Moonlight Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 9), page 8
He tottered to the window, opened the curtains and wandered around the room in tight circles, his body bent in a tense arc. The brown dog trotted at his heel.
Through the window, smears of dark clouds spread across the sky, charcoal smudges against the deep blue. The wind howled, shaking loose leaves from the trees. Mr Pomfret continued to pace in a circle.
Fenella couldn't take him walking round again. It was an endless loop that needed breaking. She moved from the door to the middle of the room. "You've got it nice and cosy in here."
Mr Pomfret stopped. His gaze drifted around the room. "Aye, me wife's done a right nice job."
Two worn armchairs rested on either side of a fireplace. A statuette of the Virgin Mary stood in the centre of the mantelpiece. A grey rug lay on the polished wood floor. A photo of his wife in a gold frame rested on the mantelpiece. There were no other photos or trinkets or mementos of family life. He was married, though, with two grown bairns who'd moved south for work.
Mr Pomfret nodded Fenella to an armchair. "I want to help the police in any way I can." He gazed at her with deep sadness. "It was horrible. I should have listened to my wife and stayed at home. I'm not superstitious, but I heard the birds screaming just before I discovered the… remains. Never heard ought like it in my life. Never seen ought like it either, and I used to be a butcher. My God, it makes you think."
"About what, Mr Pomfret?"
He looked at Fenella then he turned away, his voice nowt more than a breath. "The return of the Gilsland Ghoul."
Fenella said nothing.
He sighed. "Tea?"
"That'd be champion."
When he left the room, Fenella clicked her teeth. The dog became alert and she called it to her side. It came at a gallop and rolled over, tail thumping on the floor.
After patting its stomach, she reached into her handbag and pulled out the remains of her breakfast sausage sandwich. The dog downed it in three greedy gulps and was back on the grey rug and snoring by the time Mr Pomfret totted into the room with a pot of tea and chocolate digestives on a plastic tray.
Chapter 47
Fenella began with a question. "Will Mrs Pomfret join us?"
"Gone to stay with her sister in Glasgow." His eyes moved to the gold-framed photo of his wife on the mantelpiece. "Two weeks every summer. I told her what happened. She's staying an extra week. At least it is cooler up there."
For a few minutes, they drank and ate in silence. Then they talked about nothing in particular. The hot weather, how many days had passed without rain, whether it would end in a flood or a freeze. Then, when the anxiousness eased from Mr Pomfret's face, Fenella turned the conversation to the Popping Stone.
"I can't tell you how sorry I am for intruding with all this police business." Fenella kept her voice casual and sipped her tea. "It must have come as a shock."
"I keep going over what happened, wondering if it was a dream and I'll wake up. And then I realise I am awake. A living nightmare."
"This won't take long, luv." Fenella flashed a smile. "I'll be out of your hair in no time."
His hand reached for his inside pocket and pulled out a silver hip flask. He took a long slug, then three quick sips. "Fire away."
Fenella couldn't help herself and knew it might lead her down a rabbit hole. "Water?"
Mr Pomfret laughed. "Might as well be. It doesn't do anything for me, doesn't numb a thing. Wish there was a pill to blot the images from my mind." He took another swig. "Want me to go over what I saw?"
"Nah."
That seemed to shake him. He took another swig and burst out in a strange bout of laughter. "Thank Mary. Thank Joseph. Thank Jesus. Thank God!" He took another swig and his face stiffened. "What do you want?"
"To know about the odd things."
"What do you mean?"
"In the days leading up to your discovery, did you notice anything odd?"
"I've thought of nothing else since it happened." Mr Pomfret folded his arms so his hands clasped the patches on his tweed jacket. "I walk the dog every day, take different trails and sometimes the same trail for two or three days at a time. It's random. I said that to the officer who took my statement."
Fenella considered. "Did you see anyone unusual hanging around on your walks?"
"The officer asked that too. I think his name was PC Woods. Not from around these parts. He ate three plates of biscuits, suggested I have a smoke to relax and joined me with a puff and a tot of…err…pot of tea." He glanced away. "Don't see anyone on the trail most days."
