Desperate Measures: A Mystery

by Jo Bannister

  It was one of those moments when the world shifts very slightly to the left, and you just know that somewhere a tsunami is getting ready to wipe out some villages. Hazel tried to convince herself that Ash’s wife hadn’t understood. “Patience lives here. I mean, she’s at my house at the moment, but she was Gabriel’s dog. She’s no trouble—she’s clean and good-natured, and she doesn’t chew things.… I’m sure the boys would like to have their father’s dog.”

  “Oh no,” Cathy said firmly. “I’m not having a dog.”

  Hazel felt as if she’d been floored by a pillowcase full of wet herrings. “But … what do you want me to do with her?”

  Cathy shrugged. “It’s at your house? Keep it, if you like. If not, I’m sure there’s a shelter somewhere that will find it a nice home.” She walked up the steps to her new front door, and the boys piled out of Hazel’s car like weary puppies and followed her.

  CHAPTER 14

  MRS. POLIAKOV LOOKED AT HER as if she suspected Hazel, not the dog, of having designs on her furniture. So much so that Hazel, who had never in her life felt the urge to chew a cabriole leg, began to redden and talk faster, as if she had something to hide among the words.

  By contrast, Patience sat demurely in the hall, unflustered by the increasingly warm debate on her future. Posing elegantly, her long tail curled around her long legs and her long nose directing the focus of her golden-amber gaze, she might have been one of those stone hounds that guards the gates of stately homes, except for the faint, not unpleasant aroma of prophylactic flea repellent. Hazel had spent a small fortune at the vet’s only that morning. The dog’s fine, thin coat offered a poor haven to hitchhikers, but Hazel didn’t want to risk even one appearing. She felt sure that Mrs. Poliakov could zero in on a single flea on twelve square meters of carpet like a laser-guided missile, with similarly explosive results.

  “A few days, I said,” insisted the landlady, her tone that curious combination of outrage and aggression that women of her profession have developed as a defense against Being Put Upon. “Didn’t I say that? A few days. We agreed.”

  “We did agree,” Hazel admitted. “I expected Gabriel would be back for her after just a few days. I didn’t expect…”

  Mrs. Poliakov was not an avid reader of the popular press. Uniquely in Hazel’s experience, she watched television for the adverts for cleaning products, then turned off when the programs resumed. She took a Polish-language magazine, but activities in middle England were low down on its list of priorities. She didn’t know what had happened. “Expect what?” she demanded. “That your friend would vanish, leaving you holding his baby?” She thought about that. “Puppy?”

  Hazel swallowed. “He’s dead, Mrs. P. He shot himself. To save his wife and children. They were the only things in the world that mattered more to him than this dog. I can’t—I won’t—give her to a shelter. If you won’t let me keep her here, I’ll have to find somewhere else to live.”

  Mrs. Poliakov was still taking it in. Translating the English words, with which she was quite familiar, into her native tongue inside her head because even after thirty years things didn’t seem entirely real until she’d absorbed them in Polish. “Your friend Gabriel?” she said eventually. “Mr. Ash?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s not coming back? Never?”

  “No,” said Hazel. It still broke her heart to say it out loud. “And his wife doesn’t want a dog.”

  Mrs. Poliakov started to say, “I don’t want…” and then thought better of it. She thought of the hurt in Hazel Best’s eyes, red-rimmed and smudged beneath with dark stains like bruises. She thought of how happy she’d been when she first came here, a bright, cheerful girl eager to embrace the challenges of her new job; and how that, too, had been snatched away. Her unlikely friendship with the strange man with the dog had been almost the only satisfaction she’d got out of the last few months. And now he was gone, too, leaving her with only grief and a white dog.

  She leaned forward, peering with concern into Hazel’s drawn face. “You think this through? I mean properly? You never want a dog before. You want this dog? Why you want this dog?”

  The tears started again, more than she could blink away, more than she could blame on a touch of hay fever. But then, Hazel wasn’t at work; she didn’t have a professional facade to maintain. She’d lived under Mrs. Poliakov’s roof for over a year. She counted her a friend. You can be honest with friends. You should be honest with friends. Her voice broke. “Because she’s all of him that I have left.”

