by N. C. Lewis
"What about it?"
"I don't have any coins to put in it."
"I wondered why it was so cold in here. Some like it hot, others not so much. There is no accounting for taste, is there, PC Hoon?"
"It’s a strange world, Mrs Lenz. Things are never what they seem. Take that glass jar in your front room, for example. It is filled with coins, isn't it?"
"Like to dump in my change and take it to the bank once a year. A few coins each week adds up. Hundreds of pounds in a year, PC Hoon. You ought to try it."
"I wonder if you might—"
"No! I don't extend credit. Not with rent or heat or anything else. I'm old school on that. If you can't pay for it, you can't have it. It is cash up front or nowt. Saves folks from getting into bother with bills they can't pay. I'm sure you understand that, with you being in uniform." Mrs Lenz wagged her finger. "Credit wreaks havoc in poor folks' lives. Am I right? I am."
"But it's bloody freezing in here!"
"We'll not have language like that under my roof, else you can pack your bags and go."
"Only a couple of coins until tomorrow."
"I've made my position clear. We'll hear no more of that if you please."
PC Hoon swore again under his breath, without moving his lips but with venom, nonetheless. From somewhere along the hall a dog yapped.
Mrs Lenz said, "Max is so excited at our new guest."
"He's been barking all day."
"He wants you to play with him."
PC Hoon didn’t like the sound of that, but he had no choice. This was home until he sorted things out. He didn’t like dogs that yapped non-stop. He didn’t like the room, and he didn’t like the look of the steaming hot plate of fish pie on his lap. There was nowhere to dump the pie. He'd have to eat the bloody thing or else throw it down the toilet. But he knew Mrs Lenz inspected the loo, counted the sheets on the roll and would know.
He said, "I suppose Max can eat my scraps. Make a pleasant treat for the little fellow. I'll be sure to leave him enough for seconds."
"He'll not want it after you've been at it," Mrs Lenz said. "Anyway, he's had his. You got what's left." She sniffed and marched away as Max yapped.
Once again PC Hoon swore. This time at everyone and everything and most especially at Maude. Oh, how well he knew his wife. She was a greedy cow. Once he signed over the cottage, she'd turn him in. Maude had him by the balls, and no matter what he gave her, she would squeeze. Yes! He'd do her good and proper. She wouldn’t see it coming. No one would. They never did.
Chapter forty-eight
If Fenella had the smallest inkling of the devastating impact her meeting would have, she might not have left home.
The next morning, she sat at a table by the window in Don's Café with a large cup of tea, two slices of buttered toast, and a pot of plum jam. The sun had yet to show any sign of life, but she could make out figures as they flitted by the window lit by the orange glow of a street lamp. She was waiting for Rodney Rawlings.
The pressman was late.
"Where are the hungry mob?" Fenella said to the café owner whose name she'd found out was Don. "Thought you'd be packed by now."
Don said, "We get a few on their way to the train station, but lunchtime is the real rush hour, with kids and staff from the school." He stopped and looked at her closely. "You're that detective I saw on Pow Beck bridge!"
"Aye, luv, that'd be me."
Don wiped his hands on the apron. "Welcome to the beating heart of St Bees. If you want to know what goes on in this village, you've come to the right place."
"Aye, is that so?"
He grinned. "Well, here, the pub, St Bees Priory, and the village store. But they all come to Don's Café for lunch." He jabbed a finger in the air as if about to make a point. "The vicar shows up Mondays and Fridays, pub landlord on Wednesday, and the owner of the village store swings by every Thursday at two p.m. like clockwork." Again, he rubbed his hands on his apron and lowered his voice. "Viv Gill was bad enough, but now Mrs Pearl Smith."
Fenella said, "When did you see her last?"
"Viv Gill?"
"Aye."
"She'd pop in once or twice a week at lunchtimes." He closed his eyes for a beat. "Last Thursday around one. "
"Notice anything different?"
"She seemed normal, ordered her usual. Crab cakes with chips and mushy peas. Even smiled at me. She had a wonderful smile, melt the heart of an iceman, it would."
"And what about Pearl Smith?"
