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

by N. C. Lewis

  Nellie stared for a long beat, then got slowly to her feet. "Well, I never. Look what the cat's brought in." She moved across the room, flung her arms around Dexter. "Thought you'd forgot about your Nellie."

  "Nay, lass. I've not forgot you." Dexter rubbed her back and nodded at her grandson and his henchmen. "We'd like a quiet word."

  "Give us ten, luv," Nellie said. "These two are old friends from back when you were peeing your pants at the thought of the bogeyman."

  Nellie watched as the men left the room. "He’s got a head on him, that one. Smart, good with numbers. I've a year or two left, then it is the quiet life in a cottage in the hills. Green fields and trees, always wanted that."

  Fenella said, "It's not what it is cracked up to be. Not when the snow comes, anyway."

  Nellie laughed, a high-pitched snort from the throat. Not quite the howl of a hyena, but if she ever took to the stage, she'd have steady work as an extra in The Lion King. "Come on, let's go to my private rooms where we can talk about old times." Nellie went back to her desk and pressed a button. A loud click, and a door opened in the pine wall. "I like my little devices, James Bond fan all my life. Gin and tonic anyone?"

  They followed her through the door. Rose scents puffed in great plumes from an electronic blue-and-white potpourri pot. It was a room filled with bright silks and soft lights and a mirror that ran the length of one wall: the lush style of a Paris boudoir. A bit posh for my tastes, but each to their own, she thought as they sat on a plush couch by a low glass-top cocktail table.

  "A drink?" Nellie was at the bar and pouring.

  "Aye, if the guv don't mind."

  "Go on, then, for old times' sake," Fenella said. "You know how I like it, touch of lime."

  Nellie floated across the room, silver tray in both hands and sat in a wing-back armchair opposite the detectives.

  "To the past," Nellie said, and they clinked.

  Fenella sipped, remembered she'd not eaten, and put the glass down.

  Nellie downed half her glass before she placed it down with a clink.

  Dexter didn’t touch his.

  "Now," Nellie said, a glow coming to her cheeks, "tell me what I can do for you?"

  "Do you know Viv Gill?" The question came from Fenella.

  "What has she done now?"

  "On your books, is she?"

  Nellie smiled. "That is all in the past."

  "Come on," Dexter said. "We need to know about Viv."

  Nellie picked up her glass and took a long sip. "She is a good lass. Keeps her nose clean. Yes, she was on my books for a few years, then left maybe six months ago."

  "Why did she go?" Fenella had her own ideas but wanted to hear it from the horse's mouth.

  Nellie stared at the glass. "I asked her to leave. The world doesn’t think much of us, but we have our standards. The last I heard she had left town, set up shop in St Bees. What has she done?"

  "She's dead," Fenella said.

  Nellie downed the rest of her drink. "Suicide, eh? I thought she was clean, but you can never tell these days."

  "Murdered," replied Dexter.

  "My God!" Nellie stood and hurried back to the bar with her glass in hand. She poured, took a long sip, then looked at the detectives. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

  Fenella ignored the question. "Tell us why you asked her to leave. It'll not go any further than these walls."

  Nellie sipped her drink but stayed at the bar. It was clear she was in a state of shock. "I'm sorry she is dead. If only I could turn back the clock. I don't like to think about the past, but she… well, she got along well with men. They liked her. I told her to save cash, then get out of the game, train for a decent job, or keep an eye out for a rich bloke, the type that like to play Prince Charming. I don't know if she saved any cash, but she…"

  Her voice trailed off, and she just stared as if she were deep in the past. Fenella glanced at Dexter. He raised his hand to signal they wait. Her face contracted as if reliving a dark memory. It was almost as if the detectives were not in the room.

  At last, Nellie said, "Don't know if you remember Royce?" Her voice drifted through the air as soft as butterfly wings. And she suddenly looked her age. "Nasty piece of work."

  Dexter said, "Aye, I remember the toerag. He used to run his business from the lounge of the Red Sheaf bar. That's where I met Priscilla. She'd sing on Friday nights. Royce had his eye on her. Wanted to get her on the game. I dealt with the toad, real good."

