by N. C. Lewis
"Those waters are cursed."
Chad spun around.
Mrs Lenz tightened her headscarf. "My Alf always said those waters were blighted ever since they washed King Arthur's bones into the Irish sea, and with Viv Gill dead, I've half a mind to believe him."
"Now, Mrs Lenz," Chad said in a measured tone, "that is just a myth. What happened here can't have anything to do with King Arthur."
Mrs Lenz said, "Poor lass was out and about last night in all that fog. Don't suppose you saw anything?"
"I just got here," Chad replied, voice suddenly hoarse.
"That's odd." She stared at him with her sharp eyes. "You like to walk about the village in the wee hours. I'm surprised you didn’t find the body. Did you walk across the bridge this morning?"
Chad turned away. He didn’t like the way her sharp eyes looked at him. "Let's not jump to conclusions. It might not be Viv Gill."
"Mr Tate, there is a dead girl on the footbridge over the Pow Beck with police swarming like ants. And the vicar says he couldn’t get an answer when he knocked on Viv Gill's door. Am I right? I am."
"But we don't know the facts," Chad replied. "It might have been an accident. Are you sure it is Viv Gill?"
"Whoever the poor lass was, she died an unnatural death." Mrs Lenz's eyes seemed to cloud for a moment. "Pity you don’t sell fresh fish in your store; my Alf likes his fish pie."
"We have fish fingers," Chad replied automatically. He always tried to provide what the villagers wanted so the shop would be profitable. Not that he was bothered about the money, he just wanted to stay in St Bees. Forever.
An excited murmur rose from the gathered crowd. Two figures clad in white suits hurried from the crime scene tent.
"They've found something!" Mrs Lenz placed a veined hand on his shoulder and squeezed softly. "I hope they catch the bugger who killed her, don't you, Mr Tate?" She tugged at her headscarf, gave him a sad smile, and hurried to the police tape to get a better view.
Chad watched as she nattered with the crowd, then gazed at the crime scene tent. He wished he could see inside. See what they were doing. Watch like a fly high on the wall. He felt his heart thud against his chest. The police wouldn't find anything, would they?
His heart pounded so hard, he forced his mind to think of something else. It settled on his village store and the white envelopes under the counter. He sighed. If he were a real businessman, he'd be back in the shop. With so many people about they'd want a bite to eat, and his was the only store for miles. He'd make a killing if he opened up now.
But Chad Tate didn't want to open the store.
He wanted to stay here all day and watch from the back of the crowd where the police wouldn’t see him.
Chapter twelve
The following day, Fenella paced restlessly at the front of Incident Room A, waiting for the team to settle down and the real work to begin. She had seen to a tea urn and brought breakfast sandwiches made by Nan. A coffee pot bubbled in the corner; its aromatic brew drifted through the air. At 7:00 a.m. on a cold Sunday, where darkness and fog still clung to Port St Giles, hot drinks and warm food would be welcomed by her team.
She loved this part of the job, leading her team, calling the shots. Today they'd focus on Viv Gill, build a picture of her life. What secrets would they find?
The superintendent was late; hence, the wait. Jeffery had called the meet at a time when the police station would be quiet. Less ears to hear their hushed talk. Less mouths to flap their plan to the press. What happened next was to be top secret. Fenella was keen to hear all the details, keen to get started, hoped Jeffery wouldn’t be much longer.
The tea urn let out a gurgle. Steam twisted in gusty spirals vanishing like a ghost in the bright room. Fenella paused her anxious pacing and wondered what was holding up her boss. Probably speaking to the top brass in Carlisle or smoothing things over with the town hall. She pecked at a sandwich and took a quick swig of tea. If she'd known what lay ahead, she'd have done more than nibble. She'd have gobbled the whole bloody thing down in one bite and grabbed another.
But Fenella was in a bright mood, and her team were at full strength once more. She felt good about that. Dexter sat in the front row poised like a coil about to spring. He drank his coffee black and munched on a bacon-and-egg roll. His dark eyes shone bright. No sign of booze on his breath. No sign of a drunken slur. He was ready. So was she. The death of Viv Gill came as a shock to many. Not Fenella. She left surprise at the door the day she joined the force. Replaced it with a tenacious curiosity for the truth, no matter what stones had to be upturned.
