by N. C. Lewis
Fenella looked at Joy for a long while. Then her lips quirked at the corners. "So, you don’t have a book deal?"
"The only time I put pen to paper is to write psychological reports."
"Tell me about the attack."
"It was a blur. I recall nothing."
"We all thought it was Mr Shred. You convinced us of that."
"Someone tried to kill me!"
"Dr Kendi says it's nowt but a few scratches, self-inflicted. She has seen worse on Friday night when the youngsters drink too much and let it out in a brawl. Why don't you tell me what happened? You will feel so much better."
"I'm not a child!" Joy spat the words. Her left hand jerked in a slashing movement, right to left as she tore at the bandages on her face. "I'm a psychologist and your superior! Do you have a doctorate degree? I won't be talked down to; do you hear me?"
"Yes, luv. I hear you." Fenella paused a beat. "And since you are a doctor, you know it will help you feel better to talk. Come on, get it off your chest. What happened that night?"
Joy stood. "I have to speak with Veronica."
"Sit down, Dr Hall!"
Joy slowly sat. She felt like she was in a deep pit. The detective was throwing in sand so fast, it was up to her neck, and her body couldn’t move. She had to think fast, outwit the cow, and get to see her friend. Veronica would know what to do. Veronica would save her. Now she grasped at the tactic the men in Low Marsh Prison used when they didn’t want to open up.
"I have nothing more to say."
Fenella's voice turned harsh. "You knew about Viv Gill's letters to Hamilton Perkins, knew about his letters from Pearl Smith, knew everything about the man. After all, you spent years crawling about in his mind. I think you knew he wasn't in St Bees and led us on a wild-goose chase. Where were you the night Viv Gill died? And Pearl Smith? We know she died before we began our watch of Hemlock Woods. Where were you?"
Joy couldn’t breathe. She knew the question was asked to provoke a reaction. An ominous, low grumble of rage grew, but she had to stay calm. There was still a way out of this mess, and she would find it even if she had to crawl on her hands and knees.
Joy said, "I want to speak with Veronica."
"How much did the book folks pay you for the story?"
"It's a bunch of lies."
"Was it worth it, luv, selling your soul for a handful of coins?"
"I can’t believe you are asking me that," Joy shouted. "What do you take me for? I feel like I’ve suddenly been attacked by a person I trust and respect."
"Three people are dead, luv. It's my job to ask questions. Tell me about this book deal?"
"I do not have a book deal." Joy scrabbled to control herself but knew it was only a matter of time before she totally lost it. "How many more times do I have to say that? Rodney Rawlings is full of crap."
"Aye, you might be right on that." Fenella broke out into a grin. "It'll be easy enough to check, though. I've asked that nice Detective Constable Jones to have a word with your bank manager. You remember Jones, don't you? He's young and handsome, a whizz with numbers. If we don't see a big payment into your bank account from a book publisher, that would clear things up, wouldn’t it?"
Joy stared but did not speak. Her throat felt as if it were filled with dry sand. Sweat prickled on her forehead. Five seconds of silence. Her mind raced. There had to be a way out. Ten. Fifteen. She slumped into the wheelchair and sobbed.
Fenella said, "Aye, lass, let it all out. When you are done, we can talk."
Joy couldn’t control the tears. It wasn’t her fault. She was an undiscovered genius who the world needed to hear. Her book would light the path, and now this no-mark detective was trying to take her birthright away. Suddenly she became still.
"Listen, there is a way out of this." She dried her eyes and stared at Fenella. "A win-win for both of us."
"Go on, I'm listening."
"Let's face it, we are both public servants. And you and I both know what servants get paid—peanuts." Joy let her voice drop to a whisper. "That's what they feed to monkeys. Let's forget about this book deal nonsense… twenty percent."
"Twenty percent, luv?"
"Okay, thirty. What do you say?" Joy held her breath and watched the detective. "You'll be able to buy a new car and ditch that ancient Morris Minor."
An eerie silence followed. Ten seconds. Twenty. Half a minute.
