rolled up in her head. "I'm being interrupted. A message." She gasped. Her heavy chest heaved in giant jerks. "An urgent message from a couple. They are holding hands. Does a male name beginning with T or a female name beginning with E mean anything to you?"
"My parents!" Louise gasped in wonder and fear. "Thomas and Elizabeth?"
"Yes, yes — Mrs Bertram, yes, yes, yes." Dr Wychwood's mouth dropped wide. "Violence. I get a deep and shattering sense of violence."
"They died in a car crash." Louise swallowed. "I miss Daddy. I miss Mummy."
"They are here now. Together. Holding hands." Dr Wychwood pressed fat hands against her turban and she spoke as if giving a command. "Thomas and Elizabeth are here. They have something for you. Something important."
A throaty scream came from the birdcage. A high-pitched, inhuman wail.
Dr Wychwood rocked from side to side. "They love you…please do…yes, please do…Thomas is writing. He has a message. An urgent message."
"What?" Louise jerked forward, almost to her feet. "What is Daddy writing?"
"I'll do my best." Dr Wychwood's eyes were so wide the whites looked frightening and her irises glowed like balls of fire. "Please do not speak or move else I'll lose them."
Louise said nothing.
For thirty seconds the air filled with the low muttering of Dr Wychwood. The mystic's body trembled. The turban shook so the eye moved in and out of the candlelight, giving the impression of winking. At last, her fat hands went to her turban and the black parrot let loose another scream.
Dr Wychwood collapsed on her desk, panting. She looked up. "You must confess. Not for his sake or your sake, but for the sake of the unborn child."
Chapter 45
It was four in the afternoon when Fenella pulled her Morris Minor to the kerb in the village of Gilsland with no idea of the hell come. She cut the engine and stared at the brown stone cottage. This was the home of the dog walker, Mr Brad Pomfret, the man who discovered the remains at the Popping Stone.
Two mature elm trees grew on either side of the wide iron gate that welcomed guests to the cobblestoned garden path. Rose bushes lined the path, a riot of peach and yellows and reds. The cobblestones snaked through a mowed lawn to the house. A two up — two down with lattice windows set in white frames and a solid oak front door. Fenella pictured it on the cover of a chocolate box in a London boutique. Except all the curtains were drawn, the windows as dark as bruised eyes.
She hustled from her car, thinking about the horrors of the Popping Stone and wondering what Mr Pomfret would say and what he would make of her unexpected call. She had a talent for reading people, for poking around in their private business. A genius, really, although Nan said she was nowt but a bleedin' nosy parker.
Before Fenella reached the garden gate, a dog barked and a gust howled along the peaceful lane. Branches swayed. Leaves spun in demented swirls. The wind died, replaced by the shrill chatter of birds. The dog continued to bark.
The front door flew open.
Brad Pomfret leaned against the door frame, stick-thin. He wore a tweed jacket with patched elbows. His mouth hung open, chest heaving hard and the whites of his eyes shone against the paleness of his face. Behind him a brown dog with ribs poking through its matted fur watched.
Mr Pomfret waited for Fenella to reach the doorstep before exhaling a shaking breath. "Inspector Sallow, isn't it?"
Fenella smelled cigarettes and the sweetness of rum on his breath. "Aye, Mr Pomfret, that'd be about right."
"Thank God." He raked a trembling hand over his skeletal chin. "Come in. We need to talk."
Chapter 46
Mr Pomfret led Fenella to the front room that smelled of strong drink and floral air freshener. She stayed at the door, taking it in. The peach and white striped wallpaper reminded her of the cover of a yellowing fashion magazine she'd seen on display in a museum about daily life in the 1950s. This room was for receiving guests. A room meant for laughter and fun. But there was no gaiety in the deep lines etched in Mr Pomfret's anxious face.
