Twisted Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 3), page 8
His chest heaved in and out with rapid jerks. Slowly, he began to clear the table, banging the plates as if he were a heavy-metal drummer. Dawn sensed he might explode. She didn’t want an argument. Not tonight. Not in front of her boss.
Best lance the boil, she told herself. Take charge of the situation as she did with irate parents at work. Social workers are trained in how to deal with troublesome people. Always start with their name. What was it? Tom…Tom Finch.
Dawn said, "Nice to see you, Tom. How is Paige?"
"You should know." His lips peeled back in a snarl to reveal yellow-stained teeth. "She told me you were at the flat today and that you gave her—"
"Paige said she'd not seen you since Thursday," Dawn said in a rush. She didn’t want him to mention the cash. Not in front of her boss.
Tom placed his hands on his hips. Red-veined eyes glared from his pitted face. His lips trembled.
Dawn sensed that whatever happened next, it would not be good. She clutched the smooth stone. If he made a move, he'd get it right between the eyes. Why the hell did she choose Yew Tree Inn for their meal? Why was the scrag of a lad working here? The bugger should be under some derelict bridge in a drug-filled coma. He was not good enough for Paige Hoyt. He'd be a heavy chain dragging her back as she moved through life.
Dawn said, "I want to help. Do you need a place to stay? I can put you in contact with—"
Tom's eye's flared with fury. "Stay away from our flat. Paige is my girl, and she is having my babies. I will not warn you to keep away again."
How dare a scrag like him threaten her? Dawn lost it for a heartbeat and hissed. "Paige told me she was going to kick you out. I'll have the police on your tail if you—"
"You silly cow, Paige lied to get rid of you. I'm living with her. Going back tonight." He jabbed a finger. "Keep away from us or else I'll do you good and proper."
The fire spat with a tremendous roar. A charred log split in two. The orange flames surged, and shadows flickered as though in a deranged pagan dance.
Dawn caught the hard stare of Claire and swallowed hard. There was no knowing what else Tom might say in front of her boss. No knowing what he'd reveal.
It suddenly became very hot in the room.
Chapter twenty-one
Claire French raised a hand.
"Enough! Any more of your lip, young man, and I will speak to management."
Tom glared for half a heartbeat, turned, and slouched off.
"He's on drugs," Dawn said, watching as he shuffled into the kitchen. "Unstable, you know. But at least he is trying. I hope he can hold down this job."
Claire shrugged and stuffed another handful of crisps into her mouth. Confrontation was part of the job. Water off a duck's back. She took a swig of ale, then another handful of crisps.
Dawn waited, but her boss asked no questions. The spit from the fire and low tinkle of knives and forks and plates filled the void for a full minute. She relaxed a little. Her plan was back on track.
"Paige Hoyt…" Claire said. "The name rings a bell. Thought she was with adult services now. Why are you visiting her?"
"Like to keep in touch, see how goes it," Dawn replied.
"Come on, you don't have time for social visits."
"I make time for some," Dawn said. "I can't help myself. I just have to see how the children in my care do as they grow up. Keeps me going through the paperwork and the long slog through the courts."
Claire raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't born yesterday. What gives with Paige Hoyt?"
Dawn swallowed hard. Her boss sniffed out lies like a fox on the scent of a hen. Once she got a whiff, she would not let go.
"Soft spot," Dawn said. She knew what her boss would say next.
"Oh come on, Dawn!" Claire made a face. "Not in our job description. Emotional attachment clouds good judgement. No soft spots for clients. No favourites. Heart over head will get you into trouble. I've learned that the hard way."
"I know," Dawn replied. "It's hard, though."
Claire dabbed at her lips with a napkin, then reached for the pint of ale and took a long swallow. "All kids must have the same chance. That is policy. That is all you can give. Do I make myself clear?"
They fell into an uneasy silence. Dawn watched her boss. When to ask? She felt the strain in her chest as she counted to ten. She swallowed to clear her throat, then let out a long sigh. It was over the top, and for a moment, she thought she'd overdone it.
"Are you all right?" Claire asked.
