by Zoe Sharp
Bartley glanced at her, face tight from the jolting of the rough ride. “He said I was more of a cooroboshno—a fighting cock—than he’d ever be.”
“Not that part—after?”
“Ah, he told me you were a ‘lady-like looking woman’ and I should bear that in mind.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I think he meant that I should try to keep you out of the fight.”
“Really?” Grace said. “I thought you’d only let me come along as some kind of human shield, in case the police got heavy-handed.”
He let his surprise show. “Well, me darlin’—that, too…”
The hedge between that field and the next was straggling, reinforced with stretches of post and wire. The wire had been cut and peeled back, and Bartley drove through without slowing. As they reached the high ground, midway across, the A66 sprang into view. Horses lined the fence before the low embankment. The Gypsies themselves had vaulted over to surround a coach standing on the road below.
There were half-a-dozen police vehicles, with more just arriving, Grace saw. Even so, none of the outcomes she could envisage would be good.
The men on the coach had come expecting a brawl and would take some talking out of it. She knew it was inherent in Gypsy culture never to back down from a challenge. And if the police tried to keep the two sides apart, they were liable to find themselves pitched against both.
Bartley brought the chestnut to a ragged halt just before the fence down to the road. He jumped from the sulky, stumbling as he again forgot to take the wound in his side into account. The chestnut stayed where they’d left her, flanks heaving, her head low and nostrils flared.
Grace got to the fence first. Bartley offered his hand, but she grabbed the nearest post, got a toe-hold in the sheep netting halfway up and jumped from there, landing neatly on the other side. She looked back at him, raised an eyebrow and offered her hand. He grinned and wouldn’t take it.
One of the police cars below disgorged Superintendent Waingrove, very upright in her uniform, cap firmly in place.
She was handed a megaphone, which she switched on without a fumble and barked at the crowd to disperse. They were contravening Section 14 of the Public Order Act 1986 and would be liable to immediate arrest.
None of the outnumbered uniforms present looked pleased at this pronouncement.
From the crowd milling around the coach, one man stepped forward.
Dylan Elliot.
“Arrest, eh?” he bellowed, waving an arm toward the Gypsies. “So, you’ll arrest this lot just for standin’ around, but you won’t do it for killin’ my kid? How is that justice?”
From the ranks of the Gypsies, a smaller figure elbowed her way through. Grace heard Bartley let out a low groan alongside her. She hardly needed to see the woman to know it was Queenie.
“That was my child, stolen from me!” she shouted, jabbing a thumb toward her own heart. “You gorgios with your stories of Gypsies as child-stealers and thieves. Hah! You should look to yourselves.”
A murmur of agreement, of anger, rumbled among the Gypsies. Their stance hardened, fists were waved. The men from the coach closed up together like a Roman legion. Grace saw bike chains appear in their hands, knuckle dusters and baseball bats. Probably knives, too, being kept out of sight for now.
“Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?” Dylan shouted. He turned to the men from the coach. “Never their fault, is it lads?”
Then, from the far side of the road came Nick, and it was Grace’s turn to suck in a dismayed breath. He was propelling Chris Blenkinship just ahead of him. Both the big CSI’s arms were behind him, clearly cuffed. He struggled but was unable to do anything other than comply.
“Weston! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Superintendent Waingrove had momentarily laid aside her megaphone. She hardly needed it.
“You want the man who killed Jordan Elliot? Well, here he is.”
“Weston, STAND DOWN!” Waingrove sounded incandescent. “That’s a direct order.”
Nick ignored her. Instead, he shoved his foot into the back of Blenkinship’s leg, dropping him to his knees in the centre of the road. “Tell them,” he said roughly. “You tell them or I will, and I won’t make it sound pretty.”
Blenkinship threw him a look of utter hatred. But he said, “I… It was an accident.”
“Louder.”
“It was late. It was dark. He had no lights on his bike, all right? What was a kid that age doing out at that time without—” He broke off abruptly as Nick must have twisted the solid bar connecting the two steel cuffs. They dug into the delicate bones of his wrists, alive with nerve-endings, and stopped him in his tracks. “I–I killed him. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. I’m so…so…sorry.”
Complete silence followed his cracked confession. A few of the men from the coach shuffled their feet, glanced at each other as if not sure of their next move. Even Waingrove seemed lost for words.
Then Dylan shook himself out of it, he looked around, aware he was losing ground, losing support. That his chance for vengeance, the outlet for his anger, was fading fast.
“What about Owen?” he yelled. “What about my mate? Killed him and buried him right in the middle of their own camp, didn’t they, eh? What’re you goin’ to do about that?”
Grace glanced at Bartley. “If we do right by you, will you do right by us?”
“Meaning?”
“No bloodshed,” she said. “No reason for the naysayers to try to put an end to the Fair.”
He hesitated a second, then nodded.
Grace stepped forward. The Gypsies nudged each other and opened a path to let her through. She came down the embankment, stopped when she reached the edge of the road.
“The Gypsies buried Owen, yes,” she agreed, loud enough to be heard.
