Changelings

by Jo Bannister

  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!’

  ‘No.’

  Finally she understood that gnomic remark about the blackmailer. ‘Something happened to Donovan, but it may not have been cholera. And if it wasn’t cholera, he may not be dead.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Shapiro simply. ‘That’s what I thought too. I wasn’t sure if it was just wishful thinking, I wanted to see if you’d come to the same conclusion.’

  ‘If there was another party involved’ – she was thinking on her feet, working it out as she spoke – ‘then where we found Tara may not be where Donovan left her. She may have been moved. Put somewhere she could go unnoticed for days or even weeks.’

  Shapiro was nodding sombrely. ‘That isn’t necessarily good news. The reason the divers haven’t found a body could be they’re looking in the wrong place.’

  ‘So where’s the right place?’

  He gave a helpless shrug. ‘I have no idea. I’ve been poring over a map of the area, and all I can come up with is that if the boat was moved it must have started off somewhere that was inconvenient for whoever moved it’

  Liz leaned over the map too, reviewing the few facts they had. ‘He passed the Posset Inn late on Monday, may have stayed nearby that night. The boat was found yesterday afternoon. If somebody felt the need to hide it, maybe he wouldn’t want to be seen doing it in broad daylight. Let’s say he took her to that mere Monday night, Tuesday night or Wednesday night; and he threw the dog poison so his barking wouldn’t attract attention. Have you ever had a dog, Frank?’

  Shapiro blinked. ‘The kids had one once. I didn’t see much of it. Why?’

  ‘Dogs live for the moment. Never mind jam tomorrow, they’ll wolf the dry crust today. They don’t think they’ll have a bit now and a bit later. If somebody threw food into the chain locker, Brian Boru would have eaten the lot within ten minutes.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘If he’d eaten rat poison on Monday night he wouldn’t have been taken ill on Friday morning. I’ll check this with Keith Baker, but I don’t think it would have taken more than a day. The boat was found about four o’clock on Thursday, yes? I bet it was left there, and the dog poisoned, no later than Wednesday night. Perhaps around dawn: enough light to steer by, and find that overgrown channel, not so much the man at the tiller would be recognized if anyone saw him.’

  ‘So there are two days we know nothing about,’ said Shapiro. ‘Tuesday and Wednesday. But if Donovan was on schedule for those two days he’d have passed the engine house at Sinkhole Fen, and he didn’t. Even if the people there missed him, they’d also have had to miss Tara coming back again. He should have got there mid-afternoon on Tuesday. Where was he instead?’

  ‘Whether or not he had cholera, he was certainly sick. Maybe by Tuesday he’d had enough – he tied up somewhere and went to bed. Maybe he was all right, just not going anywhere, until whatever it was that happened on Wednesday.’

  ‘What happened on Wednesday? Hazard a guess.’

  She spread a hand. ‘A robbery?’

  Shapiro was unconvinced. ‘It’s a narrowboat not Onassis’s yacht: nobody’d break in thinking they were going to find jewellery and large wodges of cash. Plus, even below par, Donovan should have been able to see off a burglar. And how many burglars would have tackled a boat with that dog on board?’

  ‘Maybe that’s why it was poisoned.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t work, did it? The dog was still on its feet when the boat was found on Thursday afternoon.’

  He was right: a burglary really didn’t fit the facts.

  ‘Could there have been a fight?’ wondered Liz. ‘Between Donovan and someone else; or else he stumbled on a crime in progress and tried to stop it. For whatever reason there was a fight, and Donovan’ – she saw too late where this was going, had no choice but to follow – ‘got the worst of it. At which point the other party realized he was facing serious charges and tried to dispose of the evidence. He hid Tara in a backwater. He hoped that when she was eventually found there’d be nothing to connect her to him. He hid her, dealt with the dog, and then he left.’

  ‘How?’ asked Shapiro.

  Puzzled, Liz frowned. ‘How?’

  ‘We know he didn’t climb up the bank and walk away. Unless he can fly there was another boat.’

  Liz nodded pensively. ‘Maybe just a rowing boat. He towed it behind Tara till he reached the mere, then got into his dinghy and rowed back the way he’d come.’

  ‘If he had a boat of his own, either he lives on the canal or he works on it. A passing maniac could conceivably have overpowered Donovan and taken his boat, but where would he have got hold of a dinghy?’

  ‘He certainly knew something about boats,’ agreed Liz. ‘He knew where the mere was, and he could handle Tara well enough to get her inside without leaving any obvious signs. Also, he had to be able to lay his hands on large quantities of rat poison at short notice. We’re talking about a local man.’