  "Aye," Fenella said. Now, she remembered. Royce Lee was the street pimp who beat his girls to within an inch of their life just for the hell of it. She'd caught him in the act, a violent assault on Nellie. "Can't say I shed a tear the day Royce Lee went down. What happened to him?"

  "Royce is still inside." Nellie walked back to the armchair, sat, and crossed her legs. "I'll not lie if I say that I'll go to my grave in peace if he dies a horrible death in his cell. That's why I had to let Viv go."

  "I'm not with you," Fenella said.

  "I do my best for my girls, treat them well, give them good advice because I don’t want them to end up like me. We are like a family, look out for each other. No pimps; no one gets beat; leave when you want—and come back if you must. Five years on the game, and most have enough cash to make a new life, if they stay off the drugs."

  "That why you let her go, use of drugs?"

  Nellie shook her head. "Listen, I found out from a little bird that she wrote to men in prison."

  "Let me guess," Fenella said. "Royce Lee?"

  "That was bad enough! I thought that girl had sense, might have kept her on but I couldn’t." Nellie paused a beat. "Not when I found out she also wrote love letters to Hamilton Perkins. Mr Shred."

  Chapter forty-one

  Fenella left Dexter to reminisce with Nellie Cook. The two had a lot of catching up to do. He'd ask about Viv Gill, get more details as they spoke. No need to hang around for that. There was something else she wanted to do, a task that would help piece the puzzle together. If she had the nerve to see it through.

  The gin had whipped up her hunger, so she drove her Morris Minor across Whitehaven to Granny Wong's for a late lunch. Battered haddock, chips, curry sauce and a can of dandelion-and-burdock pop to wash it all down. A meal of stodge-filled bliss. She'd burn it off with a long jog on the beach when she got home, else it would go straight to her hips.

  As she popped the last piece of crisp batter into her mouth and chewed, she wondered why women like Viv Gill and Pearl Smith wrote love letters to men behind bars who'd committed crimes that churned the gut. Not for me to judge, she told herself, although she was tempted to anyway. She knew the lunch and the can of pop and the thoughts were a stalling tactic, and decided the task could not wait. It was now or never.

  It was a pleasant drive along the coast back to Port St Giles, but she missed the chit-chat with Dexter and wondered what he had found out from Nellie Cook. Then it occurred to her that Nellie might have been his informer back in the day. Dexter played his cards close to his chest, had a knack for what was about to go down, and an ear that separated the wheat from the chaff of gossip. He got along with all sorts, and they told him things he wanted to know. Yes, Nellie must have been on his list.

  Fenella's heart picked up a beat as she pulled into the car park of Port St Giles Cottage Hospital. She turned off the engine and for a long while stared at the front doors. Maybe she'd see Eve? She knew that was just a phantom hope but watched for her sister anyway.

  When she thought about Eve, she mostly thought about laughing. They laughed a lot together and sang songs that made them cry. Then they'd talk through the night, each sharing old wounds which were yet to heal. When they were done, they'd sing along to sad songs that made them cry even more. She missed her sister.

  It began to rain. Hard. Each drop a frenzied slap, a slap against the car roof. If it kept up like this, there'd be no chance of a jog on the beach when she got home. Not good for the waistline, the rain, she thou
ght.

  A nurse in a grey overcoat hurried from the doorway and out into the car park. Eve probably left through that very door. Which way did she go? Left? Right? Did she hitch a ride? What had happened to her sister? Once more Fenella felt the empty pit of those left behind from an unsolved crime.

  She slung her handbag over her shoulder, locked the car door, and strolled to the entrance. What she was about to do could land her in deep water. She would nip in and out. No harm done. No one needed to know.

  There was an armed officer outside Dr Joy Hall's room. A thin-lipped man with eyes that matched his scowl. Fenella knew him. An old-timer by the name of Jake Kent, who wore the scars of the job, going by the two gashes on his left cheek.

  "How do, Inspector," Jake said, folding his arms.

