by N. C. Lewis
"What am I looking for, ma'am?" Jones asked.
Fenella shrugged. "Is he married? Kids? What happened to his wife? I don't know, but it will jump out at you when you find it. Dexter, why don't you have a word with our mutual friend. See what else they can tell us about our Dragon." She was careful not to mention Nellie Cook by name or even her town. Force of habit.
"Right you are, Guv." He gave a salute. "And where you off to, then?"
"Lunch with Florence Nightingale," Fenella replied. "Then I'm at the magistrates' court the rest of the day."
Chapter seventy
The hospital cafeteria was almost full.
Fenella sat at a small table by a glass wall, which overlooked the lobby. The steel and glass reached up to a domed roof, an echo chamber for the lunchtime sounds and a cooking pot of delicious smells. She was early.
For several minutes she watched the merry throng. The marble-tile floors clacked as people shuffled in. There were one or two staff about, and they cleared the tables as quickly as new diners came. Newcomers peered at the menu board, while others carried trays in search of a table.
A hollow pang gnawed at Fenella's gut. She was starving and relished the idea of battered cod, chips, mushy peas, and a dollop of brown curry sauce. It would not take much to persuade Gail to order the same; that way she would not feel so bad when she went for seconds. She was arguing with herself over the merits of a squeeze of tartar sauce or a splash of malt vinegar when she saw her friend.
Gail made her way to the table as though she were a wilted snail. If she was pleased at her day so far, it did not show through the scowl.
Fenella said, "You've got a face on you like a crab apple gone bad. Patients giving you a tough time?" It was a light-hearted jest to lift the mood.
Gail let out a long sigh, gave a half-hearted smile, glanced at the food counter, and said, "Don't think I could eat a thing, but I'm glad you came. I need to chat."
Fenella's stomach rumbled. She cast a quick glance at the line by the food counter. It was growing by the second. There'd be no fish or chips or much of anything else if they chatted before they ate. She said, "Who needs food? I came here for a chat too. What's up?"
"It's Leo. I got a letter from him this morning."
Fenella thought Leo was a soft-hearted romantic. She could see him with a quill pen in his hand, scratching out a love note to Gail by candlelight. A young nurse with the figure of a stick insect placed her tray on the next table, then sat down. Cod and chips with mushy peas, curry sauce, and a large cup of pop, Fenella noted. She wondered how such a skinny thing would down it all.
"Don't tell me," Fenella said. "He wrote to tell you he made a mistake with that young thing he ran off with and wants you to come back home?"
Gail glanced at Fenella with glistening eyes. "It was an invitation to his wedding. He is marrying Lyn."
Her voice was so quiet and far off, Fenella could barely hear it over the clatter of plates from the food counter. The young nurse at the next table crammed the first forkful of fish into her mouth and washed it down with a swig of pop.
Gail said, "Our marriage had run its course. Leo is not coming back, and though I'd known that for years, I feel it deep down now. In my marrow. Loneliness." She pulled an old photo from her purse: Leo with his arm around her on a beach. Their youthful faces smiled into the camera, eyes bright with love. "And for now there is nothing, nothing in the world that can end it."
Fenella said, "Not really over him, then, are you, luv?"
"I thought I was… I mean, I want to move on too." Gail's breath caught in her throat, so the next few words came out as a whisper. "It's just that it is not the same for women, is it?"
"Aye, luv. Happen you're right about that."
Gail sighed. "I feel fat and ugly and old. Everybody seems so young lately, makes me feel like I'm just about ready for my pension."
"You are in your fifties, Gail. Nowt wrong with that." Fenella felt old too, especially when she looked at the childish faces which seemed to be everywhere these days. Even the new constables looked like they'd just come out of school. It felt like it was only yesterday that she was in uniform herself. She watched the young twig of a nurse stuff the last of the fish into her mouth and mop up the dregs of curry sauce with her chips. Can eat what you bloody well like when you are young, she thought. "Middle age just means you are ripe. Fruit's at its sweetest when ripe. Full of sugar."
"Plumpest too," Gail said with a miserable sigh.
