Changelings (13 page)

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Authors: Jo Bannister

BOOK: Changelings
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Donovan knew he'd hit a raw nerve. He didn't know if he'd make things better or worse by apologizing. He settled for a lopsided shrug and a grunt of ‘Families!'
Sarah relaxed and nodded agreement. ‘Families indeed. Oh well, I've been pretty lucky in mine. And I include Elphie in that. My life would be so much poorer without her.'
So there was something wrong with the child. But if she wanted him to know what she'd tell him: he had no right to ask. The sharp little pixie face, the piping voice, the fascination with people she didn't know and the lack of any discretion around them, that so far as Donovan knew could have been quite normal in a child her age, were in fact symptoms of something amiss. He felt an odd little pang and wanted to ask – and even he knew better – whether Elphie would be all right or if she was living on borrowed time.
He found something innocuous to say. ‘What's Elphie short for?'
‘Elizabeth.' Sarah laughed. ‘But you have to admit, Elphie suits her better.'
‘How old is she?'
‘She's eight. She's small for her age, and she won't get a lot bigger, but that doesn't stop her filling the house.'
‘I don't know anything about kids,' confessed Donovan. ‘She brightens the place up, but.'
You don't get many compliments on a handicapped child. Sarah Turner recognized that as one and beamed, and didn't bother herself with the peculiar Ulster syntax. ‘You're an only child, Cal?'
A blind dropped behind his eyes and for a moment he seemed unwilling to answer. Then he gave an ambivalent half-shrug. ‘I am now. My sister died when she was twelve, in the car bomb that killed my mam
and dad. My dad did a bread run, but he drove the same sort of car as the police reservist three doors up. The Provos offered their apologies, so that was all right.'
The irony didn't fool her: she felt his pain. Her hand crossed the table between them and closed on his wrist, feeling the tension in the long tendons like wires under the skin. ‘I'm so sorry. When was this – how old were you?'
‘I was sixteen,' he said. ‘That's when I came to England. My brother was a woodentop with the Met, I went to live with him.' He saw her bewilderment and translated. ‘A London policeman.' He gave a slightly shaky sigh. That surprised him: he didn't know these events still had the power to move him. ‘Two years later he was dead too. In a car chase: he thought he was as good a driver as the guy in front, and he was wrong.' He forced a chuckle. ‘And people say motorbikes are dangerous!'
Sarah Turner felt a surge of compassion for the gangling Irishman, long and thin as string, with his peculiar accent and his haunted eyes. When they brought him here she'd seen him as a burden; when they found his warrant card she'd been alarmed, wondered what it meant, what he was doing here. They'd agreed to care for him and she'd undertaken the task with application if no enthusiasm. But it had proved difficult to go on thinking of him as a threat as he lay sweating with pain and fever upstairs.
Still it was only now, talking to him, that she began to see him as a real person with a place in the world beyond the fen, a life of his own that sometime he'd
want to return to. It raised fresh questions and made the solutions more difficult. Thus far they had acted in their own best interests. Now he was awake it was going to be impossible to continue ignoring his.
They could have left him on his boat. He would probably have died, but at that time his death would have come at no cost to Sarah or anyone in East Beckham. Two things made them intervene. One was the possibility of a reason for his being here beyond his untimely illness. The other was Elphie. Everyone else involved might understand the need to turn their backs on so problematic a stranger but Elphie never would. It was hard to explain, but Sarah understood instinctively that if they'd let Donovan die, something in Elphie would have died too.
Dr Chapel decided the matter, as he'd decided so many in the past. He was an old man now, his position in the community mostly honorary, but the years which had bent and weakened his body had not dulled his mind. Difficult decisions in East Beckham were always taken to Dr Chapel; and Dr Chapel advised keeping the stranger at the big house. That way no bridges had been burnt. If he was here on police business someone would come looking for him; if he wasn't there was time to decide their next move. If they let him die and in due course be found, the police would certainly come to The Flower Mill, whether or not they were interested in it before. They would be puzzled that no one from the village had investigated the boat tied so long to their towpath; and curious policemen wandering round the place was the last thing East Beckham needed. One policeman, glad of
their help and too weak to be inquisitive, was a much safer bet.