  "Wife still on the mend, is she?" Fenella had formed a group who cooked meals for police officers whose spouse fell ill. It was her way to give back to the other half. Jake's wife had been told she'd not have long but had outlived the doctor's dire claims. They'd been cooking meals for the family, once a week, for almost a year.

  "We are keeping our fingers crossed," Jake said. "More tests next week. The last lot came through all clear."

  "I'll pop around next Friday to have a natter."

  "Aye, she'd like that."

  Fenella nodded towards the closed door. "And Dr Joy Hall, how is she getting along?"

  "She'll live."

  "Any visitors?"

  "I've not had to turn anyone away."

  Fenella lowered her voice. "Can I nip in and have a quick word?"

  "The superintendent said no visitors."

  "Aye, she says a lot of things, doesn't mean we always listen."

  He stepped aside.

  "Be quick."

  Chapter forty-two

  Dr Joy Hall heard the hard drum of rain in the dusk-like dim of the room. On the edge of a dream, she jerked awake. The spine-chilling memory of Uncle Fred was back. The dream had taken her to childhood but no further than a dark, traumatic stain. She had no girlhood memories of before. Only after. And those memories were hellish.

  Joy breathed hard and tried to focus instead on what happened in Hemlock Woods. When they first wheeled her in, she seemed to float up and then look down at herself as a child. It was dark and their Uncle Fred was—grinning. An out-of-body experience? It had filled her with alarm and she screamed. Blind panic soon dissipated into a floaty calm. The result, she thought, of the drugs they'd pumped into her.

  She let out a soft sob. Uncle Fred had attacked her. Brutally. She was only fourteen when it happened. She had wanted to keep the baby, but it died, and a nurse took it away. That's why she became a psychologist. To peer into the minds of the broken and fix them. The peering was easy. Not so, the fix. She touched her cheek. Slowly, she worked her hand over the rough ridges of the bandages. Would she recognise her face when they took the dressing off?

  The click of the door changed her focus. Not another nurse! They prodded and poked and stuck her with so many needles that her limbs felt as heavy as lead and her mouth as dry as sand. She opened her eyes, but the room began to spin, so she closed them.

  "Nurse, I need a sip of water, please."

  She felt the glass against her lips and took a long sip.

  "Feel better now, luv?"

  She recognised the voice. Her eyes snapped open and focused on the grey-haired detective, then they slowly closed.

  "Thought I'd see how you were getting along," Fenella said. "You're not supposed to have visitors, but I thought I'd pop in to have a natter. A quiet chat will cheer you up. No need to tell the doctors or anyone else I was here; you know how antsy they get about after-hours visits."

  Joy's mind felt dead. She couldn't think what to say, so she raised her hand and gave the thumbs up.

  "How you doing?"

  Again, Joy gave the thumbs up.

  "Aye, lass, that's what I thought. Tough as old boots, us ladies." Fenella fell silent for so long that Joy wondered whether she was still there. But she didn't open her eyes for fear the world would start to spin. Then came the detective's voice, soft and low and cautious. "Can you remember what happened, pet?"

  "It is all a blur." Joy almost jumped at her own voice. She thought it would sound dry and raspy, not so strong, not so full. "I think I screamed, and everything went blank."

  "Aye, lass, that was probably for the best." Another bout of silence and then, "So you didn't see anything, then?"

  "No."

  "Maybe you picked up a whiff of his aftershave?"

  "No."

  "Or saw which way he ran?"

  "It was so dark."

  "Did he say anything?"

  "No. "

  "So, you didn’t recognise his voice?"

  "Like I said, he didn't speak."

  "Aye, that's what I thought you said." Fenella felt disappointed. There hadn't been a struggle, so there would be no fibres or DNA on Dr Joy Hall's clothes. Still, she'd suggest they be sent to the lab. No point telling Jeffery about that. "How are you feeling?"

  "Groggy."

  "Aye, luv. I'd not be able to think with all those tubes in me. You are doing great."

  Joy moved a slow hand to touch her cheek. "My face?"

  "Best focus on getting better, luv. Doctors can do magic these days."

  "But—"

  "It will be fine. You will be fine. Like I say, they can do magic."

