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

by N. C. Lewis

  "I don't understand. How did we get it so wrong?"

  "I don't know," Joy replied. "But a copycat killing is not unheard of. There was a case in—"

  "If this gets out, I'm finished."

  "You are not to blame, Veronica." Joy waited a beat. "Are you sure PC Hoon is the killer?"

  "We know Viv Gill met a man called the Dragon. We know that man was PC Hoon. We know he kept his relationship a secret."

  "But still."

  "We have a photo of PC Hoon in a suit and Viv Gill in a short skirt, low-cut top, and butterfly eyelashes. She was a sex worker, and they knew each other." Jeffery's voice squeaked as though in need of a stiff drink. "And he just split up with his wife. We are working on the assumption he went back to the home to torch the place."

  "To get back at the wife?"

  "And destroy the evidence." Jeffery's voice rose an octave. "They found PC Hoon's body in the basement near a box of handbags. We don't have all the details yet, but one, orange, has been identified as belonging to Mrs Pearl Smith and another, small and gold, belonged to Viv Gil. I'm thinking suicide. Keep that to yourself until we get a report back from forensics."

  Joy said, "What did he have against Pearl Smith?"

  "Like I said, we don't have all the details, but St Bees is a small village. I wouldn’t be surprised if we found that PC Hoon held a grudge of some sort. What am I going to tell the top brass in Carlisle? How the hell am I going to tell them that PC Hoon is our man?"

  Joy sucked in a breath and let it out slow. "Any chance of pinning the whole mess on Inspector Moss?"

  Joy heard a sharp intake of breath, then the phone line went quiet. For a long moment, she thought she'd saved her friend's butt. Not that she gave two hoots about that. If Jeffery went down, it was her own lookout. Still, it would feel great to strike another blow against Moss. Hit him hard between the eyes and watch him spin.

  "No. That dog won't bark," Jeffery said. "Moss is well clear of this mess."

  "It is not your fault, Veronica. You are not to blame." But Joy knew Veronica's head was on the chopping block, and the axe was about to drop. It would be a great story to add to the last chapter of her book—"The Superintendent's Walk of Shame." That would grab the public's attention, get them flicking through the pages.

  But was it worth sacrificing her friend?

  Hell yes! Better her friend lose her neck than she ruin her future as a New York Times best-selling author. She felt her lips twitch at the corners. A moment later, they swelled into a grin.

  "What am I to do, Joy?" Jeffery's thin voice screeched with wretched grief.

  A wave of spite tugged at Joy's heart. A grudge which had been years in the making bubbled as sour as acid in her throat. The cow always thought she was superior: Teflon Jeffery, ha! She weren't nowt but rusted tin. Now, she'd be taken down a peg or two. And Joy would stand on the sidelines to cheer and write it all down in her secret book.

  Jeffery was talking. "What do you suggest, Joy? What should I do?"

  Joy put on her bosom-friend voice. "Please don't feel bad. PC Hoon had inside information and used that to fool everyone. How could you have known what he held in his heart?"

  Again, the line fell quiet. Joy knew what that meant. Jeffery was in deep thought, her mind searching for a way out. But with a police officer on her team as the killer, there was no way out. She'd have to carry the can.

  "Difficult," Jeffery said at last. "Bloody difficult."

  Now, Joy's mind began to whir. If the public found out she was involved in this fiasco, it would tank sales of her book. The publisher might even demand their advance back. But the money had been spent on the new house. She couldn’t repay. No! As long as she kept her mouth shut, the blood splattered on the wall would be Jeffery's. She felt a deep sense of relief and something else—satisfaction.

  "Time to face the music," Joy said in the sweet girly voice she used to encourage patients to talk about their darkest secrets. "It will lift a weight from your chest. You know that is for the best."

  "I can't do that."

  Joy let her voice drop to a conspiratorial whisper. "Go see the top brass in Carlisle, hands up, palms wide. Tell them you cocked it up." She made it all sound easy. Sweet, like eating a bowl of ice cream. No more bother than a visit to the doctor. "They'll show mercy, Veronica. They like you. We all do. You can do it, and I'll come with you for support. Let's face the music together. Team Superwomen."