Dr Chapel had not said, though the inference hung in the air like marsh gas, that if it turned out they would have been better to let him die after all, there would be another chance. A canal on the cusp of winter offered opportunities enough for a fatal accident. It wasn't only motorbikes that could be dangerous.
But Sarah found herself hoping, not only for Elphie's sake, that no such measures would become necessary. It was hard enough to have one death on your conscience; she didn't need another.
‘Sir, sir – sir! Isn't your missus a detective, sir?'
Brian Graham had been waiting for this, and it came as no surprise that it arrived courtesy of 3b. He reminded himself that patience is a virtue before replying. ‘That's right, Darren.'
‘Corr!' said the Dracula impressionist, impressed. ‘Is she after him then, sir?'
‘After who?' Brian knew it should be ‘whom' but considered it pretentious. He also knew who Darren meant.
‘Plagueman!' The boy's eyes were shining.
‘Who?'
‘It's what they're calling him, sir,' said Maureen long-sufferingly. ‘You know, like Superman. Batman.'
‘VAT-man,' offered Darren, to general derision.
‘Yes, of course she is,' said Brian. ‘Everyone at Queen's Street is trying very hard to find him, before anyone else gets hurt.'
‘Taking long enough,' observed Chuck Burchill dourly. (He was Charlie until his voice broke during the summer holiday.)
Brian shrugged apologetically. ‘These things do take time. If it was easy to catch criminals nobody'd
ever take the risk of being one. But they mostly get caught in the end.' This was a somewhat generous interpretation of the crime statistics, but one of a teacher's duties is to try and prevent his pupils joining the Mafia.
‘It can't be that hard; sniffed Chuck. ‘All they've got to do is find someone who was in them two shops and here at school.'
‘Those
two shops', Brian corrected automatically. He put aside his box of slides, prepared a quick maths lesson instead. ‘All right, let's think about that. Stand up, everyone who's been in Sav-U-Mor since Friday.' Virtually the whole class rose. ‘Yes, me too. Now, those who've also been in Mr Simpson's the chemist's since then, stay on your feet – the rest sit down.' Most of the class, just a little disappointed, took their seats. Brian remained standing with the others.
‘Yes, I've been in there too. OK, now how many of you' – he counted quickly – ‘four were in school on Monday afternoon?' For a moment Darren forgot himself and sat; he rose again quickly, with guilt all over his face. Kindly, Brian pretended not to notice. ‘Everybody? Excellent. So in fact, five out of twenty-seven of us meet Chuck's criteria of being in all three places at relevant times. If we did the same with the rest of the population of Castlemere, we'd find that an awful lot of them were in both shops, and some of them had a perfectly good reason for being at the school. A lot of people work here. Some parents came to the sports matches, others came to collect their offspring after class.
‘Do you see what I'm saying? – everything that's
known about this man also applies to an awful lot of other people. Five of us in this one classroom. It isn't enough that any of us
could
have done what was done. The detectives at Queen's Street have to find the one person who
did
do it. That's what takes the time. Not just finding someone, but finding the right someone.'
When he came out of school at five to four he found the paintwork dribbling off his car in bubbly streaks that smelled of acetone.
He knew teachers who had, but he'd never been the victim of real vandalism before. He'd had one class whitewash his blackboard, and another go through his art books stamping inky fig leaves in all the appropriate places. But those were just pranks fuelled by a juvenile sense of humour. This was malice fuelled by fear. The paint-stripper flung over his car could as easily have been flung in his face.
His knees started to quiver. He turned round and walked back inside, and sat for ten minutes in the now empty staffroom before picking up the phone and calling his wife.
