Daisy Chains

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

“Ok. I’ve paid already at the bar. Sure you don’t want another drink?”

  “No. I won’t offer any temptation to the driver.”

  The sun was still shining and the lovely day didn’t seem to have the slightest intention of diminishing.

  Off road and some way still further ahead, Lionel stomped to the back of the shed, but discovered Piper standing with her back to him. She seemed to be peering out over the sunny mists to the horizon’s disappearing hills. The bird song was beautiful, and somewhere in the background they could hear the calls of the sheep.

  “Hi, Piper,” Lionel called. “You ready?” He had left the Howard gun he’d stolen some months past in the trunk of his car, but knew he wouldn’t need it. He held the stout handle of his carving knife which was hidden inside his hooded jacket. He gripped so hard, and the excitement was rising so fast, his large and powerful fingers twitched. The fever of anticipation and the sense of over-riding power was almost sending him dizzy.

  “Ready for what?” Piper slowly turned around.

  Her hands were small and her fingers short, but her grip on the pistol seemed confident enough. She pointed it directly at Lionel and cocked it, finger to the trigger. Lionel gulped. “What the fuck?”

  “You’re Lionel Sullivan, ain’t you?” Piper demanded. “I only just realised that a half hour past. I had a good look at you while you were stuffing those pineapple bits in your gob. You licked your fingers. Great big lumpy things, they are. It started me thinking. I never follow the news, but we’ve all heard of the pi-arse killer who escaped twenty-two life sentences in prison. So say hello, dear Lionel. I’m ready. What about you?”

  Without time to let her think and decide, Lionel leapt forwards. He knocked the gun from her hand and tossed her to the ground. He leaned over, fist pounding into her face. But the face had gone. She’d rolled faster than he’d jumped, and she was already grabbing up the fallen gun. She was out of breath, but her hand was steady, and her aim looked straight. Besides, she was so close, she couldn’t miss.

  “Bitch,” Lionel seethed, but with enough sense to keep his voice low. “I never threatened nothing. I thought you were a good kid. I was going to take you to your gran’s and leave you there, with thanks for the good food and the good company.”

  “Like fucking hell, you were.” She was grinning. “What a nice shed, eh? Bet you were just longing to drag me in there. Got a nice hard-on, eh? All eager with the knife I reckon you’ve got inside your jacket.”

  “Rubbish,” Lionel insisted, but didn’t remove his hand from the hidden knife hilt. “And for your bloody interest, I’m not Lionel whatever his name is either. I have the same affliction. Acromegaly. Not my fault. But I’m Harry Joyce, driving home to – Somerset, after visiting my in-laws. Poor souls. Just lost their daughter to breast cancer. My poor little wife.”

  It seemed that Piper briefly considered these revelations, but finally decided it was all lies. “Twoddle-twat,” she sniggered, lifting the point of her pistol slightly. “This is a Kahr,” Piper smiled. “One of the best. New too. I got it from my dad’s bedside. He shouldn’t have it, and nor should I, but I reckon I’ll get a medal for killing you.”

  “Silly kid,” Lionel attempted a slow smile too. “You’ll be in the slammer for the rest of your life. Nothing like escaping from your father and ending up in the cells. Your dad’ll love that.”

  Her grip on the hilt was firm, but her concentration wavered. Immediately Lionel hurled himself on top. His knife blade flashed. Her gun went off.

  The Lexus drove along the principal road, heading due south towards Gloucestershire, Cheltenham and the village of Little Woppington-on-Torr. Some fifteen minutes after the two gunshots, Sylvia and Harry passed the shed some way off the road to their right and kept going. All they could hear was the bird song, the distant conversation of the sheep, and the buzz of their own car engine.

  They finally reached Rochester Manor just as dinner was being served.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Although both Kate and Iris attended Milton’s small private funeral, Kate did not take Mia, and she did not inform Maurice .Apart from anything else, she hadn’t the faintest idea of how to contact him. Iris bought a black cotton dress with tiny red spots.

  “It’s a funeral,” she said, “and I feel really sorry for Milton. Well, alright, dear, I suppose that makes me a silly old fool. But he just wasn’t sane. He couldn’t help it. And his two naughty brothers were more to blame than he was.”