"Aye, that's why we jog on the beach, eh?"
Gail dabbed at her eyes. "I was born before the internet, and Lyn has no idea what a landline phone is! Watching Leo move on makes me feel old. It is totally bonkers how life goes so fast. Yes, I'm over Leo. I've moved on, but I still feel hollow inside."
"So, you going to the wedding, then?"
Gail shrugged. "Yeah, I suppose, just to stick it to him." Her voice became soft and quiet, and there was acceptance in her tone. "You'll come with me, won't you? Bring Eduardo and… Dexter."
Fenella groaned under her breath. It was time. Still, she'd not beat about the bush, best to be direct; that was kindest. "Dexter's old girlfriend has moved in with him. They are going to get married."
"Oh!"
"Let's go get a plate of cod and chips with all the trimmings," Fenella said. "Stuff our faces, eh?"
Twenty minutes later, stomachs full of battered cod, chips, curry sauce, and mushy peas, they chatted about the old times, their laughter ringing off the glass walls, like echoes from the past. It was a taste of days long gone when Fenella used to stop by the hospital in Whitehaven to chat with Gail and make plans for the weekend to come.
When they ran out of stories, Gail stood. "I'd better get back. Good thing it is admin this afternoon, else I'd be snoring on the ward." She giggled. "You'll want to know that they let Ann Lloyd go home. Nothing wrong with her but a few scrapes and bruises. You saved the child's life."
"We both did," Fenella said.
Gail went silent for a moment. "I would have followed you into the sea, but I'm afraid of water."
Fenella said, "Well we can fix that, can't we?"
"Oh no, I'm a land-loving girl. Don't get any ideas." Gail raised both hands. "I heard through the grapevine about Dr Joy Hall. Not working that one, are you?"
Fenella answered with a question. "What did you hear?"
"That she was attacked by a madman. Or at least that is what Bishara told me."
"Bishara?"
"Dr Bishara Kendi. She's from Kenya and new to Port St Giles, like me. We've become friends. She treated Dr Joy Hall. Have you caught the evil git that attacked her?"
Thunder rattled in the distance. It darkened the atrium's roof. Large raindrops splashed down but for only a few seconds, then they stopped. The sky remained dark.
Fenella said, "Dr Hall's attack is part of an ongoing investigation. But yes, Dr Hall was lucky to get away with her life. Very lucky."
"That's just the thing," Gail said. "Dr Kendi reckons her injuries are only superficial. The sort of thing she sees all the time after the pubs close on a Friday night."
Chapter seventy-one
Dr Joy Hall heard the ring of the phone, sat up, and swore.
It's non-stop buzz had jerked her from a dream where she was at an event in a giant book store in New York City. Cameras jostled with a sea of microphones. Everyone wanted to know about her best-selling book on Mr Shred. She had dreamt it often over the past few months, each time the images more vivid until, when her eyes fluttered open at the buzz of the phone, she wasn't sure where she was.
It was two thirty in the afternoon.
The suite was set up like a hotel room. Medical devices blended in with the lush furnishings. A watercolour of the beach hung on the wall, all swirls of brown, blue, and white. There was a separate room with a toilet and shower. An alcove formed a small kitchen. She scanned the room for her phone. It was on a low table by a chair next to the French doors. With the soft tendr
ils of the dream fading, she padded across the room.
"Dr Joy Hall?" The man's voice jerked her back to the present. "There was a problem Tuesday at Dr Thane's House. What else have you got for me?"
Joy's shoulders slumped. The last pleasant shreds of her snooze leached into the ether. This was not how it was supposed to be. In her dream, they worked for her. But every time she threw Rodney Rawlings a bone, he came back for more.
She said, "I can't tell you anything else."
"Dr Hall," he replied in that slime-filled voice. "You've got mad minds to treat, and police got crime to solve. I got news to make my deadline."
"There is nothing new."
"I say there is."
"I'm sorry, it is all confidential. I wish I could help."
"This story will be huge, and not just here. The Americans will lap it up. There'll be interest from China, India too. It'll go global."
