by Zoe Sharp
But the other woman was smiling as she nodded to the kettle and cups on top of a filing cabinet. “That you make me a cup of ginger and lemon tea. I can’t stand vending machine stuff.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I should have offered. Please, have a seat.” Grace got up, checked the water level in the kettle and flicked it on. “Actually, while you’re here, would you mind taking a look at a couple of pictures for me?”
“Of course,” Dr Onatade said again, taking Ty Frost’s vacant chair. Grace set her laptop down on the empty desk and clicked open a folder. The pathologist unfolded her reading glasses and began scrolling through the images. “The man is Owen Liddell—I never forget a customer, as it were. But who is the child?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, although—strictly speaking—this is not really my case.”
“Ah, well. Sadly, unlike the female of the species, I cannot tell from Mr Liddell’s remains if he had children or not.”
“Trust me, anything you can glean from the appearance of the baby in this picture might help us identify him or her.”
“Hm. I would say that they may have been born prematurely.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, the child here is not the usual chubby baby. Babies typically put on fifty percent of their body fat in the last two months of pregnancy, so these rather gaunt features are often a sign of a premature birth.”
“Care to hazard a guess if this could be the same child?” Grace leaned across and clicked open the image she’d taken of the Gypsy boy, Ocean, at the Fair.
“To quote Sherlock Holmes: ‘I never guess. It is a shocking habit—destructive to the logical faculty.’”
“I wouldn’t have had you down as a Conan Doyle fan.”
“Loved the stories as a child. And what is forensic science if not the ultimate in analysis of evidence, and deductive reasoning?
“Me, too,” Grace admitted. “You know he based Holmes on Dr Joseph Bell, a forensic scientist at Edinburgh, of course?”
Dr Onatade leaned forward, her face intent, and studied the two images. “Hm, it’s a shame the angles aren’t directly comparable but, even so, there are certainly some facial characteristics in common. Do we know anything about this boy?”
The kettle clicked off. Grace poured hot water into two mugs. “Only that he’s Romany, and Owen was rumoured to be having a relationship with a Gypsy girl at the time he disappeared. And that the boy is approximately the right age to be the baby in the picture.”
“Well, he does seem a likely match then.” Dr Onatade accepted her lemon and ginger tea with a grateful nod. “Does this have any bearing on Mr Liddell’s body being found at a location where Travellers are known to camp?”
Grace took a sip of her own tea. “It may well do. Apparently, her clan disapproved and tried repeatedly to warn Owen off—even put him in hospital with that arm fracture you identified.”
Dr Onatade pursed her lips, swivelling her chair from side to side slightly as she considered. “I suppose so,” she said. “He could have gone to Water Yat to see the child, perhaps been involved in an argument that turned nasty, took a whack to the head—maybe accidental—and before they know it, they’ve a body to dispose of.”
“I thought you didn’t make guesses?” Grace said mildly.
She received another laugh. “Well, at least the cause of death on that one was clear-cut enough not to need to guess,” Dr Onatade said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be as definite on Jordan Elliot for you. But, by the time the river was finished with him, it was impossible to—”
“What?” Grace sat upright so abruptly that hot tea slopped out onto her fingers. “What do you mean…? Hang on a moment.” She put down the tea, wiped her hand, and leafed through the paperwork on her desk. “Ah, here we go. This is the PM report on Jordan and, unless I’m mistaken… Yes, there.”
She handed the report over with the conclusion page uppermost. Dr Onatade took it, looking puzzled. As she read through the final paragraph, her eyebrows climbed toward her hairline, then slammed downward.
“WHAT? This is not what I said. I categorically did not say this. It’s been interfered with. I—” She let Grace peel the report out of her nerveless fingers. “I emailed the original through only to you and to Christopher, so who…?”
“I never received this from you electronically,” Grace said quietly. “It was delivered onto my desk as hard copy—this copy.”
“By whom?”