  “If you’re going to be sentimental, you could say they both did it for love of their little sick triplet. So who are you going to blame?”

  “Alright, no one,” and Iris shook her head. “But I’ll pray for him and wear black.”

  Regarding the dotted dress, which she had paid for, Kate said, “And the tiny red spots are to remember the blood spilt?”

  Not having meant anything of the sort, Iris just smiled. “I just didn’t want to be totally gloomy. And besides, I wanted a pretty dress I could wear to other places as well.”

  Kate wore bright green.

  The event was short, although they covered the necessities without touching on the awful parts of Milton’s life. He was cremated, and his ashes were offered to Kate. She refused them and asked for them to be scattered across the graveyard, or otherwise destroyed. Once over, Kate turned to Iris. “It’s really sweet of you to keep me company, Iris dear. So, what now?”

  “Should we inform Sylvia and Harry?” Iris suggested.

  “They’re not going to be interested now, are they? Once over, soon forgotten.”

  “Most unlikely,” Iris said, looking stern and buttoning her coat. “She’s a nice lady, that Sylvia. What they did for me, her and Harry too, was absolutely exceptional. Apart from you, my dearest Kate, there’s nobody I consider kinder or more essential in my life. And they’ll be good customers in the future once you open the café, you’ll see.”

  “They get free meals at that posh manor,” Kate insisted. “Why bother coming to us?”

  “And that lady Ruby just loves our cakes,’ smiled Iris.

  Since everybody arrived together, the late afternoon was somewhat chaotic, and Lavender found herself in the middle, having opened the door to Sylvia and Harry arriving from the direction of the garage, Kate and Iris who had just parked at the front, and Ruby who had tottered from the bus stop after returning from the police station.

  “Tea,” cried Harry, waving one arm up through the crush.

  Lavender was more than content to hurry off to the kitchen while everyone else told each other their stories at the same moment.

  “We drove. No more train crashes thank you. We enjoyed the break, but it was a waste of time.”

  “We’ve just come from Milton Howard’s funeral. He did it himself. Personally, I think it’s the first sensible thing he’s ever done.”

  “But I’ve just been talking to the most irritating cops down at the station. Two or three days ago, Lionel was seen. Here! In Cheltenham! And the police aren’t taking the slightest notice.”

  “But they must. How could they ignore that?”

  When Lavender brought the tea, and since everyone was still talking at once, she rattled the cups and said, “There’s just been something interesting on the late news. Some girl just turned up in hospital saying she’s killed Lionel Sullivan.”

  Everyone stopped talking and stared. “And it’s true? Is she a detective?”

  “I have no idea,” said Lavender. “It was on the news, so it’s probably rubbish.” And she poured the tea.

  It was five to six in the evening, precisely at the moment when three-quarters of Morrison’s squad were grabbing their coats and preparing to hurry home before the boss yelled out that he needed everyone to carry on working over-time.

  That was when Morrison threw open the door to his office with a resounding bang, and yelled, “Forget it. No one’s leaving. Something extremely interesting’s just happened.”

  The echo of inte
rwoven sighs floated around the room like rising smoke. “Oh, Boss. Not now.”

  “Yes now,” Morrison repeated. “Where’s Rita?”

  “Upstairs with the governor.”

  “Right.” Morrison pointed. “You, Walsh and you Crabb, you’re coming with me in ten minutes. The St. John’s hospital up on the Bridgington ByPass into Wales. Newcomb, Roach and Grant, go and check every single surgery, hospital and doctor’s clinic right throughout the whole area and into Wales, looking for a man of Sullivan’s description recently picked up with one or two bullet wounds. Meanwhile, Dempster and Whiteland, get the main force organised for roadblocks leading into every forest in the immediate vicinity, and the side roads leading into the Welsh countryside. We’re looking for a 2003 white Honda with the number plates R55 6 IMoP driven by Sullivan. He has to be stopped. There is also the slight possibility that he’s on foot. Lastly, Napper and Rogers, all and every possible scrap of CCT footage needs checking on that ByPass, including the Shell garage just off the highway.