 
 
‘How the hell did this get started?' demanded Liz furiously. ‘It wasn't one of your jokes, was it?'
This was monstrously unfair. Brian Graham wasn't one of life's jesters. His humour was piqued by entirely more subtle stimuli.
He was still shaking. He'd left the car where it was: Liz called the garage and arranged for them to collect and repair it as soon as SOCO had finished dusting for fingerprints. Brian thought that was going
a bit far. Almost certainly some of the kids were to blame, and though he'd expect them to pay for their fun he couldn't see himself pressing charges.
‘Liz, you know as much as I do. I was at the school when the shower incident happened. I use the supermarket and the chemist where the other stuff turned up. We were talking about it in school and I said as much. I was just pointing out how hard it'll be to find the culprit when so much of what you know about him applies to half the town. Yes, me included. I didn't see any need to pretend otherwise.'
‘Mitchell Tyler said I should warn you. Even he'd heard your name mentioned. I thought he was crazy.' Her voice went thoughtful. ‘As far as I know, the only one Tyler had talked to at that point was Tony Woodall. Why would Woodall try to cast suspicion on you?'
‘To divert it away from him?'
She pictured the American flinging strong men around like dolls inside the Gents under the castle. ‘That's understandable. He knew Tyler's reputation, he was scared of him and anxious to get him off his back. You can't blame him for that.'
‘I
can!' exclaimed Brian.
Liz gave a tight smile. ‘Come to that, so can I; but I can understand it. It may not be significant.'
Brian sniffed. Now his nerve was steadying he had the surplus emotional capacity to feel resentment. ‘On the other hand, if Woodall
is
responsible, and he
did
want to divert attention away from himself, that's what he would do'
Liz groaned. ‘Oh God, Brian, what's happening to this town? One psychopath has turned a bunch of
perfectly ordinary people – people we know, that we see in the street every day – into a panic-stricken mob. They've done damn near as much damage as the man they're so afraid of. They nearly killed the boy with the syringe: if this goes on much longer they will kill somebody. Can't they see they're a bigger danger to one another than the maniac we're looking for?'
‘You said it: they're frightened. Frightened people aren't rational. They cling together for the same reason fish shoal: there's more inside where they're protected than outside where they're exposed. They feel safer. They seem not to have noticed that nature responded to the shoaling instinct by producing the shark.'
Liz chewed on her lip. ‘Brian – would this be a good time to visit some relatives?'
He stared at her; concentrating on her driving, she avoided looking back. ‘What relatives?' Their Christmas card list was no longer than Donovan's: Liz's father was the only surviving parent and neither of them had siblings.
‘Evesham's pretty in the autumn,' Liz ventured.
‘Your dad thinks I stopped you making a good marriage. I never see him without being told the Master of Fox Hounds was after you.'
It was quite true. Two more different men than Liz's father and husband would be difficult to imagine. Edgar Ward, at the age of seventy-two, had only this spring retired as secretary of the hunt: now he walked puppies for it instead. Brian Graham wasn't a militant vegetarian but nor would he deny his principles in
the interests of a quiet life. Meetings between them were always fraught: however pretty Evesham was in autumn, evacuating Brian to his father-in-law's probably wasn't a great idea.
‘All right, then – what about these art history courses you're always on about?' They had great difficulty choosing holidays. Liz craved action, Brian sought culture. ‘Couldn't you take one of those for a fortnight?'
‘I can't go anywhere for a fortnight. Not to Evesham, not on an art history course. Liz, I have a job! I can't just walk out on it because somebody vandalized my car.'
‘Your job is teaching,' acknowledged Liz tightly. ‘And some of your pupils threw acid over your car, and they did that because they think you used them as ammunition in a campaign of terror. Just how effective a teacher can you be in those circumstances?'
‘Slightly more effective,' he retorted, nettled, ‘than if I get known as a guy who'll run a mile at the first sign of trouble. Damn it, Liz, I don't know where you get the nerve to suggest it! I have sweated blood over some of the things you either had to do or felt you had to do. Do you think, because I didn't ask you to stay home, that it didn't worry me? Do you think I could see you in danger, and hurt, and shrug it off because after all it was only part of your job?