  Rain continued to pound against the window in the rhythmic beat of a boxer's fists working a punching bag. There'd be no let-up until after dark, and if the temperature dropped, there'd be a hard frost.

  "Can you tell me anything about the attack?" Fenella asked.

  Joy wanted to tell her something, anything, but she couldn't and shook her head.

  "Not to worry, Dr Hall. We'll get him."

  Again, Joy slowly raised her hands to give the thumbs up.

  "I'll leave you to get some rest, then."

  Joy was glad of the visit, felt somehow connected to the outside world. But thinking was so draining, and her thoughts were already fuzzy. "Thank you," she said.

  "There is one other thing you might help with," Fenella said. "We know Viv Gill wrote letters to Hamilton Perkins in prison. Do you know if he received letters from anyone else?"

  Joy eased herself up. She had to help but kept her eyes closed as she spoke. "It was not part of my job, but I used to hear things, you know. Perkins never opened up to me about that, but I know he got letters from a woman called Smith. Mrs Pearl Smith." She kept her eyes shut but could hear the raspy breathing of the detective. And she knew they'd not caught anyone and sensed things were going to get worse. "You must find Pearl Smith and warn her. She'll be next."

  No answer.

  Joy's eyes flicked open for a beat, and she reached out a hand to grasp the detective's arm. "Please warn her. Please warn Pearl Smith."

  There was a long pause, and for a while, the only sound was that of Fenella's ragged breathing. One minute. Two. At last, she spoke. "She's dead, luv. He got her."

  Sweat prickled Joy's forehead and dripped on her closed lids. She wanted to scream, over and over until her throat was hoarse. But she fought through the fear and fog of the drugs until her brain cleared. As she breathed in a slow breath, her mind focused on the questions to come. She knew what the detective would ask but wasn’t sure she could answer.

  "Did"—Fenella paused for a beat—"any other women write to him?"

  "I know nothing more than what I've told you. I wish I could be of more help."

  "You've been a great help, luv. And you are safe now."

  "But he'll be back, though, won't he? Hamilton Perkins will be back to finish the job."

  Chapter forty-three

  Chad Tate could feel himself coming to a slow boil as he stood by the door in his store and watched the police officers walk down the lane. Grey clouds hung low with the threat of more rain. They'd been in again, sniffing around, asking questions. PC Hoon with PC Bet
h Finn. And it made him anxious:

  "No, I can't tell you anything about Mrs Pearl Smith."

  "Everyone shops in the store; they like to support local business."

  "No, I'd not seen any strange faces… well, apart from the police officers who came in to buy snacks."

  "Yes, I check the storeroom every day. Only boxes and an industrial freezer. Not enough room for a small child to hide, let alone a grown man."

  When PC Finn asked what he kept in the freezer, the postman walked in with a white envelope in his hand. He avoided Chad's eyes, placed it on the counter, and glanced at PC Hoon and PC Finn. Everyone knew there'd been another murder. Everyone knew Pearl Smith was dead. That meant more police poking about in village matters. If you got caught up in their net, there'd be no easy way out. Everyone knew that too. So the postman legged it with a quick goodbye shout, but PC Hoon and PC Finn followed him out.

  All the questions had turned Chad's gut sour. He wanted to run. Where would he go? Not back to New York. Not away from St Bees either. He was tethered to this place. The shop was all he had. He suddenly felt like a fly caught in a web. Wriggle as he might, he couldn't get away, only watch with wide eyes as the spider got close. He went to the counter, reached a hand under, and pulled out Bert.

  "What should I do?"

  The one-eyed sheep with three legs stared back.

  Chad turned to the window. A shaft of gold broke through the clouds. It shone on the officers as they ambled along the lane and chatted with the nervous postman. He watched until they disappeared around a sharp bend.

  "Bert, they are gone," Chad said, his eyes still on the window. "I think it will be all right."

  Footsteps clattered on the cobblestones. He saw Vicar Briar hurrying towards the store, black cassock hitched up an inch with both hands so his feet could move with speed.

  "Was that PC Hoon I just saw?" Vicar Briar's question came out in a breathless gasp. "And the woman is PC Beth Finn, I believe?"