  “I want half-hourly reports, and immediate information regarding anything interesting discovered.” Leaving the office in a scuffle of chairs, under breath curses, whoops of pleasure from the few, and the banging of doors, Morrison raced upstairs and didn’t bother to knock on the Chief Inspector’s office door. “Boss,” he said, walking in and nodding to Rita, “the most interesting development with the Sullivan case. He’s been reported shot and killed, possibly shot and wounded. It’s a little complicated.”

  DCI Dark was beaming, leaning back in his swivel chair. “Sounds simple to me, Darcy. Sounds excellent.”

  “It may be,” Morrison nodded, “if we find him. Even dead, he seems able to evade the authorities.”

  “Who shot him?” Rita demanded, jumping up.

  “Someone already on the wanted list.” Morrison was now grinning. “You must have heard of the Hamiltons up in Lichfield. Big crime family, trying to be the local mafia. Daddy Hamilton’s the big boss, into firearms, robbery and drug trafficking. There’s half a dozen sons, all running different branches of the business. There’s one daughter – Piper. Not much been known about her up until now. A bit of petty larceny, that’s all. She’s thirteen or fourteen or thereabouts. Anyway, running away, she says, to start a respectable life, she bagged a lift down from Staffs. A white Honda driven by a big goose of a man – her words – who seemed only too eager to take her on. She stole some food at a garage they passed and got friendly. Then, just over the Welsh border, he made some excuse about stopping beside some shed, and they both got out to take a leak. When he stood up she immediately realised who he was. She had pocketed a gun from her father’s collection, says she thought he had a licence though that’s highly suspect, and when Sullivan ran at her, she shot him. Twice. She’d been badly cut in the tussle, crawled away back onto the main road and phoned for an ambulance. It was the hospital who contacted us. I’m going up to visit this Piper Hamilton now, I won’t be wasting time.”

  Rita said, “ I’ll come.”

  “I’ve got Crabb and Walsh already, but you're more than welcome. And Guv, I was hoping you’d set up a trace on CCT, and contact the Lichfield lot regarding the family.”

  “I take it they didn’t report this girl missing?”

  Morrison grinned, already half out of the door. “Hardly. But informing the old man his daughter’s in hospital will seem fair enough. Best not tell him she might be done for an illegal firearm and shooting a man in cold blood.”

  “Self defence.”

  “Fair enough.” He was already thumping down the stairs, grabbed his coat from the peg just inside his office, and ran down to where Crabb and Walsh were waiting for him with his car, engine running, just outside. Rita jumped in the front passenger seat, and Morrison took the wheel. Behind him, exiting the station, people both uniformed and plain clothes, were running in all directions.

  “Well,” said Rita, “I’m sure the dear man would be delighted to know how important we think him.”

  “Not sure I’d use the word important,” muttered Crabb from the back seat.

  “So Milton threw himself from a window,” said Harry. “I can’t help a smidge of sympathy. But on the whole, it’s a blessing. Maybe for him too. And now it sounds as though Sullivan’s dead as well. Bloody brilliant.”

  “Perhaps we should phone Tracy,” suggested Sylvia. “But maybe not until it’s been confirmed. The police will be onto her, I’m sure.”

  Ruby was cuddling Brad, who was nibbling on her ear. “But what was he doing up in Wales. Derek swears he saw him in town just three days ago.”

  “So he is travelling around and doing vile things in different places,’ said Stella from the other side of the empty fireplace. “it’s all him all along.”

  “I always said it was the bus driver,’ Amy said, brightening up and shaking herself from a slight doze.” Percival remained studiously reading the Lancet.

  “And you haven’t heard from Maurice?” Sylvia asked Kate.

  Amy looked hopelessly puzzled, but Kate said, “I did hear from him once, asking about Milton, but that was some time ago. I have no idea how to get onto him, and I don’t even know where he is. Besides, I don’t actually care about him anymore. I certainly don’t love him. I don’t even like him. But I don’t hate him either. He’s just a creep I was stupid enough to marry. But I’ve got Mia, and she’s compensation for everything. And in a sort of pathetic way, I feel sorry for him. He could have been a normal bloke maybe if it hadn’t been for his brothers and his birth.”

