âNo.'
Finally she understood that gnomic remark about the blackmailer. âSomething happened to Donovan, but it may not have been cholera. And if it wasn't cholera, he may not be dead.'
âYes,' said Shapiro simply. âThat's what I thought too. I wasn't sure if it was just wishful thinking, I wanted to see if you'd come to the same conclusion.'
âIf there was another party involved' â she was
thinking on her feet, working it out as she spoke â âthen where we found
Tara
may not be where Donovan left her. She may have been moved. Put somewhere she could go unnoticed for days or even weeks.'
Shapiro was nodding sombrely. âThat isn't necessarily good news. The reason the divers haven't found a body could be they're looking in the wrong place.'
âSo where's the right place?'
He gave a helpless shrug. âI have no idea. I've been poring over a map of the area, and all I can come up with is that if the boat was moved it must have started off somewhere that was inconvenient for whoever moved it'
Liz leaned over the map too, reviewing the few facts they had. âHe passed the Posset Inn late on Monday, may have stayed nearby that night. The boat was found yesterday afternoon. If somebody felt the need to hide it, maybe he wouldn't want to be seen doing it in broad daylight. Let's say he took her to that mere Monday night, Tuesday night or Wednesday night; and he threw the dog poison so his barking wouldn't attract attention. Have you ever had a dog, Frank?'
Shapiro blinked. âThe kids had one once. I didn't see much of it. Why?'
âDogs live for the moment. Never mind jam tomorrow, they'll wolf the dry crust today. They don't think they'll have a bit now and a bit later. If somebody threw food into the chain locker, Brian Boru would have eaten the lot within ten minutes.'
âSo?'
âIf he'd eaten rat poison on Monday night he wouldn't have been taken ill on Friday morning. I'll check this with Keith Baker, but I don't think it would have taken more than a day. The boat was found about four o'clock on Thursday, yes? I bet it was left there, and the dog poisoned, no later than Wednesday night. Perhaps around dawn: enough light to steer by, and find that overgrown channel, not so much the man at the tiller would be recognized if anyone saw him.'
âSo there are two days we know nothing about,' said Shapiro. âTuesday and Wednesday. But if Donovan was on schedule for those two days he'd have passed the engine house at Sinkhole Fen, and he didn't. Even if the people there missed him, they'd also have had to miss
Tara
coming back again. He should have got there mid-afternoon on Tuesday. Where was he instead?'
âWhether or not he had cholera, he was certainly sick. Maybe by Tuesday he'd had enough â he tied up somewhere and went to bed. Maybe he was all right, just not going anywhere, until whatever it was that happened on Wednesday.'
âWhat happened on Wednesday? Hazard a guess.'
She spread a hand. âA robbery?'
Shapiro was unconvinced. âIt's a narrowboat not Onassis's yacht: nobody'd break in thinking they were going to find jewellery and large wodges of cash. Plus, even below par, Donovan should have been able to see off a burglar. And how many burglars would have tackled a boat with that dog on board?'
âMaybe that's why it was poisoned.'
âWell, it didn't work, did it? The dog was still on its feet when the boat was found on Thursday afternoon.'
He was right: a burglary really didn't fit the facts.
âCould there have been a fight?' wondered Liz. âBetween Donovan and someone else; or else he stumbled on a crime in progress and tried to stop it. For whatever reason there was a fight, and Donovan' â she saw too late where this was going, had no choice but to follow â âgot the worst of it. At which point the other party realized he was facing serious charges and tried to dispose of the evidence. He hid
Tara
in a backwater. He hoped that when she was eventually found there'd be nothing to connect her to him. He hid her, dealt with the dog, and then he left.'
âHow?' asked Shapiro.
Puzzled, Liz frowned. âHow?'
âWe know he didn't climb up the bank and walk away. Unless he can fly there was another boat.'
Liz nodded pensively. âMaybe just a rowing boat. He towed it behind
Tara
till he reached the mere, then got into his dinghy and rowed back the way he'd come.'
âIf he had a boat of his own, either he lives on the canal or he works on it. A passing maniac could conceivably have overpowered Donovan and taken his boat, but where would he have got hold of a dinghy?'
âHe certainly knew something about boats,' agreed Liz. âHe knew where the mere was, and he could handle
Tara
well enough to get her inside without leaving any obvious signs. Also, he had to be able to lay his hands on large quantities of rat poison at short notice. We're talking about a local man.'
