A Willing Victim

by Wilson, Laura

  ‘Rather stay put for a moment, if it’s all the same to you.’ Ballard bent his head for the match. ‘If you want the truth, I never want to set foot in the bloody place again.’

  Stratton turned towards the house, where light was spilling out from gaps in the curtains, behind which the students, who’d been marshalled downstairs into the hall, were having their statements taken by two other policemen who’d been sent for from nearby villages. He’d sensed their excitement when they’d arrived – this, they knew, was something that happened only once in a lifetime of country policing.

  ‘Me neither. Christ, I should have stopped him. I could have.’

  Ballard shook his head. ‘Too quick. Adlard told me what happened. Nobody could have—’

  ‘I don’t mean then, so much, I mean before. I should have realised when I spoke to him—’

  ‘You didn’t tell him to kill Roth, did you?’

  ‘No, but I must have put the idea into his head, you know, telling him that things weren’t really the way Roth said they were.’

  ‘He probably had no idea he was going to do it when you spoke to him. He was asleep, wasn’t he, when you left?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘There you are, then. And you didn’t know he had a loaded gun in his room, did you?’

  ‘No. How the hell did he get it, anyway?’

  ‘God knows,’ said Ballard. ‘But guess who searched his room?’

  ‘Don’t tell me – Harwood.’

  ‘The very same. The boy’d hidden it behind the skirting, down by his bed. Miss Wickstead said he had it out of there and in his hand in a matter of seconds. She thought he was asleep.’

  ‘What the bloody hell was Briggs doing?’

  Ballard sighed. ‘The Gents. By the time he got back, Michael was in Roth’s room with the gun.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake. Right, I think we’d better see Tynan – try and clarify what happened.’

  Tynan, sitting on an upright chair by the empty grate in the library, rose awkwardly as they entered. He looked smaller than before, as if he’d shrunk, and very shaken. Stratton noticed a tremor as he raised his cigarette to his lips.

  ‘Mr Roth?’ he asked. ‘Is he …? I didn’t hear the ambulance.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Stratton brutally. ‘Sit down.’ Looking around him, he saw a strangely cheerless room, made more so by the absence of a fire. There were no armchairs – nowhere cosy to curl up and read – and the books on the shelves, apart from the Bible and Shakespeare, were the same jumble of funny stuff he’d seen in Lloyd’s room in London. There were no novels, not even Tynan’s, or anything that could be called ‘light reading’.

  Pulling up a chair, Stratton said, ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me what happened.’

  ‘Michael just appeared,’ said Tynan. ‘He was so angry – shouting – Mr Roth tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t listen. He kept saying something about a trick, and it being Mr Roth’s fault. He was so …’ Tynan shook his head, looking dazed. ‘Just like her.’

  ‘Like Mrs Milburn?’

  ‘Yes. That rage, that energy … I tried to take the gun from him, but he was too fast for me.’

  ‘Do you know where he got the gun?’

  Tynan sighed. ‘I gave it to him.’

  Stratton stared at him. ‘You gave a loaded gun to a boy who is not yet eleven. Are you insane?’ Tynan’s customary indignation wattled his face momentarily, but was then replaced by something else that Stratton couldn’t quite read. ‘What sort of gun is it?’ he asked.

  ‘A revolver. Webley Mark IV, .38. There’s no doubt – I recognised it.’

  ‘You do realise you could be charged with aiding and abetting, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve been teaching Michael to shoot, Inspector. Several months ago he asked me if he could have a gun to practise with—’

  ‘But that’s a service weapon. You don’t shoot game with it.’

  Tynan swallowed. ‘Target practice – tin cans on a wall and so on. That was the one he chose.’

  ‘So he asked for it, and you gave it to him without a second thought?’

  ‘Michael …’ Tynan leant forward.

  Thinking he saw the familiar look – the initiate in smug possession of knowledge explaining to the outsider – on the man’s face, Stratton pounced. ‘Yes, we know. Michael’s a special case.’ Nodding meaningfully, he added, ‘Well, if he wasn’t a special case before, he certainly is now. Very special. Thanks to you people, he stands a very good chance of spending the rest of his life in a special institution. And – just before we go – I feel I should tell you that I have arrested Patricia Kirkland.’