  “And I feel sorry for Milton,” Iris sighed, hands clasped in her little black lap, knees together, sitting on the edge of a tall wooden chair. She always chose the uncomfortable one.

  Harry scratched his earlobe. “You’ll all be telling me you feel sorry for Lionel Sullivan soon.”

  “If he’s dead -----”

  “I just hope he bloody is.”

  “Language, language, Harry,” said Yvonne Norris from somewhere across the room.

  “We should be watching TV,” said Ruby. “The late news starts in five or six minutes.” In fact, her watch was a little slow, and the news had started already. Derek and Sheila, both glued to the screen, called the others over. Lavender came to collect cups, and squirmed in front of the TV at the same time.

  ‘The body of wanted murderer Lionel Sullivan has not yet been traced, but eighteen-year-old Piper Hamilton insists she shot and killed him during a skirmish when she attempted to escape from his clutches. She was badly wounded and now rests in hospital, while half the police force in the country are searching for the dead killer. Should anyone see a white Honda, about twelve years old with the plates R55 6 IMP, please contact your local police station at once, or telephone 999.

  Lionel Sullivan is the most wanted criminal in the country and has been for nearly five months. The news that he may be dead is hopeful but not yet confirmed. It seems he can evade the law even then. Anyone who knows anything should contact the police at once. We’ll bring you the latest updates as they come.”

  The large living room had fallen silent, and it seemed no one in Rochester Manor knew quite what to think. There were faint mumbles. “I bet he’s not dead at all.”

  “I bet he’s found another shed.”

  “Sheds, sheds, sheds.” Amy looked around for her wine glass, found Percival’s and drained it. “I never liked sheds,” she said. “Usually they’re just full of spades and bags of smelly old compost. Arthur has a shed. Does that need looking at? But I expect it’s full of compost too.”

  Percival passed her the correct wine glass. “Have a drink dear. I don’t think Arthur’s under suspicion of anything.”

  “How can the bugger be dead in Wales when I saw him nicking bananas in town three days ago?” Dennis was mumbling to himself.

  “Not hard to get to Wales in three days,” said Harry, looking back at Dennis. “And are you sure it was three days ago?”

  “Of course not now,” Dennis compla
ined over other complaining voices. “I can’t even remember tomorrow.”

  “I went to tell the police,” Ruby interrupted, “and I told them three days ago. Not that I saw the monster myself. I was just helping Dennis.”

  Dennis was now peering at Ruby in slight surprise. “Very kind,’ he said. “I certainly need help. Do it again one day.”

  “I think,” Stella said, “we should all call in a doctor, or some special ambulance person, or just a teacher.”

  “Yeh, we’re certainly that stupid,” muttered Yvonne.

  “No, no, I mean for learning first aid,” Stella stood, turning off the television. “We have killers and torturers all over the countryside, and dead bodies chucked over our walls. Besides, we’re all old and might fall down at any time.”

  “We don’t need a teacher,” Derek puffed. “What about Percy? He’s a doctor.”

  “Used to be,” said Ruby with doubt.

  Percy folded his newspaper on his lap. “I was a good doctor,” he sighed, “but never a good teacher. I tried to teach Amy basic first aid long ago. I spread lessons over a long weekend. Then on the Tuesday, I asked her what she’d do if the little girl, who was actually walking past us in the park, swallowed our front door key. And Amy looked quite satisfied and smiled and said she’d just climb through the back window.”

  Half the room stared at Amy. Derek said, “I always locked my back window.”

  Sitting up in bed in a private ward, Piper Hamilton regarded her three interrogators. “I’ve bin looking after meself for years,” she said, “and I’m not as young as I look. I could beat up Dad if I wanted to.”

  “We’re not here about your family,” said Rita, pulling up a chair. “It’s Lionel Sullivan I’m interested in. Did you have time to see where your bullets actually hit him?”

  “Yes.” She tapped her nose. “One right slam into his face. Another in the middle somewhere. Maybe his hip. But the one in the head must have killed the bastard.”