Bone Dancer

by Anna-Marie Morgan

  Wyn answered her knock, his blonde hair damp from the shower, fingernails bearing traces of reddish-brown clay. A matchstick protruded from his lips. He toggled it with his teeth, his eyes exploring her face. He removed it before greeting her.

  “DI Giles. Come. Hope it doesn’t frighten you.” He cleared his throat, moving back.

  “Thanks. I can’t wait to see her.” Yvonne edged into the airy studio where two long tables ran parallel. The generous space between, enabled ample access.

  Lining the walls, shelves sported various-sized pots, brushes and tools, including scrapers.

  A short pole held the head on the table to her left.

  “I’m modelling facial muscles.” Wyn smoothed clay over the teeth with his thumbs

  She watched him develop the right thickness, guided by pins projecting from the skull surface, kneading until satisfied it was right.

  Like a face with the skin peeled. She shuddered, thinking of the killer who had stripped the remains of their flesh. The reverse of this reconstruction.

  “What do you think so far?” He stepped away from the head.

  “I’m impressed. Though I still can't picture the girl.”

  “Early days.” He smiled. “I've developed the rough shape, using standard muscle thickness. Soon, the upper layers of fat and skin will be on and the finer detail applied. Then you’ll view the face of your victim. Or, at least, enough likeness to jog the memories of her loved ones.”

  Yvonne shook his hand. "Great work, I can't wait to see it finished."

  "I'll let you know."

  3

  Nicole Benoit

  A relentless, mid-July sun continued the heatwave which had revealed so many patterns in the fields. Brown lines of previous structures. Previous times. Previous lives.

  Nicole Benoit lifted both feet off the pedals and freewheeled down the hill. The rush of air was a joy. Her bun allowed stray red tendrils to tickle her face and neck. She beamed, her eyes ablaze. This was freedom. This was life.

  He took a right turn off the track below and stopped. She watched him alight from his bicycle and lay it on the ground next to him, along with his backpack. He extracted a large picnic basket from the rack at the back.

  She applied her brakes, in danger of overshooting the turn. The sudden stop almost unseated her. Her chest heaved, and she sat for a few moments regaining her breath.

  “This is a good spot.” He turned his handsome head towards her and waved his hand around, showing a well-grazed area, separating two mounds of heather.

  She nodded, breathing fast. “It’s beautiful up here. This was a good choice.” She was more aware of her Languedoc accent when she talked to him. She blushed, casting her eyes downwards.

  He pulled out a chequered cloth and placed it on the ground, proceeding to position plates and cutlery onto it.

  She approached the sandwiches, grapes, cheese and biscuits, he laid out on plates..

  “This looks so good. This was a lot of trouble. I feel spoiled.” She was smiling again, taking a seat at one end of the cloth.

  He returned her warmth. “Who wouldn’t want to spoil you?”

  Her eyes met his. There was something in his gaze. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  They ate in relative silence, both lost in the quiet beauty of the place. There wasn’t another soul around. Her hunger surprised her. His food tasted of summer heaven.

  After they had eaten their fill, she gathered the plates and cutlery, preparing them to go back into the basket.

  She went to speak and saw him hide something behind his back, but not before she had spied the corner of a jewellery box. She held her breath. They'd known each other a few months. He wouldn't propose? Would he?

  The more she thought about it, the more obvious it became. The bike ride, the picnic, this beautiful spot at Carding Mill. All of it leading up to something.

  His eyes on her face, she coloured again.

  He brought his hands from behind his back, producing a blue velvet box. It was long. A little too long. Knots formed in her chest.

  She felt silly, hiding her mouth behind her hand. Had he seen the confusion in her eyes?

  “What have I done to deserve this?” She held up a gold chain, on the end of which was a locket with an intricate flower design.

  She looked at him through long lashes and stray tendrils of hair.

  “I saw it and thought of you.” He kept his eyes on her face, his expression enigmatic.