  Mrs. Poliakov had the right to keep her home a dog-free zone. But she knew that if she exercised that right, it would be a long time before she slept soundly again.

  Instead she said, “All right. We give it a try. Any trouble”—she raised an admonitory finger—“she have to go. But she’s a good dog, I can see that. We give it a try.”

  * * *

  With Patience’s immediate future secure, Hazel knew it was time for her to get on with her own life. She thought about visiting her father. But the only place she could get used to Gabriel Ash’s not being around anymore was here, where he ought to be.

  She needed something to do, something useful to occupy herself. She thought of the situation Saturday had dumped in her lap. First thing on Monday morning, she called Dave Gorman.

  “What’s happening about Armitage and his computer?”

  “Er—what?” It was clearly not what DI Gorman had thought she was calling about.

  Hazel breathed heavily down the phone at him. “Charles Armitage? The guy with the unpleasant little hobby and a casual approach to computer security? What are you doing about him?”

  Gorman was recovering from the surprise enough for indignation to surface in his gravelly voice. “Today? Not very much. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been pretty busy with something else.” But that was unkind, and anyway it wasn’t a good answer. He took a deep breath. “Sorry. I haven’t forgotten, Hazel. I will deal with this. Leave it with me a few more days.”

  For now anger, even misplaced anger, was easier to deal with than grief. “There are children involved, Dave.” She couldn’t remember when she’d started to use his first name; but if she was no longer a probationer at Meadowvale Police Station, she was damned if she was going back to calling him Mr. Gorman. “I don’t know how current the images on that computer were, but some of that abuse may be going on right now. Today. The information that will help us put a stop to it may be on that laptop. Are you sure you’ve got more important things to do than getting it back?”

  There was a pause while DI Gorman reevaluated. This was something Hazel had grown used to, as people who had her marked down as a nice, polite, responsible, well-brought-up young woman suddenly realized there was another side to her. It was the human equivalent of a sat-nav system spinning its gyros and stammering out “Recalculating … recalculating…”

  Finally he said, “You’re right. I’ll get on it as soon as I can. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about Armitage just because I haven’t the manpower to deal with him this very minute.”

  She knew all about prioritizing. Any other week she’d have sympathized. But the anger was serving her too well to let it go. “And another thing. Every time I ask about Gabriel Ash’s funeral, I’m told you’re not ready to release the body. You never listened to him when he was alive—what do you think he’s going to tell you now?”

  That was easier to answer, although Gorman knew the answer wouldn’t satisfy her. “Not my call, Hazel. The Home Office has him, they’re calling all the shots.” Invisible at the other end of the line, he winced at the unfortunate turn of phrase. “I’ll keep you informed. As soon as I know something, you’ll know it.” There was another pause as he debated whether to ask his next question. But he wanted to know. “Have you seen much of Cathy Ash since she got back?”

  “No.” Hazel added nothing to that, though Gorman waited.

  Eventually he tried again. “You should probably keep in to
uch with her. You’re the best friend Ash had in Norbold—any questions she has, you’re probably best placed to answer them.”

  “I don’t think she has any questions,” said Hazel shortly. “Or if she has, there are people she’d rather be dealing with. I don’t think she wants me anywhere near her.”

  “Why?”

  That could have been either of two inquiries. “Why doesn’t she want to see me? I think she’s got the idea there was something going on between me and Gabriel. There wasn’t, but I think Cathy thinks there was. And why do I think that? Because she pretty well slammed the door in my face when I took her home.”

  Gorman gave a sad little sigh. “We need to make allowances, Hazel. The woman’s had a hell of a time. For four years, if she slept at all, she woke up not knowing if she was going to survive the coming day. For a lot of that time she didn’t know where her children were—didn’t know for sure that they were even alive. Lord knows how she felt about Ash by the end—whether she hung on to the belief that someday he’d come and save her, or if she blamed him for everything. Either way, how he died must have put her emotions through the mincer. She’ll need a lot of help to come to terms with it all. Until she has, we should try not to judge her.”

