by Jo Bannister
His tone grew hard with anger. ‘What the hell gives you the right to think that about your colleagues?’ But the intuition continued evolving: the anger passed too, giving way to a kind of stunned understanding. ‘My God, you’ve seen something. From that bloody boat. What did you see?’
At moments of stress and confusion people fall back on the habits of a lifetime. They don’t think, they do what has served them in the past. Donovan clammed up. ‘Nothing.’
Shapiro’s eyes went fierce and he leaned over the table. ‘Don’t play games with me, sonny. We’re talking about the integrity of this department and the possibility that it may have been compromised, or at least that someone thinks it’s been compromised. You know something about this. I want to know what. Your duty, the only duty that matters, is to me. Everything else comes second. If we’re being prevented from doing our job by someone at Queen’s Street I want to know who, and how, and why, and how deep the rot goes.’
‘Rot!’ Donovan echoed scornfully. ‘It’s nothing like that. It can’t be. A coincidence, that’s all.’
‘What is?’
‘It’s just Drugs Squad behaving the way Drugs Squad does. They think they’re smarter than the rest of us and don’t like having to play with us. They keep secrets for the hell of it.’
‘Sergeant, what did you see?’
Donovan gave up prevaricating. He was going to have to answer sooner or later; indeed, if he’d thought quicker he’d have answered sooner. For all his avuncular manner, his amiable expression, his spreading waistline and his penchant for tweed suits, so that he might have been mistaken for a professor of English Literature in one of the less demanding universities, Shapiro had a gin-trap mind. Once he had his quarry he didn’t let go, and he wasn’t likely to start with one of his own sergeants.
Besides which the man was right. If Drugs Squad had the idea that information was leaking out of Queen’s Street, they needed putting right. Donovan didn’t believe there was a leak. He thought it an untimely coincidence. But he also thought that Liz was sailing into trouble and someone should fire a shot across her bows. He’d tried himself, clumsily, and only succeeded in antagonizing her. Shapiro would do it better.
‘Inspector Graham’s been seeing Michael Davey.’
Shapiro’s expression didn’t flicker. ‘Since we interviewed him at the station?’
‘Twice that I know of. She had lunch with him yesterday; this afternoon they met at Broad Wharf and wandered off towards Cornmarket. I don’t know where they went then.’
Shapiro nodded slowly, giving the information time to sink in. ‘Anything else? Any violinists getting out of stretch limousines?’
Donovan grinned. However things were done in Miami, in Castlemere the drug pushers had day jobs in shoe-shops or as plumbers, and met their suppliers in the firm’s van with a girlfriend acting as look-out. It wasn’t true to say there was no drug problem in Castlemere; more that the drug problem had yet to become a problem. Of course, that could change. Jimmy Scoutari for one was waiting for a crack at the big time.
‘Nothing. I’d like to get back for when the meeting starts, though. If anybody’s going to slip away on the quiet, that’s when.’
‘All right, Sergeant, you get back.’ Shapiro climbed to his feet. ‘Leave the other thing with me. There’s probably nothing to worry about but I’ll make sure.’
They left The Fen Tiger a minute apart, Donovan slouching back along the tow-path, Shapiro heading for his car and, after a moment’s consideration, the house on the edge of Belvedere Park.
When he saw a car that wasn’t Liz’s in the drive Shapiro decided against ringing the bell. They might be better talking in the office tomorrow. But as he turned in the road another car came up the hill and flashed its headlights. Liz stuck her head out of the window. ‘Looking for me, Frank?’
He was about to deny it, mumble something about the scene of the crime and go away. But he recognized the impulse as cowardice and refused to give in to it. ‘Can we talk? Privately?’
She eyed him oddly but made no objection. ‘Come down to the stables: the mare’s very discreet. Actually,’ she added gently, making the point, ‘so is Brian.’
‘I know that. As a matter of fact it’s Brian I’m thinking of.’