âAll right. The incident â whatever it was â occurred somewhere we could connect him to. So he moved the boat. He didn't dare move the dog so he poisoned it. He may have expected the rat bait to work faster than it did.'
Shapiro's expression was full of misgivings. âSomeone went to a lot of trouble to cover up what happened. He wasn't that worried because he'd given Donovan a black eye. I think he did all this because he was afraid he could go to prison for a long time. Liz, it may be when we get to the truth of it, the bottom line is Donovan's still dead. Somebody moved that boat to hide something, and Donovan wasn't able to stop him. I think we have to accept that, at the very least, he's in deep trouble.'
Liz stood up, brisk and businesslike; only Shapiro, and Brian, knew her well enough to hear the quaver in her voice. âThen we'd better find him. Frank, I know it's asking a lot right now. But we don't have any leads on the blackmailer that you need every available body to follow up. Give me Dick Morgan for the weekend. If we can't find Donovan, or find out what happened to him, in that time we'll be back on the team first thing Monday morning.'
She had a point. The blackmailing of Castlemere was the most important issue, but just now there wasn't much for CID to do. Public order was a matter for Superintendent Giles and the uniformed branch. When the man got in touch again there might be new evidence to consider, hopefully new leads to follow, and then Shapiro would want her with him. But until either there was another incident or they heard from
him there was nothing Liz could do here. And for heaven's sakes, she was only talking about the local waterways, none of them more than ten miles from town. And she had her mobile phone â Shapiro could call her in any time he needed her.
Of course, the same had been true of Donovan, and he'd vanished without trace.
Or maybe just without leaving a trace where they'd been looking. If they were reading the signs correctly this time, progress could come when they started asking the right questions in the right places.
âAll right,' he decided, âtake Morgan and see what you can find. But for pity's sake, Liz, stay in touch. I don't want you disappearing into a black hole too.'
She thanked him with her eyes and left.
When he was alone Shapiro thought for a few minutes. Then he picked up the phone and asked for SOCO. âAny word yet on the analysis of the flu remedy you took from DS Donovan's boat?'
âJust got it here, sir,' said Sergeant Tripp. âShall I bring it up?'
âJust give me the highlights. What was in it?'
âCough medicine, sir.'
âJust cough medicine?'
âJust cough medicine.'
Shapiro put the phone down. He started to smile. It was too soon to celebrate, but at least now there was a little room for hope.
Elphie wasn't the only one in East Beckham who was fascinated by a strange face. One after another they wandered in and took a place at Sarah Turner's table as if they ate there every night: Dr Chapel, bent and elderly, a dry stick of a man; Mr and Mrs Vickery, he the foreman at The Flower Mill, she the local shopkeeper; Alan Hunsecker who maintained the machinery on which the business, like all modern agriculture, depended; three generations of Turners.
Elphie dragged her father over before he'd had the chance to wash in order to perform formal introductions. âThis is Donovan. You haven't seen him since he woke up.'
The square, solidly built man in cords and a Barbour extended a soil-grimed hand apologetically. âEverything's urgent with Elphie. Simon Turner. I'm glad to see you on the mend.'
âI'm grateful for your help,' responded Donovan. âI'll try not to impose on you much longer.'
âNo problem,' said Turner. âStay as long as you want.' He excused himself and disappeared into the scullery.
Elphie stayed with Donovan, pressing her small
hand determinedly into his. He gave her a startled glance but didn't shake her off. She led him to the table and sat him down, seating herself beside him.
Creakily, Dr Chapel took the chair on his other side. He leaned one elbow on the table and peered disconcertingly into Donovan's face. Then he delivered his verdict. âYou're lucky to be alive, young man. The canal's no place to be with pneumonia. A canny doctor and good nursing: that's all that stood between you and the Grim Reaper.'
Donovan launched once more, rather wearily, into his paean of gratitude; but Chapel cut him off with a cackle like sticks breaking underfoot. âDon't want your thanks, young man; good to get a bit of practice from time to time; Elphie's asthma and Alan hitting his thumb with a wrench is about all the doctoring I do these days. Nice to know I can still tackle something more interesting if I have to'
Elphie piped up, âDonovan's a policeman.'
âYes, I know,' nodded Chapel encouragingly. His eyes, pale with age, switched back to Donovan. âTraffic branch?'
âCID.'
Simon Turner returned, clean, and took his seat at the table, which was Sarah's cue to serve. Donovan thought the guests must have surprised her no less than him: she'd added to the stew anything that came to hand.
