Daisy Chains

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

“Except that no dead body, nor even the stolen car, has been found where you say they should be,” said Morrison. “You managed to crawl down to the main road to summon an ambulance, but you claimed the white Honda was up that side road, and that Sullivan himself should be lying dead behind the shed just over the ditch. Well, luckily the ambulance found you where you said, but there’s no body. The owners of that field and the shed have been questioned. They heard nothing and saw nothing. However, that’s not surprising since they were evidently in the milking sheds at that time, right on the other end of the property.”

  Piper was indignant. “Well, no bugger’s thanked me for what I did, or told me I did well, or even sympathised with me getting in that bugger’s car, nor said a thing about having a creep for a father. All I got is telling off for the gun, what ain’t mine anyway and just as well I had it, and saying I should contact my dad and say I’m OK, when I ain’t OK, and get told I’m lucky not to be charged with murder. But now you say there weren’t no bloody murder anyway, and I must have missed. Well, I bloody didn’t. The fucker was standing two little steps away and I couldn’t miss him. The first time he rushed me, and I was standing side on and stepped back when he went wallop. He squealed so I know my bullet went somewhere into that greasy fat flesh. Maybe not fatal the first time. But the second time I smashed him in the fucking brains.”

  Crabb yawned. “You’ve been most helpful, Miss Hamilton. We’ll be in contact, especially if we find Lionel Sullivan. In the meantime, we’ll inform your family of your whereabouts.”

  “Tell Mum I’m a bloody hero,” Piper told Crabb. “But tell my dad I’m gone for good, and to go fuck himself.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was Gertrude Sullivan’s doorstep where Paul Stoker stood for some time calling through the letterbox. He had seen the news. “It’s all over,’ his screeched. “Did you hear about your husband? Come on, let me in. You know who I am.”

  “Fuck off,” came the faint echo from within.

  He hung around for half the day, but no one answered or opened the door. Finally Paul surrendered and went home. His wife, who was still there although she had told him she was leaving, ignored him and sat and ate her cheese and ham sandwiches in front of the TV without offering him supper or tea.

  So it meant the long trip to Wales, searching the relevant area described by the reporters on the TV News, and finally sneaking into the hospital. He didn’t ask for her room, he knew they’d throw him out. He was looking as smart and official as he knew how, which meant a shirt and tie with a mismatching jacket on top, and marched the corridors trying to pinpoint where this interesting new patient was staying.

  After a frustrating hour and a quarter, he had the luck to pass a swinging doorway as the nurse actually trotted out with a used plate and cup, as she called back, “OK, Piper. You have a rest until Doctor Mossop comes in. He’ll be at least half an hour, maybe more. You have a little doze.”

  The door swing shut, the nurse disappeared around the corner, and no sound came from the room she had left. Paul slipped into the very small single ward, and eyed the girl cuddling down under the sheets.

  “Piper Hamilton?”

  She blinked and sat up again, still pristine in white starched hospital gown. “You’re not the doctor.”

  “No, and,” he held up a hand in denial, “And “I’m not the press either. Certainly not. My name is Paul Stoker, and I’m an official investigator into the situation regarding Lionel Sullivan. I won’t keep you long, but I must ask some questions first.”

  “I am tired,” Piper yawned.

  “Yes,” Paul lied with abandon, “Doctor Mossop told me he’d be in to see you later, but not for an hour. So I thought I’d just come and see you for ten minutes.”

  “Oh well,” Piper struggled to sit,” I suppose so. But there’s not much to tell. He’s dead. I keep telling everyone. The bugger gave me a lift. It were really early, and there weren’t any other traffic, and I lost me shoes. Barefoot and walking for bloody miles – well, you can imagine. Besides, I never thought of that creep ‘cos I were up in the Midlands. So this nice clean car stops and I got in. But I had a gun. A nice little Kahr from me dad’s collection. Likes guns, does my dad.”

  “Legal? Licenced?” Paul doubted it.

