Whispered Bones (A DI Fenella Sallow Crime Thriller Book 2)

by N. C. Lewis

  Fenella yanked every string, used every trick to keep Dexter out of hot water. In the end, she had to save Moss as well even though she would have liked to have thrown him to the dogs.

  When she saw Moss today, she'd thought of Eve and the missed chances to track her down those first few weeks after she vanished. Her feelings towards Moss were personal. Should she step down from the case, have a word with Jeffery?

  No. She'd not do that. They had no idea what happened to Eve, but she could help find out what happened to Viv Gill.

  The Morris Minor eased around another bend. The tree shadows merged with the coming night. It was a straight shot into her driveway. As she pulled into a parking spot, she saw Eduardo, relaxing in a chair on the porch, his nose in a book. He looked up at the sound of the engine, stood, and smiled.

  Nan always told her, "There's no place like home." Now she knew exactly what that meant.

  Chapter fifteen

  Late Sunday night, Dr Joy Hall sat at her desk in her spacious office. A faint trace of fresh paint hung in the air. The painters had left two days earlier; now she had the place to herself. The cottage had been remodelled to her satisfaction, a remote house on the edge of St Bees only a short walk from the salt marsh and sea. It beat the cramped flat she had owned in Carlisle. Here she could spread out and do some real research. Maybe she should get a dog?

  The old house creaked and groaned and made strange noises that she'd never heard when she lived in the flat. Sometimes she thought they sounded like voices, muffled so the words were not clear. "It's the ghost of old Mrs Rye," one of the painters had said when she asked him about the strange creaks.

  The widow had died in the house a decade ago, during one cold, hard winter when the snow fell deep and didn't break until May. They found her sat up in bed with a book on her lap. The maggots were huge, the smell damn awful. The house stayed empty, derelict, until Dr Joy Hall snapped it up at a low price. As good a deal as it was, the mortgage was much more than she could afford on her pay from Low Marsh Prison, and she had a lot of big dreams to go with the house, the kind that don't come true on a prison psychologist's salary.

  Joy was working on a secret project, funded with a big advance from a London publisher. She couldn’t believe the money. Her eyes were on stalks when they deposited it into her bank account. She used it for a down payment on the house.

  The publisher said it was a sure winner. They said they'd sell a million books, that Dr Joy Hall would become a household name, and it would rocket her career to new heights. The royalties would more than pay the mortgage. But they wanted the book soon. The public were fickle and would move on to new things.

  Joy leaned back in her chair and let her eyelids droop. When the book came out, there'd be chauffeured trips to London and free flights to New York. Even the Chinese were said to be keen. This was her shot, her one chance to break through to the big league. But she couldn't quell the sense of unease which nibbled at her mind like some unseen disease. Could she do this, set herself up as an expert? She felt like an impostor. And she had to keep it top secret. If they found out at work what she was up to, she'd lose her job. Maybe even end up serving time in prison for breach of her professional duty.

  Now she had two weeks off from work ahead and only the last chapter to go. It would tie her years of research into a neat bow and required careful preparation, so she took her time. It was slow going, and she couldn't quite pull it all together. What she really needed was inside information, to be a fly on the wall, to see how things unfolded. Yet she couldn’t quell the excited pulse of her heart as she sensed the end was in sight. If things went well and the book flew off the shelves, she'd be rich. And she would do everything in her power to make sure things went well.

  It felt good to take time off her job in Low Marsh Prison to write. She felt like an undiscovered genius. An Einstein of criminal psychology. Didn’t he work as a public servant before he was discovered too? Don't be silly; you are no genius. Still, the thought lingered like smoke from a fire.

  So intense was Joy's focus that she forgot to eat. She glanced up ― almost eleven o'clock. Her last meal was breakfast: half a slice of toast and a mug of black coffee. Hunger nibbled at her stomach as she stood and stretched. Suddenly she had the feeling that she was being watched. There were no curtains in the windows. She turned from the desk and peered through the glass.

