Bones In the River

by Zoe Sharp

  “Just me, and Bartley, and Jackson. And I don’t think he said a word to anyone—not even those two lads who go about with him, although one or other would’ve been his bottle man in the fight, no doubt.”

  “What if another steps up for Jackson—wants to take his place and take on Bartley? Some cooromengro you’ve had no dealings with before. What then?”

  “Well then, I’m sure we can have a quiet word between us, form an alliance of some kind.”

  He was trying to placate—she could hear it in his voice, but still the anger welled in her. “I can’t believe you’d encourage Bartley to go up against that giant. He swore to me he’d put all that behind him.”

  “It was a chance for some good luvvo,” Vano protested. “Too good to turn away.”

  “Dinnelo! What use is money if he’s crippled or killed?”

  He stared her down. “Now then, if that’s the way things are, you’d know as well as I do that the only thing of any use is money.”

  Queenie closed her eyes a moment. When their father was ill—dying—and it was either continue in one stay for him to get the care he needed, or travel and work… Well, yes, then they had known what it was like to go without.

  “And just who was this local gorgio you were meeting?”

  But he shook his head, a stubborn jut to his chin. “Nobody you’ve met.”

  “Yet,” Queenie put in, ignoring his scowl. As a thought came to her, she asked abruptly, “Was that why you camped down at Water Yat, the night the young chavo went missing—to meet with the gorgio?”

  Reluctantly, he nodded. “This was nothing to do with us. They’ve nothing on us.”

  “Oh, you think they need proof to condemn us now?” She fisted her hands into his shirt and shook him. “Don’t you know what you’ve done? The word has spread. Two of the pubs in the town turned us away today because of the chavo who came dead out of the river. We were there when he was lost and we were there when he was found again. And now even those who’ve been friends to us in the past are turning against us. And if you can’t see—”

  But Vano just slapped her hands away and pushed her—a hard shove to the chest that stole her breath and made her stumble.

  “As I said before, you best watch your mouth, my sister. If that rom of yours is not willing to put you in your place, I am.” His face, his voice, was tight with anger. “I’m man of this family and I won’t be held to account by a chi such as you!”

  Trembling, Queenie watched him stride away. And a part of her mind numbly registered that the Romani word chi not only meant child, daughter, or girl.

  It also meant nothing.

  47

  As Nick walked into the CID office at Hunter Lane, DC Yardley spun in his chair to face him.

  “Ah, the very man.”

  Some residual wariness put a momentary hitch in Nick’s stride. It took him a second to remember that things had moved up to a slightly friendlier level in recent months.

  “What’s up?”

  “Well, mate, I’ve been digging up the dirt on the pair of gyppos who—”

  Nick paused again, halfway through sliding his jacket onto the back of his seat, to give Yardley a hard stare. “You what?”

  Unabashed, the other man merely grinned at him. “Sorry—I meant to say the ‘two esteemed members of the Travelling community’, of course.”

  Nick sighed. “I know you think it’s only a word, Dave, but you can’t deny it’s an attitude as well. Can you imagine if anybody here used that kind of derogatory slang to describe someone who was black? Or a woman? Pollock would kick their arse for them. And quite right, too.”

  “OK, reverend, I take your point.” Yardley held up both hands in surrender that was not quite as mock, or mocking, as it might have been. “Now we’ve got that out of the way, you interested in what I’ve found out or not, eh?”

  “Of course.”

  They moved across to the murder boards. Half the time, they had no need for a board at all. Now they had two going at the same time—one for the bones labelled ‘Eden Man’ and one ‘Jordan Elliot’.

  While he was out, Nick noticed that Yardley had written ‘Owen Liddell?’ under ‘Eden Man’. Next to it was a hastily printed-out DVLA picture from Liddell’s driving licence. The image did Owen no favours but, until his sister dug out something better, it was all they had.

  “Have we had confirmation on Liddell yet?” Yardley asked, picking up a marker pen.

  Nick shook his head. “I’m waiting for Dr Onatade to compare his medical and dental records.”