Detective Constable Zack Jones stood by the coffee pot with a small cup in his hand. He joined her team from the national detective school. At thirty-five, he was no newbie and had worked in business for years, then made a mid-career switch. What he lacked in uniform streetwise, he made up for in brains. He came top of his class in finance forensics and a history of art degree from Cambridge. He had a masters in photography from the Royal Academy and was easy on the eyes too. A smooth talker, he'd charmed Fenella on their first meet. Charm had worked for Eduardo too. All he had when Fenella met him was a sketch pad, pen, and a head full of dreams.
Muffled laughter drifted from PC Beth Finn. She hovered around the coffee pot, her eyes on DC Jones. She was the new member of the team. PC Beth Finn had been asked, and agreed, to help. She'd work in plain clothes. A short-term job, which Fenella thought she'd relish. Out of uniform, PC Finn looked even younger than her twenty-seven years.
The tea urn let out another hiss. The lights in the room flickered, and there was a moment of darkness. Someone shuffled into the room. The lights came back on. PC Hoon stood in the entrance, his gaze uncertain.
"Grab a bite to drink and eat," Fenella said, waving him into the room. She had a soft spot for uniforms. Village bobbies were a kind of police royalty in her eyes. They knew what went on in their patch. Knew the secrets and the lies. She hoped he'd help with the locals, sort out the wheat from the chaff. "Plenty to go around. We'll start when the superintendent is here. Won't be long now, though."
"Right you are, ma'am," PC Hoon said, lips twitching up at the corners. He shook himself out of his coat and filled his plate with three bacon-and-egg rolls and chose the large-sized paper cup for his tea. "Guess it will be a long day, with even longer to come."
The door opened. Jeffery marched into the room. She stopped to pour a coffee and grabbed a bacon-and-egg roll, then gave Fenella a quick nod and went to the whiteboard. For a long while, she stared at the crime scene photographs, the only sound, her muffled grunts. Then she turned and gave one of her smiles that always reminded Fenella of a wolf. It made her stomach churn because the superintendent's lips only curved that way when there was bad news.
Jeffery said, "Inspector Moss, from the regional crime squad, will lead the Viv Gill murder investigation. He is due here any moment, driving from Carlisle."
Chapter thirteen
Fenella sat on the front row next to Dexter and Jones and PC Beth Finn. She sipped a cup of warm tea, nibbled the edge of her bacon-and-egg roll and stared at Inspector Tom Moss. Outside, the fog had cleared, with the darkness of dawn having turned into bright light. A crisp January morning in Port St Giles. No clouds, just an orange-globe sun in an ice-blue sky. A perfect day. A day to cherish. But it was tough to enjoy the weather when acid slowly bubbled in your gut.
Fenella and Moss had a history.
A bad history.
Yes, he was from the regional crime squad and had been on the force for as long as she could recall. That gave him street cred and a sharp nose that got things done. He caught the perps and put them away as efficiently as a machine. But the man was a dinosaur who had survived the wind of change that swept aside the bigots.
Maybe he had changed?
Moss surveyed the room with his cool grey eyes.
He said, "The top brass have asked that I lead the team." He glared at Fenella. "They thought it wise to bring in a man
with experience."
There he goes again, Fenella thought, trying to needle me. She sipped from her cup, kept her eyes on his face, but didn't say a word.
Jeffery said, "We picked Inspector Moss because we want to keep the investigation local for the moment. If it goes to the regional crime squad, the press and media will be all over it. Let's stay one step ahead of the pack and clear this up quickly. We don't want any fuss."
The door opened. Everyone turned. Tess Allen, the press officer, hurried into the room with a large folder under her arm. Tess wore a sharp business executive jacket, matching skirt, cream blouse, and dark shoes. Fenella thought Tess brought a touch of class to the station. And Tess had one of those plum-filled accents, all posh, like she'd grown up in Windsor and hobnobbed with the royal family. A perfect voice for the media, perfect for calming the public mood too. She went to sit on the back row, but Jeffery waved her to the front.
