by Jo Bannister
Liz didn’t park the car: she abandoned it at the front door. She abandoned Shapiro too. She felt badly about leaving him to unfold creakily from the passenger seat, but not badly enough to wait for him.
George Jackson, the publican, checked who it was before admitting her. He nodded towards his back parlour. ‘In there.’
Her first impression was that sitting round a roaring fire in the grate were two Indians, a big one and a little one. Jackson had raided his hope chest for something to get them warm, and these large and rather colourful blankets were the best he could come up with. The tall Indian was hunched over the fire with his back to the door and a faint steam rising from him. The small Indian appeared to have gone to sleep on his knee.
So Liz tiptoed over and laid a soft hand on his shoulder. ‘Donovan. I am so glad to see you. Now – what the hell’s been going on?’
When he turned and she saw him properly she was a little shocked. Not because he was wet and dirty and smelled of the canal, but at how white and drawn he looked. He might not have had cholera but he’d obviously been ill. His chest rattled as he spoke. ‘Ambulance?’
‘On its way. They’ll sort you out.’
‘Not for me,’ he said scathingly, ‘for her. She needs looking after. She probably needs shots: she swallowed half the canal. I swallowed the other half.’
Shapiro had found them. He wasn’t an effusive man, didn’t go in for hugging and kissing. He regarded Donovan levelly for a moment, then he shook his hand. ‘I was beginning to think you’d got yourself into some kind of trouble.’
Donovan snorted a weary little chuckle. ‘Me? Chief, whatever would make you think that?’
Shapiro was too old for sitting cross-legged round fires. He found himself an armchair. ‘Tell us what happened.’
So he did. With the changeling child asleep in the hollow of his side, he related enough of her family history to make sense of the things that had been done, of his own actions and those of others.
Liz listened in amazement. ‘You think they’d have hurt her?’ Lying against him Elphie looked so small and frail it was impossible to imagine anyone feeling threatened by her.
‘Boss, they’d have killed her. They’d have killed me; and then they’d have had two murders to cover up, and a fey child standing between them and safety. Damn right they’d have killed her, and sooner rather than later.’
‘And the doctor was behind it all?’
Donovan nodded. ‘I think Simon Turner would be alive today if East Beckham hadn’t had its own doctor. It’s possible to be too damned self-sufficient. People think it’s some kind of an idyll, a little rural community miles from anywhere where everyone knows everyone else and the village is more important than the people who live in it. It isn’t: it’s a monster. Sure, you can blame Chapel, he orchestrated the ill-feeling and then channelled it. It would likely have stopped at a black eye or a broken window, except he was clever enough to see how they could salvage the situation.
‘But Chapel wasn’t the reason it happened. The reason was East Beckham.’
‘Explain,’ said Shapiro.
‘Something like that couldn’t happen in Castlemere. But it happened just ten miles away in East Beckham, because the people there aren’t individuals, they’re ants in a colony. They lived together, they worked together, what was good for one was good for all. That village gave them birth and nurtured them, and in return it expected them to protect it. Whatever the cost. They weren’t afraid of the consequences. They were all in it together, it never occurred to them they might have to answer to a wider world. They thought they could get away with murder.’
‘They almost did,’ murmured Shapiro. ‘But for the fluke of you having to spend long enough among them to start piecing it together, they might never have been found out.’
‘That’s what they reckoned,’ said Donovan grimly. ‘That’s why they thought it was worth killing again.’
‘What would you have done,’ wondered Liz, ‘if that boat hadn’t appeared when it did?’
Donovan looked at her askance. ‘I’d have been caught and had my head beat in, that’s what! I was all out of options.’
‘But not ingenuity,’ observed Shapiro, chin on his chest, smiling to himself. ‘You realize that’ll go down in police mythology: the detective who hid out underwater?’
Donovan shrugged ruefully. ‘There was nowhere else. They couldn’t miss seeing the boat, they were bound to stop and search it. Me, two girls and a child weren’t going to fight them off. The canal was the only place left. The hose from the bilge-pump gave us an air supply. It tasted foul but it kept us alive until they left.’