  “How should I know?” Piper shrugged that off. “Then when the bugger got out saying he needed a piss, I realised it were him. Huge bugger, he was, Right ugly, and dirty too. So I gets out me gun and I shoots him. He cut me. I bin stitched here and stitched there all over, with one leg bandaged foot to bloody hip. Can’t hardly walk. But no proper damage. I ain’t gonna die yet, sein’ as I’s just eighteen.” She sniggered. “I tell all and sundry as how I’m eighteen. But I’m sixteen. Well, then folks tell me I ortta be in school, so I make out I’m older. But I’m almost sixteen. Oh shit, who cares about all that. I’m thirteen and I’ll be fourteen next week. So I’m thirteen coming on eighteen, and I killed that nastiest bastard in the country. Not bad, eh?”

  Paul sat on the only chair. “How can you be sure he’s dead?”

  “Look,” Piper said, “I ain’t stupid. I shot the bugger close up. One bullet smashed right into the middle of his face. So the bastard’s dead.”

  “Did you look back and see him lying there when you got away?” Paul demanded.

  Sighing, Piper nodded. “Look, I were hurt so I crawled off to get to the road where I could get picked up by an ambulance. But yes, I ain’t stupid, like I says. I didn’t want the bugger coming up behind, so I looks around twice. He were flat out on the grass with blood like a can o’ Coke spilt all over.”

  “Yet now no one can find him.”

  “I reckon,” said Piper, climbing down beneath the sheets again, “Some silly bugger carted him off to some hospital in them Welsh mountains or villages or somfing. He’s dead, I tell you, so he’s gotta turn up.”

  Paul eyed her obvious closure of the conversation and nodded. “OK, I’ll leave you to rest. Can I visit you if I think of any more questions?”

  “No,” Piper said, and closed her eyes.

  Travelling on her own with considerable trepidation, Daisy arrived at the train station and caught a taxi to Rochester Manor. Since she hadn’t been able to find the private phone number, she was especially nervous about finding both Sylvia and Harry out, even perhaps travelling north, or on a visit to Nottingham to see her.

  They weren’t, they were sitting with everyone else at their dinner table in the dining room, having lunch. Sylvia was talking to Ruby.

  Puppy Brad was wandering the large room chasing scraps dropped by loose-fingered forks and begging for larger scraps from his favourite residents. Amy was passing the dog her large pork chop which she couldn’t eat since she’d forgotten to put her teeth in, but just as Percival looked up, caught her at it, and scolded her as the puppy ran off, meat firmly between his minute jaws.

  “Your dog,” said Sylvia to Ruby, “is going to get horribly fat.”

  “He’ll run it off,” smiled Ruby. “He chases all the sparrows and wood pigeons outside. And he was starved before, poor little darling, and half dead when I found him, so he deserves a little over indulgence now.”

  Lavender interrupted, waving from the doorway. “Sylvia, are you free?”

  “What for?” Sylvia called back. “I’m in the middle of lunch.”

  “There a woman asking for you,” Lavender called, thus informing the whole room. “Mrs Daisy Curzon. Says it’s urgent. Shall I ask her to wait in the hall? Or the small living room?”

  Harry and Sylvia stared at each other in surprise. They had not long returned from visiting her, and thought it a waste of time. “Small saloon,” Sylvia called back. “Cheers, Lavender. I won’t be long.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have come,” Daisy told them as they all settled . “But I heard that the terrible serial killer has been shot, and I thought everything would start getting better. It was such a relief. I really felt a huge relief. After George – wel
l, I knew poor darling George had died a natural death and wasn’t – murdered – oh, what a shocking word! But it was a ghastly death for him anyway, poor dear. Dreadful Gastroenteritis and even the hospital couldn’t find out what food had caused it. They washed out his stomach, you know, and found no food to examine. Poor darling had vomited it all up. But now I’m all alone and very lonely, and I think Dean has gone away on his own. It’s two days since I saw him. He went off to school as usual in the morning but didn’t come home. I wasn’t worried because he often phones, and tells me he’ll be staying a few days with his best friend. Dear Kevin is a good boy and his parents like Dean so much. Dean helps Kevin with his homework of course.”

  She was fluttering both hands, and bouncing a little on the chair. The springs squeaked. Sylvia interrupted. “He seems a very sensible boy, Mrs Curzon. I doubt he’d have done anything terrible.”