Dawn shrugged. "Fine."
"Oh, come on, Dawn, I know you. What's up? That young lad got to you?"
"No."
"I'll speak with the manager. The lad's name was Tom, wasn't it?"
"It is not that."
"Then what?"
"Nothing."
Claire's face shone with curiosity. "I'm here for you."
"Really, it is nothing."
"Come on, Dawn, we're friends, aren't we?"
Dawn tilted her head, counted to five, and said, "It's Aunt Bethel. She hasn’t been on holiday for years."
"She was sick, wasn't she?"
"Remember that place in Bretteville? Well, I booked it for her. A treat. She's never been to France."
"Oh, she will love it." Claire leaned forwards, so her elbows rested on the table. "I've lost track of the number of times I've visited. It is fantastic."
"That's just it. She's taken another bad turn. The doctor says it is not wise for her to travel. I'm afraid Aunt Bethel can't go and I'm going to lose my money."
Claire's face tightened.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five seconds passed, and still the boss did not speak. She was silent for so long Dawn began to fret. What if she didn’t bite? Steve Marsh would be furious. He'd lose the Chinese deal and take her career with him. There was no backup plan. It all rested on this moment.
Six. Seven. Eight…
Horror crept up the nape of her neck, and she rested both hands on the table to brace herself.
Nine. Ten…
When Claire spoke, her voice was so soft, Dawn almost missed it.
"Wish I could go to France for a few days." She leaned so far across the table, Dawn caught a whiff of garlic and ale on her breath. "I feel so refreshed when I come back."
"Why don't you, then?"
"On my pay?"
"Stay at the place in Bretteville. It is all paid. All you can eat and drink. Imagine it, fine dining every night. The only cash you'll need is for petrol."
Claire took a long sip of ale. "I can't. It's Saturday, and there are reports to read, and on Monday we begin again."
"How much vacation time do you have?" Dawn knew the answer. Even regular social workers didn’t use all their holidays. More so for management. And she'd checked Dawn's calendar, nothing important next week. "I'll stand in as your deputy."
"But I can't just take off!"
"You are the boss; you can do what you want. How long is it since you had a break?"
"Ages. Still—"
"You need a break, Claire. Go. I can cope for a week."
"But it—"
"Listen, I'll call the owners in Bretteville, tell them to expect you. Bet they'll bake some of that French bread you love. It pairs well with cheese and wine."
Claire tugged at a stray lock of hair. The woman loved France. Loved to eat. Loved to drink. She was clearly thinking.
"Go on, Claire," Dawn said, sensing it was going her way. "Take a break in France on me. It's not like there is anything major on the calendar for next week."
Claire stared into the distance for a good ten seconds.
"As a matter of fact, yes. I've had some rather disturbing news." Claire stopped and glanced about the room, then lowered her voice. "I've been contacted by a detective. Fenella Sallow. She told me to stand by. A child has gone missing from the village of Grange. Posh family. I can't share the name. Detective Sallow said she would confirm first thing Monday. I've not added it to my calendar yet."
Dawn's mind raced for something to say. It drew a blank. How the hell could this be happening?
Claire was speaking. "I can't take next week off. Neither can you. I want you to lead the team. First thing Monday morning, the police will give us the details. You'll be the one who knocks on the door and brings the parents to our offices. I'll join you in the interview room. I don't give a toss if they are rich, we'll give them hell until they find the child."
Chapter twenty-two
Fenella had a simple rule.
One she'd not broken in twenty years.
She sat in her blue Morris Minor in the moonlit darkness, on the drive of her cottage on Cleaton Bluff. By the time she'd cut the lights and turned off the engine, it was close to ten o'clock. She lowered the window a half inch and felt a nip of cold air, the first icy finger of Jack Frost to warn of the end of the mini heatwave.
Her simple rule was never to mull over work at home. Despite the grim death on the Bowder Stone, she'd not break that rule this night. She'd not let the crime she faced at work cross through the front door of her house. It was like a soiled sheet. Once the stain got in, there was no way to wash it out.