‘I've gone to bed and cried because of the things your job makes you do, the risks it makes you take. But I don't think I've ever reproached you for it. I've certainly never asked you to give it up. So what gives you the right to ask me? Do you think your job is
more important than mine? Or that you love me more than I love you? Because if that's it, you're wrong on both counts.'
She let the car coast to a halt by the kerb because she couldn't drive and give him the attention he deserved. She felt a tremor in her forearms and gripped the wheel to still it. ‘You're right. I'm sorry. I never, never meant to suggest that what you do is unimportant. As for who loves who most, I've never thought of it as a competition.'
Mollified, Brian touched her arm. But he wouldn't change his mind. ‘I'm not going anywhere. If I'm not at school on Monday morning, that'll be it: every pupil and half the staff will think I've run because I have something to hide. Unless you catch this man they'll go on thinking that. They'll think I'm someone who'd threaten kids, who'd hurt unsuspecting shoppers, for money. I don't want that hanging over me. I don't want to spend the rest of my career being thought of as the man who got away with murder.'
She leaned her body into his. ‘God Almighty, Brian Graham, I love you so much!'
His long arm extended around her shoulders. He wasn't a handsome man by any standards, hadn't been when he was younger. But he had the sweetest smile. It still made her heart melt. ‘Bet I love you more.'
 
 
After she'd taken him home she returned to Queen's Street. Shapiro was waiting for her with a very strange expression. ‘Come and sit down. I have some news'
‘About the blackmailer?'
‘I'm not sure.'
Liz stared at him. ‘How can you not know?'
‘Sit down and listen, then you tell me.'
Lucy Cole had called him. Donovan's dog had been restless last night, which didn't particularly surprise her; but this morning he'd refused his breakfast and that did. Brian Boru wasn't a dog to let emotion come between him and a meal. Lucy watched him, and by mid-morning was convinced the animal was ill.
She didn't know who Donovan's vet was but Keith Baker was the sturdiest of the local men so she phoned him. Sure enough, he knew Brian Boru and, pulling on his motorcycle gauntlets and cricket pads, agreed to examine him.
The dog was severely anaemic and when he took a blood sample for analysis the needle hole kept bleeding. That was enough for Baker to start treatment, but he waited for confirmation of his suspicions before phoning Lucy. Realizing the significance of what he'd found, she immediately phoned Shapiro.
‘The dog was poisoned,' Shapiro told Liz. ‘Warfarin. Only sheer bloody-mindedness kept him on his feet that long.'
‘Warfarin?' Liz couldn't get past the extraordinary fact to start seeing the implications. ‘Rat poison?'
‘It's an anticoagulant, formulated to destroy rats without doing much damage to anything bigger. For something as big as a pit bull terrier to go down it must have ingested a hell of a lot.'
‘Could he have got it accidentally?'
‘Not in
Tara's
chain locker. That was the dog's
kennel, Donovan wouldn't have left dangerous substances in there.'
It made no sense. If Donovan put his dog in its kennel before illness overwhelmed him, either it would have stayed there until it was found or died of starvation, or it would have broken out. What was inconceivable was that it would break out, go scavenging for food, find enough rat poison to blitz eighty pounds of pit bull terrier, then come back and shut itself in the chain locker again.
‘Then someone poisoned it.'
‘I can't see any other explanation.'
‘Not Donovan'
Shapiro shook his head crisply. ‘No. Not after the trouble he went to rescuing the thing. If he'd lost control of it he might have had to put it down, but he'd never have poisoned it.'
‘Then someone else was on
Tara.
Someone we don't know about.'
That was how Shapiro read it too. ‘Yes.'
Liz looked up, her eyes widening. ‘So what we thought happened – we don't actually know that's what happened at all!'

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