  Tynan gave Stratton a look of total incomprehension. ‘Why?’

  ‘For the murder of both Jeremy Lloyd and Mrs Aylett.’

  Tynan shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. Do you know what happened to the other boy?’

  ‘Billy? He died, Mr Tynan. Very soon after Mrs Milburn “adopted” him.’

  Tynan put his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Wickstead was waiting for them at the police station. She looked shell-shocked, Stratton thought, as well she might. ‘He’s in the interview room,’ she said. ‘The welfare lady’s with him. Her name’s Mrs Dane.’

  ‘Has he said anything?’

  ‘Not a word. He must be wicked,’ she burst out suddenly, as if the thought could not be contained, utter revulsion in her face.

  ‘He’s not wicked,’ said Stratton wearily. ‘He’s a child. He’s angry and confused and probably very frightened.’

  ‘Some of the children round here are no better than animals,’ said the policewoman. ‘It’s their families – houses like stables – the way they live. You might expect it from them, but him!’ She fell silent, blinking back tears.

  ‘I know,’ said Stratton, gently. ‘And you can tell us about it later. But perhaps, for now, you might bring us some tea?’

  When she had gone, Stratton and Ballard exchanged glances. ‘Can’t blame her,’ said Ballard. ‘Delayed shock. She’s just had the fright of her life, and she’s only young, too. And,’ he added, ‘she’s got a point. You can imagine what a jury will make of it.’

  Interesting that Tynan said Michael reminded him of Mary/ Ananda, though,’ Stratton said. ‘Perhaps it’s hereditary.’

  ‘Usually is, isn’t it, madness? But we both know it’s about a lot more than that.’

  Stratton sighed. The collective lunacy that had brought Michael to this point was going to be well-nigh impossible, even for a clever defence barrister, to explain in any way that was comprehensible to the average person.

  Ballard cut across his thoughts. ‘I take it Mary/Ananda hasn’t improved, then?’

  ‘’Fraid not. And I get the impression we shouldn’t hold our breath.’

  Mrs Dane, solid and unflappable with a long face and downy hair on her upper lip, made Stratton think of a police horse. By contrast Michael, huddled in a chair next to her, looked small, cold and horribly vulnerable; a child entirely alone but for such official comfort as the state could provide. Of course, thought Stratton, he had always been alone, in the sense of being treated virtually as a living god and having no shared experience with friends his own age. He hardly knew he was a boy at all. But now, in the course of a week, he’d lost everyone and everything he’d ever had.

  If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, Stratton thought, I’d have a bloody hard job believing he’d killed a mouse, never mind a human being. Glancing at Ballard, he could tell that he was thinking the same thing.

  Realising how imposing the pair of them must look, Stratton hunched over the table in an effort to appear smaller. The tea being brought, Wickstead retreated to a chair by the door and stared at Michael, as if she didn’t quite believe that he wouldn’t produce another pistol and kill them all.

  ‘How are you feeling, Michael? Are you warm enough?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,�
� said the boy, automatically polite. After a second’s hesitation, he added, ‘Is Mr Roth dead?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’ Suddenly realising that Michael was having a hard time understanding that Roth could die he added, ‘A person – even Mr Roth – is no different from a partridge in that respect.’ This got him a reproving look from Mrs Dane. ‘We’re all mortal, I’m afraid. Even you. Now, I’m going to have to charge you with killing Mr Roth. Do you understand what that means?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Hardy – he’s my tutor – he told me about the law.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Clearing his throat, Stratton said, ‘Michael James Milburn, I am arresting you for the murder of Theodore Roth. You are not obliged to say anything, but I must warn you that anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence against you.’

  Michael blinked. ‘How will I know it’s right?’

  ‘Well, you can tell us what happened in your own words, and DI Ballard here is going to write it down. Then you can read it and see if it’s right and a true record of what you said, and then, if it is, you sign it. That will be your statement. After that, we’ll need to take your fingerprints, and then we’ll get you some supper, and you can stay here overnight. Is there anything you’d like to ask me at this point?’

  Michael hung his head, picked at a loose thread on the knee of his trousers for a moment and then said, ‘I won’t be on my own, will I? You won’t lock me in and leave me?’

  He looked so forlorn that Stratton felt an actual physical pang in his heart. ‘Of course not. There’ll be someone here all the time. You can bang on the door if you need anything. Now, why don’t you tell us what happened.’