An orange light glowed from inside the cottage. A figure moved to the window. Eduardo. Looking out to see if she was home. Nan would be in the kitchen boiling milk for a night-time cup of cocoa. Later, one of the children might call to give word of the grandbairns.
Fenella had seen the job gnaw at officers until they were ragged, thin shells of bile. They took the job home and did not detach the work from their private lives. Bleak crimes are hard to shake from your head when they are with you day and night.
She glanced at the window. No sign of Eduardo. She was in the kitchen now, with Nan, chatting about this and that. The cottage on Cleaton Bluff was her private space. Grandbairns always welcome. Memories hovered between the solid stone walls, good and bad. Family life.
In the distance she heard the crash of waves on the shore. She'd go for a long jog on the beach in the morning. Then, much closer, came the hoot of an owl. It echoed across the yard. A clear moonlit night for it to hunt. When winter crept back across the Cumbria countryside, there'd be no prey out in the fields. Did the owl sense the long, hard cold to come?
Fenella was on the hunt too. Not an easy task. A nanny dead and a child gone. She knew the facts. Another forty-eight hours, and the chances of finding Jade Marsh alive were close to nil. And the longer things dragged on without a lead, the lower the chance they'd catch the killer. It was the end of the brief summer; now would come the long, slow slog through ice and cold and dark.
And yes, she wanted to sit in the warm cottage kitchen filled with the savoury scents of Nan's Saturday supper. She longed to fall into the soft arms of Eduardo. But it wasn't time to let go of work. Not yet. The death of Liz Slough still played hard in her head. So did Jade Marsh. What happened to the bairn?
She'd read the thin report filed on the missing child. Even spoke with the family liaison officer who visited. It seemed the mother, Sal Marsh, was distant. The grandfather, Jim Young, distraught. The dad, Steve Marsh, was at work. Fenella had called him at his office. Difficult to read was her first thought when she hung up. But she gleaned enough to know he ran his own firm.
The owl hooted again. This time another screeched back. It seemed they were squabbling over hunting grounds on a night so clear there'd be dinner everywhere.
She pulled out her phone and sent a text message to Jones. He'd not take long to dig up Steve Marsh's business details. She sent another to Dexter to follow up on Mrs Jo Pitt. Rab Nash had mentioned the woman. Said he'd seen her at Bowder Woods. Another lead to follow. Another person to check off.
She turned off her mobile phone, placed it on the passenger seat, lowered the window all the way down, and sucked in the sharp tang of cold air. It gave her the jolt she needed. Not so much as the Cumbria Constabulary brew. Enough to get going. Enough to sleep sound. Enough to consider the case.
Fact: Liz Slough, the nanny, took Jade Marsh. Her intention? Kidnapping was the most likely scenario. The Marsh family lived in a big house, ran a business, had cash, could pay.
How would it have gone down?
Liz Slough most likely worked with a partner. Who? Her lover, a friend, a business associate? More clarity needed on that. They planned it together, agreed to meet in Bowder Woods. What, then? Liz handed over the child, but it went wrong, and she ended up dead. Did her partner get greedy? Decide to cut her from the deal?
Likely… except, why the packages of Liz in neat bundles of butchers paper tied with red twine? Why on top of the Bowder Stone in the shape of a pentagon?
No. Her partner wouldn't go to such extremes, no matter how greedy. Kill her quick, dump the body, and make off with Jade. Logical. Not what happened, though. That left a ritual killing? Dexter was checking that out. They'd had nothing like it before at the Bowder Stone. Only a handful of New Age travellers and modern-day Druids. Vegetarians mostly. They'd not lay a hand on a goat much less butcher a human.
It was as she let out a slow breath that she thought of Liz Slough’s car—a Fiat 500, greenish gold. It had vanished without a trace. Now her mind was a spinning top, whirring faster, not slowing down. She decided to have a word with Yaz, discover more about what her boyfriend, Liam Frisk, was into. A man who wears hoofed boots, a goat-horned-hat, and nowt else－might be just crazy or not. That he jumped through the window of a burning building waving a Japanese sword tilted the odds to madness. Did he know Liz Slough? Did Yaz? Another loose end to follow.
