Fiona

by D Attrill

  Watching him tuck into it, she turned back to the sheet and marked off her first two missions as fulfilled. She looked straight back round, and saw Izzy staring at her again. His little brown eyes looked wide though no longer tearful. She still felt resigned to them, smiling back at the adorable small cherub, before scanning the list again. Back once more to Izzy, the boy’s mouth and the bottle had parted company.

  “What’s wrong with it then?” she humoured him, lifting it back gently from his clutch. “Milk not nice?”

  She removed the teat for a smell - it certainly wasn’t. The stench came up, more fermented farmhouse cheddar than fully pasteurised semi-skimmed.

  “Oh no, what are you doing, Becky?”

  She'd given him the adult variety instead. Becky winced even more as she discharged it down the sink; in her whole lifetime’s experience she’d NEVER let any child, in her care or otherwise, suffer the horrors of stale milk, whichever type it was: it was the next most offensive odour, after ammonia. After replacing it with the clean bottle and the contents of the right carton, she ran down the rest of her stuff.

  “’5.30 tea.....6.00 tidy cot.....6.15 bath & bed.’”

  It left Becky almost an hour and three quarters; a handily-timed rest and also opportunity to get her wits straight for later.

  She had to try and distract herself for now though. She fished in her carrier for one of her unfinished crosswords, only to discover she’d forgotten those as well, another disaster that her dashed manner had brought about lately. All that was left to pass this sabbatical spot was switching on the little kitchen TV and endure whatever usual afternoon daytime drivel was been shown. She checked Izzy again to find him quietly slurping away at his milk and also devouring his rusk as if he hadn’t been fed in a month, then resigned herself to some crotchety US whodunnit that was on BBC2. She couldn’t help feeling sixty-three more than thirty-six, yet the theme tune she’d hummed and even strummed over the last several years was her cue for commencing chill-out time nowadays.

  Reaching for her nearly cold coffee, she tried to recap where the latest two-parter had left off yesterday. Her own life began to feel like a drama as her eyes continued browsing round the brightly lit kitchen. The woman-oriented world welded together with that of the elderly sleuth on the screen. Trying to imagine how Joanne Leyton would come out at that age, the opening scene hit home as the victim’s seven month old baby daughter was shown being fed a bottle by a family friend, another fresh young red-haired woman. The little girl seemed to be enjoying it more than Izzy did, unlike the dead father’s widow who stood in her farmhouse doorway, fighting back tears while the titular heroine and two other officers took notes.

  Something strange suddenly dwelled on Becky - while this fictional tot wore Izzy’s small adorable face, she was managing to eat and also cry through a permanently closed mouth. The wailing was also coming from somewhere other than the screen.

  She turned round to see another toddler, one with an empty bottle and a big heap of crumbs in front of him.

  "What....finished already?”

  She checked her watch against the wall-clock to make sure she was reading right.

  “SIX - THIRTY EIGHT?”

  She turned back to the TV and could still see a baby on the picture. There came a voice-over.

  ‘Kirsty Elton, reporting from Earnington Nursery, Leeds, one of seven threatened with clos...’

  “My God...”

  Becky realised she had mistakenly placed decaf granules in her mug - as a result, she’d awakened halfway through ‘Look North’.

  “Oh god...no....Izzy, Izzy....”

  Becky stumbled across to the fridge, dragging out the other half rusk and the Harricotts out.

  “So sorry, so sorry, so sorry...” she panicked, taking the empty bottle away then fed him five heaped spoonfuls, as quickly as was possible without choking him. “Just going to get beddies made, chucko,” she whispered, trying to pretend she’d calmed down at last.

  She refilled his bottle from the usual reservoir, and then stormed up the stairs to sort the rest of her duties sharpish. On the way up her left boot trod over a small lump, which moved sidelong beneath her sole. She was sent dramatically off balance, crashing back down into the hall.

  Becky lifted herself back up in agony.

  Allowing no time for concern, she climbed back up on her least aching leg.