"Yes, she came in regular as clockwork. In fact, she was here last Tuesday for breakfast. Ordered a King Kong fry-up, but you know about that, don't you, seeing as she spoke with PC Hoon, and he paid for her meal."
"Oi, Fenella, sorry I'm late."
Rodney Rawlings scurried into the café. He wore a dirty, green duffel coat, and his eyes darted this way and that. A trait of his job, Fenella thought, always in search of the big story.
She said, "Ten minutes late, Rodney!"
"Was a rough night." His sharp eyes watched her closely. "It is not easy when one of your women friends is found dead and no one is talking."
Fenella knew it would leak out. Knew it would be all over the news this week. That's why she wanted to speak with Rodney, that and the fact he was in a relationship with Pearl Smith.
"Aye," she said in a soft voice. "I'm sorry about your loss."
”King Kong fry-up for one over here," Rodney yelled. If he was in mourning, it didn’t show by his appetite. "And don't spare the grease, your man over here needs it to soak up the booze he downed last night at the nightclub."
"Righto, Rodney," Don said, looking across the café with a sad smile. He whistled a slow tune as he went to work on the fry-up.
Rodney Rawlings said, "Got to keep my strength up, been working a story about all those fires in the old cottages, trying to find a link. I hear Look North are working an angle for their television news show. I want to get in ahead of the buggers." He paused to look towards the kitchen, his nose twitching. "There was another blaze in the village of Egremont last Friday, doesn’t look like arson, though. Just random. No one died. Shame."
Fenella said, "Right, tell me about your relationship with Pearl Smith."
Rodney popped a tab of gum into his mouth. "I hear she was murdered." There was no alarm in his voice or sense of concern that Pearl Smith was dead. His face was an unreadable mask. "Am I a suspect?"
Fenella said, "You know how it works."
"Save the taxpayers' cash, look elsewhere." He chewed the gum for a few moments, his sharp eyes never leaving Fenella's face. "Two deaths in St Bees, that's why you called me. What you got, are they related or something?"
Fenella knew it would not take much to join the dots. When he did, she'd need his help. If she gave him enough to chew on, he'd put a good spin on things. That would buy time and slow the bigwigs from sticking their oar in.
She said, "Yes, they are related."
Don whistled softly from the kitchen; it was the only sound in the café. Shadows flitted by the window, but no one came through the door. Fenella watched Rodney Rawlings and waited.
Rodney's eyes narrowed. "I didn’t know Viv Gill; you hear that?"
"Aye. But I want to know everything about you and Pearl. How long?"
"Dunno… five or six months. Nothing serious. Once a week, casual. I'd call ahead. It wasn't going anywhere fast, a bit of fun at first. Not so much over the past few visits." He spat out the gum in a napkin. "She'd turned a bit odd."
"How do you mean?"
"I don't want this bandied about."
"Do you see a notebook?"
"King Kong for one," Don said, as he placed a steaming plate of fried food on the table. He looked at Rodney for a moment who nodded in appreciation, then disappeared into the kitchen, whistling.
Rodney made a face and gave a slight eye roll. "There was nothing I could put my finger on with Pearl. I mean, she was an attractive woman, and that's what any red-blooded bloke not
ices first. Plump and so pale you could see her veins. Just how I like 'em." He grinned bearing two sulphurous teeth that looked like bat fangs.
"Go on," Fenella said. "I'm listening."
"After a while I got the sense that Pearl was… off." He tapped the side of his head. "Once, she asked me what I thought about knives. Didn’t know how to answer that one. Another time, during… well, she wriggled out from under and went to the window. Said she felt as if she was being watched. I should have ended it then, but… she was a looker." He glanced at the kitchen. "Pearl claimed to have powerful friends in the village. Men in high places who knew everyone's secrets. When I asked her who they were, she laughed. Gave me the creeps, but like I said, I couldn’t keep my hand out of the honeypot."
"Was she seeing anyone else?"
Rodney shrugged. "I'm a free agent, so was she. Wouldn’t be surprised, though." He paused for a long moment. "Look, I met up with her once a week at most. I'd stay over. In the morning, she'd make breakfast, or we'd come here. If we ate out, I'd pay. Strange thing is, when we ate at her place, she always said the sausages were a gift."
