by Frank Tayell
“They want to know what’s going on,” he said. “And I don’t know what to tell them.”
“It’s not my call,” Devine said, turning to me.
I saw the anxiety in Donnie’s face. He’s barely a decade younger than me, but that’s another way of saying he’s only a few years out of college. He’d seen a lot, we all had, but there’s a difference between killing the inhuman undead and brutal murder.
“Tell them that Mr Llewellyn was attacked,” I said. “And that we’re looking into it.”
“Maybe you should speak to them,” Donnie said.
“Maybe you should,” Devine agreed. “Find out what they know about the victim, whether they saw anyone come here yesterday, or whether Mr Llewellyn had any regular visitors.”
“What do you know about him,” I asked Donnie as we walked around to the front of the house.
“Not much,” Donnie said. “He was helping out in the hospital. The night after he arrived, he started sweeping the floors, tidying up, that sort of thing. Dr Knight came in the next morning and found him washing the windows. He sort of got the job of janitor because he was happy doing it.”
“And the house?”
“I found it for him,” Donnie said. “He was sleeping in the ward, but there was nothing physically wrong with him. Dr Knight didn’t want him moving into an office at the hospital. She thought if he did that, he’d never leave. If he had a house somewhere, he’d have to go out into the fresh air twice a day. She said that was as much help as we could find for him. I thought a house here, near Willow Farm, would mean he’d see people everyday who didn’t work in the hospital.”
“So there was nothing physically wrong with him?”
“He just couldn’t forget what he’d seen,” Donnie said. “But who can?”
“Good point. Did he talk about how he’d survived the last few months?”
“No, he didn’t talk much.”
“Nothing about his friends, or family, or past life?”
“Nope,” Donnie said.
“Pity.”
The crowd from Willow Farm were still by the closed gate.
“Morning,” I said loudly enough to carry, though all eyes were already on me. “Last night Mr Llewellyn was assaulted. Did anyone hear anything? See anything?”
“It wasn’t us,” a bearded man said. He was around forty, but the grey-streaked beard made him look a decade older. His skin was tanned, and though his clothes were clean, his hands were engrained with dirt.
“I didn’t say it was,” I said.
“It couldn’t be anyone here,” a woman said. Her head was covered in a wide-brimmed straw hat, held down with a bright blue scarf. It was one of the few colourful items on a group otherwise wearing drab greys and browns. “There’s no violence here.”
“I’ve heard that said before,” I said.
“Violence and aggression created this nightmare,” a younger man said. “Only through peace and love can we restore true harmony.”
On the page, those words look harmless, but there was something about his tone. There was a fervour, a passion, that when taken with the group’s general demeanour, made me think they shouldn’t be taken at face value.
“How well do you know Mr Llewellyn?” I asked.
“He wasn’t one of us,” the young man said, answering before anyone else could. “And he didn’t want to be. We invited him to join. He refused. We left him alone, as were his wishes. He left us alone, as were ours.”
“Did you see him last night?” I asked.
“Did anyone?” the young man asked, turning to look around the group. Eyes darted back and forth, and then a woman raised a tentative hand.
“You saw him?” I asked.
“Not him,” she said. “I saw another man. He was carrying something. Something large, in two hands.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Around dusk,” she said. “I was watering the cabbages.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Not really,” she said. “I didn’t get a very good look. He was across the road, and I was in the garden.”
“You sure it was a man?” Donnie asked.
“Oh yes,” she said. “He had blond hair, does that help? It was down to his shoulders.”
“Blond hair? And was he carrying something to the house or away from it?” I asked.
“To. To the house,” she said. “That’s all I saw.”
“Thank you. Did anyone else see him?” There was a general shake of heads. “Did anyone see anything?”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” the young man asked. “Otherwise he would have told you about his visitor.”
I mentally cursed, but there was no point lying. “Yes,” I said. “He’s dead. We’re not sure what happened.”