  “Thank you.”

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  She leaned to kiss his forehead.

  Without warning, he clambered back onto his bike and rode off.

  “Wait!” She clamoured to get on her own and follow him, scraping the backs of her calves with the pedals as she scrambled to get going.

  He raced away, out of Carding Mill and toward the Long Mynd.

  “Oh… merde!”

  She cycled alongside the stream, approaching the National Trust coffee shop. On her left, cars lined the route and small children played in the stream, their parents chatting on the benches or else taking a stroll down the road.

  She couldn’t see her companion anywhere and questioned whether he had come this way at all. A few thousand yards further, she found his bike tethered in the upper car park, just before the track which meandered up and out of the valley.

  She giggled, hearing a sound in the trees to her left. He was playing hide-and-seek.

  She leaned her bike against the fence, securing it with a bike lock, and headed on foot towards the sound. “Hello? Hello?”

  She didn’t notice the crossbow levelled at her, nor the watchful figure waiting for the right moment. The takedown was swift. She made no sound, save that of her body hitting foliage.

  Yvonne stared at the finished head. Wyn had done a remarkable job. His attention to detail astonished her. The red of the hair, reflected in the long, delicate eyelashes. He'd emphasised the high cheekbones and slender nose by holding the hair off the face, in a ponytail. Amber eyes followed the detective round the room. Wyn had given the girl new life, and she was beautiful.

  “What do you think?” Wyn tilted his head to the side, his eyes on the Yvonne’s face.

  “Amazing.” She closed the few yards between herself and the likeness. “She has such grace and dignity. How did you get the skin pores? They look real.”

  He walked to his tools and held up a cloth. “Leather.” He grabbed leftover clay and placed the leather on top. “I lay this against the skin and stroke. Pull it away and there you go.” He gave her the clay to examine.

  “Incredible.” She ran her hands over it. “The extra touches bring this girl so vividly back to life.”

  “So long as it helps to solve her murder.” Wyn rubbed his chin. “I’ve kind of grown close to her over the last few weeks.”

  Yvonne reached out. “May I?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Yvonne placed a hand each side of the young girl's face, her thumbs brushed the eyebrows. “She’s almost real.”

  “If only she could talk to you.” Wyn gave a wry smile, his eyelids lowered. His gaze was on the DI’s neck and shoulders.

  “I wish she could.” She sighed, removing her hands from the head with reverent care.

  “She would tell you the name of her murderer.”

  “And tell us of the dreams that died with her. Such a waste.” She closed her eyes and whispered, “I will find your killer. I promise.”

  “The job is in good hands.” He said, placing with a match between his teeth.

  The words reminded her where she was. “You’ve done such a good job, Wyn. We’ll bring it to national attention and then it’s a case of fingers crossed that someone recognises her. But,” she turned back to the likeness. “I am certain they will.”

  Their dedicated phone line was ringing off the hook. They had three names, so far. One of them kept coming up.

  “Nicole Benoit.” Callum handed Y
vonne a file. “It's all in there. Nicole vanished three years ago.”

  “Three years ago.” Yvonne flicked through the notes and photographs..

  “She was a nineteen-year-old student from the Languedoc in France. Spoke good English and was about half-way though a course in Business Studies. She was over here on a three-month exchange visit and had was staying with an English couple near Church Stretton.” Callum checked his pocketbook. “Frank and Elizabeth Whately. Also living with them was their twenty-two-year-old son, Stephen.”

  “Good work, Callum.” Yvonne stared at the photograph of Nicole, holding her breath.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Sorry, Callum. I can’t get over how much she looks like Wyn’s reconstruction. She could have modelled for him.”

  Callum nodded. “I knew as soon as I found that photo, she was our girl.”

  “Where’s Dewi?”

  “I think he’s still on the phone, ma’am.”

  “Do me a favour and ask him to meet me at my office? I will telephone the Whatelys and see if they’ll agree to us paying them a visit today.”