“Tyson said Chris Blenkinship brought it in personally.”
“Oh…”
“Yeah, ‘oh’ indeed.” She took a deep breath, thinking of Ty Frost’s suspension and the reason behind it. “And that’s not all…”
81
“We’ll have to let the Elliots go—for the moment,” DI Pollock said. “I don’t think they’re going to run far and it saves all kinds of headaches with Social Services over who looks after the kiddies.”
Nick nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And besides, if Jordan wasn’t Jordan, then we need to find out who the heck he was before we work out what to charge ’em with.”
“I’ll get back on that now, sir,” Nick said.
But on his way to the CID office he detoured via CSI, finding only Dr Onatade in occupation. She was studying a report and drinking pale liquid from a mug.
“Oh, hi,” he said when he stuck his head round the door. “Have you seen Grace McColl by any chance?”
“I believe she’s just on her way to see Mr Blenkinship,” Dr Onatade said, looking unaccountably stern.
And Nick, knowing how rarely Grace actively sought out the company of her boss, frowned.
“OK. I’ll perhaps catch up with her later. Oh, and thanks for your expertise earlier, doctor. It was much appreciated.”
She drained the last of her tea and got to her feet. “Thank you, Nick,” she said, her thunderous tone belying the words. “It’s nice to know someone respects my work.”
Nick beat a hasty retreat.
On his way up the stairs, however, he was almost knocked flying by a figure that came galloping down them. Both men cannoned off the wall of the stairwell and, had Nick not grabbed hold of the man’s arms, he would have taken a dive down the next flight.
“Steady on, Dave,” Nick said, recognising DC Yardley. “Where’s the fire, man?”
“It’s Cheryl!” Yardley said, his eyes a little wild. “She’s gone into labour, eh? I gotta get over there—”
“For God’s sake, you’re in no fit state to drive,” Nick said. “I’ll take you. Just let me grab my keys and leave a note on the board.”
“OK, OK,” Yardley yelped. “But hurry! Her waters have broken already.”
He appeared to be making up for his absence at his wife’s bedside by panting through his own phantom labour pains.
Nick took the final staircase three at a time.
82
The last day of the Fair was upon them, and Bartley Smith could not wait for it to be over. Not the usual state of affairs at all, to be sure. He was a sociable feller, by and large, and the annual gathering of the clans was something he generally looked forward to with anticipation, and looked back on with warmth.
Not this year.
This year he’d been aware of the pressure building on the approach. A thunderhead before the storm. Looking back, he’d thought his biggest worry was the choosing of the new Shera Rom, but he hadn’t counted on Vano and his schemes.
He even wondered if the whole thing—the way its course had run—was some devious dealing on the part of his brother-in-law. A plan to have Bartley himself seem a lesser man in the eyes of those who had the final choice to make.
And, if he was being honest, he didn’t care.
No, that wasn’t quite the case. He didn’t care about the winning, or the prize. But he did care about the losing—of face as well as standing.
And, more than that, he cared about letting Queenie down.
Because let her down he had, and badly. Putting he
r in a position where she felt there was nothing else to be done but hand over her father’s last colt, just to appease that bostaris.
O beng te poggar his men. May the devil break his neck.
If he’d asked for a child, that gorgio could not have chosen something she valued more. To Queenie, the colt was almost of her own blood. How could he expect her simply to give away the little horse, the tawno gry, when she had already lost so much?
Because what had he lost? Nothing he wasn’t glad to see the back of, to be sure.
And look at what he’d gained—
An arm looped around his shoulders. So caught up had he been in his misery, he hadn’t kept his wits about him. Unforgiveable, is what it was.
He ducked, twisted, and stepped out from under the arm with the kind of dancing lunge that had served him well in the ring.
Not this time.
Instead, he came up hard against a second man to the side of him. He started to turn, was stopped short by the bite of a blade slicing through shirt and skin, between his ribs.
He froze.