Fenella said, "I don't suppose you have heard, but since you are on the team, I thought I should tell you about the news. We've not let on to the public or press yet, as the details came in not long ago. The firefighters found PC Hoon's body behind the bolted door of the basement. He was locked in, luv. Then the place set on fire. It wasn't suicide. It was murder. I'd not want to be part of that for any price."
"No... I… I have to speak with Veronica. Please!"
"I'm sorry, pet. Superintendent Jeffery told me to say goodbye."
Stunned, Joy jumped to her feet and screamed, "I'm not saying anything else. I want a solicitor. I want to speak with a lawyer."
"Aye, luv. I thought you'd say that." The outside door opened. Dexter strode in with Constable Jake Kent. "How about you take a ride to Port St Giles with these young men, and we'll all have a nice chat later in the police station."
Chapter eighty
On an impulse, Chad Tate closed the store and strolled in the crisp afternoon air across the village to Don's Café. He sat by the window and ordered a King Kong fry-up. It was a celebration of sorts. A greasy meal to mark the passing of PC Hoon. He glanced down at his bulging gut and realised he'd had too many fry-ups in the past few days. One for Viv Gill, another for Pearl Smith, and now for the village bobby.
Chad glanced at his watch, then glanced at the calendar on the café wall. It was Thursday, a little after two, his usual time to visit the café. What he thought was impulse was, in fact, the knee-jerk of his regular routine. He always came to Don's on Thursdays at two o'clock. Always ordered a King Kong fry-up. He gazed at the menu. He'd order something different next time.
A sharp tap on the window caused him to look up. A woman's face peered through the glass, slender, with long, grey hair and sharp eyes: Inspector Sallow. What did she want?
Before he collected his thoughts, she was standing at his table and talking. "I thought you might be in here. Thursday at two, as regular as clockwork, that's what I heard on my first visit at this café. Mind if I join you?" Fenella didn't wait for an answer, sat down, and glanced at the menu. "Black coffee over here, Don."
"Righto," came the reply, although Don was out of sight in the kitchen.
Fenella stared at Chad for a long while. At last, she said, "A little bird tells me you called in the fire at PC Hoon's cottage."
Chad didn't want to talk about it. Felt sick. Still, he sensed he would not get away with silence. Not with those sharp eyes watching him. He felt his pulse pound in his neck and said, "The fire caught hold so fast. Flames as tall as the trees. There was nothing I could do, except wait for the fire truck and watch."
"Odd that I did not see you in the crowd when I arrived," Fenella said. "Most folk would hang about to see what happened and give a statement to the police. Not you, though. You scampered off into the night."
It was true. He'd not hung about long after the police arrived. No way. He glanced at the kitchen as if anxious for his King Kong fry-up, but his stomach roiled like an acid-filled sea. She knew. He sensed it deep in his bones. His eyes drifted to his hands.
Don appeared and placed the mug in front of Fenella. "None of my business, but I saw Maude Hoon heading towards the priory. A broken woman. So sad." He hurried back to the kitchen.
Fenella took a sip, then said, "I read the report about your—"
"That is all"—Chad lifted his eyes and held her gaze—"in the past."
"But not forgotten, eh?"
He glanced back down at the tablecloth. "I'm not a violent man. I regret what I did in the church, paid for the damage, apologised for
my foul language. What more could I do?"
Fenella waited. She was good at the wait.
Chad said, "I think about them every day."
"Your wife and daughter?"
"We were only married seven years when they were killed. A hit-and-run outside St Bees Priory. Only four in the afternoon, but in November it was as dark as midnight." He lifted his eyes and once again held Fenella's gaze. "The police never found the driver."
"Aye, luv, I read all about it in the file. That's what the fête at the end of the month at St Bees Priory is about. I saw the poster in your shop window. Lark's Wish Fund, eh?"
"Lark was only five years old when she was taken from me," Chad said. "Raven-black hair, always tied with a pink bow. She wanted to join the St Bees Girl's Brigade but was too young. And she knew what she wanted to do when she grew up—become an officer for the coastguard. I think 'ship' was her next word after mummy and daddy."
