Bones In the River

by Zoe Sharp

  It wasn’t the question he wanted to ask, by any means, but it was probably the safest option.

  Even so, her eyes flashed and she tried for bravado that didn’t quite overcome her embarrassment. “So, you were listening in.”

  “Wouldn’t you, if you’d been interviewing a suspect in the death of his own child”—OK, not technically correct, but she doesn’t need to know that—“and he gave up my name as his alibi?”

  The next set of lights turned red against him, too. He braked late and hard. For once, he couldn’t care less about mechanical sympathy.

  “I’ve known Dylan since we were teenagers,” Lisa said then. “We…went out together for a bit—nothing serious. It was before I went to train at the salon in Manchester.”

  Which, Nick recalled, was where he and Lisa had met, after an attempted robbery. Still in uniform back then, he’d been first on scene.

  “How…long?” he asked, and didn’t need to specify he was talking about the present, not the past.

  “’Couple of months,” she muttered, which meant at least three and probably four. Practically since she moved back from her parents’ place and brought little Sophie back with her.

  “You do know he’s married, yeah? With six kids?”

  Make that five…

  “Yes, I do know he’s married. And I do know how many kids he’s got. Why do you think he was looking for something extra? His wife is too knackered looking after that little lot to want to—”

  She broke off abruptly, which told Nick more than he wanted to know about Dylan’s sexual appetites. He accelerated away from the lights and took the next corners quickly enough to keep Lisa silent. When they slowed again for Miller Bridge over the River Kent, she said, “It was just a fling. We were both of us just…scratching an itch, Nick. It didn’t mean anything.”

  “What about Sophie?”

  “W–what about her?”

  “What about the effect all this might have on our daughter?” Where was she while you and Dylan were ‘at it like rabbits’ in the back of the salon?

  “Well, unless we’re going to have screaming matches in front of her, why should it have any effect?”

  The side road to their flat in the Old Organ Works was coming up. Nick stuck his indicator on but pulled over to the kerb rather than turning off the main road.

  “I don’t want her to get…confused about where home is.” About who her parents are.

  Lisa sat for three beats with a growing look of anguish on her face.

  “Nick… When I came back, I thought you wanted to make a proper go of things—between us, I mean.”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Yes, but…” She bit her lip, hesitant now. “Because of me? Or because of Sophie?”

  For a second he sat immobile, unable to force an answer—the right answer—past his lips.

  She nodded, as if he’d spoken anyway, and that broke him out of it.

  “What about you, Lisa? Did you want to make a proper go of things?” he asked softly. “Only, if you found an old boyfriend so hard to resist, it doesn’t exactly sound like your heart was in it, hey?”

  She stared at him, eyes starting to fill again.

  “And if it wasn’t,” he went on, “then the fact that Sophie might have been missing her daddy wasn’t a good enough reason for us to get back together. She could have spent half the week with each of us. We could have worked something out.”

  Lisa bit her lip and said nothing. A car pulled out at the last minute to go around them, squeezed by traffic in the other lane. The driver blew his horn.

  Nick sighed. “I need to get back to work. If Dylan didn’t kill the boy, we’re back to square one.”

  She nodded, unclipped her seatbelt and slid out of the car. But instead of closing the door she leaned down, met his gaze.

  “I am truly sorry, Nick.”

  “Yeah,” he said tiredly, “so am I.”

  73

  By the time he’d wrapped up the examination of Dylan Elliot’s vehicle and written his report for DI Pollock, Blenkinship felt lighter than he had in days. He didn’t wait until he was back in Carlisle. Instead, after he’d sent Frost home, he perched in a corner of the workshop with his laptop, tapping furiously at the keys, eager to get the whole thing down and delivered.

  He’d been, not worried, exactly, but certainly concerned about finding the scrap of torn fabric himself. Having Frost turn up just at the right moment, and offer his assistance, was the perfect solution. This way, Blenkinship was one step removed. It would not be his name on the dotted line.

  Or, perhaps more importantly, on the witness stand when the case eventually came to trial.