"Most days?"
"Well…sometimes I see Vicar Hume. Not often, though. Not recently. But he wanders the countryside, like me. On his own, though. Doesn't have a dog. He is a hobbyist artist and good with the brush. Got an eye for detail does the vicar; doesn't miss a thing. My wife's been going on about buying one of his paintings at St Mary Magdalene's summer fête." He shivered. "The one she likes is a moody landscape of the Popping Stone. Don't think I want it in the house. But like I said, most days I don't see anyone on my walk with the dog."
Fenella glanced at the plate of biscuits-one chocolate digestive left. It'd be rude to eat it. "What about strangers?"
Mr Pomfret shook his head. "We are a small village. Sometimes we get a tourist or two, but most pass through. I'm sorry I can't help you. I've told your lot everything."
"Have a little think, will you, Mr Pomfret." Fenella snatched the last digestive and nibbled the edges. "Anyone else you see on the trails regularly?"
"None comes to mind." He paused, closing his eyes. "Well… except for Goose."
"Who?"
"He's a homeless man. Harmless. Camps in the bushes near the trail."
Chapter 48
By the time Goose arrived at Plum Cottage, he needed a strong drink.
He dropped his brown sack, wiped his brow with the hem of his shirt, and hid in the shadow of a broad-leafed oak tree. He mustn't be seen, mustn't be noticed; no one must know that he waited.
Heat shimmered across the green lawn. A willow warbler chirped a melodic song in a cascade of descending whistles. Two bumblebees flitted around a manicured herb garden, settling on a clump of flowering rosemary. The floral perfume was heavy in the air, along with the heat of the day.
In the far corner stood the garden shed, its windows dark, but Goose watched the house.
The afternoon sun splashed golden rays on the rose bushes, trimmed and in neat clusters, and climbing on a trestle by the front door. It was like a fairy tale cottage in a land of pleasant greens, bright petals, and soft birdsong.
The Bertram family home.
A home full of sweet dreams.
A home of happy memories.
Goose lowered into a crouch, coughed up a glob of phlegm and spat into the neatness. Then he lowered his eyelids and fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.
Chapter 49
Goose woke with a start, unsure how long he had slept. He rolled to a squat, everything pressed in, his head moving slowly from left to right.
"Hello, there!"
Goose spun to his feet.
Vicar Hume appeared from the side of a tree trunk. He wore a black suit, a white clerical collar, and his shoes were polished to a shine. Bicycle clips clasped both legs, although there was no bicycle in sight. He carried a stack of flyers under his right arm. Beads of sweat pimpled his forehead. A red bloom smeared his plump face and he was grinning.
"Having a quiet nap, eh?"
"That's right."
Vicar Hume glanced over his shoulder and turned back to Goose. "The police are in the village."
"That's right."
"Because of what happened at the Popping Stone."
"That's right."
Somewhere along the lane a dog howled.
Vicar Hume's tongue darted to moisten his lips. He clicked his fingers. "I find that killers with such a deviant taste for blood are compelled to kill again and again until fully satisfied."
"That's right."
"It's an addiction, isn't it?" He gazed at Plum Cottage, his grin deepening. "Only God knows who the next victim will be."
Goose said nothing.
"I'm dropping these off. Just started. Hard work." The vicar waved the flyers. "House to house, you know. We are having a fundraising concert at the church next Saturday — Pixie Miller is singing. Hope it attracts folk with big wallets from the cities." He wagged a finger. "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might, eh?"
"That's right." Goose turned his slow gaze to Plum Cottage. The sun winked, splashing rays of gold across the blue. "I truly believe that's right. As God is my witness, I do."
"You know, Goose. The trotters are a bit wobbly these days. Might stop by the pub to…catch my breath. You wouldn't mind helping out the vicar, would you?"
Before Goose replied, Vicar Hume pulled a silver hip flask from his jacket, took a swig, and passed it to Goose along with several flyers.
"Drop them in the letterbox of each house along the lane, and since you are here, you might as well start with Plum Cottage." The vicar clicked his fingers in three rhythmic beats. "Keep the hip flask. Thy cup runneth over, eh?"
