The Devil's Chair

by Priscilla Masters

  Again, Claire spoke, more musing than questioning this time. ‘Was it happenstance that Ms Ignatio was away or did she know that the cottage was frequently empty?’

  Randall’s ears were cocked. ‘You mean she knows the person who lives in Hope Cottage spends a lot of time away?’

  Claire nodded. ‘Local knowledge. Was it lucky or unlucky that no one was in?’

  Randall shrugged.

  ‘And another thing – what was she doing in that area so early in the morning?’ She hardly waited for a reply before hurrying on. ‘Well, I can only reiterate what I can say with certainty, Inspector. Your lady is a local. Born and bred here and she hasn’t lived away. At least, if she has it hasn’t affected her local accent. She may be a country person and local but she’s not uneducated. If the little girl is with her I agree with the theory you say you’re working on. Your caller lives within a ten-mile radius of the Long Mynd.’

  Randall felt uplifted until Claire continued, ‘That isn’t to say that she hasn’t taken the little girl somewhere else.’

  His spirits dropped right down as he faced the truth. ‘In spite of a well-publicized press campaign, she could be anywhere.’

  Claire didn’t respond to this.

  He realized he still wanted to squeeze more from her. ‘What about this person’s character?’

  ‘There we’re in the realms of conjecture,’ she said, almost scolding him. ‘Accents and intonation, the way we speak and so on is one science. To try and analyse a person’s character through their speech is a bit more difficult.’ She smiled, softening her words. ‘And that,’ she said, ‘is the realm of the psychiatrist. I wouldn’t pick up on personalities – unless, of course, they make threats or say something that makes you realize they’re a psycho, a weirdo or troubled in some way.’

  ‘And this woman?’

  Claire smiled. ‘I don’t think she’s a weirdo or a psycho or troubled in any way. Quite the reverse, actually. She’s stolid and practical.’

  ‘If she’s so stolid and practical what’s she doing abducting a child from the scene of an accident?’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure she did?’

  ‘Too much coincidence,’ he said, ‘given the circumstances.’

  ‘Probably,’ she responded.

  Randall persisted. ‘Why take the child?’

  Claire sighed and answered with reluctance. ‘Because she lives in the past.’

  ‘Which means what, exactly …?’

  ‘Church Stretton and the Long Mynd is an area steeped in folklore and old traditions,’ she said slowly. ‘I suspect it’s something to do with that.’

  Randall didn’t even feel like laughing. ‘You mean black magic?’ He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation.

  Claire shrugged. ‘Black magic, white magic. I don’t know, Inspector. I just feel that there is something mystical going on here, don’t you?’ She opened her eyes wide and smiled. ‘It’s up to you to find out what.’

  Randall nodded. He’d finally run out of questions.

  ‘We’ll extend our house-to-house search,’ he offered.

  Claire Tarrow picked up her bag. ‘Sounds like a good idea to me.’

  Randall thanked her and asked her to submit her bill to the finance department.

  He held out his hand. ‘Thank you very much for coming up, Claire.’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t helped very much.’

  ‘You might have done,’ he said cryptically. ‘And you don’t mind if I ring if there’s something else I need to ask?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Claire Tarrow lifted her eyebrows.

  The room felt empty when she’d gone. Randall sat for a while assimilating the facts she had given him. A middle-aged local woman. Surely it would narrow the search?

  ELEVEN

  Thursday, 11 April, midday.

  ‘Mr Mansfield.’

  Neil turned around with a guilty start.

  The doctor and nurse were both watching him with curious expressions, suspicious but with a heavy dose of sympathy. He couldn’t work it out.

  ‘Can we have a word?’

  ‘Yeah. Sure.’

  They led him back into the small visitors’ room and closed the door. This time the nurse sat by his side, her look of sympathy deepening.

  Mansfield looked from one to the other. What the hell was going on? Had they read his mind? Seen him finger one of the plugs on the wall? Had they heard the voice advising him to switch her off?

  ‘I’m Doctor James,’ the doctor said, blinking sandy lashes out of sandy eyes. ‘This is a little awkward. Basically, Mr Mansfield, we’ve done some tests.’