Joy listened in silence. When his news story broke, there'd be an enormous wave of interest. A tailwind to fan the flames of her book. Dollar bills would fall like autumn leaves into her purse. Oh yes, she'd ride the wave of global hype all the way to the bank. Now she counted the days until she quit the prison service—one hundred and twenty-five.
She said, "You think so?"
"Sure."
"When will you break the news?"
"Once I've got all my ducks in a row. It's like running with a pack of dogs, in my world. I've got to stay a few paces ahead. This is my story, don't want anyone to break it ahead of me, if you get my drift." Rodney Rawlings lowered his voice. "I'm the only person from the press you've had a quiet chat with, right?"
"What do you take me for?"
"Then throw me a bone."
Joy adjusted the phone. "They picked up a man called Hazza. He broke into Dr Thane's garden, not sure why, but I'd bet a penny to the pound it was with ill intent."
Joy knew the Hazza they'd caught wasn't Hamilton Perkins, knew he didn’t break into Dr Thane's place. She spun the tale to buy more time. Rodney Rawlings had lapped up the trail of crumbs she'd given him so far.
"Oh, come on," he said. "That was Tuesday, and the man is a tramp from Maryport. I've checked him out, bought him breakfast in Don's Café, where he scoffed down two King Kong fry-ups and half a gallon of tea. What new leads have our friends in the police sniffed out?"
"There is nothing new. I've told you all I know."
"What, do you think I'm an idiot?" His voice was filled with contempt. There was a long pause. "Scratch my back, Dr Hall, and I'll scratch yours."
Joy cringed. "Did you just threaten me?"
"No. No, I would never do that. I just want to be clear about our… arrangement. You've got the cash; now I want the story."
He'd dangled the money, like bait on a hook. She'd bitten hard, got snagged by the pound signs. It was their secret. One which she prayed would never see the light of day. He wouldn’t tell anyone, would he? That would be her worst nightmare, her worst fear come to life. The whole mess was her own fault, but that did not stop her rage from slowly coming to the boil.
"You don't own me!"
"He who pays the piper..."
Joy clenched her jaw. The nasty wee man was doing his best to faze her. Rat-faced by looks and a rat by nature. But he was a journalist. They always protected their sources. No! He would not rattle her; she'd not give him that satisfaction. Still, he made a veiled threat, and that made her nervous.
"Dr Hall?" His voice snapped with impatience. "Look, all I want is what I paid for, access to the police investigation as it unfolds. That's the deal, right?"
Joy squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed hard. She had to throw him a scrap. "The police are looking for a man called the Dragon."
The line went so quiet, she thought he'd hung up. Then he said, "Aw, c'mon, Joy. You think I'm nuts?"
How dare the rat refer to her by her first name! It was Dr Hall to him. He didn’t seem to know his place in the order of things. Flustered, Joy said, "The Dragon was seeing Viv Gill."
"Why would the police waste their time chasing her fancy man when they've got their sights on Mr Shred? That's why they brought you in, right? To help find the evil bugger?"
A thought jabbed at the edge of Joy's mind.
It struck like a sharp blade plunged with great force. And it hurt.
It was the realisation that now she had taken his cash, Rodney Rawlings would not stop hounding her until he had his story. No matter what, he'd come back. Well, two could play at that came.
Flushed and breathless, she said, "Okay, you win. There was a sighting of Hamilton Perkins in Whitehaven. One of the nightclubs, don't know which. You might want to check it out."
"Stop blowing smoke in my face, Joy."
She said nothing because it would have been useless. The man had a nose like a bloodhound, could sniff out truth from crap. A fierce rage burned her up from the inside out. The room began to spin. It always did when she lost it.
"You owe me, Joy, and I'm cashing in."
As fury radiated through her body, and she glanced down at her left hand. The tremble was so subtle, her eyes could barely detect motion. Then it jerked in a slashing movement, right to left. It was over in an instant, and later she would not recall it.
"Mr Rawlings, our relationship is at an end. Do not call my phone ever again, or you will deeply regret it."
She clicked the phone off, snorting with anger. Little men like him had to be put back in their box, like a child puts away their toys. That's why she enjoyed her work as a psychologist in Low Marsh Prison even though the pay stank. When she was done playing with her toys, they'd be put back in their cells.