In the tack room, surrounded by leather, jute and sacks of feed, he explained. Liz heard him out in silence but with mounting anger. Her lips compressed to a firm line and her eyes blazed. By the time he’d finished Shapiro fancied steam was coming out of her ears.
But she didn’t shout at him. Partly out of respect for his rank, partly because they were friends, but also because the thing was too important. She knew if she left any doubt in anyone’s mind that there might be some substance in this allegation her career was over. She wouldn’t make detective chief inspector. She would have to fight to stay where she was, and even then she might fail. So she wanted to be sure that every word she said was clear, and clearly understood. She couldn’t afford to lose her temper.
But she saw no reason to disguise the outrage she felt. Her voice was icy. ‘What cause have I ever given you to think you couldn’t trust me?’
‘None,’ he agreed readily. ‘Liz, I don’t think that now. I think you may have been unwise. I want to know what the situation is between you and Davey so I can put Drugs Squad straight.’
‘It’s none of their business!’
‘It is their business,’ Shapiro corrected her, ‘if it’s making them take bad decisions. If they’re not confiding in us because they’re afraid something they say could get back to Davey, they’re doing without local back-up that could be useful and they’re running the risk of our investigation inadvertently interfering with theirs. Even if they’re groundless, their suspicions could wreck two important operations.
‘I have to tell them they’re wrong. I could do that now. I could do it with a clear conscience, because I know you’d do nothing to compromise a police action. But I may not be believed by people who don’t know you unless I can give them facts. How often have you seen this man? How long have you spent with him? Why?’
She didn’t answer immediately. ‘This is down to Donovan, isn’t it?’
Shapiro sighed. ‘He saw you at the wharf. I had to drag it out of him like pulling teeth. I hope I don’t have to get it out of you the same way.’
Liz had been angry with superiors before. She controlled it then and she controlled it now. Her eyes speculated on his face. ‘Very well, sir,’ she said deliberately. ‘The facts are these. I’ve spoken to Michael Davey on three occasions. The first was at Queen’s Street, in your presence, after the riot in The Jubilee. The second was in the Castle Hotel yesterday: I went to find out what time he left the hotel the morning Alice Elton was killed. After I’d established his alibi I saw him in the foyer and, still wondering about Brady’s involvement, asked about his work. Because it was lunch-time we talked over a ploughman’s in the bar. I left the hotel about one-thirty.
‘I saw him again this afternoon.’ Her eyes smoked. ‘Of course, you know that. I was on my way to see Donovan when Davey came over. I didn’t want to draw attention to the surveillance so I said I was going for a walk and he invited himself along. We talked about his mission, about the state of society and the prevalence of crime. He did most of the talking.’ Deadpan, she added, ‘He made no attempt to obtain information from me.’
‘How long did this take and where did you go next?’
Her resentment was unmistakable. ‘Half an hour, forty minutes? We came back along Brick Lane, then I returned here and I suppose Davey went back to his tent.’ Her lip curled. ‘I was back on duty by four o’clock. I think you’ll find it takes longer than that to have an affair with a man in a wheelchair.’
Shapiro was embarrassed, but more than that he was concerned. ‘Liz, nobody’s suggesting that. But you know how even a casual friendship can be misconstrued if it’s with the wrong person at the wrong time.’
‘There is nothing wrong with
Michael Davey!’ she snapped, exasperated. ‘We suspected him of inciting the attack on Carver but the evidence is that he didn’t. We wondered if he could have killed the girls, but the evidence is pretty conclusive on that point too. Now Donovan’s got some crazy idea about drugs, and because Drugs Squad are co-operating even less than usual you’ve convinced yourselves that they’re watching Davey and because I’ve talked to the man three times they think I’m a security risk.
‘It’s nonsense, Frank. Even if it was true, the timing’s all wrong. If Drugs Squad are watching the mission they were doing it long before I met Davey; they’d have told you then if they were going to. Either they’re not interested in him, or they never had any intention of involving us. Like so many things, this is a figment of Donovan’s imagination.’