  Hazel needed telling none of this. She knew she had no right to resent Cathy. She bit her lip. “Has anyone suggested that she talk to Laura Fry?”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Gorman, “I did. Laura’s happy to see her. Cathy’s going to need a little persuading, but I’ll try again when she’s had a chance to catch her breath.”

  “What about the boys? How are they adjusting to being back in England?”

  “I’m not sure,” admitted Gorman. “Cathy’s—naturally—very protective of them. I’ve tried to speak to them, but she won’t let them out of her sight. As a matter of fact”—he had the grace to sound faintly embarrassed—“I had hoped you might succeed where I’ve failed. That she might let you take them for an ice cream and a chat.”

  “I wouldn’t hold your breath,” muttered Hazel.

  “It’s probably too soon,” agreed Gorman. “But will you? If I can get her to agree?”

  Hazel couldn’t think of a reason to say no, so she said yes.

  * * *

  She knew that if she walked Patience beside the canal, Saturday would appear. And he did, barely ten minutes after they’d left Balfour Street. Hazel didn’t particularly want to talk to him, because she knew what he’d want to talk about and she hadn’t an answer to satisfy him. But she was damned if she was going to avoid him, as if she’d done something to be ashamed of. So she kept walking, and Saturday caught up and fell into step beside her.

  He had a black eye.

  There was nothing terribly unusual about this. Saturday and his associates traded casual blows the way normal people exchange handshakes. Sometimes when she saw him, he had a black eye; sometimes he had a skinned knuckle. She imagined he gave as good as he got, or at least had the sense to run if he was seriously outclassed. “What happened to you?”

  The boy shrugged, unconcerned. “Nothing much. A misunderstanding.”

  “His? Or yours?”

  Saturday grinned. At sixteen he was caught on the cusp of change, no longer a child, not yet a man. There was something knowing, ironic, in his grin that would not have been there six months ago. “His. I explained where he went wrong.”

  Hazel regarded him critically. He was small for his age, undernourished, not so much wiry as downright thin. She could only assume the other party had been skimpier still. “When are you going to do something with your life?” she demanded waspishly.

  He looked surprised. “Like what? Brain surgery? Ballet dancing?”

  “Like getting a job,” snapped Hazel. “Like pushing a wheelbarrow around a building site and making the tea until someone thinks you’re worth teaching some skills. Like buying a chammy and a bucket and cleaning people’s windows until you’ve saved up enough for a mower so you can cut their lawns. Like anything that adds net worth to the human race instead of being a drain on it.”

  This wasn’t a boy who was easily hurt. Or rather, he was so used to being hurt, in the normal course of every day, that it took something special to register with him. That, coming from Hazel, whom he had learned to trust, got through his defenses in a way she had not anticipated. He reared back as if she’d struck him; color flooded momentarily into his pinched cheeks.

  Guilt flooded Hazel’s. Her eyes dipped quickly—and met the golden gaze of the lurcher, watching with interest to see what she would do now. Hazel glared at her—she didn’t need a dog to tell her when she was behaving badly!—then glanced apologetically at Saturday. “I’m sorry. I’ve no business taking it out on you.”

  He was still startled from the way she’d turned on him. Another moment, though, and he’d have fired off a fitting retort, something to leave her feeling mean and small-minded. And then he saw her expression and realized there was very little he could do to make her feel any worse.

  Saturday didn’t flatter himself that being unkind to him had reduced her almost to tears. He said quietly, “What’s happened?”

  Hazel stared at him in growing disbelief. “You don’t know?” But of course he didn’t know. He didn’t own a computer or a television or a power-socket to plug them into. His only chance of learning what had happened to Ash was if somebody tossed him some unfinished chips wrapped in the front page of the Norbold News, because even if half the town was talking about it, nobody would think of telling a street kid. Nobody would think he might be interested. “Gabriel is dead.”

  Incredibly, the boy laughed. “Dead? Of course he isn’t dead! Who told you that?”