  She dragged the dirty sheets from the cot, nearly taking the Playrail with it. Having thrown the fresh supply straight in, she made it up as comfortably as Fiona had specified.

  She then headed into the bathroom, begging to herself that no further accidents were to come. Recalculating the right ratio of temperatures, she ran both taps slowly whilst returning downstairs. She opted to climb down backwards, so also as to identify the object that had sent her tumbling before. The offending toy turned out to be a die-cast toy double-decker bus. It still sat upright on the stair as though waiting for its next victim.

  Bad enough that Izzy's got mobility problems, without me also ending up getting them.

  Becky swiped it up, placing it on a small table at the bottom and bounded back into the kitchen.

  Izzy was now stone silent but seemed hugely content, having cleaned up the whole of his belated supper. He looked wide-eyed at Becky as his new mummy-number-two reached to lift him from his chair. She was careful not to tug him by the arms as that would inevitably end the quiet.

  “Gently does it now,” she chuckled. “Your Auntie Becky’s just taking you up for bathie-boo-boos.”

  Izzy looked like laughing as she placed him atop her shoulder.

  “Hiyee!”

  The door suddenly opened, the Yale mechanism making almost as much noise as its operator.

  “Still up, eh, heh heh?” said Fiona, stepping in.

  “Afraid so.” Becky had to make it sound mitigated. “Did you forget something?”

  “Had to cut it short. Fella’s wee brother’s been in trouble - he wis hit by a car, wid ye believe?”

  “You’re kidding. Is he ok?”

  “His ankle’s a little bad. I gottae say though the driver and his mate, they wis both great wee guys, I hear; also offered to take him, get looked at. Anyway...” She placed her handbag on the table before walking round to Izzy. “How’s it been, looking after the superbairn there?”

  “Very nice, though he didn’t sound too impressed by the first rusk he tried.” Becky pointed at the pedal bin.

  “Dearie, dearie.” she knelt down to Izzy. “Whit’s my wee boy been doing, dunging his biccies, eh?”

  Izzy was laughing and clapping his hands together, even as Fiona kissed him on the forehead.

  “He cannae use his legs, still there's no' much wrong wi' his arms.”

  “Just going back up.” Becky realised the bath was still running.

  “Hey, disnae matter no more about that. Get yourself off home, ready for tomorrow. 9.30 okay with ye?”

  “Er, ok then... sure. Oh, I’ve done the cot just as he likes it, by the way.”

  “Crivs, I’m gonna run out of things to teach you. Anyway, sorry if I was wasting your time.”

  “Aw, it doesn’t matter.” Becky was astonished by her eagerly apologetic behaviour.

  “Aye, take care. See you tomorrow.”

  Becky scuttled away down the street, quite merrily and rightly so after fearing her new job was already finished. The girl in that house was sweeter than any two of her past employers combined, although more fiery, and Becky couldn’t afford to misplace Fiona’s trust even slightly. A big rapport between them had blossomed although she remained stumped by how Fiona answered everything with ‘It’s ok, nae worry’.

  What was more mystifying, maybe, was what would an unemployed 24-year-old single mum be up to, at nine-thirty in the morning, that required leaving her child at home?

  Becky didn’t mind or care. As long as she was being paid a handsome wage, Fiona was welcome to keep it to herself.

  Feeling t
he high spirits again, Becky hummed the TV detective theme to herself all the way to her door in Ecclesfield.

  She changed into a warmer top, before walking into her own kitchen and starting a microwave olive-lentil stew going. Whilst waiting four minutes, she checked her mobile’s inbox. There were only two insurance company emails to read, or rather just rub. Becky wondered whether she should perhaps harangue a certain policewoman friend of hers....until the microwave pinged right next to her ear.

  Switching on the TV, she imprisoned herself underneath her lap tray and laid into the supper she’d been waiting for all day.

  Before she knew it, it was strangely 6.30am once more.

  The birdsong building up outside told her she had not slipped backwards in time.

  Having got straight out of the shower, Becky pondered her patterned attire for the day. She decided at split-second instinct to opt for the jeans-and-jumper look instead.

