‘There’s no key. Who’s got the key? Cassandra? I demand you open that door. Now – what the hell? I’m going to try to kick the door down, Jane.’
‘Hang on, Brian. Is that a helicopter?’ It was a silly question because nothing else would make that noise. ‘They’ll have the right equipment.’ I really did not want Brian – anyone – collapsing at my feet with a heart attack.
There was even more yelling. ‘Armed police! Lie down! Down! Armed police!’
‘Help me! In here, Jane Cowan’s in here.’
‘Bloody lie down. Face down.’
‘There’s a woman—’
‘Do as they tell you, Brian, for God’s sake!’
A brief silence. I kicked and screamed again.
‘Stand away from that door, whoever you are!’
I didn’t argue.
Suddenly there was splintered wood, a man pretending to be a ninja turtle, Brian Dawes face down on the ground with a gun to his head, and an incandescent Cassandra Preston, already being handcuffed. The sight of me gave her strength to shake one of her hands free: ‘That’s the bitch that’s stolen my paintings! I’ll fucking kill her!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I might have felt a great deal happier if I hadn’t been aware that I too was the focus of a number of armed officers. But it seemed that they didn’t want me to prostrate myself beside Brian, just to stay exactly where I was until I had properly identified myself. Once I was established as a victim, then I was presumably going to be treated kindly and given a great deal of support. But that was more easily said than done. The armed men didn’t want a genteel conversation. So I looked for Elaine, presumably the person responsible for this spectacular turnout. And for Will.
Presumably, if either were there they’d be tricked out like their colleagues in body armour. Or be kept well to the back. Or – I looked around and found not a single familiar face under those helmets and visors – not present at all.
What had felt like a miraculous rescue was beginning to feel like a protracted nightmare, although it was probably all happening in the space of a few seconds. Hands up, I persuaded my watery legs towards Brian, eventually managing to kneel beside him. Was it safe to put one hand down and on to his shoulder? I risked it.
‘This is Brian Dawes,’ I said to the nearest gun. ‘He was trying to rescue me. Can’t you treat him with some respect? Some dignity?’
Someone barked something at the officer aiming at his head. I couldn’t hear what because this time the pounding in my ears was almost deafening. At least he lowered his weapon. Another officer grabbed Brian’s other shoulder and heaved him, none too gently, to his feet. I kept my hand where it was – it was almost as if I was literally keeping in touch with reality.
We stood there motionless, unsure of what to do next. The best option seemed to be nothing.
At least we could see something of what was going on. The so-called Officer Price was being shoved unceremoniously into the caged back of a truck, next to a bulkier figure – probably Cassandra Preston. In the distance two horseboxes were surrounded by armed officers, keeping a hostile eye on the trickle of people, almost all young men, being disgorged. It wasn’t much of a welcome if you’d given your life savings to be trafficked across an unfriendly set of borders.
‘I thought she was a friend,’ Brian said, his quavering voice lacking all its usual self-confidence. ‘Not a close one. Drinks and nibbles. Dinner occasionally. Bridge. That’s the only reason I’m here – to deliver this.’ As his hand moved towards his inner pocket the nearest officer twitched his gun. ‘A thank you card,’ Brian continued dryly. ‘And now here I am – here you are too! – and we’re being treated as criminals.’
‘You tried to save my life, Brian. Thank you. And when they get round to taking my statement, I shall make sure I say so.’ I turned to the nearest gun. ‘Officer, I am going to make a move that you may find worrying: I am going, very slowly, to put my hand in my trousers to remove a mobile phone. Just look away, Brian.’ I did as I’d said, producing it and holding it with my fingertips. As if to celebrate, it started to ring. ‘May I?’ I asked the gun.
‘Let it go to voicemail.’
‘Very well. But it’s time someone had the goodness to let us go. Elaine Carberry, for instance. Is she here? Very well,’ I said, letting my voice carry as if across a playground, ‘it’s time I spoke to the officer in charge.’