Dylan spun, crowing. “You see—”
“But you’ve already admitted that you were the one who punched him, in your kitchen, and that he fell. What you didn’t tell us—maybe you didn’t even realise it—was that as he fell, he hit his head on the front rail of your Aga. It crushed the back of his skull. And because you ran out and left him, he bled to death, right there on your kitchen floor.” She paused, saw the sickly realisation on his face. “So, Dylan, the Gypsies didn’t kill your ‘mate’. That was all down to you…”
One of the uniforms came forward then and took control of Blenkinship, hauling him back to his feet. Nick walked toward Dylan. Grace could see the wariness in him but Dylan just stood there, shocked and unresisting, as Nick took him by the arm.
“Dylan Elliot, you are under arrest in connection with the death of Owen Liddell. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence…”
By the time he’d finished reciting the man’s rights, most of the Gypsies had already climbed back over the fence into the field. Grace noticed Queenie among them. Their eyes met and she received a cool nod by way of acknowledgment.
They gathered their horses and walked away.
Part VII
Monday
Epilogue
Nick was already waiting at Water Yat when Grace and her mother arrived. He’d got there early, not having much else to occupy him. Now, he leaned against his car as he watched Max Carri’s Mercedes pull off the road onto the grass.
It did not surprise him that Grace’s ex-husband was driving them. Just another example of the man trying to re-insert himself into her life. With a rueful twist of his lips, Nick supposed he couldn’t blame him for that. He’d always thought Max a fool for letting her get away in the first place.
The car came to a halt. Max hopped out and trotted round to the passenger side to open both doors, handing Eleanor out of the front with exaggerated courtesy. The action shielded Grace emerging from the rear seat. It wasn’t until she stepped away from the car that Nick got a good look at her.
“Wow,” he murmured.
Grace wore a knee-length dress in
pale cream with a short jacket over the top, and a broad-brimmed hat to match. On her feet were, he presumed, the reason she had not driven herself—a pair of sky-high red heels that made her legs go on forever.
Nick pushed away from his car and buttoned the jacket of his own suit. It was standard black, although he’d been forewarned about the colours associated with Romany funerals, enough that he’d put on a red tie.
Not that this was a funeral—more of a memorial service for Jordan Elliot and Owen Liddell. He had no idea what the Romany etiquette was for that.
He headed across the rough ground on an intercept course, joining them halfway to the river. Grace saw him coming and held back from the others, allowing him to come to her. It reminded him of the first time they’d met. He kept his stride easy, refusing to hurry.
“Grace,” he said, smiling as he reached her. “You look…charming.”
She laughed. “I look wildly overdressed, but apparently it’s expected.” She looped her arm through his. “You can stop me breaking an ankle in these ridiculous shoes.”
With them, she was eye-to-eye, a rare experience for Nick. As she searched his face, she frowned. “I haven’t seen you this week,” she said, a little too casually.
“I expect you’ve been busy.” Then he took a breath, keeping his own eyes on the ground ahead. “And Waingrove suspended me.”
She stopped, pulling him to face her. “Oh, Nick, I am sorry. For what you did with Christopher?”
He nodded and she allowed herself a brief mutter of frustration.
“For how long? I mean, doesn’t she realise you stopped a riot?”
“Who knows.” Nick shrugged and started walking again, if only to escape that penetrating gaze. “Anyway, you stopped things escalating just as much as I did.”
After a few strides, she asked, “How has Lisa taken her brother’s arrest?”
Nick gave a half-snort. “Well, she went in voluntarily and made a statement about Dylan supplying those bags,” he said. “So she must have known Karl would be implicated, too.”
“Perhaps she was finally showing you where her loyalties lay?”
Perhaps.
“So, how are things with you, Grace? Has there been a lot of upheaval over Blenkinship?”
“Quite a bit, as I’m sure you can imagine. We’ll be lucky not to lose convictions over this.”
They reached the cluster of people gathered by the side of the Eden. Queenie in her finest, with heels even higher than those Grace wore, Bartley and Vano, both in suits and dark glasses, despite the overcast day.
Nick noted that Yvonne Elliot wore dark glasses, also. But he knew that was to cover up what he sincerely hoped was the last beating she’d ever suffer at the hands of her husband. Four of her daughters stood round her like personal bodyguards—only the baby was not present.
He recognised Owen’s sister, Catherine and her partner, Shanaya. They stood very close together but without touching, as if they weren’t certain how their relationship would be viewed or accepted.
Last to arrive was not someone Nick had expected to see—Wynter Trelawney. She arrived alone and stood apart from the others, as if she wasn’t sure of her welcome, either.
Queenie stepped forward without a word. She turned to face them and the chatter died away.
“It’s not our way to speak of the dead,” she said, her voice cool and clear. “But that doesn’t mean we won’t think of them often, and carry them in our hearts.”
Vano and Bartley moved alongside her. Each man held a tall vase—one of white carnations, the other red gladioli. They put them down at the edge of the river and stepped back. Bartley also carried a tumbler of amber liquid, which he handed to Queenie.