âIf anyone hasn't got enough,' she said, âI'll butter some bread.'
But everyone made declining noises; and anyway,
they weren't there for the food, they were there to check out the visitor.
Donovan was aware he was being checked out and didn't really know why. He couldn't understand what significance his presence here could have for these people. Except perhaps Sarah who'd looked after him and Chapel whose professional interest was engaged; and Elphie, who didn't need reasons for what she did and felt. But the others? He couldn't imagine why they were looking at him, covertly, over the stew, as if he'd arrived in a puff of blue smoke and they weren't sure yet whether he was the Demon King or the Fairy Godmother.
East Beckham was a bit off the beaten track, but surely nowhere was that secluded any more? Didn't they have television? Surely he wasn't their only chance this year to see a face they didn't grow up with? He hung on to his patience and bore their scrutiny without comment, but in the privacy of his own head he was thinking this place needed a good bus service: they lived in one another's pockets too much to be healthy.
After tea Sarah chivvied them gently on their way. Only Dr Chapel remained at the big table, oblivious to her hints, propped on bony elbows and talking with Simon about the pests and diseases of commercial horticulture.
At length he straightened and turned his pale-blue gaze on Donovan. âWe must be boring you rigid, young man. But all our livelihoods depend on the flowers. When your whole way of life, and that of everyone you know and care about, is tied up in one undertaking,
you have to get it right. You can't take any risks. You do what needs to be done.'
âI guess,' said Donovan, uninterested.
âI suppose it's the same with police work. People say ends shouldn't justify means, but to some extent they have to. Certain ends have to be achieved. Simon has to have a product to sell, and you have to keep the peace, and sometimes how you do that is less important than the absolute need to get it done. Am I right?'
Donovan shrugged. He didn't know why this desiccated leprechaun of a man made him uneasy but he did. âOnly so far. I don't know nothing about flowers, but what policemen can do is pretty well set out in law. We overstep the mark and we lose the collar. It fairly focuses your mind on the contents of the Police & Criminal Evidence Act.'
âDon't you find that frustrating? Don't you sometimes think the law should take account of the greater good of the greater number?'
âThe greatest number is still made up of individuals. If you can't protect the individual, another name for the greater number is a mob.'
Dr Chapel gave a disappointed little snort. âAnd I took you for a thinking man! You're just a tool of government like all the rest.'
There were days â there were whole weeks â when Donovan felt that way too. It didn't stop him stinging at the scorn of a man who, however deft he was with a hypodermic, hadn't earned the right to judge either him or his profession.
âYeah? Well, you can thank your lucky stars that
it's true. In a democracy, government is the agent of the people â that's you. You wouldn't want to live in a country where the police force isn't accountable to an elected government.'
With a last disparaging sniff Chapel lost interest in the conversation. He switched his attention back to Turner. âAbout those weevils, Simon. They're your glasshouses, you must do what you think best, but I think you'll need to fumigate. I think if you leave it too long you'll have a problem you won't be able to contain. Better a deliberate sacrifice than to lose everything you've planted.'
It wasn't what Turner wanted to hear. His round, open face was worried as he raked strong fingers through his light brown hair. âI can't believe that's necessary. There has to be an alternative.'
âOh, there is,' allowed Chapel. âIt's to wait and see what happens. But if the buggers get out of control, it'll be too late â you'll have lost your one chance of dealing with them. You're too nice, Simon, that's the problem. You always think there's a nice, tidy solution. But there isn't. Sometimes the only answer to plague is fire.'
He'd had his say on that subject too. He pushed his chair away from the table and straightened as much as his old frame would allow. He called through the scullery door, âThanks for the meal, Sarah. See you tomorrow.'
She hurried out, stripping off her apron. âDon't come out specially, Tom, they're dank old days and you want to keep the damp off your chest. As you
can see' â she nodded in Donovan's direction â âyour job is done.'
The dry-stick hands gave her shoulders an avuncular squeeze and Chapel cackled at her fondly. âBeing a doctor is like having the contract to paint the Forth rail bridge: you never finish, you just start again somewhere else. Don't worry about my chest: it's survived seventy fenland winters, I dare say it'll cope with one more. I'll see you tomorrow.'
She let him out at the back door. Donovan listened but didn't hear a car. âHe walked here?'
Sarah looked at him, momentarily distracted. âWhat? Oh â yes. Nobody in East Beckham lives more than two hundred yards away. The whole village would fit into a good-sized football stadium.'