The phone rang. Joy picked up.
Rodney Rawlings said, "Don't cross me, Joy, I don't like being crossed."
"Bugger off!" Joy slammed the phone down.
In a flash of rage, she thought of the men she worked with at Low Marsh Prison. They thought they could manipulate her too! All sour faces, roving eyes, and foul breath. All her Uncle Fred. She smiled. Now she was in charge, and in her reports, she wrote that their minds could never be fixed. Punishment for each night Uncle Fred crept into her bed. Vengeance for the death of her child. A sense of power. Justice. Her way.
Again, the phone rang—Rodney Rawlings.
Joy let it ring until it clicked to voicemail. Oh, how she'd love to get him convicted and tossed into Low Marsh Prison. She'd play with him until she broke his soul. Her lips twitched at the corners. The rat-faced man did not know who she really was. Calls himself a reporter! The fool didn’t have a bead on what she knew; Hamilton Perkins was not in St Bees. He did not kill Viv Gill or Pearl Smith. But, oh what a finale to her book—the killer returns to his home town, slays two women, and puff, he's gone, while the dozy police scratch their heads.
Chapter seventy-two
It was close to 3:00 p.m. and getting dark when Chad Tate closed the store and eased open the iron gates of the St Bees Priory. A soft rain blew in loose swirls over the graveyard. He liked to visit when darkness reigned. He'd play a game of "flit between the shadows," like a belfry bat. Sometimes he'd crouch behind a headstone if he heard someone on the path. But in the early evening January shadows, he usually had the cemetery to himself.
And that was the way he liked it.
He made his way along a gravel path, then cut through a lawned area to an iron bench he'd bought ten years back. The damp had rusted the ornate handles, and the slats needed a lick of paint. He'd touch it up in the spring. For now he sat on the cold iron and watched. After a while, the rain stopped, and there was just the drip and splash from the trees. Chad flicked on his torch and shone it at the first headstone.
ROSE TATE: Beloved Wife and Mother.
The simple headstone was all he could afford when she died. It broke his heart every time he came to visit his wife. Two funerals in one day cost him the earth. He shone the torch on the next headstone, much smaller.
LARK TATE: I'll take care of Bert the sheep
for you. Miss you, Daddy.
It had been dark outside St Bees Priory when the car came speeding down the lane, hit the curb, and killed Rose and his five-year-old daughter, Lark. The car did not stop. The police never found the driver.
How could the killer of his wife and child still be on the loose? Chad's heart slammed hard against his chest. He'd told the police who drove the car and pointed the person out in a line-up. But they shrugged, said there was no evidence, and that was that.
He reached a damp hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handful of white envelopes.
"Look what I've got," he said, waving the limp envelopes in the cold air. "A stack of them from the bank manager. If Bert were here, I'd let him tell you all about these." But Bert, the one-eyed, three-legged sheep, was under the counter in the store. And anyway, Chad liked to keep the stuffed animal in the shop, so when he spoke his mind it was there to listen. "I just want you to know that whatever happens, I won't close the store. I won't leave the village. Do you hear me? Are you listening?"
In the dead space between their passionate grunts and groans, Viv Gill and Pearl Smith had listened too. But how could a childless woman understand the depth of his loss. How could they know what death was like if they still lived and breathed?
He glanced across the dark cemetery to the spots where Viv Gill and Pearl Smith would be laid to rest. They would always be with him now. Once their graves had been filled and the earth settled, he would visit to pay his respects. He planned to buy a bench so he could sit and tell them about life in St Bees. His girls would never leave the village now. Neither would he. Yes, he'd get the small dog with the grinning mouth and bring it along too.
A low thunder rumbled in the distance. If the wind changed, it would bring rain. Chad gazed at the black sky with clouds as twisted as a hangman's noose. Even the moon seemed to be hiding; only a dirty smudge of gold streaked across the dark. He opened his lips and sucked in the frigid air. The taste of the graveyard filled his mouth. Earth and moss and grass and death.