Goose was drinking from the hip flask when the vicar clapped his hands, long and slow with the rhythmic beat of a hypnotist. "You will…" His voice dropped an octave. "…complete your mission?"
"Oh yes, yes — Father, yes, yes, yes."
The vicar's plump face brightened, his eyes shining. "May the Lord anointest thy head and yield unto you a full measure."
He gave a cheery wave, twisted his lips into another grin and hurried away.
Chapter 50
Goose lay down in the shade and resting his head on his brown sack, he thought of Louise. He lingered in his daydream, waiting for the crunch of bicycle wheels from the lane before putting the flask to his cracked lips.
He took a long and glorious gulp.
He must obey the vicar and deliver the flyers. Then he'd come back to visit Plum Cottage. At a date and time of his choosing.
Chapter 51
It was Monday, eight in the morning, when Fenella strode into the incident room at Bardon Mill police station. She stood by the whiteboard, sipping a mug of tea, a surge of optimism welling, and wondered what good news the day would bring.
She looked at the scattering of chairs, pine tables, the cast-iron woodstove, and the curtainless window that looked out onto the lane. No scent of wood smoke or incense this time. Her gaze lingered on the giant iron crucifix, and above it, the happy-faced portrait of Vicar Godfrey.
Then her attention went to the people in the room. The full team were present: a dozen individuals. Every face turned towards her. She sensed their expectation and a sudden weight of responsibility. A case straddling two counties was a heavy burden. If it went wrong, everyone knew who to blame. Superintendent Jeffery would be quick to point the finger.
The door flew open. PC Woods waddled into the room clutching a large cardboard box. He was the type of police officer who scoffed fried food, smoked cigarettes by the dozen, and sneaked off work if you didn't keep an eye out. And somehow, he'd got himself assigned to Fenella's team.
"Sorry I'm late, ma'am." PC Woods glanced around and sidled to a chair at the back, grasping the box with tight hands. "The village café was clean out of avocado toast."
His wife had him on a strict weight-loss diet. Fenella knew this because she knew his wife, went out with her and a gang of other women to natter Friday nights away. And his wife had asked Fenella to keep an eye on him, let her know if he stuffed his face with anything other than salad.
Fenella didn't think she ought to get involved but couldn't help herself. "You eating avocado toast? Don't make me laugh."
"It doesn't look like avocado toast to me, guv." Dexter was at the side of PC Woods and poking his finger at the box. He snatched up the lid and grinned. "Looks like two dozen glazed doughnuts."
PC Woods crimsoned. He glanced at the door as if at any moment his wife might walk through. "I only wanted half of one, but it was cheaper to buy them by the dozen…to…eat for my…well…err…" His voice dropped to a mirthless gibber. "…to…well…yes…err…share."
Dexter's hand moved fast, snatching two rings from the box. "Right tasty. Fresh, too."
Fenella thought it would be an insult not to join in, seeing as PC Woods went to all that trouble. She hustled to the box, pleased she got ahead of the team, for they went at the balls of fried dough with the zeal of starving hounds. Within seconds, the box lay empty.
A strange look came over the face of PC Woods as he stared at the cardboard remains. He'd not got half a doughnut, not even a nibble. His wife will be pleased, Fenella thought, but she said nowt.
PC Woods scowled. "It's a small café. Only makes doughnuts once a week. On Mondays. A special recipe invented by the owner's great-grandmother. Tomorrow it will be boiled eggs with spinach and fresh fruit salad. Won't bother."
Chapter 52
Fenella was back by the whiteboard, revived and riding a sugar high. She clapped. "Any word on the victim?"
"Nothing, guv." Dexter paced at the back of the room. "Remains are male and with the pathologist, but I've heard nowt else. Nowt about the man's identity, either."
Fenella turned back to the whiteboard to study the crime scene photos. The wretched images stirred up the entire contents of her stomach. She swallowed and turned back to face the room. "Anyone checked for local mispers?"
"No missing persons reported in this region, guv. Not over the last two years, at least." Dexter continued to pace. "Don't look like the lad were local."