His breath hitched in his throat. The knife was barely more than tip deep, he knew, but he felt the trickle of blood slide greasily toward his hip. And he knew it would take little more than a twitch to see him gutted like a hare.
The man beyond the blade moved in close and breathed in his ear, “Well then—Mr Smith is it now? You’re a hard man to track down. I’ve been waiting for a chance at you.”
He recognised the harsh tones of the North in the man’s voice and his belly dropped to his boots.
“McMahon,” he managed past a tongue suddenly thick in his mouth. “Well, here I am. Have your say and be done with it.”
The Irishman tutted slowly. “Is that any way to greet an old friend? Why, I’ve known you since before you were born… Back when you were still someone else. Isn’t that right…Patrick?”
“I left that man behind me, buried him and moved on,” Bartley said between his teeth.
“Did you think a change of name would ever be enough to hide behind? After what you did?”
“It was a fair fight. Your cousin was…unlucky.”
“You hit him and he almost died,” McMahon gritted back. “And then I find you’ve the nerve to use the names of not one but two Gypsy kings.”
Bartley said nothing. He’d taken Smith to please old Hezekiah, to make him worry less about losing a daughter, and think more about gaining another son.
And as for the Bartley, well, what fighter would not be proud to carry the name of Bartley Gorman V? A fellow Irish Traveller, he was undefeated bare-knuckle boxing champion of the United Kingdom and Ireland for twenty years or more.
Now, it seemed a poor disguise.
Bartley flicked his eyes at the man who still had an arm clamped tight across his shoulders, for all the world like an old pal saying a long hello. But the man was half a head taller and, though thickset, his bulk was muscle not fat. Still, for the moment it was McMahon and the blade that had his attention and concern.
Bartley knew that Appleby was crawling with gavvers, as it always was come the Fair. He could see them now, strolling along The Sands on the opposite bank of the river, with their hands tucked into the arm-holes of their stab vests. A peculiar habit, he’d always thought, that didn’t leave your fists where you might need them in a hurry.
Mostly, he walked wide of them. This must be the only time he could remember willing a pair to turn his way. To take a long hard look, and work out what lay beneath the false appearance of friendly bonhomie.
But, of course, they did not.
Bartley turned his head away from McMahon toward his pal. He may be a big man and a fighter but he was no champion. Too lumbering to have the agility the ring demanded. And not careful enough to have a nose that wasn’t oft-times broken. Bartley tilted his head back, as if to get a better look at the man’s slack features.
“Sure and don’t I know you?” he asked.
The man frowned, distracted. Bartley uncoiled his neck and flicked his forehead forward viciously. The blow landed hard, sending the man’s already beleaguered nose halfway across his face in a welter of blood.
He let loose a roar, like a lion Bartley had once seen in a circus in County Mayo. The bellow of it echoed across the surface of the river. Heads whipped away from the horses and the ponies tied to the orange plastic barriers that lined The Sands. Instead, they turned to stare across the river.
Bartley shimmied out of the big man’s grasp and tried to jerk away from the knife between his ribs. He unstuck himself, yes, but not without the sting of it biting harder. The rip of flesh, the tear of skin, the welter of his own blood.
I could be a dead man walking, and not know it ’til I drop.
McMahon let his temper get the better of him then. Instead of palming the knife and backing away, as if Bartley was the one who’d started the scuffle for no reason at all, he leapt in with fists flying. Bartley avoided him, mostly. Not easy with your insides making for the emergency exit like there’d been a fire.
But McMahon’s actions brought the knife into plain view.
On the other side of the Eden, the gavvers set up a hue and cry. One ran for the edge of the river and looked like he might jump in and try to wade across, more fool him. Others ran for the bridge, heads cocked, shouting into their radios.
Beside him, McMahon swore under his breath. “We’re not done,” he said fiercely. Then he and his pal ran onto the cricket field behind them and were gone.