  Yardley pulled a face. “Shame, because if it is him, I had some big news for you. Well, it might still be big news but—”

  “Just get on with it, Dave, will you?”

  Yardley came over all businesslike. “Care to take a guess who was nicked for beating up Liddell eleven years ago?” Nick glared at him and he grinned again, pinning up a picture Nick recognised onto the Liddell board.

  “Vano Smith,” Nick murmured.

  “The very same,” Yardley agreed, drawing a connecting line between the two boards. “Back then he was of No Fixed Abode, although he now has an address in Sheffield. Bit of form but nothing violent. Couple of ‘handling stolen goods’ but mostly traffic and trespass offences going back donkey’s years, from just about every force in the country.”

  “What about offences on our patch?” Nick asked.

  Yardley glanced at the print-out in his hand. “Last one was…eight years ago, by the looks of it. He was pulled over in Kirkby Stephen for leaving the scene of an accident, no number plate lights, and neither he nor his passenger were wearing their seatbelts.”

  “Sounds like a real Al Capone,” Nick said dryly. “Nothing since then?”

  “Not round here, anyway.” He wagged a finger. “And hey, they caught Capone for tax fraud in the end, don’t forget, mate. He didn’t exactly go out in a blaze of glory.”

  “All right, all right. What about the second guy?”

  “One Patrick Doherty. Also of No Fixed Abode at the time. And there we hit a problem.”

  Nick glanced at him. “No photo?”

  Yardley shook his head. “Apparently we had a big purge of old custody photos after some ruling by the High Court a few years ago. One of the associations who deal with the legal rights of gy—er, the Travelling community—made a mass application to have the arrest photos of all ‘unconvicted persons’ deleted.”

  “No driving licence pic or anything?”

  “Nope. The original arrest record said he was an Irish feller, though, so maybe he went back over there?”

  “Hm.” Nick studied the picture they did have, of Vano Smith. He remembered the man’s cocky self-confidence when he’d tried to speak with him.

  “So,” Yardley said with another grin when Nick didn’t immediately comment further, “it looks like you’re going to have to take another run at those dragons, eh, St George?”

  “Who’s doing what with dragons?” demanded Pollock as he came striding in. “Because I’m pretty sure they’re currently out of season.”

  Superintendent Waingrove was hot on Pollock’s heels. A tall rangy woman with the wide shoulders of a swimmer, her ability to play the political game earned her both admiration and distrust among the lower ranks. Both DCs shot to their feet at the sight of her, murmuring, “Ma’am,” as they did so.

  “Sit,” she said, as you would a pair of dogs. Her gimlet eye landed on Nick. “I understand you may have identified our mystery man, DC Weston. Let’s hear it.”

  Nick wasn’t sure why he should have been surprised that she knew his name but he was a little unsettled by it, even so. He pinned on a neutral expression and gave her the bare facts of it, then sent the ball firmly onto Yardley’s side of the court to explain about the men who’d been arrested—if not charged—with Owen Liddell’s assault.

  “Hm, not bad—both of you,” she said when they were done, sounding strangely disappointed to be dishing out such praise. Sh
e turned to Pollock. “Brian—plan of attack?”

  “Looks like dragons might be in season after all,” Pollock said with just a flicker of humour in his tone. “We could try asking the Gardai in Dublin what they have on this Patrick Doherty. But my money’s on this Vano Smith—if anyone knows where Doherty is, it’s probably him.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “So, Vano Smith is connected to both our victims. If we want to scoop him up, though, we may have to go in mob-handed.”

  “Absolutely not,” Waingrove thundered. “As head of the multi-agency committee, I will submit a request that this man voluntarily consents to interview—that’s always supposing he is present at this year’s event, obviously. But there will be no heavy-handed tactics, is that understood?”

  “With all due respect, ma’am, FLO has already confirmed his presence, and this is a murder enquiry.” Pollock’s voice was deceptively mild. “If this lad did have anything to do with either Jordan Elliot or Owen Liddell’s deaths, he’s hardly likely to agree to just hand himself over, is he?”