  What could be better than that?

  In fact, when he’d suggested, oh-so casually, that Frost should be the one to test and analyse his find, the young CSI had actually looked grateful.

  “You sure, boss?” he’d asked. “I thought, you know—case like this—you’d want to do it yourself, like?”

  “No, no, credit where it’s due, Ty.” And, just in case the lad thought he was going soft on him, he added, “Besides, if you can’t be trusted to do the job right, I’ve been wasting my time training you, eh?” And there were enough echoes of Blenkinship’s well-regarded predecessor in that to put the lad’s mind at rest.

  Blenkinship finally hit Send and the email zapped along the wires to Pollock’s inbox, report attached, with a copy to Frost. He was still feeling buoyed up as he sauntered out of the workshop. He checked his watch.

  Not too late. Might see if I can grab a table somewhere and take Susanne out for dinner. Probably owe her a nice meal, seeing how on edge I’ve been this past week. Still, I can put that down to the Horse Fair…

  He was even smiling as he walked toward his car. He’d parked it nose-out. Now the body shop who had the contract for all the police vehicles had finished the repairs, the front end looked good as new. No sign of any scuffs or dents. They’d turned it around in record time for him, with a bit of persuading. No point in being in a position of power if you didn’t wield it every now and again.

  Blenkinship felt he could, at last, begin to relax. Like he’d turned a corner, and it was all going to be all right from here on in.

  “Evening, Chris. How’s it going?”

  He hadn’t heard anyone approach and he turned fast, startled. He recognised DC Yardley right away. They played on the same Sunday league five-a-side team, although working shifts meant there was a fair sized pool of players.

  Blenkinship, who’d been considered for a career in the beautiful game at one point, thought of himself as a near-professional among amateurs. But even he had to admit that Yardley had a modicum of talent.

  “Ah, hi Dave. Not bad, thanks. How’s about yourself?”

  “Bit crap, really,” Yardley admitted. “Thought we’d got our feller. Turns out he’s got an alibi. Would you credit it, eh?”

  Like a rock crashing through the icy surface of a lake, Blenkinship felt his composure heave and splinter. “W–what? You’re not talking about Dylan Elliot are you? But… I thought you had him bang to rights! The kid wasn’t his, and he lied about not going out. What happened, man?”

  The report! Damn, I’ve emailed it to Pollock and there’s no way I can get into his system now. Not without leaving a trail even that technological dinosaur could follow. Come on, think, man, think!

  “Claims he’s known the kid wasn’t his for years, and says the reason he lied about his whereabouts was because he was over in Bowness, having it away with Nick Weston’s girlfriend.” Yardley’s tone was a mixture of smugness that such a thing could, of course, never happen to him, and shocked glee that it had, in fact, happened to one of his colleagues.

  If Elliot’s in the clear, how the hell do we excuse the ‘evidence’ we’ve just ‘found’ on his car?

  “Well, bugger me,” Blenkinship said faintly, his mind in freefall. “You sure Elliot’s not just trying for a wind-up?”

 
Yardley shook his head. “We’ve just had her in for interview down at Kendal nick and she admitted it. She and Weston have a kid together and everything—poor bugger. He must be steaming.”

  “Aye, he must…” But Blenkinship couldn’t help the feeling of savage satisfaction. If, in the course of a few moments, it had all gone horribly wrong for him then at least misery had company.

  “And that’s not the only thing,” Yardley went on, apparently oblivious to the grenade he’d tossed under Blenkinship’s feet. “A couple who live just down the valley from the Elliots rang in. Reckon they saw young Jordan ride past their cottage on Tuesday night, at a time when Dylan’s lady friend claims he was with her, thirty-odd miles away.”

  “Why the heck are they only coming forward now with this?”

  Yardley threw him a sideways glance. “Been away for a few days, apparently. Only got back today and heard the news reports, so…”

  Blenkinship tuned him out, mind working furiously.

  Wait a minute… Frost came straight from doing that damn drone survey, didn’t he? I’m sure he mentioned they’d found trace evidence of some kind in the river. There’s no reason why the lad couldn’t have got a bit…carried away with the idea, is there? He’s still young, inexperienced.