"From who?"
"No idea, but in a village this size, it wouldn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure it out."
"I'm more of a Dr Watson; can you give me a hint?"
Rodney grinned, exposing those sulphur-coloured teeth. "The bloke who runs the village store, I reckon. Goes by the name of Chad Tate. Only place round here that sells Alston pork sausages. That's what she cooked if we stayed in." Again, he exposed his yellowed teeth. "I didn’t ask because there was no commitment. We understood each other."
Fenella considered his answer for a long beat. "Do you think she was seeing Mr Tate?"
Again, he shrugged. "A bloke don't give away his sausages for nothing, and he's a businessman, ain't he? From New York City. Those folks are as sharp as a whippet. Chad Tate might look like a middle-aged man with a pot belly and receding hairline, but it's the quiet ones you got to watch."
"Aye," Fenella said, thinking.
They fell quiet for a moment. The rattle of plates drifted across the café along with the low whistle of Don. Out in the lane, shadows flitted by the window in the half light of dawn, early-morning commuters on their way to the train station.
Rodney Rawlings said, "I'm going to sit on this a while and do a bit of digging. Two related deaths in St Bees… a serial killer, eh?"
Fenella sipped her tea but did not speak.
He thought a moment, then his eyes widened. "If this is who I think it is, it will be huge. An absolute monster of a story. I mean, this will make my reputation as a journalist. I won’t have to write columns about church fêtes anymore. This story will make a shed load of money."
Chapter forty-nine
Fenella paused to read the poster in the window of the St Bees Village store. A fundraising fête at St Bees Priory on the last Saturday of the month. She made a note to attend with Eduardo and Nan. They loved a church jamboree.
"Hello, pet," she said above the tinkle of the doorbell.
Chad Tate sat at the counter in his store, head drooped down. He was exactly as Rodney Rawlings described. Middle aged, pot bellied, a hairline that had seen better days. She knew he was from New York, had watched American shows with her grandkids, and thought he looked like a plump and slightly depressed version of Mister Rogers. Only there was no one in his neighbourhood, and she supposed that was because it was still early.
He did not look up but stared at a stack of white envelopes. They all looked the same, typed with black ink. She thought about what Rodney Rawlings had said about Chad gifting sausages and wondered if they were love letters from Pearl Smith. Only thing was, Mrs Smith didn’t come across as overly romantic, and as Fenella stepped closer, she saw they had a bank logo in the corner.
"Not the gas bill, then?" she said.
He looked up, and Fenella thought she saw a flash of something in his eyes. Remorse? Whatever it was, it touched her heart, and for an instant she felt a deep pang of sadness.
"I'm sorry, can I help you find something?" There was a New York City accent there, but it had been softened by his years in England.
"I was just saying those envelopes don't look like they are gas bills." Fenella had tried to curb her nosiness when she was younger. But had given up years ago. "Who are they from?"
He ignored the question and said, "Our milk is in the fridge and bread on the shelves at the back, but we are out of baked beans."
Fenella said, "Do you sell Alston pork sausages?"
"You are in luck. I've a fresh batch in the storeroom, was about to put them out. They fly off the shelves as if they have wings."
"Are you Mr Chad Tate?" Fenella pulled out her warrant card.
"Ah," he said. When a detective showed up, most people looked either scared or guilt ridden. But she couldn’t read his face except perhaps a brief flicker in the eyes. He looked towards the back of the store. Fenella followed his gaze to a door which she suspected led to the storeroom. He gave a weak smile. "I am Mr Tate. How can I help?"
Fenella said, "I'm making inquiries into the deaths of Viv Gill and Mrs Pearl Smith; you'll have heard?" She saw it again. A flicker in his eyes. His face might be a blank, but she knew nerves when she saw them.
"There must be some mistake," he said fast, his accent bubbling through. "I've already spoken to PC Hoon and another officer, PC Finn. They said to let them know if I thought of anything else. But nothing has come to mind. I'm so sorry to have wasted your time."