“You see,” the young man said, addressing his group. “Do you see?” Perhaps they did see, but I surely didn’t. “Back inside,” he said. “There’s nothing for us here.” He corralled them away from the gate and back down the track. From their expressions, they all went willingly.
We went back to the house, and met Captain Devine coming around from the side.
“Anything?” she asked.
“A possible suspect,” I said. “We got a description of a blond man coming here around dusk.”
“That’s not much,” she said.
“It is on an island where most people shave their heads. There’s a man at the pub with long blond hair. He’d have had access to the beer.”
“Right. I’m going to back to the ship,” Devine said. “We don’t have any forensics equipment, but I can piece it together. I can collect evidence and take samples, and you can work out how to analyse them later. There’s a patch of damp soil on the far side of the patio. I think the beer might have been poured away. There’s possibly skin underneath the nails of the victim’s left hand. I’ll collect it. You can decide what to do with it after that.” She paused. “We’re grateful for the landfall. From what Sophia Augusto said, this might be a safe harbour for us. From what I’ve seen, it might not.” Again she paused. This time I heard the unspoken threat.
“Donnie, can you watch the body?” I asked. “I’ll go back to town, speak to George and Mary, and get some of Mister Mills’ crew come and stand guard.”
“Sure,” he said.
Devine and I collected our bicycles. I led her back to the port, and then went to find Mary and George.
They were in the library. They weren’t alone. Kim and Sholto were with them. I summarised what I’d seen.
“I don’t get it,” Kim said. “It doesn’t make sense. Why not shoot him?”
“The undead don’t shoot people,” Sholto said. “It sounds like Bill says, someone wanted this to look like a zombie attack. You sure it’s Paul?”
“Yes and no,” I said. “We have the description of a man with blond hair carrying something large to the house. We’ve also got the crate of beer underneath the chair.”
“So the beer was a peace offering,” George said. “Paul took it there, hoping that Mr Llewellyn would forgive him for some past transgression. A fight ensued. Paul killed him.”
“We don’t know that,” Kim said. “A man with blond hair going up to the house? That doesn’t mean it was Paul, or that Paul attacked Llewellyn. The beer doesn’t mean much, either. Didn’t you say that’s the brand they can’t even give away? We’re talking about murder here. We have to do this correctly.”
“We do, indeed,” Mary said. “The admiral has gone back to her ship. They were all going to come ashore, but the entire crew has been confined until this is dealt with. If they leave, if we get the next few hours wrong, how many more boats will up anchor and sail away?”
“They’ve no oil,” Sholto said. “They’ll find it hard to get anywhere. Besides, the Harpers Ferry’s engines are shot.”
“We have the small quantity of oil that Svalbard gave us,” Mary said. “I don’t want to see the admiral attempt to take it. Nor do I want to se
e her take some of our sailing ships. They won’t be given willingly. Dozens would die. Those are the very people we need, the ones who must…” She coughed, and spluttered into silence.
“You all right, Mary?” George asked, stepping close.
“Fine, George, fine,” Mary said, though she didn’t look it.
“Devine will gather evidence,” I said. “In the meantime, we need to act. Or to be seen to be acting. At present, the only thing we can do is interview Paul.”
“And anyone else who’s got long blond hair,” Kim said. “Assuming that witness is reliable.”
“We’ll start with Paul,” George said. “I’ll go and get him.”
“No,” Mary said. “We’ll get some sailors from the Vehement to do that.”
“You don’t want to send in the Navy,” George said. “Kim’s right, we’ve got a blond man carrying something to the door. That’s not the same as a suspect for a murder. Let’s see if he’ll come quietly.”
“And if he fights?” Mary said. “If Markus fights for him?”
“I won’t go alone,” George said. “I’ll take these two. Markus knows them. It’ll be less confrontational, and I don’t think Markus will want a confrontation with me.”
“You go in, you ask for him. Any refusal, any trouble, and you walk right back out again,” Mary said. “Kim, go and find Mister Mills. Apprise him of what’s happened and tell him I want him up here. George… Be safe.”