  “Will do.”

  “Oh, and, Callum? Can you chase down Nicole’s dental records from the France? Hanson is already on it but I’d like to have incontrovertible evidence for the match. We should also inform Nicole’s parents of what is happening.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Dewi parked on the lane outside Spring Cottage on the outskirts of Church Stretton.

  Yvonne straightened her skirt, wishing she'd ironed it. Meeting Nicole's friends in crumpled clothing felt disrespectful.

  “Ready?” Dewi was at her side. His shirt, most definitely pressed, probably by his wife.

  She nodded. “Nice tie.”

  “Thanks.”

  They walked the couple of hundred yards to the cream cottage with the stained oak door. Dewi rang the bell.

  A middle-aged female answered, her hair in a neatly coiffed bun and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A streak of white smeared her cheek and the rich smell of baking greeted them.

  “You’d better come in,” she said, after Dewi introduced them. “My husband is in the study.” She led them through the narrow hallway, next to the stairs.

  “We'll speak to you both, if that's okay.” Yvonne’s voice was soft, but Elizabeth Whately turned her face away as though she would prefer to not get involved.

  The four of them settled on the three-piece, in the sitting room, the detectives positioned next to wood burner. Yvonne removed her jacket and cleared her throat. “Thank you for seeing us today. Did you hear the news last night?”

  Elizabeth’s gaze shot to her husband. She clasped one hand with the other, chewing her cheek.

  “What news?” Frank Whately, small and stocky, stretched his legs in front of him.

  Yvonne flicked through her notebook. “Do you remember the young student Nicole Benoit?”

  Again, Sheila’s glanced towards her husband.

  “Yes. She stayed with us a few years ago. Left in a hurry.” Frank reclined in his seat, hands on his ample stomach.

  “They logged her as a missing person, Mr Whately. She didn't leave, she vanished.” Yvonne resisted the temptation to raise her voice.

  “I always assumed she’d run off with a boyfriend. She was popular with the men.”

  “Can you tell me which men?”

  “What is this?” Frank pulled his legs back in.

  “Mr and Mrs Whately, I’m sorry to inform you, we found Nicole’s remains two weeks ago.”

  Elizabeth’s hands flew to her mouth.

  “Someone murdered her and we think it happened near here.”

  Frank leaned towards them. “Murdered? I can’t believe it.” Hands on head, he puffed his cheeks out. “When she went, we wondered if something bad might have happened to her, but we hoped she’d run off with someone. We’ve always had students. Occasionally, they get homesick and leave early. But… murdered?” He clicked his tongue. “Well, I’ll be… Poor kid.”

  “You said she had male friends-”

  The door bell rang several times. Someone was impatient to come in.

  “Liz, can you get that?” Frank ran a hand through his hair and loosened the top of his shirt.

  Liz rose from her seat and disappeared along the hallway.

  Yvonne listened.

  “Mum, they’ve found Nicole. They’ve-” A male voice gushed.

  “Stephen, the police are here.”

  “Oh.” Stephen stopped talking. He and his mum joined them in the sitting room.

  “This is our boy, Stephen.” Frank frowned at his son. “He runs a book store in the town.”

  Stephen wasn’t making eye contact, his lank hair covered half his face like a curtain. It was difficult to follow his expressions. Yvonne estimated him to be around six-feet-one. Dark haired, he would have been handsome if he wasn’t so shy.

  Stephen leaned his elbows on his knees. “I saw the news.” His eyes swung from Yvonne to Dewi and back. “Someone killed her.”

  “Yes.” The DI nodded.

  “Any idea who?” He pushed his hands deep into his trouser pockets.

  “Not yet. We had hoped you might have ideas.”

  “Who, me?”

  “Any of you. Did you know her? Stephen?”

  “Oh. Oh, yes.” His words tumbled over themselves.

  “Were you close?”