‘They never looked over the side?’ asked Liz.
‘They wouldn’t have seen us if they had. We stayed hard against the hull, under the rubbing strake – they’ d have had to hang out over the water to spot us. Any time someone leaned on the rail we dropped down under the boat and breathed by tube. Someone on the far bank might have seen us but the men on the boat would have had to know we were there.’
Liz looked at the sleeping Elphie. ‘It was a lot to ask of a child. How did you know she could do it – that she wouldn’t panic and give you away?’
He shrugged, embarrassed. ‘I didn’t. I made sure she couldn’t. I strapped her against my chest: when I went down she came too. I kept my hand over her mouth, and the air-pipe in it except when I needed to breath. It wasn’t very long. We were only in the water fifteen minutes, under it for maybe five.’
‘I bet it felt longer.’
‘Bloody forever,’ admitted Donovan.
The ambulance arrived. Elphie just about stirred as Donovan handed her to the paramedics.
‘Go with her, Sergeant,’ said Shapiro. ‘If she wakes up surrounded by strange faces she’ll be afraid. Plus, somebody ought to look at you too.’
‘No way,’ grunted Donovan, obstinacy in every line of his body. ‘She’ll be all right – she likes strange faces. And I’m going back to East Beckham. You want me to see a doctor? That’s what I want too.’
East Beckham was deserted. Not a soul was visible on the street, in the gardens or as the twitch of a drawn curtain. It was dark now so they weren’t making up for lost time out in the bulb fields, nor were they still gathered at The Flower Mill. Only a pitchfork lying in the drive told Donovan he hadn’t imagined the events of two hours ago.
He wasn’t sure what he’d find at the house, was relieved when Jonathan Payne opened the door. Sarah Turner was in the living room, on the sofa, her hands across her mouth as if she was afraid what would happen if she tried to speak. Her eyes, desperately anxious, watched him over the top of them.
‘Elphie’s safe,’ he said briefly.
‘Thank God,’ whispered Payne. ‘Oh, thank God.’
Behind her hands Sarah began to cry.
‘Chapel?’ asked Donovan.
He was speaking in monosyllables, Liz realized, because his feelings about these people were confused. They saved his life, twice. But they were also part of a conspiracy that robbed a man of his life and his inheritance, and would have killed again to protect the secret.
They’d also killed his dog. On the scale of criminal enterprises it came pretty low, but it was personal in a way that the murder of Simon Turner was not. When she told him about Brian Boru his reaction had been so slow in coming she wondered if he’d understood and was about to repeat it. But he understood well enough. He just didn’t know how to feel. He was alive, the dog was dead. It seemed a good trade. He wasn’t a very nice dog – now he was dead it was safe to admit he was a pit bull terrier, an animal with as much charm as a chainsaw. But the dog too had saved his life once. He couldn’t just bin the DoggyNosh and forget.
Liz cleared her throat and translated. ‘You have to tell us where we can find Dr Chapel.’
‘He left here half an hour ago,’ said Payne. ‘I suppose he went home.’
‘Everyone else?’ asked Donovan, his voice gritty.
‘The same. We knew you’d come back. People thought they’d wait at home.’
‘Everybody? Nobody thought of running away?’
‘Run where?’ asked Payne. ‘This is the only place they know. Where could they possibly run to?’
‘Where does Dr Chapel live?’ asked Liz.
The house reminded Shapiro of his own, stone-built, hunched low against the weather, thick-walled to endure. If the village died now, that little house could stand empty for a hundred years and still be habitable for the cost of a new roof. Stone flags led to the front door, painted a magisterial black and flanked by a pair of dark shrubs trimmed into clever spirals.
‘I want to see him alone,’ said Donovan.
Liz’s eyes widened. Shapiro shook his head once, crisply. ‘No.’
Donovan’s sharp jaw came up, thin and bloodless lips curling with the same scorn that sparked in his dark hooded eyes. ‘Why not? What do you think I’m going to do in there?’