  That wasn't enough, though. Now, Joy needed to nail the coffin lid shut. She thought for a moment. Yes. She'd ask that her involvement in the case remain a secret. That way, no one would know. Ever. And when she went with Veronica to meet the top brass in Carlisle, she'd feign illness at the door and urge her friend on. Lamb to the slaughter. Later, when the tears fell, she'd be there to wail and cry too.

  Jeffery cleared her throat and said, "The headlines won't look good, Joy. 'PC Scissorhands Takes His Own Life, While Prison Psychologist Gets It All Wrong!' You'll be ruined."

  "What?"

  "You told us Mr Shred was the killer. That he was stalking St Bees. You got it wrong. Not to mention your assessment of PC Hoon. 'Exemplary,' if my memory serves me well. When this leaks out, you'll be roasted alive. Dear God, Joy, I'll do my best to save you. I really will."

  Joy stared at the phone for a long moment before placing it back to her ear. They called her friend Teflon Jeffery. Now, she understood why. She stared through the French doors at the hospital grounds, speechless.

  "We'll have to play the sympathy card," Jeffery said. "Get you in front of the cameras."

  "I want my involvement to remain off the record."

  Jeffery didn't miss a beat. "Nah, can't do that. Tell you what, though. I'll spin the accident angle. The blaze was just another of those cottage fires we've seen lately. An act of God. That will buy a few days to get to the bottom of this mess."

  "And what if that doesn't work?"

  "We go to Plan B. That is where you come in, Joy."

  "If I go public with my role here, it will ruin my boo—" Joy stopped and cursed herself for almost revealing her secret. If it came out she had a book deal, Jeffery would be all over her like a bad rash: the prison service would kick her out; she'd be finished.

  Then an idea struck.

  The solution to her current problem was an easy fix. Very easy.

  Detective Inspector Fenella Sallow.

  Sallow was in charge of the investigation. Let her carry the can of blame. Yes! All it needed was a bit of spin, and the crap would fall squarely on Sallow's head. Jeffery was good at spin, a master at it. She'd float the solution with her friend. It would be easy, and Jeffery would agree. She liked Fenella, but it was everyone for themselves now. Of course, they would need time to work out the details. The perfect set-up could not be rushed.

  Joy exhaled in relief and said, "I have an idea. Let's think about this."

  "I already have. There is a press conference at noon. A car will be around to pick you up. Be ready by eleven. And Joy, ask the nice nurses to wrap fresh bandages around your face. We'll need you to look like an Egyptian mummy if we go to Plan B. I'll do the talking, but if things go south, I'll have you wheeled out. If they ask you any questions, put on your little-girly voice, will you?"

  Chapter seventy-seven

  More than twenty journalists gathered in St Bees Priory. It was bright and warm inside the church hall. At the front, a giant crucifix was suspended from the ceiling, and the stained glass filtered in the near-noon light. A large crew from the BBC's Look North news show took up the first pew. The deaths in St Bees would be all over the airwaves soon. A shed load of crap to hit the fan.

  Fenella seethed. As soon as the media circus was over, she'd gather more facts, pay her sympathies to PC Hoon's wife, and chase down loose ends about Viv Gill and Pearl Smith—all that had been put on hold for the press conference. The past few days they'd run round in circles. It felt like they had dreamt their way through the entire case and missed the mo
st important clue. One of their own was pegged as a copycat killer. PC Hoon worked his tricks right under her nose. And that's what fired her fury.

  On a raised stage at the front of the hall, Tess Allen spoke into Superintendent Jeffery's ear. Tess was the press officer who faced the media when things got tough. They sat at a long bench, which looked like a scrap dragged in from the sea. What was going to happen here? How would Jeffery spin it so the crap didn’t stick?

  Nothing but the wave of a magician's wand, Fenella thought. She scanned the room. Where was Vicar Briar? She double-checked. He wasn’t in the room. She thought he'd want to be centre stage, given they were in his church. Strange.

  With a frustrated sigh, she sat with her team on the back row: Dexter, Jones, and PC Beth Finn. A show of support for her troops. She glanced at Dexter. His head bobbed, and he gave a sharp snort. The team were tired. They'd given everything and got back nowt but a fistful of ash.