  “Me and Nicole? No. Well, yes, in a way. We were friends. Just friends.” He nodded to emphasise his words.

  Frank grunted. “We hadn’t known her long, Inspector. She'd only been with us six weeks. We’ve had lots of students, over the years.”

  Yvonne turned her full attention back to Frank. “You mentioned male friends. Can you give us names?”

  “Well, I…” Frank rubbed his forehead. “Maynard was one. Can’t remember his first name.”

  “Craig.” Stephen offered. “Craig Maynard. He’s a teacher.”

  “He teaches at Church Stretton School,” Frank clarified.

  “Thank you. Who else? Can you remember?”

  “Terry. Terry Mason. He works behind the bar in the Kings Arms. He’s friends with Stephen.” Frank looked at his son.

  “Anyone else?” Yvonne looked from Frank to Stephen and back.

  Both shook their heads.

  “Do you remember much of the day Nicole disappeared?”

  “She took her bike around eleven-ish in the morning. She never returned.” Frank shook his head.

  “Was the bike found?”

  “No.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “No. And we never asked. She was free to come and go as she pleased, provided she was in by ten o’clock.”

  “Did she have her mobile with her?”

  “She didn’t have one.”

  Yvonne’s eyes narrowed. “No mobile phone?”

  Frank shook his head. “She said she didn’t want them. She said they stopped people living their lives. Stopped them living in-the-moment.”

  Yvonne nodded. “She had a point. Unusual, though. Did she ever call home?”

  “She called her parents every Sunday from our house phone.” Liz Whately, silent until now, pointed towards the phone on the bookcase. “She phoned them on the morning she vanished.”

  “Were the phone calls normal? Did she argue with anyone on those calls?”

  She shook her head. “She always seemed happy after talking to them. She missed her family.”

  “I have one more question for Stephen.”

  Stephen shifted the weight between his feet.

  “Where were you, the Friday before last?”

  Stephen looked at her, for the first time, opened mouthed. “Why?”

  “Someone moved Nicole’s remains and left in public.”

  Stephen looked at his mum. “I was home in my flat, in Church Stretton.”

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  “Is he a suspect, now?” Frank’s frown
deepened.

  “Everyone who knew her is a suspect until we rule them out.”

  Stephen shook his head. “Don’t think so. I was tired after work, I had a bath and watched TV after my dinner. Then, bed.”

  “You didn’t socialise?”

  “I don’t go out much.”

  “I see.” Yvonne rose from her seat, followed by Dewi. “Thank you all for talking to us.” She smiled at each of them. “I will speak with you again.”

  “Is it me, or was that strange?” Dewi pulled a face.

  Yvonne shook her head. “I don’t know. People react in odd ways, to shock and grief, but I see what you mean. I think they know more than they are saying. Something was bothering Liz. I’d like talk to her, alone. We need to locate Craig Maynard and Terry Mason.”

  4

  Connections

  “Will Tozer.”

  Yvonne took a deep breath. “Hi, Will. It’s Yvonne Giles, Dyfed-Powys-”

  “Yvonne, I was just about to ring you. I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you to interview the Whatelys the other day. We’ve been flat out dealing with County Lines. Drug squad needed our help.”

  “You too?” Yvonne sighed. “I’ve lost my DS this week for the same reason. They’re raiding every couple of weeks, at the moment.”

  He clicked his tongue. “Vital work. Anyway, how can I help?”

  “There’s a couple more people I’d like to speak to about Nicole Benoit’s murder. They live and work in Church Stretton. I don’t want to tread on your toes but I think they may have vital information.”

  “Can I interview with you?”

  “That would be helpful since, like I say, I don’t have my DS with me this week.”

  “Who we talking about?”

  “Craig Maynard, English teacher and Terry Mason, who works as a barman in Houseman’s bar in the town.”

  “I know Terry,” Tozer affirmed. “I don’t know Maynard, but I know of him. He works at Church Stretton School. He teaches my niece.”