  “Not terrible.” Daisy gulped and wiped her eyes. “But suicide, do you think? Because of his father? I mean, he was in tears for a week. Then he went all silent and hopeless. And this time he just didn’t come home. He didn’t even phone. So I went around to Kevin’s house and they said no, they hadn’t seen him. Kevin said he wasn’t at school that day.”

  “And not the next day either?”

  “No. I went to the police, but they weren’t very helpful. They said Dean was old enough to have run off with a girl, and it was young pretty females who were getting murdered, not young boys. He’d be bound to turn up in a few days. I knew you’d be more sympathetic, and I was going to phone up. But then – well – frankly, I had to get away. Dean still didn’t come home. I asked Enid next door to phone me day or night if she saw him, and I thought I’d visit here. The train didn’t actually take too long.” She extracted another handkerchief and then forgot to wipe her eyes. “He’s all I have left. But I understand his misery, my poor lad. There has been tragedy after tragedy. Friends have died, neighbours have died, depraved killers wander our streets, and now my beloved George – life is just too horrible.”

  Almost crying with her, Sylvia reached, took Daisy’s hand and said, “Mrs Curzon, I’m most terribly sorry. But I’m not sure why you came to us. Sadly, I have no idea where your son might be. We never found Lionel Sullivan this time either, you know. We involved ourselves in the investigations since we’d become very friendly with Mr Morrison, who’s head of the homicide squad here, and had the luck to find Mr Sullivan the first time. We help when we can, and that’s why we visited you when you said you’d like to discuss the dreadful killings that happened in your neighbourhood. But we have no special knowledge and no special way of tracing people. I’m sorry. You must feel terrible, and we’d love to help if we could.”

  “But you’re friends with that top man,” nodded Daisy at once. “Tell him not to dismiss my darling son’s disappearance. Tell him to find my dearest Dean for me, and not to think silly things about him going off to football matches or girlfriends. He’s never had a proper girlfriend, and the last one died. And he hates football. All he likes is school and study and science.”

  Nodding with the nicest smile he could summon, Harry said, “Morrison is in charge of homicide, not missing boys. Maybe he can phone someone else. But he doesn’t even work your area.”

  In a dreaded and terrified whisper, Daisy said, “But Dean could be – dead.”

  “An accident? Well, perhaps, but you’d have been informed. It can’t be murder. Sullivan doesn’t kill boys, and he appears to be dead anyway.” Harry scratched his earlobe.

  “That monster killed a policeman. He was a man.”

  “Because the detective was after him, and clearly found him,” said Sylvia. “Your poor son must be deeply depressed after all the local misery and especially his father. I’d guess he’s gone away to hide for a few days to try and think and get over his depression. I’m quite sure he’ll turn up in a day or two. He’ll need you.”

  Daisy looked blank. “The only person Dean ever needed was his school teacher,” she said sadly. “He calls me his handcuffs. But I’m sure he loves me, and I know he was heartbroken about his dearest dad. But I have to admit, I’m sure I love my boy more than he loves me.’

  Harry and Sylvia looked at each other. “What time’s your train home?” Harry asked. “I think a nice dinner at a good restaurant would cheer you up a little, and then back home for a cosy night. Would you have time to come to dinner with us tonight?”

  With a slightly frosty stare, Sylvia looked at her husband and then turned to Daisy. “I wonder,” she said, “if we could go and visit Morrison this afternoon. With you too, of course, and explain the situation to him. He might contact your lot for you, and get them to take Dean’s disappearance more seriously.” She looked back at Harry. “Though Morrison will be horrendously busy searching for the missing Sullivan corpse and questioning that little Piper girl.”

  “Rita might be there. She’d help, I’m sure she would,” Harry suggested.

  “I don’t understand. I’m Johnny Tavistock,” said the boy. “But why? I’m not doing anything wrong.”

  The uniformed policeman looked earnestly at him. “You sure that’s your name, boy,” he asked. “We’ve got a missing report on a young lad who looks a lot like you. But that’s not his name.” He paused, frowning. “What’s your address, lad? Where do you live?”