  A face stared back.

  Her own.

  Beyond her reflection there was nothing but shadows and darkness. There'd be no one out at this time a night, she told herself. It was freezing outside with an icy wind, which blew in sharp gusts from the Irish Sea. And anyway, she had only moved into the old house a few days ago. Hardly anyone knew she was here. Who would be watching?

  But she was a woman, striking, in her fifties, who lived alone in the middle of nowhere. She should take precautions. She would look into that on the next trip to Carlisle. She turned away from the window. Grab a bite to eat or go on with the work?

  She chose to keep at it for an hour, then break for a small, fat-free cup of cocoa. As she eased into her leather chair, picked up her notes and read, again came the disquieting sense of being watched. She glanced at the dark window and wondered if there was someone there.

  "Don't be a damn fool," she said, but her voice in the still room made her jumpy. "You're working too hard."

  It was almost midnight when Joy Hall next looked up. She thought she heard a key in the front door. She put her research to one side and listened. For a long while she stayed very still, like a small mouse on the watch for a cat. Why would anyone be at her door?

  For an instant she was a child, face to face with Uncle Fred. The midnight chimes had just rung from the hall clock, and he was peering through the gloom of her bedroom door, ale can in hand and grinning. She sat up, and his face faded into the shadows. But she knew he was there. Knew he was waiting. Smelled the sour stench of cheap cigarettes and strong beer. Joy shook her head. It had been years since she saw Uncle Fred. Twenty, at least. How would he know she had moved to St Bees? It couldn’t be him at the door, could it?

  There it was again. A jingling sound as if the wrong key had been selected. She crept into the hall and switched on the light but could see nothing through the glass panel of the door but her own reflection. She felt nervous and foolish. Who would have a key to her front door?

  "Hello, is anyone there?"

  No answer.

  There was a low table with a lamp and an old-style rotary telephone near the front door. She had not bothered with the telephone landline; her mobile phone was good enough. But that was before she found out that the mobile phone signal was weak in St Bees. She got no bars in most of the house and one in the study, if she was lucky. Now she wished she'd had the landline connected. She turned on the lamp, her eyes fixed on the glass panel of the door and waited.

  Three slow minutes passed.

  Nothing.

  After three more minutes, she padded to the door and peered out. Wind hissed through leafless trees. Clouds clustered low under a moonless sky with the garden bathed in shades of night blue. In the distance an owl hooted, and farther out, the low rumble of the sea. There was no one there. No one about. The ghost of old Mrs Rye, she told herself, nothing but the creak and groan of the house.

  She made a cup of cocoa and took it to the study with two chunks of cheddar cheese. The lamp on the telephone table she left on, as well as the lights in the hall. Yes, she would definitely see to the landline and get a dog. Though she knew even a big dog wouldn't ease her nervousness. That wouldn't go away until her secret book came out.

  It was about Hamilton Perkins.

  Mr Shred.

  The sooner he was caught and put away, the sooner Dr Joy Hall could put her last chapter to bed.

  Chapter sixteen

  Early Monday morning, PC Sid Hoon slipped out of bed, tiptoed across the bedroom and hoped Maude wouldn't hear. He wanted to get away from the house without having to ex
plain.

  He stepped on a floorboard.

  It creaked.

  He cursed.

  "What the hell are you playing at?"

  Maude flipped on the bedside lamp and sat up.

  PC Hoon blinked into the bright light and stared at his wife. With those damn pink curlers and sagging skin on her chin, she reminded him of a giant lizard. Only a lizard's eyes had more warmth to them.

  Best not tell, he thought. Got to keep this to myself. He said, "It's Monday morning, luv. I'm getting ready for work."

  "For crying out loud, Sid, it's five thirty." She flashed a shrewd look. "What's going on?"

  His mind seized. He watched the second hand move around the bedside clock for a full thirty seconds. If he told her where he was going, she'd get excited, make plans to sell the house, spend even more of his hard-earned cash. He couldn't have that.