  ‘I didn’t want to kill him.’ Michael sounded as plaintive and uncomfortable as a boy trying to explain a cricket ball through a window. ‘I don’t know why I did it. I was angry, that’s all.’

  ‘Why don’t you go back a bit?’ asked Stratton. ‘Tell us about your life at the Foundation.’ Michael looked at him doubtfully. ‘Tell us what it was like. So that we understand. It’s all a bit unusual to us, you see.’

  ‘People were always telling me how lucky they were to know me,’ said Michael. ‘They said I was lucky, too.’ He frowned. ‘Actually, I don’t think they meant “lucky” like winning something, but more that it was meant to happen and it had, so that was good …’

  ‘Why did they say that?’

  ‘Because of my mother. They said she brought me to Mr Roth so that I could fulfil my function.’ The last part came out in a flat, mechanical tone, as if learnt by rote. ‘I didn’t understand it at first, but I didn’t mind. Later, when I was bigger, I asked my mother about it, and she said I was special, like Jesus.’

  ‘How old were you then?’

  ‘I don’t know. About eight, I think. She said I was special … I didn’t think about it much then. Not properly, I mean. But Mr Roth was always asking me things. He’d make me sit very still for a long time and say I must empty my mind and then he’d ask me what I’d seen – observed, I mean, and I didn’t know … I tried to do what he said, but I couldn’t, and I didn’t understand what he wanted me to say. He wanted me to be special, like they all said, but …’ Michael blinked and shook his head. Mrs Dane was gazing at him in appalled fascination.

  ‘Go on,’ said Stratton. ‘You’re doing fine. Take all the time you want.’

  ‘They’d made a mistake, hadn’t they?’ blurted Michael. ‘I knew they had. I knew it! It wasn’t me they wanted. I tried to tell my mother, but she just got cross. She said I was being ungrateful, that people were depending on me … that I had to be their guide. I tried to tell her that it wasn’t me and they’d got it wrong, but she wouldn’t listen.’

  I’ll bet she wouldn’t, thought Stratton. ‘Did you try telling Mr Roth?’

  ‘No. I couldn’t. She said I wasn’t to say those things to anyone else. She was so angry with me… Mr Roth kept asking me how I felt and if I got headaches and … I didn’t get any headaches, but I said yes and he said he used to get headaches and I wasn’t to worry because it was part of the process of finding the spiritual … spiritual source … inside myself. So then I worried because I didn’t get headaches, and I used to pretend I did. Try to be like they wanted. Mr Roth gave lots of talks and they went on for hours. It was hard to listen to what he was saying when I wanted to go out and play. Everyone thought I understood it all and they kept on asking me things. I’d try and repeat the things that Mr Roth said so they’d leave me alone, but they didn’t. They wouldn’t leave me alone!’ Michael let out a howl that rocked his whole body. It seemed to Stratton to contain all the frustration he must have felt.

  ‘And you just wanted to be a normal boy,’ he said. ‘You didn’t want to be special.’

  ‘I thought it must be my fault.’ Michael’s voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘I thought, when they realised, they’d say I was a liar and I’d tried to trick them, but I didn’t. Honestly, I didn’t. Sometimes I really did believe that I was … what they said … and then I’d think I did deserve to be in that position with everybody, you know, looking up at me, and then it would be all right for a while, but a lot of the time it was just … just … not right. Jeremy knew, though. He was the only one who did.’

  ‘Jeremy Lloyd?’

  ‘Yes. He used to teach me sometimes. Once when we were by ourselves he said to me, “Don’t think it’ll last for ever. I was his favourite once, and it’ll come to an end for you just like it did for me. He’ll move on to someone else.” We’d been down to the village and just before we got back to the house he grabbed my arm and said it.’

  ‘How old were you then?’

  ‘Same as I am now, ten.’

  ‘So it was earlier this year?’