“You ever done anything like this before?” George asked as he, Sholto, and I headed to the pub.
“Nothing quite like this,” Sholto said.
“I’m not really sure what this is,” I said.
“Me neither,” George said. “I’ve planned for most things. The power plant melting down, the grain ships being sunk, the arrival of thousands of new survivors, and that their arrival also brings an outbreak of Typhoid or worse. I worried about scurvy and dysentery, and the next generation growing up feral. It was naive to think we could ignore crime.”
“I’d call it wishful thinking rather than naivety,” Sholto said.
“Maybe you’re right,” George said, “but whatever you call it, the blame lies with me. Absence of law doesn’t make a crime-free state. I shouldn’t have dragged my feet about those judges. Of course, it’s easy to drag your feet when you’ve got your head in the sand. We lost someone. Someone good. Let’s make sure David Llewellyn is the last one.”
“Mr Tull, welcome. A pint?” Markus asked. The pub was emptier than usual. The bearded man was in his chair, and the two women sat at their table with a pile of books that might have been the same as the ones before. The group who’d sat by the window were absent, but Paul was there, sitting on his stool at the edge of the bar. He stared at us, his eyes flitting from George to Sholto to me. The left side of his face was scratched and he was sporting a new black eye. My mouth went dry, and my hand went to my belt. I had to keep reminding myself that there’s a difference between evidence and proof.
“This isn’t a social call, Markus,” George said. “There’s been a death. A murder.”
“Oh?” Markus asked, joviality dropping from his voice and face. “You’re serious. Where? When? Who?”
“The man who Bill and Sholto rescued out on the mainland, David Llewellyn,” George said. “Someone stabbed him last night.”
Paul’s face paled. He turned to look at the door.
“You think it was me?” Markus asked.
“Was it?” George said.
“It was movie night,” Markus said. “A Romero double bill. I can give you a list of witnesses.”
“I bet you can,” George said. “What about you, Paul? Where were—”
The man sprung up, a gun in his hand. Sholto dived forward. I dived sideways, just as Paul fired. George fell, with a grunt of pain. I looked down. He was clutching his shoulder. I looked up, and saw Paul disappearing through the back door of the pub. Sholto vaulted over the bar.
“Go,” George hissed.
I limped to the front door and was outside before I realised I’d never catch him. I crossed the car park to the wall that separated it from the road. Below, I saw Paul running down the road, gun in his hand, his fists pumping. Sholto was thirty yards behind and closing. I’d drawn my pistol without even thinking and had it half raised before I forced my hand down. Even if Paul was standing still, it was unlikely I’d hit him. Sholto was gaining. Twenty yards. Fifteen. I wanted my brother to shoot Paul, but Sholto hadn’t even drawn his gun. Time seemed to slow as the distance between them shrank. Paul spun around, pivoting. His gun-hand came up. There was a loud, echoing shot. Paul collapsed. Momentum kept Sholto running a few more steps. He came to a halt by the corpse. His hands were empty. He’d not fired. Paul hadn’t fired. So who had? The shot had come from my right. I turned that way, looking for the shooter. I’m not sure whom I expected. Markus, perhaps, or Mister Mills, or maybe one of his sailors. It was Rachel. She stood near the rear door of the pub, holding an ancient hunting rifle. She lowered the gun, placed it on the ground, and then crossed to the low stone wall. She sat down and hung her head.
Sholto had a hand on his belt, and his eyes on the woman. Around him, in the street, were dozens of people. I’d been so intent on the pursuit, I’d not even seen them. Rachel. Paul. It was all too much to process. Then I remembered George. I ran back inside.
Markus and the bearded man were bent over the old man, applying a bandage to his shoulder.
“I didn’t know,” Markus said, speaking to me as much to George. “I really didn’t. I had nothing to do with it. I swear.”