  The boy looked somewhat belligerent. “Why? You’re not going to tell my parents, are you? What for? I’ve done nothing. I’m just walking up the street.”

  “You’re a touch defensive, boy,” said the copper. “I’ve not accused you of anything. I told you there’s a boy missing, you should want to help. And I need your name and address, that’s all. No harm, eh?”

  “OK.” The boy attempted a half smile. “I hope you find the one you’re looking for. But I’m Johnny Tavistock, 44 Berkley Avenue in Glasgow. That’s Scotland.”

  “I know where Glasgow is,” the policeman frowned. “But how come you’re in Gloucestershire if you live way up north?”

  “I’m eighteen,” said the boy. “I’m not a kid. I wanted a quiet holiday, and I fancy a girl who lives around here somewhere. And don’t ask me her address because I’m not sure of it, and besides, I don’t want her to know I’m here.”

  P.C. Foreman stopped and considered. The boy appeared honest and genuine. He had no reason to think otherwise. So he said, “Well young master Tavistock, good luck with your girlfriend, look after yourself, and don’t cause trouble for anyone else, especially now I know who you are. But I wish you a good holiday.” And he nodded, walking on, hands clasped behind his back. Walking slowly, he plodded up the street, smiling at nearly all he passed, although he knew none of them. It was sometime before he reported back to the station, and had nothing of interest to report when he did.

  Meanwhile, Johnny Tavistock whooped loudly, clicked his heels together, and, avoiding anyone who looked curiously at him, continued along the road to the small backstreet youth hostel where he was staying. Holiday with a purpose, or holiday without a purpose, there was always a sad shortage of money.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Are you listening carefully?’ She recognised the voice on the phone, although muffled. “Then I’ll explain – there has been a large sum of money transferred into your private bank account, but this is not for you. I repeat, not for you in any manner or sum. Do you understand?”

  “Of course I do. And I don’t need your stolen money, and I don’t want money from brutal criminals. So go away.” But Kate didn’t hang up.

  “The money is already in your account, but every penny of it is for Milton. Understood?”

  “How much?”

  “You can check that yourself. But it’s a million pounds. This is to cover his operations, the best surgeons you can find, his luxury convalescence, and his extra comforts afterwards. I know he isn’t able to leave that place even after the trial, but there’s a lot can be done to make him comfortable and happy. Take him a photograph of Mark and myself
.”

  “You must be doing extremely well. Where are you?” asked Kate, her voice considerably less antagonistic.

  “Yes of course I’m doing well. I’ve taken over Mark’s business and enjoying it. As for where I am, it’s not the Middle East any more, but I’m certainly not giving the actual address. Besides, I move a lot. You do exactly what I ask with Milton, and next time I’ll send some extra for you to spend on yourself. Buy yourself yet another pair of shoes.”

  “Maurice,” she said quietly, “it just shows you never, ever knew me. I was never a shoe fanatic. I have three pairs – summer, winter, and best. And I don’t want anymore. I need money to enlarge my business and turn the cake shop into a café restaurant.” She didn’t admit this was already well underway with the previous money from him that she had appropriated. “And since you’re making an illegal fortune, you might as well help a bit.”

  “I might. You look after Milton. This whole million is for him, like I said, operations and so forth, and then his defence lawyer. Once he walks OK and comes more to his senses, as a free man he could join me.”

  “He’s never going to turn into a placid and friendly little soul, is he now?”

  “Why not?” Maurice demanded. “What do you know about it anyway? After the operations he’ll be able to walk pain-free, and once he feels different, maybe he’ll act different. And have you visited him regularly. Don’t lie. I know your voice.”

  “I visited a lot.” She lied and thought he might hear it in her tone, but clearly he didn’t know her voice at all.

  Kate felt Iris come up behind her. She turned at once, finger to her lips. Iris stayed silent. Maurice said, “Well, you keep up the good work and I might send another million in a month or two for your little tea room. In the meantime, you keep your mouth shut and look after Milton. Get that photo for him and visit regularly. Buy him presents. Find the best lawyer in the country.”