As if by a miracle a figure approached me, still in standard body armour but carrying his headgear. Somewhere in his late thirties, perhaps, he was holding out his hand as if we’d just been introduced at some social event, and his smile was immensely reassuring. ‘Ms Cowan? Acting Superintendent Tom Arkwright. I’m in charge of this operation. Some of my colleagues really could do with a word or two – when you’ve had a cup of tea and a slice of cake.’ In answer to my unasked question, he said quietly, ‘I’m afraid Mr Dawes won’t be able to join us just yet, but if he can he will later.’ Such calm efficiency, such lovely northern vowels, reduced my blood pressure to less stratospheric levels. ‘I think you may know a friend of mine, Caffy Tyler,’ he continued, managing to escort me without my being aware that I was being separated from Brian.
‘I do. Before I go anywhere else, Mr Arkwright, no matter how tempting the cake, I need to go back to my school.’
‘Of course. You’ll need to set things in motion for the rest of the day. My mum was a teacher. Wonderful with wall pictures. Not as good on cake as my auntie, though.’
‘It’s not just the school day. I’ve got one of the refugee kids on the school roll and when I twigged that the so-called Officer Price wasn’t on the side of the angels I texted the dinner lady to get him into hiding. I can’t believe they’re both still locked in a kitchen, but I just want …’ I wasn’t sure what I wanted.
‘Let’s go find out. Hey, Ms Cowan – or may I call you Jane? I know Caffy does – where did you learn all that clever stuff with your mobile? I’m not saying you shouldn’t, mind. In fact, I wish everyone knew.’
I was in the car, beside him. He warranted a driver, to whom I gave directions. Wasn’t he a bit young to be a superintendent? Not to mention a bit gentle? Dear me, wasn’t I into stereotypes this morning. I responded to his question with one of my own. ‘How much do you know about this case, Mr Arkwright?’
‘The answer is zilch, to be honest. Anyway, any friend of Caffy would call me Tom.’
‘I’ve already got a Tom in my life. He’s deputy head at one of my schools. Wrayford. Not the one we’re heading for, Wrayford Episcopi. Sorry: I feel pretty confused myself.’
He nodded. He had the sort of face it was easy to talk to. And ask questions of. ‘If you’re nothing to do with the case, why are you involved?’
‘Because I’m in charge of the sixth cavalry: the men and women who ride to the rescue no matter what. Ah, is that your place?’
‘It is. But could you park round the corner and let me walk in? It’ll keep the atmosphere something like normal.’
He was happy to wait, already poring over his smartphone.
So much had happened to me I was shocked to see that the school day still hadn’t started. Cars were arriving, kids being decanted. What about the breakfast arrangements for those signed up? There wasn’t a queue of kids banging empty plates and wailing with hunger, so everything must be all right.
Donna greeted me phlegmatically enough, as I apologised for being late. ‘Some problem at Wrayford, is there?’
‘I’ll tell you all about it later. Meanwhile, is Pam here?’
‘Yes, and that Zunaid, the little imp. He’s only managed to lock them both into the kitchen, hasn’t he?’
‘I’ll go and sort things out,’ I said, ‘before we have a food riot.’ And then I’d ask the friendly northerner to organise a police presence at the school, just in case. Even with Cassandra Preston in custody, I still felt uneasy.
But despite my qualms, I persuaded them to open the door.
‘There was a bad woman here,’ I told them both. ‘But she’s gone now and isn’t coming back. I hope you’ve not eaten everyone’s breakfast, Zunaid.’
‘Not quite,’ Pam answered, ruffling his hair. Her face clouded. ‘He’s been drawing me some pictures, Jane. I think you ought to see them. And maybe one or two of your police friends too.’
‘And his support workers,’ I agreed, taking in the subject matter and swallowing hard. It was possible the pictures could be used as evidence. ‘I’ll photocopy them.’
I reckoned without Zunaid. He shook his head violently and thrust the papers behind him. ‘Pam. Present for Pam.’