  And I gave him responsibility for gathering important evidence. Well, he wouldn’t have been human if he hadn’t tried to put a belt and braces on it, eh?

  He hardly heard Yardley’s next words—something about getting home to his missus. She was about to pup, Blenkinship recalled. He made what he hoped were the right noises and muttered about still having work to do.

  He watched Yardley climb into his car and drive off with a jaunty wave. When he’d gone, Blenkinship doubled back, and hastily put together a carefully worded follow-up email to Pollock, saying, in a roundabout way, that since sending in his report on Elliot’s vehicle, he’d re-examined some of CSI Frost’s working methods and ‘had some concerns over the integrity of the evidence gathered.’ He would carry out his own inspection immediately and communicate the results as quickly as possible.

  And he made sure, when he hit Send this time, that Ty Frost was not on the recipients list.

  74

  “Hello Nick! Twice in one day. How lovely,” Eleanor said when she answered her front door in response to his knock. “Do come in. Have you eaten? We’re having a barbecue and there’s more than enough food.”

  It was only then it occurred to Nick that he hadn’t eaten all day. Lunchtime had disappeared and now his stomach felt roiling with acid, scoured and empty.

  “Thank you,” he said, stepping inside. “And in answer to your questions, no, I haven’t, and yes, I’d like that.”

  “Good, my maternal instinct is satisfied. We’re in the conservatory.”

  She beamed at him, linked her arm through his as they walked along the hallway. Just before they reached the rear of the house, though, she paused, forcing him to stop alongside her. He glanced down, caught her eyes skimming over his face. They were the same distinctive shade of polished hazel as her daughter’s, flecked with copper and jade.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked, voice low and serious.

  He took a breath, gave himself a mental shake. “No, but I’ll live.”

  She searched his face a moment longer, correctly divining that no, he didn’t want to talk about it. Instead, she gave his arm a squeeze and led him into the conservatory.

  When Nick thought of conservatories, he pictured ugly structures with white plastic frames—saunas in summer and ice houses in winter. This was old brick and young oak, beautifully proportioned, furnished with flair.

  Of course…

  Just outside, on a mossy flagged terrace, a man stood with his back to Nick, tending a large polished barbecue grill. Next to him, topping up the wine glass he held, was Grace. She wore her usual cargo trousers with the multiplicity of pockets she favoured, and a sleeveless shirt that seemed to showcase the long lean muscles of her arms. The man said something to her and she laughed.

  Nick found himself lingering a moment, just to admire.

  Then the man raised his glass, turning as he did so, and Nick recognised him. He wore a Panama hat, stylishly slanted, a dark shirt that had to be silk, and pale linen trousers. He looked confident, suave, successful—everything that Nick, right then, felt he was not.

  “Max.”

  He hadn’t realised he’d gritted out the name of Grace’s ex-husband until Eleanor said, “Yes, he’s been helping me put the garden in order.”

  Nick flicked his eyes sideways. She was watching him again. She not only shared the colour of her eyes with her daughter, but also their ability to see far too much.

  “He’s been popping round quite frequently since I moved in,” Eleanor went on in an entirely neutral tone. “Isn’t that lovely of him?”

  “Yes,” Nick muttered. “Isn’t it just…”

  They moved into the conservatory and Eleanor waved to the pair outside. They turned and saluted with raised glasses. To Nick’s discontented eye, they looked the perfectly matched couple.

  “Come and join us,” Eleanor said. Her voice dropped to a murmur. “And don’t worry. If there’s one trait Grace has had, ever since childhood, it is that she does not like to repeat her mistakes…”

  Nick was suddenly aware of the tension in his shoulders. He made an effort to relax them, gave her a wry smile. “That’s good to know.”

  As they stepped outside, Grace smiled in welcome.

  “Hello, Grace,” Nick said. “How was Yvonne when you left her?”

