Bones In the River

by Zoe Sharp

  She turned back to Yvonne to find her staring vacantly at the far skirting board.

  “Has Dylan ever…hurt the children?”

  That got a reaction, at least. Yvonne’s head jerked up and for the first time there was some fire behind her eyes.

  “No! He loves them kids.”

  “I’m sure, when we ask him, he’ll swear he loves you, too,” Grace said. “Didn’t stop him knocking you down the stairs, though, did it?”

  “That were accidental, like. He didn’t mean it…”

  Her voice trailed off, perhaps as the feebleness of the argument sounded hollow in her own ears.

  “So he’s never given the girls a bit of a cuff round the head when they were playing up?”

  “Well, that’s different, isn’t it? Not the same at all, if they was bein’ little buggers.”

  “And what about Jordan? If girls can be naughty, boys can be worse, can’t they?”

  Yvonne wagged a finger. “Oh, I know what you’re tryin’ to do. You’re tryin’ to put words in me mouth an’ it won’t work! Yeah, if any of the kids is really messin’ about, they get a bit of a slap, but no more’n that. Not like my dad used to—”

  She stopped abruptly, looked away.

  “Did your father hit your mother as well?”

  She nodded, sniffing as she crumpled the disintegrating tissue between her fingers.

  “And how did it make you feel, when he did?”

  That earned her another lacklustre shrug.

  “Did it ever make you wish she’d just found the courage to pack up and leave him? Got out of there and taken you with her?”

  “I knew she’d never do it,” Yvonne said sadly. “What’s the point of wishin’ for summat you know is never goin’ to happen?”

  Because that’s why it’s called a wish…

  “Besides,” she added, “leavin’ with half-a-dozen kids in tow, well, that’s easier said than done, eh?”

  And Grace knew Yvonne was no longer talking about her parents. Even if she now has only five children left…

  She raised an eyebrow. “Who says you would have to be the one who moved out?”

  Just for a moment, she saw the spark of hope like an ember in the ashes. Then it dulled and faded out to grey.

  “Like I said, I know I ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed,” she muttered, “but you must think I’m really dumb, if you expect me to fall for that one again.”

  Grace was genuinely puzzled and didn’t try to hide it. “Fall for what one again?”

  “For that load of guff. Oh, I know what you lot are like. You come in here, makin’ like you’re all sympathetic—makin’ all these big promises about how you’re gonna help me and the kids. Then, soon as you nick my Dyl’ for summat, boom, you’re off, an’ I don’t see you for dust.”

  “I’m not looking to arrest anybody for anything. It’s not my job. I just gather the evidence,” Grace said. “Professionally, it makes no difference to me if I leave here with photographs of what he’s done to your face or not. That’s not the reason I’m trying to help you.”

  “Why, then?”

  Grace sighed. “Partly because I dislike seeing any man treating any woman like dirt.”

  Yvonne’s face flushed even as the corner of her lip curled. “Sisterly solidarity, is that it?”

  “But mainly,” Grace went on, ignoring her snide comment, “it’s because I really hate knowing the effect it will have on your daughters, who will grow up thinking it’s normal behaviour—behaviour that’s acceptable—when you and I both know that it never has been and never should be.”

  70

  Nick sat alone in an office whilst, in an interview suite two rooms away, his life came apart at the seams.

  Modern interview rooms were different from the old days. There was no one-way glass wall posing as a mirror and fooling nobody. Instead, there was full video and audio monitoring, digital recording that caught every twitch and flicker, that could be zoomed and replayed and studied and picked apart.

  Sometimes, he wished it wasn’t so.

  After Dylan Elliot had finally provided his alibi, Nick had come down to Kendal with Pollock and Yardley to put that alibi to the test. They’d travelled in two cars—Pollock insisted on driving Nick’s Subaru. Yardley followed on in his own transport so he could take Pollock back up to Penrith afterwards.