And a visit to Yaz would give her a chance to check up on how the pregnancy was going. Any day now. Then there was her daughter, Peace; the girl would be shocked by what had happened. She'd check up on her too. Might have a word with her social worker, just to make sure things were okay. She'd have to track down where Yaz and Peace were staying. One more task to her list.
The front door opened. Light etched the frame of Eduardo. He stood very still and did not call. He'd not disturb her thinking time, knew she needed to decompress.
Fenella yawned, but her mind still whirred. There was another rule. This one used at work. The simple won over the complex: Ritual slayings on the Bowder Stone－complex. Liz Slough working with a partner－simple. She climbed from the car, locked the door, and flipped her mental switch. The whirring in her mind stopped. Family time.
Chapter twenty-three
It was early Sunday morning when the screaming began.
In her dressing gown, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, Sal Marsh drifted down the stairs. A graveyard silence hovered over Red Thistle Cottage. Thick drapes blocked out the predawn light. She flicked on the kettle, made a cup of strong tea, touched the stud in her ear, and wandered to the front door with the steaming mug in her hand. Later, she would not recall why.
Or why she stepped out into the crisp air to walk along the paved path to the wrought-iron gate. But she did remember the one-armed, pink teddy bear and the dull grey handle of the knife which pinned an envelope to its soft, fat belly. Sal would say she did not know why she screamed before she opened the envelope and read the note inside.
But that's when the screaming began.
It was her dad, Jim, who got to her first.
"What's going on?" His voice rasped like dry leaves as he stood by the open door.
The weather had turned. Frost glistened on the bushes, and a thin mist hung close to the ground. The heatwave was over. The cold talons of winter had Cumbria back in its firm grip. From an unseen tree came the caw of a crow.
A moment later, her dad was at her side, bare feet gripping the hard stone path like claws on ice. "What is it, honey?"
Sal pointed at the gate but did not speak. She knew how her words would sound. Cold. Uncaring. Guilty. So she opened her mouth and made a high-pitched screech, thinking as she did so about the black crow who had proclaimed her vegetable plot its kingdom.
When she closed her mouth and the screaming ceased, it was not the one-armed, pink teddy bear her dad stared at with narrowed eyes. It was her. And the worry lines on his forehead were deep furrows as though ploughed by a deranged farm tractor.
Her husband, Steve, was at the door now, his colossal frame filling the space. Through the thin mist he looked like a giant ghost. Then he vanished, and Sal thought it might be a dream. Moments later, he returned to the door and made his way along the path, Walsh running shoes on his feet, duffel coat wrapped tight over his pyjamas.
"What's all the fuss?"
"Someone pinned that to the gate," Jim said and pointed, although his gaze never left Sal's face.
"Stone the bleedin' crows," Steve replied in his high-pitched tone. "It's a teddy. So what?" He made a move towards the gate, then stopped with a jerk. "That knife through its heart, is that—?"
"Looks like the one missing from the rosewood case in the drawing room," Jim said. "Not that I'm allowed in there. Back room and kitchen, like some bloody servant. Next, you'll have me doffing my cap and calling you sir."
"You clean toilets for a living," Steve snapped. "Brown stains scrubbed white with bleach and elbow grease. I don't want that sitting in my drawing room. You're nowt but a filthy old man."
Sal didn’t like it when they argued. It felt like she was no longer in control. But they were always at it, worse than cat and dog.
"Please, Steve, don't," she said and let out a controlled breath. "My dad works hard."
"I served this country in the army, Royal Logistic Corps," Jim said, head held high.
"How many of the enemy did you kill with your toilet brush?" Steve laughed. He stepped towards the gate and reached out a hand. "Now let's see what we've got here."
"Don't touch," Jim barked. "The police will want to look at it."
Steve's hand hovered for a moment, then fell to his side. "It's just a prank. Someone thought it would be fun to pin a one-armed pink teddy bear to our gate." A flicker crossed his face. Only for an instant, but Sal saw it. "Now can we all go back inside and get a bit more sleep. It's Sunday, for crying out loud."
