Donovan studied the photograph with the required
gravity. It was the Turners' wedding day: the usual faintly bemused expressions of two families with little in common brought together in front of a church none of them would normally have ventured into, posing with a man in a long white dress they would usually have crossed roads to avoid.
Even without Elphie's assistance he'd have been able to identify both Sarah and Simon. Twenty years had passed, turning the bride in her pretty floral dress and hat into a woman in her late fifties and the round-faced youth beside her into a father and a businessman. Robert Turner was easy to identify too, if only by his enormous smile and the proprietorial arm with which he encompassed his new wife. He must have been ten years older than Sarah, Donovan surmised. Of course, it was a second marriage for both of them.
A process of elimination allowed him to name one more member of the party â Jonathan, Sarah's son, on the bridegroom's other side. Six years after this photograph was taken he lay dead in a ditch. He stared out of the picture frame with a certain wariness, less enthusiasm for the proceedings than the other parties to them â almost as if (and this was Donovan's Celtic feyness at work) he suspected this wasn't the best day's work from his point of view. If his mother had married a postman he'd still be alive.
And that was Elphie's mother, was it? Donovan peered closer. She was older than Simon â four or five years, which is a lot at that age. Of course, it wasn't at that age that they got together. If Elphie was eight it may have been ten years after this family group
was gathered, and five years between late twenties was a very different thing.
So who was she? A bridesmaid, apparently, so presumably a friend of Sarah's. Or perhaps a relative; which made the falling-out between them more difficult than if Elphie's mother had been a stranger when Simon brought her home. What was it all about? Elphie's condition? A damaged child puts a big strain on a relationship. Or just two people who found they didn't like one another as much as they had loved?
Donovan caught himself trying to interrogate a bunch of people in a photograph and decided that even for him this was obsessive behaviour. Their relationships were not only their own affair, they were ancient history, no possible concern of his.
More to be polite than because he wanted to know, he said, âWhat's your mammy's name?'
âI don't know,' said Elphie.
Donovan blinked. âOK.' So she wanted him to see her mother's photograph but not to know her name. That was all right. The child was a law unto herself: he knew that already.
âNana says I mustn't ask about her,' Elphie confided solemnly. âShe says she let us all down and isn't part of this family
any
more
. But she is pretty, isn't she?' There was a wistful note in her high light voice that tweaked at Donovan's heart strings.
âShe certainly is; he agreed firmly. âAnd you know, just âcos people can't be there any more, doesn't mean they're entirely gone. There's lots of your mammy in you. That means, anywhere you go, you'll always have a bit of her with you.'
He was rewarded with a beam like sunrise breaking through Elphie's sharp little face. â'S right,' she said with conviction; and hugging the photograph to her narrow chest she marched away.
Â
Â
It was after eleven when Liz and DC Morgan called it a night. With the car's interior light on and the Ordnance Survey map spread across their knees they ticked off the black square that was the last house they'd visited and exchanged a discouraged glance.
âWell, it's perfectly obvious then, isn't it?' said Liz wearily. âIf none of the people living in any of these houses saw either
Tara
or Donovan, either on the canal or in the mere, there's only one logical explanation. Alien abduction.'
Dick Morgan thought for a moment, then shook his head lugubriously. âDoesn't make sense.'
Liz was too tired to chuckle. âNone of it makes sense. Why pick on that bit?'
âThey're aliens,' said Morgan, ânot masochists. If they'd abducted the skipper thirty-six hours ago, they'd have sent him back by now.'
Somehow his body was aware that it had already slept too long. Donovan woke before six, while the sky was still dark and the house silent. He washed and dressed and quietly went down to the kitchen. Still there were no signs of life. He supposed flowers were less demanding of their farmers than dairy cattle, which even on a Saturday would be bawling to be milked by now.
As he sat at the farmhouse table, hands cradled round a mug of tea, gradually he became aware he was being watched. He didn't think Sarah or Simon were spying on him through the crack of the scullery door, and there was nothing sinister about Elphie however odd her behaviour. So he didn't understand the unease he was beginning to feel. He owed his life to these people: how could he feel threatened by them?
It had to be a hangover from his illness, like the ache in his chest and the lack of stamina. Normally he could go all day on caffeine and acrimony: having no energy was a strange, rather frightening sensation. The ability to keep going when others had stopped had got him out of a lot of trouble: he liked knowing
that, as a last resort, he could always run like hell. Today he'd have had trouble staying ahead of Dr Chapel.