  It was clear that the DI assumed such an emotional bomb blast would leave Nick in no fit state to drive. Nick himself wasn’t sure that was true. He felt shocked, yes, maybe a little numb, but distraught…? No—and that lack of devastation was a worry in itself.

  Even so, the realisation of what came next was excruciating.

  He wasn’t allowed in the room during the interview, but that was only to be expected, all things considered. So he was shut away in here with a pair of headphones and a flatscreen. That they were letting him suffer without witnesses was little consolation.

  In the interview suite, Yardley and Pollock had arranged themselves in the usual pattern around two sides of the table. Their interviewee sat facing the camera. On the surface, she seemed poised, immaculately made up and smartly dressed. But if you looked a little deeper there were signs of nerves and she was definitely on her way to anger. Fear often manifested itself that way.

  So did guilt.

  The trick was being able to spot the difference.

  Yardley went through the preliminaries in a completely neutral tone that impressed Nick. It gave absolutely nothing away.

  He knew the usual routine would mean a reassuring friendly introduction from Pollock came next. Their subject didn’t give them the chance.

  “Look, what’s this all about?” Lisa demanded, putting on what Nick always thought of as her telephone answering voice. “Why on earth am I here, Brian, being treated like a criminal?”

  That sent Nick’s eyebrows climbing. As far as he was aware, Pollock had met Nick’s girlfriend maybe two or three times, briefly, at the occasional police bash he’d attended—fundraisers and the last Christmas party. They’d been introduced, of course, but were not on the kind of close terms that should have allowed her to speak to him with such familiarity. He felt a sneaking admiration for her approach.

  “As I understand it, Lisa, you came here voluntarily to help us with our enquiries.”

  “Did I hell!” she shot back. “All I know is, I get a message from Nick asking me to meet him here—and where is he skulking, I’d like to know? And the next thing, I’m thrown in an interrogation cell with you pair of comedians, as if I’ve robbed a bank!”

  Yup. She’s definitely scared. He could hear it in the edge to her voice. Now, how much of that is to do with these knock-off handbags she was telling me about, I wonder?

  “If you mean you were invited—politely, I might add—to join us in an interview suite, with a cup of tea and a plate of ginger biscuits, aye, lass, that about sums it up.”

  She glared at Pollock but, wisely perhaps, didn’t respond.

  “Do you know why you’re here, miss?” Yardley asked.

  Lisa turned her attention on the young detective, eyed him speculatively. Yardley wasn’t used to Lisa’s brand of predatory confidence. Although Nick couldn’t see his eyes, he caught the way his head ducked and he fidgeted with the paperwork in front of him.

  Don’t show weakness, Dave, or she’ll eat you for breakfast.

  “Surprise me,” she said icily.

  “Do you know a man called Dylan Elliot?”

  She blinked, just once. “Y–yes. Yes, I do,” she went on, with more confidence. “He’s a friend of my brother’s. Why?”

  “Is that all he is—just a friend of your brother’s?” Pollock asked. “Karl, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Ah, that’s strange, miss, because Dylan reckons it was you who introduced him to Karl, not the other way around.”

  “Might have been. Can you remember exactly how you met any of your friends? That’s always suppos
ing you have any, of course.”

  From the camera angle, slightly overhead, Nick saw the tips of Yardley’s ears flush red. Pollock took pity on him and stepped in.

  “So, how well would you say you know this particular ‘friend’ then?”

  She shrugged. “Just socially, you know. I see him out around town every now and again.”

  “With Karl?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes he’s with other mates, or maybe on his own.”

  “And you didn’t happen to see him ‘around town’ last week, did you? Tuesday night, perhaps?”

  She was starting to look shaken now, shifting in her chair as if it had suddenly become a bed of thistles. “I–I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

  Pollock watched her squirm. “Oh, dear. That doesn’t speak well to young Dylan’s prowess, now does it?”

  “Is he saying we were…?”