Bartley tried to straighten. He quickly found himself bent around the pain that was coming, ever greater, in waves with every breath. His shirt was barely enough to hold it in. He tried to move, also, to flee. His legs had other ideas. They folded.
And as the first burly copper came thundering along the river path, red-faced and breathless, Bartley gave up his battle with gravity and slid to his knees in the grass.
83
DC Dave Yardley lived in Alston, a small market town at the top of Hartside Pass, high in the Pennines. Driving up the steep, switchback road, Nick had trouble keeping the big grin off his face, glad of the excuse to put his foot down
In the passenger seat, Yardley braced himself between door and dashboard. Nick caught the occasional sharp intake of breath at some of the hairpin corners, but otherwise Yardley said nothing until they were approaching the first signs of habitation.
“This is us—opposite the garage,” he said. “And thanks, mate. You got us here in half the time it would’ve taken me. This thing’s a right rocket-ship, eh?”
“It has its moments,” Nick agreed. “D’you mind if I just use your facilities before I head back? I’m assuming you don’t need me to wait. I mean, you’re not likely to be back in the office yourself for a bit, are you?”
“I think I’m allowed the time off—in the circumstances,” Yardley agreed. He glanced across at the row of parked cars outside the pair of stone cottages. “And the midwife’s here. I can always get a lift down with her to pick up my car.”
The cottages were three storeys high and built tucked into the hillside that rose behind them. The ground floor housed an integral garage, leading almost straight out onto the road. A set of worn stone steps led up to the main entrance at the side of the property. Yardley galloped up them and charged through the front door, shouting, “Cheryl!”
“We’re up here!” called a voice.
Yardley shot along the hallway and up the next flight.
“Loo’s up here, mate,” he said over his shoulder as he went. “Excuse me if I…” And he was gone.
Nick followed him upstairs at a more moderate pace. The bathroom was the door facing him at the top. When he emerged onto the landing again, he paused a moment, wondering whether to simply let himself out quietly or wait to wish his colleague goodbye and good luck.
The decision was taken out of his hands.
“Nick?” Yardley’s voice came from the front bedroom, if he was any judge. And there was eno
ugh off-kilter about it to have Nick pushing the door open and walking in without a second thought.
A woman lay propped up in the double bed, holding a very pink and wrinkled baby in her arms, wrapped in a yellow blanket.
Nick came to an abrupt halt. “Oh. Wow.”
The woman gave him a tired smile, although she was looking remarkably composed considering what she’d just gone through. “‘Wow’ is about right,” she said.
“Nick, meet Cheryl, my wife—and…our daughter.”
Nick nodded to the woman. “Congratulations,” he said warmly. “I’m sorry I didn’t get him here sooner.”
“If you drove any faster, mate, we would have been airborne, eh?”
“And once she decided she was coming, there was no stopping this little lady,” said the midwife from over by the window.
Nick turned. They recognised each other at the same moment. A cocktail of emotions flitted across the woman’s face, from embarrassment, through dismay, to a hint of defiance.
“Hello Mrs Trelawney,” Nick said. “How is your mother? You didn’t mention that you’d followed in her footsteps…”
“So, was it your mother who delivered Jordan Elliot?” Nick asked. “Or was it you?”
They were downstairs in the small sitting room. Old-fashioned furniture at odds with the latest flat-screen TV stuffed into one of the alcoves. Yardley had made tea for the three of them, letting his wife and their new offspring grab a nap uninterrupted.
Wynter Trelawney perched uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa, as if she might need to jump up at any moment and flee. Nick made sure to stand between her and the door, just in case.
It was hard to reconcile the neat and businesslike midwife with the flamboyant scatterbrain he’d met at the farm. Her wild grey hair now hung in a tight plait over her shoulder, any stray ends pinned away from her face. She was gripping her mug so her knuckles gleamed whitely through the skin.
She took a deep breath, blew it out unsteadily, looked up and met Nick’s eyes without flinching.