He sipped his tea and avoided looking at the scullery door, and observed aloud, in a tone of some regret: âWell, if no one's awake, I suppose I'll have to find the boat on my own.'
He got up and headed for the back door, and when he got there Elphie was waiting, thrusting slender limbs into a bright red duffle coat and green Wellington boots.
He pretended surprise. âI didn't know you were up. Can you tell me where my boat is? I need to feed my dog.'
âI'll show you.'
Donovan was glad of her company. The fen was a wet wilderness, a man could lose his bearings out there.
But they weren't ready to leave yet. Elphie regarded him critically and shook her head. âYou'll catch your death.' She went back to the scullery, returned with her father's coat. It was too broad for Donovan but he hadn't one of his own. They'd brought him here wrapped in a blanket, hadn't thought to bring him something to go back in.
Elphie set out across the yard, skipping in her giant boots and trilling a high, light, wordless ditty like birdsong. Donovan was too slow for her: she grabbed his hand and tried to hurry him along. Failure made her giggle. Her pleasure in the stupid game made him grin.
But they weren't going the right way. About the
only thing he knew about East Beckham was that it lay north of the canal. Elphie was tugging him further north, towards the peaty heart of the fen. Donovan stopped and looked around, noting the rising sun, checking his references. Then he pointed. âThe canal's that way.'
Elphie nodded energetically, the floss of pale hair flying. âThe pond's this way.'
âPond?'
âThey moved your boat. Why's it called
Tara?'
Her lightning changes of subject left him floundering. âIt's where the old kings of Ireland ruled.'
âAre you from Ireland?'
âYeah.'
âAre you a king?'
He barked a laugh. âI'm a policeman.'
âI saw the queen on the telly. Her horse did a poo.'
âThey do,' agreed Donovan lugubriously. His grandfather worked with horses. The first paid job the young Caolan ever had was shovelling up after the damn things.
Elphie headed north-east, following a path that only her eyes could see. After two fields the plough gave way to a wasteland of reeds and sere autumn grasses, waving together with a constant faint susurrus like a convention of sotto voce gossips. The ground grew wetter underfoot: drainage was too expensive to squander on land that wasn't growing anything. There was no evidence that anyone had been here for months â except possibly Elphie, who could walk without leaving footprints.
Even looking for it, Donovan saw the pond barely
soon enough to avoid walking into it. The high featureless reeds parted before his hands and there it was, an expanse of still water mirroring the silver sky.
If he'd been here thirty-six hours ago he'd have seen the bow of his boat sticking out of the reeds of the far bank. If he'd been here twenty-four hours ago he'd have found Sergeant Warren and her team still working methodically up and down the shallow mere in search of his drowned body. But yesterday, the best search they could conduct having proved fruitless and with a new slant on events that suggested Donovan may never have been here, they'd packed up and left.
Tara
too had gone. Only the broken reeds along the banks and at the channel hinted at recent activity.
âI'm looking,' said Donovan carefully, âbut I'm not seeing anything.'
âIt was here,' said Elphie, eyes wide in her little pointed face.
âOK,' said Donovan, non-committal. âShall we try the towpath?'
She nodded energetically, and taking his hand once more steered him round the edge of the mere, finally heading south.
But they never got there. This had been a mistake: Donovan wasn't strong enough to tramp round the fen. When their way crossed a stony track with a bit of a bank beside it he sank down with relief, out of breath and shaking his head. âI'm sorry, Elphie, I'm whacked. How much further is it?'
She considered a moment. âLittle long.' Which he took to mean more than a step, less than a trek. Half
a mile? If she wanted him to go another half mile she'd have to carry him.
He was looking up the track, supposing it led back to the house, wondering how far that was, when rescue arrived: Simon Turner riding a quad bike and towing a trailer. âHere you are. Mum was beginning to worry.'
âSorry about that,' said Donovan, hauling himself to his feet. âI was looking for my boat. I think we got lost.'
Elphie objected to that. âIt was there before. It's gone.'
Turner nodded. âWe took her down to Posset. She'll be safer there.'
Donovan couldn't remember where he'd finally tied up, maybe it hadn't been a great choice. Certainly
Tara
would be safe enough at the Posset Inn. âWhat about the dog?'
âGeorge is looking after him. We thought he'd be more comfortable in one of the old stables than shut up in the hold of your boat.'