  Fixing herself some toast and coffee against the blare of ‘Breakfast AM’, she wondered how she’d pass this morning right till those two angelic blue eyes stared into hers once again. A vibration shook the breakfast bar. Answering without checking the caller, Becky still recognised the voice.....and it was not Leyton’s.

  “Heya, lovey it’s Fi...”

  “Oh hi, Fiona.” Becky interrupted, identifying it. “Didn’t think you’d be up this early.”

  “Aye, it’s no worry, I’m always an early bird - that Izzy, he isnae half a slavedriver, ye know?”

  “I think I’ve already discovered, heh, heh. How can I help you anyway?”

  “You mind popping right round a wee minute?”

  “I thought you said half nine today.”

  “Yeah, but it’s urgent, I’m afraid.” Fiona sounded continuously sweet as she explained. “Stay, have your brekkers though, if you’re midway through. You just pop straight up after, ok?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  Perturbed by Fiona’s request, Becky made short work of her first slice then skipped out on her way.

  As she arrived at her workplace she felt no less the chirpy bird than she’d been on heading off last evening. Finding the front gate open as always, she made her confident climb to the door. Ringing the first time failed to garner response. She waited seven seconds then sounded it again. The latch was thrown firmly back and the door shot open.

  “Hiya,” went Becky.

  Fiona didn’t reply right away. She stood there with her arms folded, looking as if she was expecting an old enemy at the door.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Come on in.” Fiona commanded. She sounded comparatively deep in expression. “Need a wee word with ye.”

  Becky stepped through, her host shutting the door hard behind.

  “Hey, is something wrong?” Becky continued to ask casually.

  “Aye...” Fiona was looking frostily at her. She held up a familiar, red die-cast toy.

  “What’s this doing on here?”

  “It’s his little bus.”

  “I am no’ blind. I just asked you what’s it doing there?”

  “I....I put it there.”

  “Whit for?”

  “Well, I went up to the bathr...”

  “What did you move it for, I said?!” Fiona rephrased sternly and loud: she was sounding like some strict Victorian-age mother scolding a bad child.

  “I....just thought it was dangerous, left lying where it was. Sorry, I thought you’d underst...”

  “You understand this, sweetheart... don’t know how clever you think yourself, where you come from… you dinnae ever go moving my things round, d’you hear?”

  “I was only thinking...”

  “YOU HEAR?”

  Fiona had raised her volume so much, Becky froze. She felt as if she were suddenly on a murder charge.

  “Yes.....” she mustered in a shocked stutter. “I get what you said.”

  “Well, do no’ forget it. EVER.”

  “I won’t.” Becky nodded, trying to smile at her understandingly. Fiona was standing at the door again, pinning it wide open and pointing.

  “Well...” Fiona was directing her “Off ye go then.”

  “Eh?”

  “Said you start 9.30, didn’t I? That’s if ye’ve the nerve to show round my door today.”

  She pointed Becky out.

  Becky obeyed, setting back onto the street; although in a state of silenced bewilderment.

  Chapter 5

  (i)

  The late Saturday lunchtime light was strangely summer-like inside the office as the shutter blinds kept out the computer-unfriendly rays.

  Having only two other officers round her, in a room equipped for twelve, was still little detriment to Joanne Leyton’s focus: especially, when those two others were her trusted colleagues.

  The silence felt here was not unconnected to the current bleakness of things. With Gary Payden having talked himself out of arrest yesterday, they'd been stuck with the task of sniffing out this elusive sibling of his.

  Sadly, it wasn't to happen overnight. Tracing the number which Gary’s abusive text had come from had only turned up a pay-as-you-go detail and no destination. Knowing they only had one abandoned hubcap as a concrete clue to these crimes, they'd called it a day for the afternoon.

  Garstone, Thompson and Hall had gone over to Garstone's for the night for a night of games and a glass or two of Pimms, none of which the host touched himself.

  Come Saturday morning, Leyton was still hung on the hint that Gary might not keep his side of the bargain, so she had tried to get things up a gear rather than just waiting.