"I see," Fenella said and waited.
"Lark's Wish is my way to honour her memory," Chad said. "This is its first year, and I wanted to raise enough to send 10 five-year-old girls to the coastguard science retreat in Prestwick." Chad dabbed his eyes. "We've had such a large response to our appeal for funds that the bank manager has been sending me statements every day. I've a stack of white envelopes under the counter in the store. It blows my mind how generous folks are. We've enough to pay for the installation of life rings along the beach as well as send twenty kids. We are only a small village. I'm not sure there will be enough takers, so I've ordered a dozen boxes of celery soda-flavoured lollipops from New York to help sweeten the deal. Encourage a few more kids to sign up, boys too. And I've got a freezer full of New York cherry ice cream and all-beef hot dogs. I think Lark would approve of that."
Chad cried.
Fenella waited. Don poked his head from the kitchen, gave her a sad look, dabbed at his eyes, and went back to work. A whistle drifted across the café. It came from the kitchen. Don. The melancholy tune touched a nerve of sadness in Fenella's heart: the Prince song "When Doves Cry." She thought of Eve. There was a chance her sister was alive. Rose and Lark Tate were gone forever.
Chad wiped his eyes. "I'm sorry. I've not been myself lately. Since Rose and Lark's death, I've been more watchful. Keeping an eye to see if any cars are speeding through the village. I don't want what happened to me to destroy another family. Don't want another child killed at the hands of a reckless driver. Not in St Bees. Not in my part of England." He looked out the café window. A truck rumbled along the lane, well within the speed limit. When it passed, he continued. "The mention of the police file set me off. It seems like yesterday and forever ago at the same time. I didn’t think the police did anything, let alone write a report."
"Aye, pet, we always write reports. Even if nowt comes of them today, there is always tomorrow." Fenella touched his arm. "I have to ask a difficult question. Goes with the job."
"Fire away."
"I also read about your allegations. You thought the driver was PC Hoon, didn't you?"
"It was him, but I could never prove it."
"And you show up at his burning cottage last night?"
"I was the one who phoned for help."
"Why were you outside his house?"
Chad didn’t miss a beat. "I've lived in the village a long time, cherish the memories of my wife and daughter. I'll never leave this place now and have a burial plot in the priory. But I thought it was about time that I found a new wife. A woman who wanted to spend the rest of her days in the village with me. Slim pickings, really."
"Go on, I'm listening."
"I'm an early riser. I open the store at six a.m. It is normal for me to be up and about early. I enjoy the quiet." Chad sighed. "I spend every evening watching grainy videos of my wife and daughter, obsessive, I know. But I miss my wife, Rose. Would love to marry again and have another daughter. But I'm a bit of a disaster with the opposite sex."
He fell silent. Fenella waited.
"I left the scene because I had a relationship with Maude Hoon," Chad said in a soft whisper. "I thought she wanted to be my wife, but she had her sights on bigger things."
"I see." Fenella sipped her coffee, but her eyes never left his face.
Chad wanted to explain. Speaking with the detective was like confessional with a priest. "On Monday evening, I closed the shop early and went to visit Maude because I heard PC Hoon had moved out. We had become close, and I thought it was a chance to grow our relationship, but she told me it was over."
"How long had you been seeing her?"
"Long enough for it to mean something to me." He paused for a moment, swallowed hard. "Listen, theirs wasn’t a happy marriage. Maude deserved better. PC Hoon was… well, I won't speak ill of the man now he is dead."
"But Mrs Hoon broke off the relationship with you on Monday?"
"She is going to marry Mr Clarke, the bank manager." Chad sighed. "I went to speak with Maude this morning, see if I could persuade her to change her mind. Mr Clarke is a ladies' man. You know he had a fling with Pearl Smith? Doubt if there is a single woman in the village who he has not bagged."
Fenella said, "Do you know if Mr Clarke had a relationship with Viv Gill?"
"I've heard rumours," Chad said mysteriously. He shook his head. "I don't see how he and Maude will last. Yes, he drives a big car, but life above a village store has its merits."