‘Of course. Can you go and put them somewhere safe, Pam – like the photocopier?’ I added under my breath. ‘I’ll collect the copies if you leave them with Donna. And then you’d better make sure your friends get some food, Zunaid.’ I found myself bending to hug him. He wriggled away, and went off in pursuit of Pam.
Sometimes spending time in a police station is like waiting for a hospital appointment. So I gathered up a pile of work, my bag, and even – almost as an afterthought – the little overnight case I’d brought back from Jo and Lloyd’s. My mobile charger. And all the photocopies of Zunaid’s pictures.
Tom Arkwright was easy charm itself as I rejoined him in the car. ‘But the trouble is, Jane, since I work for a discrete unit, I don’t know all the details of what my colleagues are up to. This morning’s shout, for instance: we came in response to a bright call-handler knowing what you were doing, not to a summons from Inspector This or Sergeant That. I can see someone ought to see those pictures – clever little bugger for his age, isn’t he? – but I don’t even know who’s handling the case. Not officially. I know Caffy was talking about a guy called Will Bowman – didn’t she say he’d got the hots for you?’ he added impishly.
‘Will’s not answering my calls, and I didn’t see Elaine Carberry this morning. May I say the unsayable, Tom?’
‘In my office, you can say anything,’ he said, ‘and show me anything.’ But there was something quite steely in the way he closed down that topic, turning it quickly to the weather, and how lucky we were to have had so much fine weather before the rain, scheduled for later in the day, came in, bringing autumn with it.
The cake was as good as Tom Arkwright had promised, but he asked me to defer any questions I had until I could meet a senior colleague. Senior to a superintendent, even if it was only an acting superintendent? I was prepared to be bemused. I felt as if I’d dropped down a rabbit hole back in Wray Episcopi and come up in a uniformed Wonderland. But I was soon back on earth with a bump. Would I mind handing over my clothes? There might be traces of fibres or chemicals that would help the prosecution. I turned down the offer of a paper suit, suggesting I’d feel better in the clothes from my case. It was a small victory, but one that made me feel better, especially as I had a chance to apply some make-up too.
The first person to speak to me was a woman in her late sixties, surely way beyond the age for police retirement. On the other hand she had a pleasant manner, a notepad and an empty room. She introduced herself as Mrs Cox.
Now I could ask my questions.
‘Officers’ whereabouts? Nothing to do with me. I’m just a statement-taker. A volunteer. I used to teach. You sit and tell me what happened and I write it all down – I’ll prompt you if you get stuck. So don’t worry. We’ll get through it all together.’
I didn’t doubt it. We got through it quite quickly, since I’d had plenty of time to marshal all the relevant information into a consistent narrative. The first time we hit a problem was when I tried to talk about this morning’s activities: it seemed that they weren’t part of her brief.
‘I’d say they were germane to the matter in hand, Mrs Cox.’ She preferred the title – I wanted to keep her onside. ‘And being kidnapped’s pretty serious, you know. Why don’t I read through that statement while you go and see what to do next?’
The spelling and sentence structure were perfectly acceptable, but she hadn’t used exactly my words, though I’d been under the impression that I was dictating to her. I changed the words back to my own, initialling each alteration. Another tiny gesture, but another step on my way back to being a fully functioning human being. More important, perhaps, to being recognised as one.
Mrs Cox was clearly displeased by my editing, reminding me pointedly that she was a trained teacher. Should I go for a cheap point by pointing out that my headship might trump hers? I felt acrid enough. Instead, with a smile, I asked about her career.
But now it seemed wasn’t the time to make a formal statement about this morning. I needed to be debriefed first. So I fetched up in what Mrs Cox said was a waiting room. As far as I was concerned it had all the hallmarks of a soft interview room, right down to appropriate cuddly toys. Now would I get a chance to ask about Will? And Elaine, of course, if she wasn’t the one coming to interview me.
The last person I expected to see was Caffy Tyler bouncing into the room. I’d tell Will I saw her as a Tigger next time I saw him. She’d popped in to see her Tom, she said, and learning I was here thought I might be cheered by the sight of what they had in mind for my house – version two.