  The superintendent peered at the press and licked her lips. She was a great grey wolf and the journalists her prey. She better make quick work of them, Fenella thought, or they'll rip her limb from limb.

  It was noon. Time to begin. Reporters still streamed in. Standing room only. Fenella felt as if she were at a theatre show in Carlisle. The curtain would soon rise and the actors would take their places. Everything was set up for the perfect performance, everyone knowing their lines.

  And in a side room, Dr Joy Hall waited in a wheelchair, her head wrapped into a huge globe. She'd be wheeled out if things turned sour. There was nothing wrong with Dr Hall's legs and only a few scratches on her face. Nowt but a bleedin' show, Fenella thought.

  Tess Allen stood. An excited murmur rippled through the hall.

  "Okay," Tess said. "We'll keep this brief. Let's start, shall we?"

  Tess nodded at Jeffery.

  "Good afternoon," Jeffery said. "Thank you for coming at such short notice. I am grateful to see so many friends from the media. Our job could not be done without your support. As you know, we are here to…"

  At that moment, Fenella turned to look at the back of the hall. A hunched figure in a dirty, green duffel coat scurried through the thick oak door and weaved through the crowd with the stealth of a rat.

  Rodney Rawlings.

  And he looked mad.

  Chapter seventy-eight

  Dr Joy Hall felt her stomach flip, and her pulse thudded so hard she could barely think. It didn’t help that the room had no window. A view might have steadied her nerves. There were four brick walls painted in dull grey and two doors. One led to the main hall of St Bees Priory; the other led outside to a path which snaked around the side of the building. A large mahogany bench sat in the centre of the room. Coat stands on wheels waited patiently on either side. It was a cloakroom of sorts. Hot. Humid. Oppressive.

  She sat in a wheelchair designed for an elephant. It swallowed Joy, so she looked like a china doll in a child's pram. A superb choice for making her look sick and frail. She shifted in her seat and stared at the outline of the police officer through the glass pane of the outside door. She knew his name. Jake Kent. He carried a gun. What had she got herself into? What had she done?

  Joy gazed at the old speaker that jutted from the wall next to a brass plaque:

  DOMINUS DEUS TUUS IGNIS CONSUMENS EST.

  The Lord your God is a consuming fire. Deuteronomy 4:24

  The speaker crackled into life. Jeffery sounded calm, confident, assured. But that did not slow the thud in Joy's chest or the rush of blood through her ears. If her friend got it right, nothing would stick, and no one would know she was here. But if it all turned sour, she'd be wheeled out and would have to act out the biggest role of her life. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe, only stare at the speaker and listen.

  "And now I'll take a few questions," Jeffery said.

  "Gay Smith, BBC Look North. Any victims?"

  "Yes," Jeffery replied in a crisp tone. "One death. A well-loved police officer, PC Sidney Hoon. He was a family man with a wife. No children. An exemplary officer who will be missed."

  Joy didn’t need to see Jeffery's face. She'd seen the smug grin the first time they'd met in college. The slight tug at the corners, the wolfish glint of the eyes. Jeffery was working the crowd and winning, had the dozy journalists in the palm of her hands. Joy should have felt good about that. She didn’t. It irked her when Jeffery won. She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

  The speaker continued to crackle with Jeffery's voice. Another cottage fire. Another relic of historic Cumbria gone. A tragic accident that had left the village in shock. Hadn't there been a string of fires in old stone cottages?

  It sounded good. Jeffery's plan was working. Still, Joy wished she could see the hall with her own eyes. Just to make sure.

  Relax.

  Yes. She would get through this without a scratch. She still had her job in the prison service, still had the big money contract for the book. And there was plenty of time to write the last chapter. She could do it. Everything was going to turn out fine. No one would know what she'd done.

  She closed her eyes and was in a giant bookstore in New York City. A bright room where hordes of eager book buyers lined up to get their copy signed. The soft tinkle of a piano carried over the excited hum of the crowd. There was a red carpet too, the air filled with the sweet scent of expensive perfume, and she sat at an oak desk, like a queen on her throne. It all played out like a movie in her mind.