"Read a rumour in the newspaper, boss." This was Detective Constable Zack Jones, sitting on the front row with his laptop on his knee. Thirty-five. He'd joined her team fresh from the National Detective School and was a fitness fanatic, with top honours from Cambridge and a master's degree in art from London. "Not sure if it is worth the ink, though."
"We may as well hear it." Fenella couldn't resist gossip. "What did it say?"
"Online, boss." Jones glanced around to make sure he had everyone's attention. "An article in the Westmorland News by Rodney Rawlings."
Mr Rawlings was an old-school reporter who drank hard, chased stories like a fox, and foxed around with women like a stray hound. He knew where the secrets lay, knew when and where to expose them.
Jones gazed around once more. "Newcastle, boss."
"Eh!" Fenella wasn't sure what he was getting at. "What about the city?"
"That is where Mr Rawlings reckons the victim came from. Reckons he might have gangland connections — drugs."
Dexter snorted. "Rodney ain't never penned a bestseller. Ain't too precise when he quotes officials, either. A lot of what he writes is nowt but hot air and stinking wind."
Detective Constable Maggie Banville, twig thin, raised a hand. "It's a possibility, ma'am. We've had no end of problems in town. Locals are blatant about their drug use. A wreck waiting to happen." Her grape-shaped eyes watched Jones, and she ran fingers through her tangle of curly black hair. "I'll ask around, see if any known pushers are missing."
They were moving. A thrill went through Fenella, igniting her enthusiasm. "Take Jones with you. I've a feeling he misses the big city."
Detective Constable Maggie Banville looked at Jones. "As you wish, ma'am."
Fenella tried to ignore the flash that passed between the two officers, but she knew it wasn't her imagination. "On second thoughts, take Dexter. Jones, you are in charge of the Incident Room today. Let Maggie stretch her legs."
The door opened. PC Raintree slouched into the room, his nose sniffing the air, his bulging belly spilling over his belt. His hound-like gaze lingered on the empty doughnut box; then he trotted to the back row to sit next to PC Woods.
Fenella pushed away from the whiteboard and paced the length of the room. Her feet clacked against the floor, and she caught a whiff of incense. Her thoughts were gathering steam. She stopped back at the whiteboard.
"On Friday, I had a chat with Mr Brad Pomfret, the bloke who discovered the remains. You'll have read his statement?"
She watched the room. Detective Constable Maggie Banville held a pencil in her left hand. Dexter rocked on his heels. Jones gazed at his laptop screen. PC Woods jerked straight in his chair.
Fenella glanced at her notes. "He mentioned a bloke called Goose. A homeless man who lives locally; anyone heard of the fellow?"
PC Raintree raised his hand. "That'll be Trevor. He moves around a lot. Sometimes stays in Bardon Mill. No fixed abode. He has five or six hidey-holes in the villages around here."
Fenella wondered about his nickname. "Why Goose?"
"A play on his last name, Gosbee." PC Raintree tugged at the loose flesh on his jaw. "He's harmless, ma'am. A bit of a drunk, but no real problems. No form. A really nice person when he's sober."
Fenella considered. "And when he isn't?"
PC Raintree laughed. "He sleeps. Snores like a gaggle of geese." He laughed again but there was a touch of anxiety in his mirth. "Like I said, he's as harmless as a newborn lamb."
Fenella clapped, then waved her hands in a dismissive motion. "Class over. PC Raintree with me. We are going to track down Mr Gosbee and have a quiet word."
Chapter 53
Louise waited until Guy was having his morning shower to straighten out what she would tell him. At the kitchen table, with a steaming mug of tea, she firmed her words. She gazed at the custom cabinetry, at the marble worktops, and tilted her head to the designer lighting. Then she frowned.
It was over.
She wouldn't spend another penny on his screenwriting fantasies. She wanted him to pack, wanted him to move out, wanted him gone from her life.
They were done.
For some time she stared at the glass gin bottle resting on the table — a cheap no-name brand brought by Guy. Then her gaze flicked to her cobalt blue Hermès porcelain mug. Through the window, the sun dipped behind a cloud. Smudges of shadow dimmed the outside world.