  Yardley said, “Dylan claims that he met up with you, by prior arrangement, at your business premises, after hours on the evening in question and the pair of you”—he took a breath—“were ‘at it like rabbits’ in the aromatherapy massage suite at the back of the shop.”

  If Lisa went any whiter, Nick considered, she’d disappear into the beige paint on the wall behind her. “It’s a hair and beauty salon, not a shop, thank you very much!”

  “Frankly, I don’t care if it’s a bloody sewage treatment works,” Pollock said blandly. “And I care even less if you were discussing the metaphysical poets or shagging like two ferrets in heat. Can you confirm he was with you or not?”

  “Aren’t I allowed to say ‘no comment’ or something like that?”

  “Well, love, you could do but, to be quite honest, if you’re going to say ‘no comment’ instead of a straightforward ‘no’, that’s as good as a ‘yes’ at this stage.”

  Lisa sat for a long moment in silence, biting her lip, then nodded.

  “If you would speak please, miss,” Yardley said. “For the benefit of the tape.”

  Her head shot up, eyes blazing. “Yes! All right? Yes, he was with me. We were having sex and I enjoyed every minute of it! Happy now?”

  And with that she burst into tears.

  Nick, peeling off the headphones with a feeling of nausea in the pit of his stomach, felt like doing much the same thing.

  71

  One of the takeaway food places in Appleby had local radio playing, and that’s where Queenie heard the news.

  Had it confirmed for her, anyway.

  The bones in the river, they said, had been officially identified as those of Owen Liddell. The police investigation was described as “ongoing” with no further details given. And now the weather…

  Queenie paid for her fish supper, only vaguely aware of the paper-wrapped parcels hot and damp in her hands, the smell of vinegar sharp in her nose. It was as if the outside world had taken a step back away from her, leaving her hearing muffled and sight blurry. She stumbled out into the warmth of the still-bright early evening and shivered, pulling her shawl more tightly around suddenly goose-bumped arms.

  So, my sweet Owen has been dead all these years between then and now. I was right to think him cold for cutting me off without a word. Only the reason for it that was wrong…

  She’d left Ocean sitting on the steps below the sundial on its pillar. He was supposed to be keeping an eye on his sister but when Queenie came along Low Wiend, it was only Sky she saw. The little girl had elbows on knees and chin on her fists, looking in bad humour to be left to her own devices. She was a bright little racaire, a chatterbox, who loved nothing more than an audience she could entertain.

  Queenie hurried over to her. “Sky! Where’s your brother?”

  Sky jerked her head toward the cloisters at the front of St Lawrence’s Church as she reached for a parcel. Queenie didn’t like them to eat food she hadn’t cooked herself at home, so this was a treat associated only with time at the Fair.

  Her eyes followed the direction the girl had shown and her heart broke into a gallop.

  Standing in the centre archway was Ocean, right enough. Hands in the pockets of his jeans, rocked back on his heels, still wearing his yellow waistcoat over the shirt the lady had rinsed through for him. It was a pose she’d seen her own brother take, too many times to count—Bartley, too.

  And the thought that her boy was growing up, that he would soon be beyond her call or reach made her throat close up with sorrow.

  But not as badly as the sight of the man he was speaking with.

  The two of them stood easy, with no unease or ill-will between them. For all the world like a couple of fellows exchanging the craic.

  Only, the last time Queenie had seen the man, she had been holding a dagger to his groin.

  “Here, take these and leave them wrapped,” she said to Sky, pushing the rest of the parcels toward her. The girl had a particular liking for the crispy bits of batter, and had been known to take her pick from everyone’s plate as well as her own.

  Queenie strode over the road, wishing she still had her dagger about her.

  Even so, when the man caught sight of her, he couldn’t prevent a flinch of reaction that went a little way toward reassurance.

  But not far enough.

  He stood his ground and let her come to him. And just before she did, his two pals stepped out from the shadows of the cloister and loitered, meaningfully.