  Mansfield looked even more quickly from one to the other, his glance bouncing between them. The doctor’s words seemed to blur into one another, as though something was blocking his hearing.

  ‘What we’re saying is that Tracy is highly unlikely to recover,’ the doctor said.

  Mansfield was panicking now. Were they saying that he was going to have to care for her, when she was like this? How long was she going to live? Like this …

  ‘There’s very little brain response,’ the doctor said, pressing on. ‘And we find that if a patient doesn’t recover in the first week or so they are unlikely ever to.’

  Mansfield put his head on one side, like a chicken, frowning and trying to understand what it was the doctor was saying.

  Whatever it was, he was finding it difficult.

  He felt like saying spit it out, mate but it seemed a bit cheeky to prompt the medic, so he stayed silent.

  ‘At some point we may think it’s best to switch the ventilator off, in which case …’ The doctor couldn’t look at him. ‘We will need to consult the next of kin. Umm, you’re not actually married?’

  Mansfield frowned. What were they saying?

  ‘So her next of kin would be …’

  Suddenly the penny dropped and Mansfield was appalled. ‘She has a mum and a sister,’ he mumbled. Tracy’s mum and her horrible sister who had never forgiven Tracy for being prettier than her.

  The nurse spoke now. ‘I don’t believe they’ve been in to visit her,’ she said. ‘There’s only been you.’

  Mansfield stopped looking at the doctor and focused on the nurse instead. ‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ he said. ‘She hasn’t spoken to either of them for years.’ He paused. He was beginning to realize what it was they were saying.

  The doctor spoke again. ‘Right, well, it’s very difficult in these sorts of cases,’ the doctor continued, ‘but …’ Again, he gave Neil a long, calculating look and suddenly with awful and sharp clarity Neil knew exactly what it was that they were finding so hard to say. He knew now what the tough decision was.

  They were going to turn her off. Because … But wait. It wasn’t just that. There was something else. He only knew half the story. The doctor was speaking about … organ donation. The words became distinct. And now he realized that Tracy, his partner, could be about to be turned into a collection of random spare parts, and that it would be her mother and sister, not him, who would make the decision. This was patently not how it should be. It was not right. He tried to protest.

  The doctor was still talking. ‘How much do you know about transplants?’

  Mansfield stared.

  ‘Or renal dialysis?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  But that wasn’t quite true. He did know something. He’d walked past the dialysis unit on his way into the hospital. He’d seen the sign and all those people hooked up to those huge machines, pipes and tubes everywhere. And they had just been sitting, reading the paper, some on their iPads, some chatting to the nurses, having a cup of tea.

  ‘They have to come in for that three times a week,’ the doctor said, as though he’d read his thoughts, seen the images crowding his mind. ‘Tracy can help those people.’

  The nurse spoke next. ‘We have people who are blind because they need corneal transplants.’

  Neil was recalling Tracy’s eyes. Her
pretty, dark eyes. He squeezed his own tight shut.

  ‘And her heart and lungs,’ the nurse added.

  Neil stared at her. And in ten days’ time it would be Tracy’s birthday. What a great present. Instead of perfume, clothes, money and dinner out here it was being suggested she donate her liver, her lungs, her spleen, her eyes, her heart and Neil didn’t want to think what else.

  So they were keeping her alive only to harvest her organs?

  Then they rubbed salt into the wound. ‘Do you have a number for her mother?’

  TWELVE

  Sunday, 14 April, 4 p.m.

  In spite of a few messages left on both her landline and mobile, it had taken the hospital a few days to track down Tracy’s mother, Pat Waterman. The doctor spoke to her, trying to explain what it was they wanted.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘OK with me.’

  Doctor James pointed out that they would need written consent and Pat appeared irritated. ‘You’re saying I got to come all the way to Shrewsbury just to sign some form?’

  ‘You may want to say goodbye to your daughter,’ the doctor said patiently.

  Perhaps Pat Waterman realized then that she should make some effort. ‘I can come this afternoon,’ she said in a chastened voice. ‘’Bout four. OK?’