  He said, "I want to get in early today."

  "Why?"

  Again, he didn't have an easy answer. When did he last go to the police station early? Must have been years ago, he couldn't recall. Maude would know. The suspicious glare in her eyes gave him the answer: Never.

  PC Hoon let out a morose sigh and realised he hadn't thought it through. Even if he had sneaked from the bedroom without waking her up, there'd be questions for sure when he came back late.

  Better tell the truth. Sort of.

  He said, "I've been asked to work with the detectives on the Viv Gill case."

  Maude reached for a cigarette, struck a match, and sucked until her sunken cheeks gave her the look of a Halloween mask.

  "You don't say."

  "Just a minor role, really. The village plod on the beat who knows the locals."

  A plume of smoke spidered from Maude's nose. "So you are driving to Port St Giles today?"

  "Want to be there by seven thirty, briefing starts at eight."

  "Well, pop into the village store and grab me a six-pack of Diet Coke. I'm running low."

  "Okay, honey." But it was too early in the morning to face the accusatory stare of the shopkeeper. He didn’t want to be reminded of the past. He'd give the St Bees village store a pass and grab the drinks in Port St Giles.

  Maude said, "How long will you be working with the detectives?"

  "For as long as they need me."

  "I see."

  He could tell she was already planning to spend more of his money and said, "It's only a temporary assignment, and then I'll be back to a plod on a village beat."

  Maude looked at him through narrowed eyes, sucked on her cigarette, and blew out another plume of acrid smoke.

  "Someone has been rummaging through my dresser. Was it you?"

  He stared back, but his denial didn't come; her words left him completely paralysed. An eerie silence hung in the room so that the second hand of the clock tick-tocked like a cannon boom. He didn't want her to know he knew about the life insurance policy. What to say?

  At last, he said, "Are you sure?"

  "I can tell whether someone's been in my sodding dresser, you idiot."

  "Oh, your dresser! That must have been me. One of my tie pins fell down the back, and I had to move it, must have disturbed the contents too. Is anything missing?"

  Maude stared at him and took another drag on her cigarette, then dusted the ash into the saucer on the nightstand.

  Chapter seventeen

  PC Hoon took a quick shower, then sat at the kitchen table listening to the radio and thinking. He needed to find a way to fix Maude good and proper. Get her out of his life for good without her sticky fingers grabbing any of his cash. He had to find a path to freedom, no matter how ugly it got.

  He walked to the stove, poured hot water into a cup, and dipped in a teabag. Maude knew where his secrets lay. If he threatened divorce, she would dig them up and put them on display for the world to see. He'd lose his job. He could not let that happen. He had to be careful. He stirred the tea with a slow spoon. Sugar came next, a splash of milk, and back to the table to think and sip.

  When he drained the last dregs from his mug, he listened for Maude and thought he heard a snore. With quiet steps, he walked to the slatted door that led to the basement. Careful, he told himself. He didn't want the steps to creak.

  In a box of rusted work tools he found Viv Gill's gold handbag, purse, and mobile phone, exactly where he placed them Saturday morning. This was his first real look. He put on a pair of latex gloves and lifted the items from the box. With one hand on the rail and quiet steps, he climbed back into the kitchen. At the table, with a gloved hand, he pressed the on button. The phone flickered into life. Piece of cake, he told himself as he tried a swipe to unlock the screen.

  It didn't work.

  He tried again.

  Still nothing.

  He placed the phone on the table and stared at it for a long while. Once more he picked it up and swiped again and again and again until it gave four ear-splitting beeps which locked out any more tries.

  He swore, realised too late to keep his voice down. He didn't want to wake his wife, didn't want her to hear or see. She didn’t know about this secret. So he shut his mouth, although he felt a vein throb in his neck. It eased a little as he continued the tirade in his mind.

  Next, he turned to Viv Gill's purse and rifled around inside. A credit card, two debit cards, and twenty pounds in five-pound notes, enough for a nosh-up lunch.