She was right about the timing. Shapiro squirmed. ‘It’s not Donovan’s fault. Maybe it’s something we cooked up between us, but he wouldn’t have said anything if I hadn’t insisted. And yes, Drugs Squad do tend to act as if the rest of us were a different, not wholly compatible species. But Liz, that still doesn’t make it sensible for you to be seen with this man. Donovan has been known to be right, on rare occasions. If he’s right this time Davey’s distributing illegal substances. That’s one good reason to avoid his company.’ He nodded towards the house. ‘Brian’s another. You’re a married woman.’
She gasped with indignation. ‘You think I need reminding of that? How dare you, Frank? You’re my chief inspector, not my confessor or my marriage guidance counsellor; and in fact if you were all three it would still be none of your business. How often do I have to say it? There is nothing going on between me and Michael Davey. Nothing to compromise my work, nothing to threaten my marriage, nothing to stir my conscience. I can’t say it plainer than that. I’m amazed at having to defend myself against so frivolous an accusation.’
Shapiro raised a hand, half in apology, half to ward off her fury as if it were a blow. ‘Liz, I was worried about you. If you tell me it was a misunderstanding then of course I believe you. But you don’t need me to remind you how disastrous an indiscretion can be for a police officer. It’s like Caesar’s wife, isn’t it? – if we’re not above suspicion somebody with an axe to grind will find some way of capitalizing on it.’
‘That’s just it, isn’t it?’ Liz said quietly. ‘Caesar’s wife. When did you last have this conversation with a male detective? If I was a married man, and I’d met a woman we’d ruled out of our inquiries, and we’d had a sandwich in a hotel bar and walked for half an hour by the canal while she told me about other people who’d come under suspicion, it wouldn’t have occurred to you I was doing anything but my job. You certainly wouldn’t have discussed it with a junior officer.’
He’d have liked to say she was talking rot. But there was some truth in it. He spread his hand in another of those hereditary gestures. ‘What can I tell you? You’re right but it doesn’t alter anything. It’s the burden you carry. You have to be twice as good as any male officer before people will admit you’re up to the job; you have to be three times as good as any male applicant before you’ll get your promotions; and you have to be four times as sure as any man that there’s no overlap between your professional and private lives or people will say that was always the risk with using women in CID, that they’d become emotionally involved.
‘I’m not saying it’s fair, I’m saying it’s a fact. It was how things were when you joined the police, how they were when you joined CID, and if it’s going to change it’ll be by your efforts and those of women like you. And to get into positions where you can make changes you have to play by the existing rules. I know it’s hard. I told you ten years ago you were going to find it hard.’ He smiled suddenly, remembering. ‘You told me that if all you had to be was twice the man of any toe-rag currently sitting behind an inspector’s desk it’d be a doddle. Minutes later you stuck your head back round my door and said, “Present company excepted”.’
They were able to laugh at that and it eased the uncharacteristic tension between them. Shapiro said, ‘What should I do about Drugs Squad? I can call them and put them straight. But if you’re right it could do more harm than good.’
‘Do nothing,’ she said. ‘Drugs Squad don’t know me from a hole in the wall. I don’t think they know Davey: they’re just covering themselves in case there’s something going on they should have been aware of. I imagine that by now they’ve checked, decided there’s nothing in it and thrown away the piece of paper with your number on it. There never was anything to support the idea. Some crime figures whose very nature is to fluctuate seemed to be fluctuating in a significant way. All right, it was worth querying. But I can’t think why we’re spending so much time on an imaginary drugs connection when we’ve got the ripped bodies of two teenage girls in the morgue.’