Fenella knew New Yorkers talked fast, but this bloke spoke at hyper-speed, not even taking a breath, and that made her curious.
"From New York City, eh?"
"That's right."
"Go back often?"
"I've made a life here."
"Nice, though, the Big Apple. Exciting. Not like St Bees."
"Too much changes in the city."
"That's part of the fun. Go with the flow and all that."
"It's not all it is made out to be."
"But all those tall buildings. Impressive."
"You are never more than three feet away from a roach, even in the skyscrapers."
Fenella laughed. "Tell me about Mrs Pearl Smith."
He gave a shrug. "Pearl was a regular customer. Came in once or twice a week. I believe she was born in St Bees, lived here all her life." He nodded to the window, where the first rays of sun shone down on the lane. "Went to church and paid her bills on time."
Fenella wondered about that. She'd met Mrs Pearl Smith and her fancy man, Rodney Rawlings. He'd scrambled to pull on his trousers when she and Dexter entered the bedroom. She didn’t think church would have been high on the list and said, "A good looker, by all accounts."
"If you like the pale-dough look… I mean, she had a bit of meat on her."
"Not skinny like a New York fashion model, eh?"
"Pleasant enough."
"That why you gave her free sausages?"
"Pardon?"
"Alston pork sausages. Seems you gave them to Mrs Pearl Smith. A gift, eh?"
"You are mistaken."
"Or was it payment in kind… for her services?"
"I was not in a relationship with Mrs Pearl Smith."
"Know anyone who would give her free sausages?"
"No."
"Aye," Fenella said. "That's what I thought you'd say."
Chapter fifty
When Fenella left the village store, the sun was up, a giant vexed eye in the east that spat its orange glow on the cobbled lanes of St Bees. Its glare matched her irked mood. Impatience had driven her to the shop. She had wanted to find out more about Pearl Smith before she drove back to Port St Giles to meet with her team. But her chat with Chad Tate had left frustration. Why would he deny gifting Pearl free sausages? Men give gifts to lasses all the time. No. There was something hidden beneath Chad Tate's fast New York accent and pleasant middle-aged smile. And she sensed it was deep and dark and unpleasant.
Fe
nella took a few steps along the pavement and turned to look back at the store. Chad Tate watched through the glass and didn’t look away when she caught his gaze. Eyes like a bloody hawk, she thought. Did he see something and not say? With barely a moment to consider that, a van trundled along the lane. It belched a black plume, and her mind flitted to Viv Gill and Pearl Smith. Both women wrote to Hamilton Perkins; both died at the hand of a knife. Yet, no one had seen a thing. No one had heard a scream. In a small village, that just didn’t feel right. She glanced at the red brick covered in moss and lichen of St Bees Priory. Hamilton Perkins was like a bleedin' ghost.
As she fished for the keys to the Morris Minor, she had the firm sense of being watched. Not from Chad Tate, who still stood by the window, but from elsewhere. She turned to scan the lane. Two cars and a white Ford van parked on her side, their windows dark. By the curb, a pigeon pecked at the cobblestones. A thin plume of smoke curled from the church doorway. As she peered, she made out the outline of a figure.
"Hey you!" She crossed the road and hurried towards the entrance. "Can I have a word?"
A man in a cassock emerged from the gloom. He held a cigar in his right hand. "It appears you have caught me on a smoke break. I'm Cain Briar, Vicar Briar to everyone around here."
"Nowt wrong with a puff or two," Fenella replied, taking in his thin face, purplish bulbous nose, deep-set, small eyes and black cassock, which she assumed he wore every day, for it needed a wash. He struck her as the kind of man who would not bother to wash his socks either. "I'm Detective Inspector Sallow."
"Yes, yes, I know who you are. We all do. How may I help?"
He must know what she was here about. One of his flock had gone astray and got herself murdered, and by a man who seemed to vanish as if he were a spook.
Fenella said, "Can I have a word about one of your flock?"
"Bit nippy out here." He turned, pushed open the heavy oak doors, and led her to the vestry where a gas heater took the chill out of the cold air.
"Cup of tea?"
"I'll not say no."