  “These are people who have dealt with prejudice and racial slurs their entire lives,” Waingrove said. “Besides anything else, the only way we can police the annual Fair is with the co-operation and support of the Travelling community.” Behind Waingrove’s back, Yardley rolled his eyes. “Otherwise, it would be chaos. And with the leadership situation in a state of flux,” she went on, “we don’t want to do anything that might provoke them into electing a Shera Rom who is more…militant, shall we say.”

  “Ma’am,” Pollock acknowledged shortly. Waingrove shot him a narrow-eyed glare but he’d kept it just a sliver the right side of insolence.

  “I’m glad we understand each other, detective inspector,” she said tightly. Her gaze skimmed over Nick and Yardley. “So, find a way to talk to these people that doesn’t involve starting a riot, yes?”

  48

  “What was that?”

  Grace paused, frowning. “What was what?”

  They were partway along the evocatively named Doomgate, a narrow street that ran parallel to the main thoroughfare, with rows of houses cheek by jowl on either side, their front steps leading straight out onto the footpath.

  Grace had been checking the images on the rear view-screen of the Canon as they walked back up the hill toward her mother’s house. She would be the first to admit that she was not paying her fullest attention to what might be going on about them.

  “You always were in a world of your own,” Eleanor said, smiling. She checked up and down the street, stepped off the kerb and started to cross over. As far as Grace could see, they were the only ones in sight. She slung the camera onto her shoulder by its strap and followed.

  Up ahead, on the left, was a narrow gap between the terraces—no doubt an access ginnel to the tiny yards at the rear of each property. As they neared, Grace heard the sounds of a scuffle, muffled blows and grunts. She put a hand on Eleanor’s arm.

  “Mum, just wait a moment, will you?”

  “Wait?” Eleanor repeated in an affronted whisper. “It sounds like someone’s taking a beating and you want me to wait?”

  “Yes, I want you to wait here while I take a look. I am the professional here, after all.”

  “I hate to break this to you, darling, but strictly speaking you’re not actually a police officer.” Eleanor looked about her, as if hoping one might magically appear at any moment. With the number of them present in the town, Grace considered, it wasn’t an unreasonable prospect.

  Still there was no-one else in view. She sighed.

  “No, I’m not,” she agreed, “but they won’t know that, will they?”

  She slipped the camera bag off her shoulder, dropped it behind the nearest parked car, and handed the camera over to her mother. Then she took a deep breath and stepped into the open end of the ginnel.

  The fight was five against one. Hardly fair, even if two of the attackers seemed to be playing little part in the proceedings other than egging-on the rest. If any of them were yet in double figures, Grace would have been very surprised.

  And that, somehow, made it all the more shocking.

  Their victim was on the ground. She caught no more than a glimpse, his back hard up against the stonework, arms curled protectively around his head. They had given up with their fists and were now using their feet, kicking him in desultory bursts. The grunts she and Eleanor heard were from that effort. The boy on the ground made no noise at all.

  “And just WHAT do you think YOU’RE doing?” Grace thundered in her best taking-charge-of-a-crime-scene voice.

  The kids leapt back in conditioned response. For a moment she saw them hesitate, as if unsure whether to bluff it out or run. She sensed movement behind her, snapped her head sideways to see Eleanor had completely ignored her instruction and was now standing at the mouth of the ginnel. She had the Canon raised to her eye as if about to record their wrongdoing.

  That was enough to make the kids scatter. They bolted for the far end of the alleyway in a clatter of boots on cobbles, and disappeared from view.

  Grace had no intention of trying to catch up with them. Instead, she threw her mother a brief look of reproach and hurried to the boy on the ground.

  Tucked in tight like a hedgehog, he still hadn’t moved. But when Grace gently touched his shoulder he flinched. It was the only outward sign of consciousness.

  “It’s all right. They’ve gone. You’re OK.”

  For a few moments longer, he remained motionless, then he brought his hands down very slowly and raised his head.