"King Kong fry-up," Don said, placing a large platter in front of Chad. "On the house, my American friend. Enjoy." He wandered back to the kitchen, whistling.
Fenella said, "Mrs Hoon wasn’t in when you arrived at the cottage?"
"I didn’t have the nerve to knock. When I visited on Monday, she was with Mr Clarke. He was wearing a blue bathrobe and pink socks, nothing else. So this time I just watched the cottage for a while, not sure for how long. Then I saw the flames and panicked that Maude was inside. I would have gone into the house to save her, but the fire was too fierce by the time I got to the door. That's when I called the fire service."
"Did you know PC Hoon was in the house?"
"I was shocked to hear you found his body. I thought he had a room with Mrs Lenz."
"Aye, so did I," Fenella said. "So you didn’t see PC Hoon go into the house?"
"No."
"Or anyone leave the cottage?"
He looked away. "No."
"Do you know Dr Joy Hall?"
"No."
"She works in Low Marsh Prison."
"I've never met her."
Fenella thought for a moment, then said, "And Vicar Briar?"
"What about him?"
"You didn’t see him at the Hoon cottage this morning?"
"I did not."
Fenella glanced through the window into the lane. A jay fluttered onto the pavement, walked a few paces and stretched its wings before taking to the air in a flash of black and blue. She watched it until it disappeared behind a roof. The last pieces of the puzzle had just fallen into place.
She gave a sad smile and said, "I'll send PC Finn to your store to take a formal statement later today." She stood. "Oh, and when you speak with her, I suggest you tell the truth. It's a criminal offense to give a false witness statement, not a kindness."
Chapter eighty-one
Fenella would like to have stayed in Don's Café and gobble down a King Kong fry-up. It had been a long day, and she was starving. But she had to get back to Port St Giles to interview Dr Joy Hall, and there were a few more tasks left to do in St Bees.
Still, she took her time as she strolled through the village. At the Pow Beck bridge, she stopped to watch the water rush along the bed of the stream. This was where it all began. Where Viv Gill was killed. They thought it was the work of Hamilton Perkins; now they all knew better.
"Dr Joy Hall," she said to the chill air. "How could you have been so… stupid!"
She sent a text to PC Beth Finn. A moment later came the reply. Yes, she was still in St Bees. Fenella replied and then said a pra
yer for Viv Gill and Pearl Smith and PC Hoon. She'd not let the killer get away. Her team would tie the case up so tight, there was no chance the bugger would be able to wriggle out of the charges, no matter how fancy the lawyer.
She walked the scenic route to St Bees Priory.
A puff of grey smoke curled from the entrance. Vicar Briar's deep-set, dark eyes watched, but he remained in the shadows.
"Can I have a word?" Fenella said.
He stepped from dark to light. His cassock wasn't the cleanest.
"Detective Sallow," he said in a cautious tone. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"You made yourself pretty scarce at the press conference," Fenella said. "Thought you would be centre stage, given that it took place in your church."
"A man of the cloth is always on the move." The vicar blew out a plume of smoke; it curled in tight circles upwards, then faded into the still air. "There were other pressing things to be done. A man of the cloth meets death every day. There have been many in this village. Viv Gill and Pearl Smith's deaths broke my heart. They had many years ahead. Good years, I hoped." He took another pull on the cigar and let the smoke out slow. "And there was the death of Rose and Lark Tate. Such a waste of life. And no one charged. That's why I encouraged Chad Tate to pull the positive from his bleak experience."
Fenella said, "The Lark's Wish Fund?"
"I told Chad to treat fundraising as a business. Come over as professional, radio interviews, newspapers, television and so on. If things heat up, he'll have to travel the county and beyond, speak at church halls, share his experience. He is not keen on leaving the village. But I urged him to do it for Rose and Lark. He was reluctant at first, but is coming around."
"I see," Fenella said and waited.
"I had a prearranged meeting with the bishop in Whitehaven at noon today. Lark's Wish was on the agenda. That's why I missed the press conference in my own church."