  “Ah, we meet again, gudlo-pishen,” he said without expression. His eyes slid to Ocean. “Got that right, did I? A honey bee, eh?”

  “Describes you, right enough, Ma.” Ocean nodded and threw her a cocky grin. “Sweet as honey, but beware the sting if you rile her.”

  “Go get your supper, before your sister steals the bits you fancy,” she said, not taking her eyes from the man’s.

  She knew without looking that Ocean’s gaze flicked between them, picking up the vibe but not the reason why.

  When he’d swaggered over to join his sister, Queenie turned her back on the two of them so they couldn’t see the storm clouds gathering in her face, her eyes, and leaned in.

  “What the devil d’you think you’re all about, hanging around my kids?” she demanded in a savage whisper. “I’ve said you’ll have the colt, haven’t I?”

  “You have,” Karl agreed. “I’m just making sure you know I’m to be taken seriously, eh? You even think about not going through with our bargain and, well…it wouldn’t take Gypsy Rose Lee and a crystal ball to tell you that pair won’t have much of a future.”

  She felt what little colour was left in her face drop out of it. Her hands clenched into fists by her sides.

  “And you’d best heed the warning I gave you, also,” she threw back at him.

  He glanced sideways and his pals closed in a little further. He smirked in response, full of bluster, let his eyes walk down her body and back up again in a way that made her want to scrub in the river.

  “That’s the thing about honey bees. They sting if you push ’em, like, but they can only do it once and then they’re dead…”

  72

  Nick was leaning on the railing outside Kendal police station, hands stuffed into his pockets, when the doors opened and Lisa hurried out. She had her head down and the collar of her jacket turned up, as if hoping not to encounter anyone she knew.

  She didn’t see Nick until he called her name. Then she froze and turned reluctantly to face him. Her eyes were swollen from crying, her face pale as mist. She braced herself, though, lifted her chin as if preparing to take whatever verbal blows he might throw.

  Nick took one look at her brittle defiance and swallowed any words of reproach. He straightened, closed until they were almost toe to toe. A welter of emotions crossed her face in the time it took. They stood there for a long moment, staring at each other without speaking.

  At last, Nick said, “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

  He pulled out his keys and walked away without waiting for her to follow. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would have do
ne had she failed to do so.

  In truth, his over-riding feeling was…ambivalence. Oh, he could rant and rave, call her all the names that men tended to use for women who betrayed them sexually, but he wasn’t sure he could work up the energy.

  He was almost at his car when he heard the clip of her heels behind him. He stopped, looked back. Her steps faltered, almost fearful, as if he was about to change his mind. Her sudden, uncharacteristic timidity wearied him for some reason. Perhaps because he was sharply reminded of Yvonne Elliot.

  “What is it you think I’m going to do?” When she didn’t answer, he sighed, went around to the passenger side and opened the door for her. “Just get in, Lisa.”

  It wasn’t until they pulled up at the traffic light onto Windermere Road that she asked, in a small voice, “So, what are you going to do?”

  He let his hands drop from the wheel into his lap, his head fall back against the seat.

  “I wish I knew. I need a bit of time to get my head around it. This has been dropped on me, don’t forget.” He glanced across at her but she continued to stare rigidly straight ahead. “Why, what were you planning to do—when I found out?”

  He carefully didn’t say “if”.

  She carefully didn’t correct him.

  Instead, in a more detached voice, she said, “I…suppose I hoped it would have blown itself out before then.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you? Do you really, Nick?” She twisted to face him as the light dropped to green and he pulled away. “I like sex. I always have. Even after the baby and everything, I still need sex. But since I moved back in last winter, you’ve hardly touched me.”

  Nick clenched his jaw with the effort it took not to say, “Oh, so this is all my fault?”

  But he took the ninety-degree corner onto Sandes Avenue at the bottom of the hill too fast, chirruping the tyres. Lisa threw him a glance, bracing herself on the centre console, but didn’t comment.

  “How do you know Dylan Elliot, if not through your brother?”