‘Or you might just want me to hold your hand, literally or figuratively, that is,’ she said. ‘Tom says you’ve had a hell of a morning. And everyone’s busy dashing round like headless chickens because of liaising with the Border Force and social services and the dear old NHS. And there’s not much in the way of reading matter, is there? You could do with War and Peace. Something pretty long. Clarissa, perhaps.’
‘I always turn to Middlemarch if I get the flu …’
Sometime later, our discussion of the merits of the various Brontes was interrupted by a lugubrious-looking man who said he was Bob Thatcher, the chief superintendent in charge of the case. With a swift hug, Caffy took herself off.
‘I very much hope,’ I said, wishing Caffy could have stayed, ‘that you’ve come with information, not just questions.’
He looked decidedly taken aback. ‘About what?’
‘More accurately, about whom. Two of your officers I’ve come to regard as friends, not just chance acquaintances. Elaine Carberry and I were chatting happily away only last night. It’s less than twenty-four hours since I was sending Will Bowman what I considered important photos and accompanying information. I’d have expected one, if not both, to have dropped by to say hello. So where are they, Mr Thatcher?’
His face shifted from lugubrious to nail-hard. ‘I can tell you where Elaine Carberry is. She’s in A&E in William Harvey with suspected gallstones – a very painful condition, I gather.’
‘Gallstones! I’m so sorry – I thought she was off colour last night, but she’s such a pro she insisted she was fine.’
‘She called me a few minutes ago: she only just picked up your voicemail, and needed action. Only you’d sorted it yourself,’ he said with a grim smile. ‘As for DS Bowman, you tell me, Ms Cowan.’
‘The last thing I heard from Will was a warning not to return to what I was convinced was a crime scene down in Churcham. I sent him map references and photos. I got a text telling me not to go back.’ I showed him my phone. ‘You know what,’ I added, in the face of his silence, ‘it occurs to me that information I’ve passed to one or both of these officers might conceivably have got into the wrong hands.’
He frowned. ‘Whose, for instance?’
‘How should I know? You know the internal politics of your department and presumably the contacts your colleagues have to work with.’
‘Where was this possible crime scene?’
‘It’d be easier to show you than tell you. Much quicker.’
‘Give me the references anyway. And then – I don’t need to tell you that this is way outside the box! – we’ll go.’
We drove in silence. We ran up the path in silence. We didn’t exchange a word when we came across the body. He was calling for the air ambulance. I was checking
for a pulse. Even when we thought it was pointless, I was doing mouth-to-mouth.
We drove back in silence.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
‘They told me to talk to you, Will. Any rubbish. Anything. And to read to you. So I’ve brought Winnie-the-Pooh.’
‘Is that the best you can do?’ Elaine asked, making me jump out of my skin.
I got to my feet so we could exchange a hug.
‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘Fine. Or is that the wrong thing to say in Intensive Care, or whatever they call it these days? Actually, not bad. As you can see, they’ve let me out. I’m on this zero animal fat diet. Hey, I’m losing weight already, so it can’t be all bad. Then eventually they’ll fish the gall-bladder out – keyhole surgery, probably day surgery, and then I’ll be as fit as a flea. More to the point, how’s he?’ She jerked her head in Will’s direction.
‘They say he’s improving. Yes, I think he is. At least now all the swelling’s gone down you can tell he’s a human being.’
She squeezed my hand. ‘I saw the pictures of when you found him. A lot of people wouldn’t have fancied doing mouth-to-mouth – case of finding the mouth to work on. Sorry.’
We stared down at the tubes, the wires, the machinery.
‘They say his brain should heal as the rest of his body does. The physios are at work on that; I’m just doing my bit with his brain in the evenings. Last night I told him all about the new house Brian’s found for me until PACT can finish work on my own.’ I hadn’t told him that now Ed van Boolen was clearly not going to be dating anyone for a long time, Brian clearly thought he was the heir-apparent for my affections. I’d tried to make it clear he wasn’t, but hated to be brutal. The incident – to use police understatement – at the Great House had shaken him to his roots, ageing him overnight.
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