  “Nobody told me. I saw it.”

  Only then, when her expression failed to soften into a grin, did he realize it wasn’t a joke. Something terrible happened to his face. Slowly the flesh—and there wasn’t much of it to start with—melted from his cheeks, so that he aged twenty, thirty years in front of her. His eyes hollowed, sucked in by grief. His skin sallowed to the gray of old concrete, the flimsy dryness of archived paper. In the space of a few seconds he changed before Hazel’s eyes from a skinny youth to an old man to something almost more like a mummy. A lifetime compressed by time-lapse photography.

  She’d had no idea Ash meant so much to him. All she could think was that Saturday had so few friends, so few people in his life who even cared whether he lived or died, that losing one was devastating. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I should have told you before. There were things to do, and I didn’t think … I’m sorry.”

  The tears on Saturday’s cheeks were like drops of rain among the freckles. “When?”

  “Four days ago.”

  “How? What … How?”

  So she told him, holding nothing back. The truth would hurt him, but he deserved to hear it from her, not as a bit of casual gossip tossed over a campfire in a condemned building.

  By now they had lowered themselves onto the grassy edge of the towpath, legs dangling over the water. Hazel was plaiting stems of couch grass as she talked, her fingers deliberate and careful about the meaningless task. Moved by the same need for distraction, Saturday was stroking the dog, holding her in the crook of his arm. Patience turned her long face and licked his nose once, golden eyes all concern.

  “What are we going to do?” the boy moaned when Hazel had finished her account.

  “Do?” she echoed bitterly. “There’s nothing to do. We get on with our lives. We’ve lost a friend. The world won’t stop turning because of it.”

  She thought she’d managed to shock him. That Saturday thought she, too, should be crying for Ash. But four days had passed, and she’d done all the crying she could do for now. She straightened her bent back, threw the little plaited wreath onto the brown water of the canal, and stood up.

  “Actually,” she said crisply, “there is something we can do. Something I can do, and you can help me with. Something DI Gorman should be doing, excep
t he’s too busy and we’re not. We can get that damned laptop back.”

  CHAPTER 15

  ALMOST AS SOON AS THE WORDS WERE OUT, Hazel knew she was making a promise—or issuing a threat—that she had no way of keeping. They might know what Charles Armitage had been up to, but the only evidence was a bundle of electronics he’d had ample time to dispose of. In all probability the laptop no longer existed.

  Hazel was aware that a hard drive is harder to wipe than most people outside the computer industry appreciate. But even a top nerd needed at least the remains of the laptop, and if Armitage—knowing what was on it, knowing the police had had it in their possession—hadn’t dropped it in a lake a week ago, weighted with stones like someone who’d come second in a gang war, he needed his head examined. That was the real reason Dave Gorman wasn’t beating his door down right now. Not that he was busy, although undoubtedly he was, but because there was no point. His time was too valuable to waste chasing wild geese.

  But right now Hazel needed to be doing something. Anything would be better than sitting in her quiet room, looking at Ash’s dog, wondering when it was going to strike Patience that he wasn’t coming back. It was oddly upsetting that she couldn’t explain what had become of him to someone—all right, to an animal—who’d loved Ash as much as anyone in the world. It was another small misery adding to Hazel’s burden.

  She needed a job to do, something worthwhile, to occupy her mind and tire her body, and give her some prospect of a success. Because right now she felt a failure. Gabriel Ash had been her friend, she’d taken satisfaction in what she’d been able to do for this clever, wounded, vulnerable man, but the bottom line was that she hadn’t been able to keep him alive. He hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her about his appalling dilemma and give her the chance to help him. Someone else might have seen that as his failure. Hazel saw it as hers.

  She desperately needed a success to set against it. Not to erase it from her memory—nothing would do that—but to set against it in the great scale of deeds. She needed to be able to think, Perhaps I couldn’t save Ash, but there are some miserable, abused young girls who are going to get back a bit of their childhood because of me, and a man who exploited and encouraged and enjoyed their degradation got his comeuppance because I know what to do and will do it.