  And at once she recognised him as the Gypsy boy she’d last seen through the lens of her camera—he and the little girl she took to be his sister. Apart from a nasty cut to his forehead, his arms had saved his face from damage, although his eyes were bloodshot and swollen. He knuckled away the tears that streaked his cheeks, scowling furiously. Grace understood his distress—as much at being caught in a position of weakness as at the physical harm.

  So she didn’t touch him, as instinct urged her to do. And she held Eleanor back when she would have done the same.

  Treat him as the man he’s desperate to be.

  She stepped back, curbed the words of sympathy and comfort, and instead asked, “Can you stand?”

  He glanced up at her then, a wary surprise in his face. After a moment, he thinned his mouth and gave a small nod. Grace hardened her grip on Eleanor’s arm as he struggled to rise, leaning heavily on the stonework behind him for support. As he straightened, some inner pain snagged him. He sucked in a breath that, in turn, made him cough, and that doubled him over again.

  Eleanor wrenched free and crouched beside him, her arm around his bony shoulders. Over his head, her gaze met Grace’s with concern.

  “We need to get him to a hospital or, at the very least, a doctor,” she said. “Even the St John’s Ambulance, if they’re here.”

  “No!” the boy said instantly. His voice was high and cracked. It set him coughing again and he bent into it, banding his arms around his ribs while he did so.

  “Well, we certainly need to get him off the street,” Grace said. She frowned, thinking through the logistics of it. “If I—”

  Before she could get much further, a warbling tune she recognised began to play. Eleanor ignored it. Grace rolled her eyes. She can hear a street fight in an alley but can’t recognise her own mobile.

  “Mum, that’s your phone ringing.”

  “Oh yes, so it is.” Eleanor pulled the phone out of her bag and checked the incoming caller. “Oh, this might be rather handy,” she said, and pressed a button. “Max! How lovely. Where are you?”

  She must have had the volume up high because even without the phone on speaker, Grace heard Max say, “Sitting outside your house, darling. More to the point, where are you?”

  “So you’re in your car. Excellent, I’ll guide you to us.” And she walked back toward Doomgate with the phone still to her ear, leaving Grace and the boy eyeing each other with caution.
>
  “That lady is my mother,” Grace said. “She lives at the top of the hill here. We’ll take you back there and get you patched up, is that OK?”

  The boy said nothing. She could almost see the warring emotions flitting across his features, so she added, “You don’t want them to know they hurt you, do you?”

  “What, those gorgios who set about me?” he asked with a sneer. “What do I care about them?”

  Grace didn’t rise to that. “I didn’t know any of those kids,” she said. “But I recognised the look of them. And they weren’t locals, were they?”

  The boy’s eyes narrowed. “That’s racial stereotyping, that is.”

  “No, it’s using my observational skills. Local kids wear trainers, or sandals. The boys were in boots—proper boots with steel segs at the toes and heels, as you must know to your cost. And they were dressed too smartly—all in their best. Local kids wouldn’t bother, just for the Fair. But for the Travelling folk this is an important occasion. You dress for it, make a show.”

  She paused, watching his glower increase as he searched for a comeback, a denial, and couldn’t find his way into one. Finally, he slumped, lifted one shoulder in defeat.

  “What did they have against you?”

  “’S’nothing,” he muttered.

  At the end of the ginnel, Grace saw Max’s car pull to a halt. Eleanor waved her forward. She glanced at the boy. “Hm, well, before they decide to come back and finish the ‘nothing’ they started, shall we get you out of here?”

  49

  “Well,” Chris Blenkinship said, “that’s a bit shit, isn’t it?”

  “I’m glad you think it’s funny,” the bar manageress shot back. “You’re not the one who spent three hours this morning scrubbing that barbecue.”

  They stood in the beer garden of the Lady Anne’s Arms, looking at a substantial brick barbecue with a gleaming stainless steel grille suspended over a tray already filled with charcoal and chips of hickory, ready for the lunchtime rush.