  She shrugged. “It’s hard to say if she’ll have the courage to take it further but I suspect she won’t, I’m afraid. It’s not the first time this has happened, and I daresay it won’t be the last.”

  “Hm, you may well be right.”

  And so Dylan gets away with it, yet again.

  “But you didn’t come here to talk about the Elliots’ marital disputes, I’d guess. You were being very cloak-and-dagger when you rang. Have you brought those photos you want me to take a look at?”

  “The originals have been logged but I took copies. No doubt your boss will be going over them tomorrow.”

  “Well, strictly speaking, it is his case.”

  “Maybe, but I have more faith in your eye.”

  “Oh, this sounds interesting,” Eleanor said. She laid out an extra place for him at the bleached outdoor table and took a seat.

  Max nudged at the cooking food with tongs, then closed the lid of the barbecue and picked up the wine bottle. He offered to pour for Nick, who shook his head. He had a bottle of Jack Daniel’s he was longing to dive into—or would have been, had it not been in the flat in Kendal. The flat where Lisa was currently in situ.

  Unless she’s decided to seek solace elsewhere…

  He slammed the door on that one, presented Max with a perfunctory smile as he took a seat. “I’m driving,” he said. “And, technically, still on duty.”

  Max gave a tilt of his head as if conceding a point well played. That was half the trouble with the man, Nick thought savagely. He was so, damned, pleasant.

  Now, Max joined them at the table, lounging in his chair.

  “Oh, don’t mind me,” he said, when both Nick and Grace stared at him. “I agree—it does sound fascinating.” He took a sip of wine. “Now, is this to do with the boy who was pulled out of the river, or the skeleton at Mallerstang?”

  Grace frowned at him before Nick could do so himself. “Max, this is a serious incident—”

  “Which one?”

  “Both are suspicious deaths. You know we can’t discuss anything in front of civilians.”

  “Quite right and proper,” Eleanor put in.

  “And that includes you, Mother.”

  Eleanor pulled a face but rose elegantly. “Ah, well, it was worth a try. Come along, Max. We’ll leave these two to talk shop and you can help me put the salad together, if you wouldn’t mind?”

 
“Of course,” he said courteously, but the way he rose and strode inside gave lie to his nonchalance.

  Eleanor leaned in to her daughter and whispered, “And you can tell me all about it later. I’m your wing-man, remember…” Then she disappeared through the conservatory after Max.

  “Parents, eh?” Nick said when they’d gone. “You bring ’em up properly, you take ’em out, and look what happens.”

  “You don’t need to tell me,” Grace muttered. She fixed him with a clear eye. “Are you OK?”

  He made a maybe, maybe-not gesture with his outspread hand and dug in a pocket for his phone.

  She stared at him a moment longer. He could see it was on the tip of her tongue to niggle him for an answer. Then she pushed back her chair. “OK, I’ll just grab my laptop.”

  She soon returned, firing up the machine and connecting it with Nick’s phone. While the copies Nick had taken of the pictures Catherine Liddell had brought in were downloading, he gave her a brief précis of their last meeting.

  “Presumably, you went through all these with the sister before she left?” Grace said as the images started to appear on screen.

  “I did. I didn’t bother copying the ones of him as a kid. I didn’t quite think that snaps of him in his pushchair on the lakefront at Windermere, with his face covered in ice cream, would tell us much.”

  “So, what about these?” Grace asked. She pointed to a line of thumbnails that clearly were of a baby.

  “That’s just it. Catherine reckoned these were definitely not of him as a youngster. Said he had a shock of white-blond hair when he was born and it only started to turn dark when he got to three or four. And besides, in that one there—that’s it—it’s Owen himself holding the baby.”

  Grace clicked on the image he’d indicated, opening it up full screen. It showed a slim young man standing out on a driveway or the side of a road, with a stone wall and part of a tree in the background, and the front end of an old yellow Ford Escort just in view behind him. He was cradling a swaddled baby and, from the awkwardness of his stance, it wasn’t something he did often enough to be easy with it. The infant was rather red in the face, eyes closed and mouth puckered as if he or she objected to the pose, too.