Tess said, "All questions from the press are to come to me. Until the media have worked up a head of steam, we maintain radio silence. Remember, if Rodney Rawlings comes calling, the answer is no."
Rodney Rawlings worked for the Westmorland News and was a tenacious news hound, who liked his stories big. He drank hard, chased leads like a fox, and foxed around with women, like a dog in heat. No one crossed Rodney Rawlings. He knew where the skeletons lay and was not shy about digging them up and putting them on public display.
Jones glanced at his phone and said, "I've not seen anything on the social media sites yet. Nothing from the Westmorland News either."
"We might be a day or two ahead of the media," Tess replied. "No one has come sniffing at the press office either, but it is Sunday. Even Mr Rodney Rawlings likes a lie-in."
Everyone laughed. It was the first time Fenella had seen Moss chuckle. His shoulders jiggled as he wiped a tear from his face. It was hard to dislike a man with a good sense of humour. She warmed to him, a little.
Jeffery held up a hand. "We are going with the theory that Viv Gill was killed by Hamilton Perkins. He escaped from prison two months ago, is believed to be lying low in the region, and her mutilated body has all the hallmarks. We have hired Dr Joy Hall to assist. She doesn't know about the death of Viv Gill yet. I will brief her on Monday."
Jeffery nodded at Moss, touched Tess Allen's arm, and the two women left the room.
"Right, then," Moss said. He spoke as though he were spitting out a distasteful flavour from his mouth. "Let's see who I'm working with. Sallow and Dexter, eh? Gawd, a man can dream of an elite team, can't he?"
Dexter shifted in his seat. Fenella touched his arm; she didn't want him to swing for Moss. They'd exchanged physical blows before. She had to pull every string to get that swept under the carpet. It would have cost both Dexter and Moss their jobs.
Fenella said, "We are happy to have a regional detective work at our level. Our own Constable Zack Jones studied at Cambridge." She pointed at Jones. "If you don't understand anything, please let him know, and he will simplify it for you."
Moss chuckled, but his eyes were sharp as a hawk. He turned to PC Beth Finn.
"Name and rank?"
She responded and smiled. Moss seemed to like that, for his lips curved into a grin, and his eyes lingered on her breasts.
He hadn't changed.
Moss licked his lips. "Welcome aboard the express train, PC Finn. It is going to be a wild ride. You'll get a peek at how the big boys work and…" He paused as if there was more to come. They waited. He shook his head, pointed at PC Hoon who had got up to grab another bacon-and-egg roll. "And who the hell are you?"
"Police Constable Sid Hoon, from St Bees at your service, sir."
"Out!"
"Pardon?"
"Get out! I'll not have any bleedin' village bobby bugger up my investigation. Get lost."
That riled Fenella. She stood. "We need all the help we can get here, sir."
Moss pulled a face. "I'm not buying, Sallow. Uniforms are only good at two things, screwing things up and getting things wrong."
It wasn't her call, Moss could do as he pleased, but she couldn't back down now; he'd got under her skin. She kept her voice level. "PC Hoon's knowledge of the locals could be the key that turns the lock to Hamilton Perkins."
"No. I've told him to bugger off." Moss glared at PC Hoon. "Clear off."
If Fenella were a cat, she'd have exposed her claws. It should have been her case. Now, five minutes on the job, and Tom Moss was throwing his weight about. She wouldn't put up with that. She'd seen Viv Gill's mutilated face. They needed help to solve the case from wherever it came and that included the village bobby. There was no way she would back down. Dexter sensed this and touched her arm, but it was too late.
"We can't leave PC Hoon out of this," she said in almost a shout. "There'll be an appeal for someone in the village to come forward, tell us what they saw. It will be easier with the local bobby. We need him. You have to try everything in a case like this. Local police are the blood that runs through the veins of our communities." She stood and sensed Dexter standing at her side. "PC Hoon stays, or we walk!"
There was a long silence. The coffee pot gurgled. Everyone watched Moss as if he were a volcano about to explode. The tea urn hissed.
Moss licked his lips. Again, he chuckled. It didn't extend to his eyes.
"Fair enough, Sallow. If Hoon screws things up, I will hold you personally responsible."