“It’s a through-and-through,” the bearded man said, his voice gruff and low. “The bone’s not broken, but we need to get him to the clinic.”
“Rachel shot Paul,” I said.
“She did?” Markus asked. He looked at me, and I at him. There was something in his eyes. Confusion, yes, but something else. No, I realised, it was a lack of something. For some reason, he didn’t seem surprised.
“This isn’t the place to have a discussion,” Dr Knight said. A group of us had gathered in the clinic, outside the small ward in which George now lay, unconscious.
“We need Mary for this,” I said. “And the admiral.” Both women were by George’s bedside.
“How is he?” Kim asked.
“Asleep,” Dr Knight said. “If we had more morphine, I’d say he was sedated, but I’ve only enough to take the edge off the pain. The bullet went through muscle. He was lucky, but it’s still a bullet wound. At his age, he may never recover full use of his arm. He certainly won’t be going out into the wasteland this year, and never again if I have my way.”
“He won’t like that,” Donnie said.
“He’ll be grateful he’s alive,” Dr Knight said. “Why did he do it?”
“George, or Paul?” Donnie asked.
“We might as well only do this once,” I said. “Can we go in?”
“You can use the room next door,” Dr Knight said.
Five minutes later, we were sitting in uncomfortable armchairs, facing one another. Mary was pensive, only half with us. The admiral looked as if she was still weighing up whether she and her crew were going to stay or leave. Mister Mills looked furious, though I think it was with himself. Captain Devine sat at attention as if she’d retreated into the familiar comfort of regulations. Donnie was sitting with George, and I thought he might well be the lucky one. Heather Jones kept glancing back and forth between the military officers. Word of Llewellyn’s murder had spread to Menai Bridge, and she’d descended on Holyhead with Lilith, Will, Lorraine, and Simon. They were waiting outside, along with Gunderson’s escort. I’ll be honest, the two groups reminded more of rival war parties than bodyguards. Kim looked worried, Sholto tired, Dr Knight anxious to get back to her patient. Leon was halfway to Svalbard, and Sophia had already headed back out to sea. Our group was hardly democratic, and that was the crux of our problem.
Since no one else was talking, I began. “
At least fifty people saw Rachel shoot Paul,” I said. “We told them the same as we told Markus when we went into the pub; that Paul was wanted for murder, and that he ran.”
“Why did Rachel do it?” the admiral asked.
A good question, but I didn’t have a good answer. “She said it was because he shot at George. She said it was self-defence.”
“It was hardly that,” Sholto said. “Not from that range.”
“He had a gun almost pointing at you,” Kim said. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Paul was turning around, there was a gun in his hand. He knew Sholto was pursuing him,” I said.
“He appeared to be aware that someone was pursuing him,” Devine corrected me.
“Did you gather any evidence from the crime scene near Willow Farm?” Heather Jones asked.
“I collected samples from underneath David Llewellyn’s fingernails,” Devine said, “and from the damp area of soil into which I believe the beer bottles were emptied. I took fingerprints from the light switch, the bottles, and the chair. There was an exercise book in the living room. Next to it was a half-drunk cup of tea. I believe that the victim was writing in the book at the time the killer came to the house. The first seven pages were ripped out. No other pages have writing on them. I have to assume that was done by the killer. We can store the samples, but we can’t do anything else. There’s no forensic lab on this island. When it comes to DNA, or running a spectroscopic analysis, we’d have to salvage equipment from somewhere else.”
“Captain, do you think that this man, Paul, was the murderer?” the admiral asked.
“A plausible narrative to that effect can be constructed from the available evidence, ma’am,” Devine said.
“Meaning?” Mills asked.
“Meaning probably,” Sholto said. “Paul shot George. He’s guilty, and he’s dead. That’s what matters.”
“What matters is what we do with Rachel,” Mary said, her voice was low, almost a whisper.
The room went quiet again. The silence grew expectant, uncomfortable. Again I decided to break it, because there was only one thing to say, only one course open to us.