  ‘Yes. He left soon after. Well, quite soon. About a month, I think. I told Mr Roth what he’d said, and he told me I mustn’t worry about it. He said he would talk to Jeremy.’ Michael frowned, trying to find words to explain. ‘I didn’t want it to last for ever, or be a favourite. But I was frightened, especially after Jeremy left, because if we had to leave, too, and it was my fault, then … my mother would be angry like she was before, and she wouldn’t forgive me, and I didn’t know where we could go or what we could do … Sometimes, if we’d been somewhere and we were coming back in the car, I used to look at the houses, if there were children there playing in their gardens, and wonder what it would be like. Once, we were in the car – Mr Roth was there, and Jeremy and Miss Kirkland, and the tyre was flat so I helped Jeremy to put on a new one and there was a house next to us, with boys in the garden. They were playing, swapping cigarette cards. They’d put them all on the grass. I heard one boy saying he had the whole set. It was aeroplanes, and I wanted to see … Just to have a look, that’s all, because he had all the different sorts. I kept trying to see, but I had to hold the tools for Jeremy and he was getting cross because I kept on dropping them. Then a lady came out and called them in for their dinner – it was lunch, really, but she called it dinner – and they picked up the cards and rushed inside and they were laughing.

  The lady was laughing, too – she said, “Ooh, get inside, get on with you.” It looked such fun, and I wanted to be with them. It took ages to mend the tyre and I kept on wondering what they were doing in there.’ He paused, caught up in the memory of it, then said, ‘I tried to imagine what it would be like if we lived in a house like that, an ordinary one. I wanted to make a picture of it in my head, so it would be something to think about, but I couldn’t. And it was bad, trying to do that, because Mr Roth says you shouldn’t indulge in daydreams because it stops you paying attention to what you’re meant to be doing … If you daydream, you’re not awake and you have to be. Present, here and now, and nowhere else.’ Again, these words trotted out with a mechanical ease. Stratton wondered how many times Michael must have heard them.

  He was about to ask the boy another question, when Mi
chael suddenly said, ‘Mr Roth … Are you really sure he’s dead? Did a doctor tell you?’

  ‘He died while I was with him, Michael.’

  ‘A doctor confirmed it later,’ added Ballard. ‘When the ambulance came.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to do it. I was so angry with him. All the stuff he’d been saying …’ Michael’s words broke up into sobs. Mrs Dane put an arm round him, but he clawed it away, shrugging her off and moving his chair so that she couldn’t reach him. ‘You don’t understand!’ he shouted at Stratton. ‘None of you. You don’t!’

  ‘No,’ said Stratton. ‘We don’t. Not really. But we’re trying to understand.’ Beside him, Ballard nodded in vigorous agreement.

  ‘You were upset about your mother,’ said Stratton.

  Michael stared at him through flat, expressionless eyes. ‘She tried to kill me. Before, when we went there, I think it was because she wanted to get back to her old home and be the lady over everyone. She wanted to be better than them. They believed all the lies she told and Mr Roth made it worse, he told all those people so they would … they would …’ Convulsed with weeping, Michael was unable to continue. Mrs Dane produced a handkerchief from her handbag and held it out to him. The boy shook his head, and wiped his nose on his sleeve so that a trail of snot glistened on the expensive material. ‘I know she didn’t care. That woman – the one who was killed – she cared about her boy, the one she thought was me, because she came to find him, didn’t she? But my mother didn’t care!’ He let out a long howl of despair that seemed to contain all the pain in the world.

  When he’d subsided, shaking and shying away from Mrs Dane’s attempts to pat his arm, Stratton said, ‘Can you tell us about the gun, Michael?’

  Michael hiccupped. ‘Mr Tynan – he gave it to me about two weeks ago. It was only because I wanted it for practice – bottles and things. I knew he would give it to me if I asked him.’ A calculating look crossed his face. ‘He wanted to be my friend, you see. He said we should make a pact, pricking our fingers, you know, that we wouldn’t talk about it. I thought they’d listen to me if I had the gun. Mr Roth was always talking about the truth, as if it was just one big thing and if you knew it you could explain everything else, but he couldn’t, could he? I thought he could tell me why she’d tried to kill me. He said that people who knew the truth were guided by it, but when I went into the room – when I asked him – he said my mother was confused and she made a mistake. That was all he said, “a mistake”. As if it didn’t matter! He said my mother was going away, and I was going to stay with them and everything would be all right. But I don’t want to stay there, I want to live in a proper house, like those boys, but I don’t even know any other boys, and now …’ Letting out a great, tearing sob, he covered his face in his hands.