  ‘All right. The incident – whatever it was – occurred somewhere we could connect him to. So he moved the boat. He didn’t dare move the dog so he poiso
ned it. He may have expected the rat bait to work faster than it did.’

  Shapiro’s expression was full of misgivings. ‘Someone went to a lot of trouble to cover up what happened. He wasn’t that worried because he’d given Donovan a black eye. I think he did all this because he was afraid he could go to prison for a long time. Liz, it may be when we get to the truth of it, the bottom line is Donovan’s still dead. Somebody moved that boat to hide something, and Donovan wasn’t able to stop him. I think we have to accept that, at the very least, he’s in deep trouble.’

  Liz stood up, brisk and businesslike; only Shapiro, and Brian, knew her well enough to hear the quaver in her voice. ‘Then we’d better find him. Frank, I know it’s asking a lot right now. But we don’t have any leads on the blackmailer that you need every available body to follow up. Give me Dick Morgan for the weekend. If we can’t find Donovan, or find out what happened to him, in that time we’ll be back on the team first thing Monday morning.’

  She had a point. The blackmailing of Castlemere was the most important issue, but just now there wasn’t much for CID to do. Public order was a matter for Superintendent Giles and the uniformed branch. When the man got in touch again there might be new evidence to consider, hopefully new leads to follow, and then Shapiro would want her with him. But until either there was another incident or they heard from him there was nothing Liz could do here. And for heaven’s sakes, she was only talking about the local waterways, none of them more than ten miles from town. And she had her mobile phone – Shapiro could call her in any time he needed her.

  Of course, the same had been true of Donovan, and he’d vanished without trace.

  Or maybe just without leaving a trace where they’d been looking. If they were reading the signs correctly this time, progress could come when they started asking the right questions in the right places.

  ‘All right,’ he decided, ‘take Morgan and see what you can find. But for pity’s sake, Liz, stay in touch. I don’t want you disappearing into a black hole too.’

  She thanked him with her eyes and left.

  When he was alone Shapiro thought for a few minutes. Then he picked up the phone and asked for SOCO. ‘Any word yet on the analysis of the flu remedy you took from DS Donovan’s boat?’

  ‘Just got it here, sir,’ said Sergeant Tripp. ‘Shall I bring it up?’

  ‘Just give me the highlights. What was in it?’

  ‘Cough medicine, sir.’

  ‘Just cough medicine?’

  ‘Just cough medicine.’

  Shapiro put the phone down. He started to smile. It was too soon to celebrate, but at least now there was a little room for hope.

  5

  Elphie wasn’t the only one in East Beckham who was fascinated by a strange face. One after another they wandered in and took a place at Sarah Turner’s table as if they ate there every night: Dr Chapel, bent and elderly, a dry stick of a man; Mr and Mrs Vickery, he the foreman at The Flower Mill, she the local shopkeeper; Alan Hunsecker who maintained the machinery on which the business, like all modern agriculture, depended; three generations of Turners.

  Elphie dragged her father over before he’d had the chance to wash in order to perform formal introductions. ‘This is Donovan. You haven’t seen him since he woke up.’

  The square, solidly built man in cords and a Barbour extended a soil-grimed hand apologetically. ‘Everything’s urgent with Elphie. Simon Turner. I’m glad to see you on the mend.’

  ‘I’m grateful for your help,’ responded Donovan. ‘I’ll try not to impose on you much longer.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Turner. ‘Stay as long as you want.’ He excused himself and disappeared into the scullery.

  Elphie stayed with Donovan, pressing her small hand determinedly into his. He gave her a startled glance but didn’t shake her off. She led him to the table and sat him down, seating herself beside him.

  Creakily, Dr Chapel took the chair on his other side. He leaned one elbow on the table and peered disconcertingly into Donovan’s face. Then he delivered his verdict. ‘You’re lucky to be alive, young man. The canal’s no place to be with pneumonia. A canny doctor and good nursing: that’s all that stood between you and the Grim Reaper.’

  Donovan launched once more, rather wearily, into his paean of gratitude; but Chapel cut him off with a cackle like sticks breaking underfoot. ‘Don’t want your thanks, young man; good to get a bit of practice from time to time; Elphie’s asthma and Alan hitting his thumb with a wrench is about all the doctoring I do these days. Nice to know I can still tackle something more interesting if I have to’

  Elphie piped up, ‘Donovan’s a policeman.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ nodded Chapel encouragingly. His eyes, pale with age, switched back to Donovan. ‘Traffic branch?’

  ‘CID.’