  ‘That should be fine,’ the doctor said, already making plans.

  Organ harvesting takes place in the morning. It makes it easier to plan for the beneficiaries who have to be lined up, hopeful contestants in a life-and-death tournament. Theatres have to be prepared, patients called in, surgeons, nurses, theatre attendants, anaesthetists. All have to be ready, waiting in the wings in gloves and scrubs.

  Monday, 15 April, 8 a.m.

  Tracy Walsh finally gave up her struggle – or rather, the doctors did – at eight o’clock in the morning. She was taken to the operating theatre, her organs treated as carefully as though they belonged to an ancient Pharoah of Egypt, and finally, when all that could be done had been done, she was pronounced dead and, as was the custom, the team made a prayer of thanks from the people who would be eternally grateful for the decision.

  So Tracy was dead and still there was no sign of her daughter.

  It isn’t only human organs that have to be harvested early in the morning. Certain herbs and fungi also need to be collected while the dew is still on them. The plants are picked as carefully as the surgeon lifted out Tracy’s heart, lungs, corneas and kidneys, and placed in a basket.

  Monday, 15 April, 10.30 a.m.

  Martha had been kept informed of all the events. In fact, they had needed her permission for the organ donation to go ahead. As always it made her aware of mortality, of generosity, of lives transformed and of the savings to the National Health Service.

  Wednesday, 17 April, 11 a.m.

  Randall watched the lorries moving in, the computers disconnected and lifted. He scanned the panorama. Moving out felt like he was abandoning the child – giving up hope. He was still worried that they had overlooked something. He felt a terrible pang of guilt as he watched his officers pack up their desks and computers, relinquishing the tea rooms back to the National Trust.

  He and Talith were still there when the lorries pulled away and all but their car had gone. It didn’t help that one press photographer was recording their retreat. With a long lens and tripod he was taking picture after picture. At least some of them would end up on tomorrow’s front page accompanied by dismal and depressing headlines. Randall could almost have written them himself.

  Failing to find missing child, police abandon crash site.

  Randall spoke, more to himself than out loud. ‘Have we done everything we could have here?’

  Talith gave out a deep sigh. ‘Have we ever, sir?’

  Randall turned to face him. ‘What have we missed, Paul?’

  ‘I don’t think we’ve missed anything, sir. At least, nothing tangible.’ He too lifted his gaze up from the valley right to the top of the hill. ‘The little girl isn’t here.’

  Friday, 19 April, 9.30 a.m.

  In some ways life was easier back at Monkmoor Police Station. For a start they did not have the world and its photographer watching their every move. Comings and goings were not recorded, mobiles and computers worked faster here and their location gave them distance, a certain amount of detachment, from the case. Randall felt he could focus better on the enquiry.

  Their morning briefings began to take on a different shape. There was energy and optimism. Areas were marked out, properties ticked off and ideas flowed like quicksilver. Then PC Sean Dart made the suggestion that they speak to Wanda Stefano. He looked embarrassed when DI Randall praised the idea. ‘You’re right, Sean,’ he said. ‘We’ve neglected her. We should at least talk to her and see what she can tell us about that night. If anything.’ He grinned at the PC. ‘Maybe you’d like to take that on?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The team filed out and Randall was ready to start the day. He was contemplating where next to direct the enquiries when the phone rang.

  It was Roddie Hughes and he was sounding pleased with himself. ‘We’ve found traces of paint on the bonnet of the car,’ he said. ‘Fresh black paint and a very small dent. Do you know whether she’s had a prang in it recently?’

  ‘We can soon find out,’ Randall said tersely. ‘Do you think it’s important?’

  Roddie was silent for a minute and his answer, when it came, was guarded. ‘Obviously I can’t be certain but I keep visualizing those tyre marks on the Burway, Alex. She was tanking along at fifty miles per hour when all of a sudden she screeches to a halt and, pissed as she was, bangs into reverse. Now – put that into perspective. If she’d had a prang that could explain things. Particularly if the other driver was angry at her speed, maybe even realized how drunk she was.’