Chapter fourteen
Fenella turned off the main road onto the gravel lane that snaked its way along the coast to her cottage on Cleaton Bluff. The sun had slipped below the pine trees so that shadows drew thin fingers across the windscreen. It was only three but would be as dark as midnight by four.
At the station, Inspector Moss had gone over the Viv Gill case with his sour wit and sexist digs. Dexter had almost swung at him when he made a jibe—something to do with Miss Gill's face being an improvement after the knife.
Fenella eased the Morris Minor around a sharp bend and let out a long breath. Now it was time to let go, to flip the switch and spend the rest of Sunday with Eduardo and Nan. As soon as she climbed into her car and pointed it towards home, the crimes faded away. As did the forms to fill and sign and file. She had long ago mastered the switch between work and family life. She reached for her radio and turned it on. Hits from the 1980s boomed through the car speakers. She sang at the top of her voice when Prince's "When Doves Cry" came on.
It was in London, the Ealing Dome, when she saw him perform the song live. Eve, her sister, was there too. She had gotten the tickets for free from a friend of a friend. They danced and laughed and cried and giggled. Two girls out for a bit of fun.
At two in the morning, they'd walked from the Dome through Ealing Broadway on their way to a friend's house on Madeley Road. Eve suddenly stopped, turned, and went into a darkened doorway. She came back moments later with a small dog in her arms, a scruffy ball of fur with frightened eyes. She called the dog TJ and planned to take it to the Ealing dog shelter the next day.
At the house on Madeley Road, the small group stayed up all night drinking and smoking and making plans for their life. TJ ate, then slept. Eve never did take him to the shelter. He became part of her life.
Fenella slowed her car as she relived the memories long past: the rumble of the train at the bottom of the garden as it rattled along the track, a golden sun rising through the haze to light a new London morning—and she remembered Grant. That friend's home on Madeley Road was where Eve met him, and Fenella knew they would one day be man and wife.
A tractor huffed and coughed into view. Fenella pulled to the verge to let it through. The man gave a wave of thanks. She recognised him: Mr Bray. He ran a small organic farm which sold old-style apple trees. His broad smile lifted her mood even higher than Prince's music could. She'd pop in for a visit and take him one of Nan's steak-and-mushroom pies. Eve used to gobble those treats as if they were the last drop of water in an oasis. Fenella laughed out loud at that. An instan
t later, the pain of what had happened to Eve hovered over her like a ghost. Where had she gone?
All they had were the CCTV cameras of Eve stumbling along the hospital hall. The clip lasted less than thirty seconds. Eve shuffled with her hand on the rail, clearly the worse for wear. She'd been in a car wreck with her legs and arms bruised, and she knew that Grant didn’t make it. At the end of the hall, she fumbled with a door latch and pushed. No suitcase. No coat. No car keys. Eve simply stepped through the hospital doors at 7:03 p.m. and was never seen again.
Fenella pulled out every stop to find out where her sister went. She drew a blank at every turn. No witness in the hospital. No one saw her in the nearby streets. No nameless body in the morgue. No lost-memory cases in the hostels. Nothing.
Eve's disappearance and Grant's death were double blows to Nan. Two loved ones lost in a split second. One to death and the other...? No one had the answer. Not the vicar who came to express deep sorrow nor the reporter Rodney Rawlings, who wrote a story. Fenella had no answers either. No one knew what had happened to Eve. No one could help.
After a week of dead ends, Fenella got onto a friend in the regional crime squad. The friend agreed to look into the case, got transferred before the file arrived, and passed it to Inspector Tom Moss. Another week passed. Fenella went to the offices in Carlisle. Moss hadn't looked at the file. It lay in a pile on the floor. Dexter was with her that day. How she regretted asking him to come along for support. It had turned into a bloody fiasco.
Dexter called Moss a lazy sod. The two men got into a tense standoff. Quiet curses at first until they were howling like wolves. What happened next seemed to go in slow motion. Dexter swung first. A solid left hook to the jaw. Moss stumbled back, then sprung forward like a wild beast. Fists flew. The two men slugged it out like old-time heavyweight boxers. Somehow, Fenella got in the middle and called out for help. It took five officers to break up the scrap.