  Simon Turner returned, clean, and took his seat at the table, which was Sarah’s cue to serve. Donovan thought the guests must have surprised her no less than him: she’d added to the stew anything that came to hand.

  ‘If anyone hasn’t got enough,’ she said, ‘I’ll butter some bread.’

  But everyone made declining noises; and anyway, they weren’t there for the food, they were there to check out the visitor.

  Donovan was aware he was being checked out and didn’t really know why. He couldn’t understand what significance his presence here could have for these people. Except perhaps Sarah who’d looked after him and Chapel whose professional interest was engaged; and Elphie, who didn’t need reasons for what she did and felt. But the others? He couldn’t imagine why they were looking at him, covertly, over the stew, as if he’d arrived in a puff of blue smoke and they weren’t sure yet whether he was the Demon King or the Fairy Godmother.

  East Beckham was a bit off the beaten track, but surely nowhere was that secluded any more? Didn’t they have television? Surely he wasn’t their only chance this year to see a face they didn’t grow up with? He hung on to his patience and bore their scrutiny without comment, but in the privacy of his own head he was thinking this place needed a good bus service: they lived in one another’s pockets too much to be healthy.

  After tea Sarah chivvied them gently on their way. Only Dr Chapel remained at the big table, oblivious to her hints, propped on bony elbows and talking with Simon about the pests and diseases of commercial horticulture.

  At length he straightened and turned his pale-blue gaze on Donovan. ‘We must be boring you rigid, young man. But all our livelihoods depend on the flowers. When your whole way of life, and that of everyone you know and care about, is tied up in one undertaking, you have to get it right. You can’t take any risks. You do what needs to be done.’

  ‘I guess,’ said Donovan, uninterested.

  ‘I suppose it’s the same with police work. People say ends shouldn’t justify means, but to some extent they have to. Certain ends have to be achieved. Simon has to have a product to sell, and you have to keep the peace, and sometimes how you do that is less important than the absolute need to get it done. Am I right?’

  Donovan shrugged. He didn’t know why this desiccated leprechaun of a man made him uneasy but he did. ‘Only so far. I don’t know nothing about flowers, but what policemen can do is pretty well set out in law. We overstep the mark and we lose the collar. It fairly focuses your mind on the contents of the Police & Criminal Evidence Act.’

  ‘Don’t you find that frustrating? Don’t you sometimes think the law should take account of the greater good of the greater number?’

  ‘The greatest number is still made up of individuals. If you can’t protect the individual, another name for the greater number is a mob.’

  Dr Chapel gave a disappointed little snort. ‘And I took you for a thinking man! You’re just a tool of government like all the rest.’

  There were days – there were whole weeks – when Donovan felt that way too. It didn’t stop him stinging at the scorn of a man who, however deft he was with a hypodermic, hadn’t earned the right to judge e
ither him or his profession.

  ‘Yeah? Well, you can thank your lucky stars that it’s true. In a democracy, government is the agent of the people – that’s you. You wouldn’t want to live in a country where the police force isn’t accountable to an elected government.’

  With a last disparaging sniff Chapel lost interest in the conversation. He switched his attention back to Turner. ‘About those weevils, Simon. They’re your glasshouses, you must do what you think best, but I think you’ll need to fumigate. I think if you leave it too long you’ll have a problem you won’t be able to contain. Better a deliberate sacrifice than to lose everything you’ve planted.’

  It wasn’t what Turner wanted to hear. His round, open face was worried as he raked strong fingers through his light brown hair. ‘I can’t believe that’s necessary. There has to be an alternative.’

  ‘Oh, there is,’ allowed Chapel. ‘It’s to wait and see what happens. But if the buggers get out of control, it’ll be too late – you’ll have lost your one chance of dealing with them. You’re too nice, Simon, that’s the problem. You always think there’s a nice, tidy solution. But there isn’t. Sometimes the only answer to plague is fire.’

  He’d had his say on that subject too. He pushed his chair away from the table and straightened as much as his old frame would allow. He called through the scullery door, ‘Thanks for the meal, Sarah. See you tomorrow.’

  She hurried out, stripping off her apron. ‘Don’t come out specially, Tom, they’re dank old days and you want to keep the damp off your chest. As you can see’ – she nodded in Donovan’s direction – ‘your job is done.’

  The dry-stick hands gave her shoulders an avuncular squeeze and Chapel cackled at her fondly. ‘Being a doctor is like having the contract to paint the Forth rail bridge: you never finish, you just start again somewhere else. Don’t worry about my chest: it’s survived seventy fenland winters, I dare say it’ll cope with one more. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  She let him out at the back door. Donovan listened but didn’t hear a car. ‘He walked here?’