  ‘No one’s come forward,’ Alex said thoughtfully.

  ‘Which means they either haven’t heard about the tragedy – highly unlikely considering your press coverage – or they have a reason for not coming forward. At least, Alex, if the dent happened that night it places someone else at the scene.’

  Randall was silent for a moment, so Hughes pressed on with his ideas. ‘They might feel responsible for what has turned out to be a fatal crash. They might have been drunk themselves at the time and know that at the very least they’d be charged with leaving the scene. It’s possible it was a stolen car or a drugs thing. You know what the general public are like, Alex. Maybe it was a married man who had no business being up there. The possibilities are endless but …’

  ‘It gives our officers another focus for their enquiry,’ Randall said.

  ‘Looking at the point where the two cars collided,’ Hughes continued, ‘and the height of the paint mark, I’d lay a guess it was a four-by-four. Certainly something quite high off the ground. Actually, thinking about it, a typical drug dealer’s car.’

  Randall chuckled. ‘Right. Thanks.’

  ‘There is one other thing.’ Hughes sounded hesitant. ‘Sophie and I are getting married in August. We wondered if you and Erica would like to come?’

  Randall was so appalled at the prospect that he was speechless.

  Hughes hurried on. ‘It’s only a small affair. Nothing huge. Just a small do at The Walls in Oswestry. About fifty people. We’d love it if you’d come.’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ Randall said in a strangled voice. ‘I’ll speak to her. But …’

  Hughes chipped in. ‘It’s on the sixteenth. We chose a Friday because it’s cheaper.’ He gave a dry cough of a laugh. ‘Divorce comes expensive these days.’

  When he’d put the phone down, Alex Randall sat, thinking. Take Erica to a wedding? He couldn’t think of anything worse. His colleagues would be there. He could just imagine how she’d react to them and them to her. Mental illness is a subtle alienator. And his colleagues would always look at him askance, knowing the secret about his wife that he had tried so hard to keep from them. Sometimes he had great sympathy for Jane Eyre’s Mr
Rochester. They shared the same impediment. But then he could hardly lock her away. Erica’s condition was anything but stable. It depended on her medication at the time. Randall grimaced. Or the phase of the moon at the time. Who knew? Certainly not the psychiatrists. He could not go to the wedding. Not with Erica. He had to think up a suitable excuse. And quickly so it would seem a genuine prior engagement rather than something dreamed up to avoid the ‘do’. He liked Roddie Hughes and thought he could have liked Sophie too. He didn’t want to offend him. But there was no way he was going to be seen with his wife in public.

  He forced his mind back to the case. Hughes was right on all counts. He knew about vehicle collisions and paint marks. If there had been a collision between two cars that night not only would it explain Tracy’s sudden stop, the panicked reversal and the subsequent accident, but it also potentially introduced another person into the puzzle of Daisy Walsh’s disappearance. There was no explanation why the driver had not come forward, though all of Roddie Hughes’ suggestions were possible. But surely the accident and subsequent abduction of a little girl were enough to outweigh a minor prang or a drunken encounter? They must know what had happened – if not on the night then later through the media. The police couldn’t have dreamt up more headlines. The driver must have realized that the accident he had witnessed, or possibly caused, had been serious. They must have seen the crazy reversing and the subsequent fall into the valley. But it hadn’t been them who had called the police, unless their mystery caller and the driver were the same person, and when the car had tumbled down the bank they had watched from the Burway, seen it roll over and over and then rescued the child, walked to Hope Cottage and made the call. Four hours later? Neil had said that Tracy had left the house a little before 2 a.m. The car had been picked up by the CCTV on Stretton High Street at 1.58 a.m. It was a ten-minute drive from Neil and Tracy’s home to the spot where the VW had left the road. That scenario was a possibility but hardly likely. Surely the more usual thing would have been to call from the top of the hill where there was a good mobile signal. And as Claire had said, who is without a mobile phone these days, particularly in a remote country area, late at night? But calling from a mobile number, Randall mused, would have made the caller identifiable. 999 calls have caller ID.