‘I don’t know, Sergeant,’ said Shapiro plainly. ‘What do you think you’re going to do in there?’
Now he was safe and so was the child, and even the less pressing task of getting justice for Simon Turner was all but accomplished, only anger was keeping Donovan on his feet. When it dissipated he’d sleep for twenty-four hours. Liz thought he was stoking the anger as other men might swig coffee.
‘He tried to kill me,’ he grated. ‘If things panned out differently he’d have done it. I want to arrest him. That’s all. But I want to do it myself, and alone. I’ve earned it.’
Though it didn’t quite work like that both of them felt churlish arguing. Liz looked at Shapiro and shrugged. ‘It’s your decision.’
Shapiro breathed heavily. He knew he was beaten, the only issue now was terms. ‘All right. But Donovan, don’t make me regret this.’
‘I won’t,’ said Donovan, terse with satisfaction. He raised one bony hand to the knocker.
Unlatched, the door swung inward.
‘I think he’s expecting you,’ said Liz.
Donovan set his jaw and stepped inside. He half-expected to be followed but when he glanced back, true to their word his inspector and superintendent were waiting on the doorstep. He proceeded alone.
Dr Chapel was waiting for him in the little kitchen at the back. Somehow he’d guessed it would be Donovan. There was a teapot on the hob, two cups and saucers on the table.
Donovan stood in the doorway, his eyes disbelieving. Chapel beckoned him inside. ‘Sit down, sit down. We might as well do this like gentlemen.’
Even after all that had happened, all that would have happened if Chapel had had his way, Donovan had to admire the old man’s gall. He was going to spend the rest of his life in prison. But he wasn’t behaving like a man who’d been defeated, more like someone who’d taken a gamble and lost. Never mind, old chap, can’t win them all; shake hands; it isn’t whether you win or lose but how you play the game …
Donovan couldn’t think of it as a game. It had cost one man his life; if it had gone on much longer it would have cost Elphie hers. He found that harder to forgive than his own close call. It’s the nature of the job that criminals daydream about murdering policemen. But Elphie was a child, an innocent in every sense of the word, and they’d have killed her because she hadn’t the wit to keep their secret.
He shook his head. ‘I’m not a gentleman, Dr Chapel; neither are you. You’re the man who organized the murder of Simon Turner, and I’m the policeman arresting you for it. You do not have to say anything, but I must caution you – ’
Chapel waved a hand dismissively. ‘I know; I know. God, you’re a humourless fellow! Aren’t you even going to have a little gloat? You won, I lost. Come on, Sergeant Donovan, enjoy your victory.’ He poured the tea, raised a cup to his lips. ‘If I can toast it, I’m sure you can.’
Donovan stared at the other cup but made no move towards it. ‘I don’t understand you.’ Always when he was tired or under pressure, the accent thickened until he sounded as if he’d just stepped off a potato boat. ‘It mattered enough to kill people for. Now it’s more important that we part as friends? I have news for you, Dr Chapel. We’re not going to part friends.’
Chapel sniffed and arched an eyebrow before finishing his tea. ‘Perhaps it’s a matter of breeding,’ he observed snidely. ‘Go on then – caution away.’
Donovan made no pretence about his background. His family hadn’t been out of the top drawer even in Glencurran: everywhere he’d travelled since his accent had earned him the scorn of those who put store in these matters. So it didn’t worry him if people thought him rough. He just didn’t understand why a man who’d spent most of his life in a village you could fit on a football pitch and talked as if through a mouthful of peat considered himself better.
But he wasn’t going to bicker with a man he was arresting for conspiracy to murder. ‘I must caution you that if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court, it may harm your defence. If you do say anything it may be given in evidence.’
When he’d finished Dr Chapel nodded. An expression almost like pain flickered across his face. ‘If that’s the formalities complete, you might want to call a senior officer about now.’
Donovan frowned. ‘Detective Superintendent Shapiro’s outside. Don’t worry, he’ll be – interested – to make your acquaintance.’