“When someone passes on, it’s our custom to toast them only in spirits,” Queenie said, raising the glass. “Not knowing he’d passed, this toast is a long time coming. But I hope he’ll understand, and forgive me.”
Owen, Nick thought.
She took a sip, raised the glass and, with a flick of her wrist, sent the remainder of the contents out over the river. It hung in a rainbow shimmer for a second, then pattered into the water and swirled away.
Queenie put down the glass. She picked a single stem from each of the vases and held them up to be seen.
“The white carnation is for innocence and pure love. The red gladiolus is for strength of character, faithfulness, and honour.” She tossed the two flowers into the water. “And now, I hope you’ll all cast your own, to help send them both on their journey.”
Vano passed her two more single blooms in pink and purple. Nick, not an expert on flowers, didn’t recognise them. Queenie paused a moment without speaking, then let the remaining blooms drop into the river.
“That’s so sad,” Eleanor murmured alongside him.
“What were those last two?”
She looked at him as if surprised he didn’t know. “A pink carnation, to signify the love of a mother, and a purple lilac for first love.”
When he looked back to Queenie, Wynter had thrown her carnation and gladiolus into the river and was hovering nearby.
“I swear to you, Queenie, I never knew,” she said. “Mum never told me. But I think she might have told—”
“It’s all right,” Queenie said. She took a deep breath, as if needing to tear herself away from her own thoughts. “Bartley said…it was you who bought the colt.”
“I did. I’ve space at the farm and…it seemed the least I could do.” She offered a tremulous smile. “I’ll always think of him as still yours, though.”
Yvonne Elliot was close enough behind Wynter to hear her last words and she paled. Her eyes were still hidden behind the dark glasses, but her lip wobbled as she approached.
“You were given a precious gift,” Queenie said, her voice expressionless. “A child to cherish and raise as your own. And you…lost him.”
“I know,” Yvonne said helplessly. “I know, I’ve made so many mistakes, over the years. Let my Dyl’ get away with so much. But…all this has made me realise I gotta make some big changes. An’ if ever I’m weakenin’, all I gotta do is think of my—your—son.”
Queenie hesitated a moment, then she sighed and drew the other woman into her arms. “Our son,” she said. “We can both of us mourn him equally.”
Yvonne held on tight for a moment, then twisted free and hurried away, surrounded by her children.
Grace moved forward and picked out one red and one white flower. “Thank you,” she said to Queenie, “for allowing us to come today. It means a lot.”
“Thank you,” Queenie said, her composure intact. “Without you, there would have been no reckoning, no justice.”
Grace simply smiled. “I hear congratulations are in order—that you have succeeded your father as the new Shera Rom. Or should that be Shera Rawnie?”
But Queenie merely smiled and said, “I’m not the only one to be congratulated, am I not?”
Nick picked out two flowers, and glanced at Grace with eyebrow raised. She was staring blankly at Queenie.
“How on earth did you know that?”
“What?” Nick asked.
“That they’ve…they’ve offered me Chris Blenkinship’s job.”
“Congratulations,” he said, meaning it, despite his own misfortunes. “That really is great news, Grace. You deserve it.”
She pulled a face. “Hm, the jury’s still out on that one. It’s certainly not quite the route to promotion I would have envisaged—or wanted, come to that.”
He stepped up alongside her. The two of them tossed the blooms into the water and the river carried them rapidly out of sight.
High over Mallerstang, out of the peat bogs on Black Fell Moss, the River Eden rises. Once she was in Westmorland. Now she has one foot in the Yorkshire Dales, another in Cumbria, holding the front line and shaping the border.
Born as Red Gill Beck, she toboggans the steep valley side, rips and stumbles, blossoms into Hell Gill Beck. With a bellow, she lau
nches over Hell Gill Force to tumble into Ais Gill Beck. Their twinned spirits trip and twine, combine, to become the Eden.
Afterword
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We all make mistakes from time to time. This book has gone through numerous editing, copyediting, and proofreading stages before making it out into the world. Still, occasionally errors do creep past us. If by any chance you do spot a blooper, please let me, the author, know about it. That way I can get the error corrected as soon as possible. Plus I’ll send you a free digital edition of one of my short stories as a thank you for your eagle-eyed observational skills! Email me at [email protected].
Please Note
This book was written in British English and UK spellings and punctuation have been used throughout.
About Zoë Sharp
Zoë Sharp opted out of mainstream education at the age of twelve and wrote her first novel at fifteen. She created her award-winning crime thriller series featuring ex-Special Forces trainee turned bodyguard, Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Fox, after receiving death threats in the course of her work as a photojournalist. She has been making a living from her writing since 1988, and since 2001 has written various novels: the highly acclaimed Charlie Fox series, including a prequel novella; standalone crime thrillers; and collaborations with espionage thriller author John Lawton, as well as numerous short stories. Her work has been used in Danish school textbooks, inspired an original song and music video, and been optioned for TV and film.