  It was as her heart slowed that Rodney Rawlings's voice hissed through the speaker.

  "Are you saying the fire was an accident?"

  "We have seen house fires across the coastal towns," Jeffery replied, her voice smooth. "Old beams, dry wood, and no smoke alarm. But it is the subject of an ongoing—"

  "Not arson, then?" Rodney Rawlings said, his voice filled with the sly shrill of a weasel. "Have forensics ruled it out?"

  "I can't comment on that."

  "I've been told PC Hoon took his own life. Can you confirm that?"

  "No comment."

  "Is there a link to the murders of Viv Gill and Pearl Smith?"

  Jeffery hesitated. "There has been a spate of house fires, and this appears to—"

  "Is this attack related to Mr Shred?"

  At the mention of Mr Shred, all hell broke loose. Here was a fresh news angle. Reporters yelled with the sharp yowls of a pack of dogs.

  "Gay Smith, BBC Look North. Are the public in danger?"

  Another shouted, "What can people do to protect their families?"

  And yet another. "How many more deaths before you catch the fiend?"

  "One at a time, please," came the tense voice of Tess Allen. "We will answer every question, but one at a time, please."

  Joy began to sweat. First on her palms, then it dripped from her brow to sting her eyes. Within moments, she sat in the cloying dampness of a fear-filled swamp. Soon she'd have to put on her girly voice. But with Jeffery on the rocks, she wasn’t sure she could pull it off.

  Suddenly Rodney Rawlings's voice carried above the yelps of the pack.

  "Can you tell us about the team running the investigation?"

  "You know I can't discuss operational matters," Jeffery replied.

  "Is Dr Joy Hall on the team?"

  "No comment."

  "You and she go way back, have a monthly pow-wow, good friends?"

  "What is your point?"

  "Are you aware Dr Hall has signed a big-dollar contract for a book about the hunt for Mr Shred?" Rodney Rawlings paused but only for a beat. "Has your friend cut you in on the deal? Can you comment on that?"

  Another round of yelps from the pack. Wild. Savage. Out for the kill.

  "This meeting is over," Jeffery yelled.

  Chapter seventy-nine

  It was quiet in the cloakroom.

  Except for the hiss of the speaker as it relayed the sounds of folks leaving St Bees Priory hall. The day had broken with a glint of hope, but now melancholia weighed on Dr Jo
y Hall's shoulders. What could she do? What would she say? There had to be a way out.

  She stared at the door that led to the hall and waited for Veronica Jeffery to appear.

  Her mind was racing. She couldn’t run; there was nowhere to hide, although both childish impulses gripped her tight. No! She could do better than that. She had a brain as sharp as a blade. There had to be another way. Then, as she felt the rapid thud of her heart against her tight chest, she found it. A glint in the dark.

  Yes! She'd tell Jeffery she'd made a big mistake. Throw herself on her friend's mercy. The two had been a team for years. Together, they moved through their careers to get to the top. They were superwomen. Ball breakers. But even superheroes make mistakes, right?

  The door eased open.

  Here we go, Joy told herself. Then her mouth dropped open.

  "Been a rough few days for you, luv?" Fenella said.

  "Where is Veronica?"

  "Why don't the two of us talk first, eh?"

  But she had to speak with Veronica. Had to get to her fast, before the detective made life difficult with her questions.

  Joy said, "Listen, it's not what you think."

  "Tell me what it is, then, pet?"

  Joy stared at the detective. The woman had such a soft face, and those eyes were so welcoming, like a priest. She'd not be fooled, though. She used the same soft voice and sad eyes when she wanted the men in Low Marsh Prison to talk.

  "I've nothing to say."

  "Rodney Rawlings says you sold us out."

  "He's a liar! Rodney Rawlings is a liar." Joy could not stop herself. The room spun. She fought for control. If she lost it, she was done. No! There was no way she'd admit anything. The rat-faced reporter had no evidence. Not unless he'd got a copy of her contract, and that was impossible. It was top secret. The publisher wouldn’t share it with anyone. It was just a guess by the rodent. She'd ride it out. They only had the word of Rawlings. If she played it cool, there was still a chance. No one had anything on her. How could they?