  Tracing Tom Payden through the two dozen-plus addresses they had, proved however to be torture. It would have been quicker to try Lorna Millthorpe again, a lesson learned over the last day they’d wasted.

  Leyton eventually left it alone, suffering a lapse of faith. The stills from the Fife St hit-and-run generated enough to go on, although she’d much have preferred it on paper than pixels. She saw that idea go down the toilet as Garstone admitted having handed them to Thompson last night.

  “Does it strain you so cruelly to click ‘print’?” She couldn’t comprehend her DC’s laxness sometimes.

  “I happened to have them in my hand as he and Amy came off shift.” Garstone feebly explained.

  “Where are them two, any road?” Armitage asked, turning on his castors.

  “Out on the street, somewhere we should be... not tearing round a public park on a quad.”

  Leyton threw her pen down, letting it out at last.

  “Ma’am, I had to...” Garstone tried to apologise.

  “I understand why you got onto that thing in the first place, Greg, but not quite that you proceeded to churn up Chapeltown Park at thirty miles an hour, wrecking every rose bush in your path... plus the poor machine itself. For Christ’s sake, don’t the words ‘Risk Assessment’ remind you of anything?”

  “Gary agreed to get us his brother’s address, remember?”

  “That was yesterday, Greg. We’ve received the square root of F.A. from him, since, and to top it all, we haven’t come up with a warran...hey, Leroy where are you going?”

  Her other DC had torn out into the corridor so fast his chair was left spinning.

  “Well if that’s not indicating he’s had a brainwave...” Garstone blinked.

  “Never mind him. Pictures, pictures. Show me the copies you do have - i.e. those not on someone’s breakfast bar.”

  Answering, Garstone took two grainy stills out of his file. He made a ‘shush’ gesture as he pointed out Armitage’s initials, pencilled on the rear

  “You little villain. It’s probably that that he’s gone chasing up.”

  A crashing of collapsed furniture came from four doors down.

  In her best efforts not to laugh, Leyton led him down towards the store room.

  They discovered a shaken and bedraggled DC Armitage, struggling out from beneath fallen shelving. The contents were spilt catastr
ophically everywhere, resembling the aftermath of an earthquake.

  “I know it’s great to be strong, Leroy.” Leyton sympathized with his determination, “but it’s still a great idea to utilize both hands on occasion.”

  “I don’t think I’ve broken owt.” Armitage groaned, getting to his feet. “Except for the thingy, there...”

  “Oh you haven’t...”

  Leyton leant down to fish up a forensic-bagged shape, pinned beneath.

  She lifted the hub-cap carefully from its package.

  “Oh ,yes...you have.”

  The inner teeth were nearly all broken off – feeling them at the bottom of the bag established that for herself. An ominous crack had cut across nearly the entire hub cap, narrowly missing the Vauxhall emblem. She surveyed the damage with despair as her two DCS shuddered. Their sole item of evidence connecting the murder scene to the rest was as good as destroyed.

  “Dandy then...item broken almost in two, five of its six teeth gone for a Burton and also now, a lovely big scratch the size of... hey, wait a second, this wasn’t mentioned on the records.”

  Leyton examined a crescent-shaped welt she’d found. It was dissolved out, towards the centre, and appeared deliberately gouged. Whichever tool had done it was at least half an inch thick, and also considerably coarse.

  “This can’t have been done by just a shelf coming down.” Garstone was examining the cap. “Probably got dug into… say, like by a bike pedal?”

  “Let’s have another sheet for this.” she insisted straight away. “If that business about the front of the Corsa flying up figures then what you’re saying could amount to sense.”

  “Aye, will do.”

  Garstone leapt out into the corridor again, and at what could have hardly been more convenient timing. PC Thompson had just passed by, having cocked a casual eye through the doorway.

  “Will, the hubcaps you had off that defective Subaru – you still got them?”

  “Chris’s stowed them away under lock and key,” Thompson replied, slightly hurriedly. “I might beg to him nicely.”