‘Only if he hurries,’ said Dr Chapel faintly. Then he bent suddenly forward in his chair, and then he fell off it.
10
‘The shrubs at the front door are yew trees,’ said Liz. ‘He made the tea with the berries. He’d no intention of going to prison. He’d have killed you too if he could have done.’
Donovan was sitting in the back of her car. Shock had finally overwhelmed him: even with the blanket around him he was shaking like an aspen.
She turned to Shapiro. ‘Look, I’ve got to get him to hospital.’
Shapiro nodded. ‘I’ll tidy up here. It’s mostly a matter of paperwork; that, and finding enough cells to bang up all the people I’m going to arrest.’
He watched the car leave. A minute later another arrived with the Forensic Medical Examiner. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘Suicide by yew berry,’ said Shapiro succinctly.
Dr Crowe raised an eyebrow. ‘If you people keep doing my job like this I’m going to try my hand at traffic control.’
They went inside.
In fact the signs were pretty clear, right down to the yew berries steeping in the teapot. But Dr Crowe was on his dignity and wouldn’t admit it until he’d made a thorough assessment of the scene.
Constable Stark came over to Shapiro with an odd expression on his face. ‘Letter for you, sir.’
Stark was holding it through rubber gloves so Shapiro took the same precaution. ‘You found that here?’
‘On top of the desk in the parlour.’
When he’d read it he put it carefully back in its envelope and then in an evidence bag. He sucked his front teeth. ‘You sneaky sod.’
‘Sir?’
‘It’s a suicide note.’
It wasn’t just a suicide note. It was partly an explanation, partly a justification, substantially a shifting of the blame to where, now, it could do no harm.
‘I don’t know how much Detective Sergeant Donovan will have told you of events here,’ Dr Chapel had written in the last hour of his life. ‘I also don’t know whether he’ll be able to elucidate further. Either way you should know that his understanding of what happened may be unreliable. For much of his time here he was ill; which may explain his willingness to believe what he was told by a mentally retarded child. It was clear to me that he suspected a conspiracy where none existed.
‘I was wholly and solely responsible for the death of Simon Turner. He was brought to me with minor injuries from a fight, and I took the opportunity to end his life. No one in East Beckham knew what I intended until it was done, although other people then assisted me in passing of
f the corpse as Jonathan Payne. In particular, this could not have been achieved without the co-operation of Payne himself and his mother.
‘My motive was the preservation of a community and a way of life which would have been destroyed had Simon Turner lived. I regret his death but it was the lesser of two evils. In a very real sense he paid the price for his own greed. If he’d been prepared to sell to us he’d be alive today.
‘If I did not persuade him to share a last drink with me, tell Detective Sergeant Donovan that he is a deeply suspicious young man. I don’t mean that as an insult: in his line of work it’s probably a good thing. I don’t think he’ll accept my best wishes; but tell him I’m sorry about his dog.’
When Liz phoned later from the hospital Shapiro told her about the note. The contents were burned into his memory.
There was a long silence while she absorbed what he was saying. ‘He thought he could give them a way out. So what can we actually prove?’
‘That Elphie’s father is Sarah Turner’s son and not the man he’s been impersonating for fourteen years. And that Simon Turner was murdered. We have Chapel’s confession; we can’t prove he had any accomplices.’
‘There were a dozen of them,’ said Liz. ‘Chapel told Donovan as much.’
‘Of course he did, and of course that’s what happened. But Chapel’s dead now, and has said his last word on the subject. And Donovan was sick: a good brief will cast huge doubts on the accuracy of his recollection.’
‘He said it in front of the Turners. And the Turners weren’t involved in the murder: they’ll tell the truth.’
‘I dare say they will,’ nodded Shapiro, ‘but can we prove it’s the truth? If they were involved in the murder, it’s in their interests to lie. They had as much as anyone to lose if the business was sold, and they were the only people whose co-operation was vital. Quite a moderate brief would make it look as if they were lying to hide the extent of their own involvement.’