As if reaching a decision Shapiro gave an emphatic nod. ‘You’re right – let’s get our priorities straight here. If Donovan doesn’t come up with anything tonight I’ll reconsider the surveillance. Davey’s people are out of the frame as far as the murders go; if Drugs Squad aren’t interested either I can’t justify the time.’ He paused then and his eyes slid away as if he were wondering whether to add something. ‘Er—’
Liz gave a tight-lipped smile. ‘No, Frank, I have no plans to meet Michael Davey again. But for the record, I won’t hurry up side-streets and hide behind dustbins if I see him coming.’
She walked him back to his car. As he was getting in she leaned over and said quietly, ‘By the way, Frank, you’ve just spent half an hour alone in a secluded outbuilding with a married woman.’ His startled glance as he drove off was all the reward she needed.
III
1
After nightfall the glow of the marquee was almost the only sign of life on the waterfront. The people in the houseboats kept their curtains drawn and their hatches locked in these uncertain times. Any dogs that needed walking were being marched up and down within sight of their owners’ front doors, and anyone with business that couldn’t wait either drove or got a taxi, however short the distance.
But people still came to the mission. Perhaps not in the huge numbers of that second night, with the horror of a murdered child fresh in their eyes, but still enough of them to count the crusade a success. At least in its own terms. A cynic might have asked what it would actually achieve, treating Jennifer Mills’ crime statistics with the same misgivings as the local CID.
But if it achieved nothing else, for the two hours that they were there people who would have been troubled and afraid sitting in their own living-rooms took comfort and courage from the nearness of so many others sharing their anxieties. They didn’t know where it was all going to end but they knew they didn’t have to face it alone. Thousands of people in Castlemere felt as they did.
The man in white wheeling himself round the low dais was almost unnecessary. They felt better just for coming here and sitting all together, raising shaky unpractised voices in hymns of salvation. But when Michael Davey began to speak, in that slow deep voice that built up its power like a rolling stone turning into an avalanche, expressing their half-formed feelings in words that were both strong and simple, assuring them that what they believed instinctively was right and good and could be harnessed for action, night after night it came as a revelation.
So it wasn’t mere nostalgia to think that the world they lived in had been going steadily downhill since they were children! It was so, and clever articulate men like Reverend Michael Davey thought so too, and even knew what to do about it. Not that he claimed, or they expected, to resolve the world’s problems in a fortnight of meetings in a marquee. But he gave them confidence in their judgement, a determination to be heard, powerful arguments that might not have occurred to them and a sense of the importance of what they were doing. He filled them with the heady joy of communal zeal.
The power of the man filled their breasts and brains and left them thinking they could tackle anything – vice, violence, ma
lice, malevolence and greed – while the power of his words rang in their ears. He fed them his strength and they grew great with it. It acted on them like wine: with his words and the sheer scale of his personality rolling over them they caught a glimpse of glory.
Outside on the wharf, where the only light was the glow of the tent and the only sound the swell of voices lifted in praise, a dark figure moved silently between the shadows.
Liz and Brian moved the last chest into the last space in the hall, fitted the last drawer, plonked the last potted plant on top and declared the move complete. It didn’t matter that the sideboard would have to be resited if they hoped ever to seat more than three at their six-seater dining table, that the television was sitting on the carpet in a nest of its own wires or that the spare room was so full of furniture that wouldn’t go anywhere else that even the smallest, most uncritical guest could only have been inserted with a shoe-horn. For now it would do. They could live like this until they had the time and energy to do better.
They opened a bottle of wine to celebrate, couldn’t find the glasses, collapsed on the settee with the bottle and a pair of pottery mugs.
After a while Brian said, ‘What was Shapiro being so furtive about?’
It was a moment for relying on gut instinct. She could tell him what had passed between them, or give him the abridged version. If she told him it might cost him some fleeting concern; no more, she didn’t think he’d believe it. But she could spare him even that by keeping her silence. She didn’t think gossip on the subject would reach much further than the Queen’s Street canteen.
She smiled, lying into his shoulder as they sprawled on the couch. ‘That was Frank being tactful. He’s a very good police officer: it’s personal relationships that give him problems.’