âIt's as well to get on with your neighbours then,' he observed.
âYes,' said Sarah sombrely. âWe depend on one another for everything out here. If you want a private life you have to live in a city: in a small village there's no such thing.'
Donovan wasn't quite sure how to put this. âYou do know Castlemere's only about ten miles away?'
That made her laugh. âOnly as the crow flies. The village mentality takes the scenic route.'
She returned to the scullery to finish the washing-up. Donovan followed and started drying. âHow long has The Flower Mill been here?'
âThe business, about three hundred years; this house, a hundred and forty; my husband's family, four generations.'
âIt's a good thing Simon wanted to take over,' said
Donovan. He looked up from the plates, wryly. âOr is that not how it works with a family business? â do you have no choice?'
Sarah looked round at him, her head a little on one side, slow to answer. âNo, there's always a choice. There has to be â even in a family business, not everyone is born with the same talents. Running The Flower Mill takes a knowledge of horticulture, but it also takes business acumen, an ability to manage people and salesmanship. Robert, my husband, had all of that, but there was no guarantee his son would.'
âYou could always have got in a manager.'
âIn fact,' she said, a thread of emotion breaking the surface of her voice, âmy son Jonathan was going to manage the place when Robert retired. He loved the business. He was tramping round in Robert's cast-off wellies within days of us coming here. While Simon was off seeing the world Jonathan was studying commercial horticulture in France. We thought the future was secure.'
Donovan wasn't sure if she wanted to be prompted, but the habit was hard to kick. âWhat happened?'
She took an unsteady breath. âRobert had a stroke and died. We'd only been married six years â he was fifty-four years old. I was so â angry, But at least I had Jonathan; and so did the Mill. We were going to manage.
âThen Jonathan turned his tractor over and drowned in a ditch'
Donovan had always supposed his family was God's punchbag, for thumping when things were going
badly in the celestial mansion. It came as a shock to learn that on alternate days He was thumping the Turners.
All he could say was, âGod in heaven!' and it was more an accusation than a prayer.
âRobert had been dead just six weeks,' continued Sarah Turner. âWe hadn't got the will sorted out or anything. I thought we were going to lose everything, I didn't see how we could continue.
âBut Simon, bless him, after misspending his youth for five solid years, set about picking up the pieces. What he didn't know he found out; what he couldn't do he got someone to show him. Of course it was his inheritance, it was in his interests to look after the business; but it was a lot of work. He could have sold up, used the money to go travelling again. Everyone in East Beckham owes him a debt of gratitude. None of us would be here if The Flower Mill had been sold.'
âI nearly said something very stupid,' Donovan said apologetically. âI nearly said You were lucky!'
Sarah gave a rueful little smile. âIt's all right, I know what you mean. It could have been worse.'
âHow old was your son?'
âHe was' â a fractional pause while she did the sum â âtwenty-one, just a couple of years younger than Simon.'
Looking on the bright side wasn't something Donovan was good at but he felt it incumbent upon him to try. âAnd now there's a new generation. Is Elphie horticulturally inclined?'
âElphie would make a good Flower Fairy but I can't see her running the business. I keep telling Simon to
find himself a big bruiser of a wife and start raising tractor drivers!'
âThere's no chance,' hazarded Donovan, âElphie's mother and him might get back together?'
âNone,' replied Sarah Turner crisply. It was an effective end to the conversation. They finished the pots in silence.
It was only half-past seven but Donovan was tired. He made his excuses and hauled himself upstairs. Lacking the energy to undress he sprawled on top of his bed and fell asleep.
He was woken an hour later by the sound of a car in the yard. It was none of his business but old habits die hard: he got up and trudged over to the window. But he was too slow: it had already gone.
Elphie must have heard him moving: it was mere seconds before there came a light but still somehow peremptory knock at his door quickly followed by the child herself, all bustling intensity, carrying a photograph in a frame. She plonked down on his bed and waited impatiently for him to join her.
âThis is us; she said firmly. One narrow finger tapped the glass as she spoke. âThat's Nana. That's Grandpa Robert â I never knew him. That's Daddy. That's Dr Chapel â he was Grandpa Robert's bestest man. That's Uncle Jonathan: I never knew him either. That's my mommy. I
did
know her,' she said reflectively, âbut I don't remember. And that's the vicar.'
âDid you know him?' asked Donovan solemnly.
The child gave a wide beam. âDon't be silly, I wasn't borned then!'