  Now he looked at the mobile phone, decided it was best to destroy it. He'd chuck it into the Pow Beck stream on his way to Port St Giles. The purse he'd add to his private hoard. The credit cards, he'd pass on to a fence in Carlisle, but not just yet, better to wait a while.

  "Twelve," he said in a whisper, the number of women's handbags in his secret stash. This was the secret he'd kept from Maude. That made him smile. He knew he would outsmart Maude, outsmart the detectives, get away with it. Piece of cake, he told himself again as he ran a hand over the soft gold leather of the handbag.

  He didn't hear the creak of the kitchen door or see Maude watching.

  Chapter eighteen

  Chad Tate liked to watch. But today he had to talk to someone.

  He stood by the checkout and looked at his empty store. It was 10:00 a.m., seven customers since he opened: three loaves of white bread, four cartons of full-fat milk, seven newspapers, and two packets of Benson & Hedges cigarettes. He let out a morose sigh and turned to stare through the window. The sun was above the rooftops in an ice-blue, cloudless sky. It dappled St Bees Priory in shards of glitter and coloured the neat lawns in soft shades of green. Freezing outside, but pretty enough to watch. It was his life, watching.

  It's what old folk do when there's nothing else left, he told himself. Watch. He ran a hand over his receding hairline and patted his gut. The store was supposed to be the heart of the village, and it drove him crazy that none of his customers had stayed to gossip about the death of Viv Gill. That's what he wanted to talk about.

  The local bobby hadn't been in yet either. Where was PC Hoon? He always came in on Monday and blathered on like a broken steam pipe that released white mist in the winter streets of New York City. Chad wanted to hear the details of Viv Gill's last moments. Again and again and again, until it seared an image deep in his mind. One that would stay with him forever.

  He trudged to the fridge to check the dates on the cartons of milk. Then he rearranged the loaves of bread and tins of baked beans. If this were a deli in New York, he'd sell sliced hams and salami. But the villagers only wanted bacon and sausages and quick-frozen peas. No point thinking about New York, he told himself. You're not going back. Ever.

  He thought for a moment about going into the storeroom to check the contents of the freezer. The thought of opening the lid made his heart pound. Now he felt edgy. Better to not look inside; let sleeping dogs lie.

  Chad went back to the cash register and pulled out Bert, the one-eyed, three-legged sheep. At least Bert will listen, he told himself, and he won't repeat what I tell him. He gazed
through the window to collect his thoughts. That’s when he saw Vicar Briar hunched in the entrance of St Bees Priory, puffing on a cigar. He wore a black cassock and stood in a way that made him appear to be part of the shadow.

  Chad watched.

  The cleric leaned his head back and breathed out a long, slow plume. It curled in tight circles like a dragon's breath, to vanish in the gloom.

  "It's time," Chad said to Bert, "for a quiet word with the man of God."

  He flipped the store sign to CLOSED, locked the door, and hurried across the lane.

  As Chad's footsteps echoed across the cobblestones, Vicar Briar moved from the shade into the light. He was a wiry man in his mid-forties with puffy, red cheeks, a purply bulbous nose, and deep-set, small, dark eyes.

  "What is it, my son?" The vicar couldn't hide the alarm in his voice. He outed the cigar against the stone wall.

  "It's this business with Viv Gill," Chad said. "Can we talk?"

  "Not here," Vicar Briar replied.

  "Inside, then?" Chad nodded at the church door. He'd only been inside the hallowed hall once, didn't want to go back in there again. Not after what happened last time.

  "No, best if we don't go in there," the vicar replied. "Follow me."

  Vicar Briar moved fast. The cassock covered his feet, so it appeared he was floating. A black shadow hurrying across the land as though time itself were running out. Chad followed. They made their way across the neat green lawn, around ancient tombstones and freshly dug turf, to an old stone shack with a corrugated iron roof and small, round, grime-stained windows, like portholes on a boat.