Donovan nodded. George Jackson, the publican, knew Brian Boru well enough to treat him with respect and not fear: he was less likely to cause pandemonium in the back yard of the Posset Inn than at The Flower Mill. âCan you give me a lift down there?'
âOf course. But not in this. Let's get back to the house. You look all in. Get in the trailer, the pair of you.'
Donovan was too tired to care about his dignity: he did as he was bid. Elphie climbed in beside him,
and they bumped back up the track to The Flower Mill.
Sarah met them in the yard as if they'd been missing much longer than half an-hour. âIs everything all right?' she asked, scanning their faces in turn so Donovan wasn't sure whom she was asking.
Some sort of an explanation seemed to be required. âI was looking for my boat. But apparently it's been moved.'
She looked at Turner, then quickly back again. âYes. It was â a little in the way. The men took it toâ'
âPosset; said Turner. âI told him. I said I'd run him over later. When he's up to it.'
Sarah nodded quickly. âWhen you're up to it.' She shepherded them inside, took their coats, exclaimed over Donovan's wet feet, sat them down at the table and began serving food as if the sheer volume of it would pin them in place.
âI'm sorry if I worried you,' said Donovan, eating and watching her face at the same time. âI shouldn't have taken Elphie without asking.'
âI wasn't worried about Elphie,' said Sarah dismissively. âShe knows every reed and pool out there. I was worried about you. You're not strong enough to go wandering off like that. Not yet.'
He couldn't argue with that. âI could call a friend, get someone to pick me up.'
âOr you could stay put until you're feeling better.'
She managed to make him feel ungrateful for trying to leave. âI have to report for work on Monday. If I don't they'll send out a search party. Can I phone from here?'
âOf course you can,' she said negligently. âThough the line's a bit unreliable â all those miles of wire stretching across the fen. Finish your breakfast. It's still early, there's no rush.'
Reunited with his coat, Turner went out as soon as the meal was done, taking Elphie with him. Donovan went on sitting at the table.
âI'm confused,' he said. âThat place Elphie calls the pond. If
Tara
was in there, how could she be in anyone's way?'
Again the sharp glance. âShe wasn't in the pond. You tied up at the towpath. That's where we found you.'
Donovan frowned. âThen whyâ?'
Sarah Turner swivelled from the sink to look at him. âCal, you mustn't put too much stock in what Elphie says. She's a dear child but she's no more reliable than the phone. She's eight; she looks about six; mentally she is and will remain about four years old. You need to make allowances. I don't know why she took you to the pond. Your boat's at Posset.'
He changed the subject. âShe showed me your wedding photo.'
âDid she,' Sarah said evenly, stacking the pots.
âWhat was her mother's name?'
The steady clatter of plates broke momentarily before continuing. âHer mother?'
âIn the photograph.' Donovan frowned, puzzled that she didn't understand. âNext to you. I thought she was your bridesmaid.'
Mrs Turner shook her head. âThat's what I mean about Elphie. The girl in the picture: she
was
my
bridesmaid but she wasn't Elphie's mother. Elphie never knew her mother. I think that bothers her. I think she just picked a pretty woman in a family photo and adopted her. It's not important, it's not worth arguing with her. Just don't take anything she says as gospel.'
Donovan could understand that. âOK. Can I try the phone now?'
âIn the hall.'
He knew as soon as he picked it up that the line was dead. Jiggling the bar didn't help.
Sarah stuck her head out of the kitchen as he put it down. âNo luck?'
âNo.'
âTry again later.'
âI hope my dog's all right. He's â a bit funny.' He meant, if he wasn't fed on time he might make his own arrangements.
âI'm sure he's fine.'
Â
Â
Saturday mornings in the Graham household varied enormously. If there was a push on â some sort of crisis, a crime wave crashing on the beach of Castlemere â it was a day like any other and Liz would be in the office or on the road by eight o'clock. If she had the day off â which is to say she not only had the day off officially but in practice as well â she'd feed her horse at seven and then disappear back under the covers until mid-morning. It was her chance to catch up on lost sleep.
Brian didn't have many late nights during the
week but he too tended to lie in on Saturday mornings. It was his chance to make up for lost time as well.
Today, though, Liz fed Polly half an hour early and collected Dick Morgan from Chevening at seven. They'd visited every property on or within half a mile of the canal's north bank last night, and found no one who'd seen Donovan or his boat between Monday and Thursday afternoon. Now they were going to doorstep the southern bank, hoping for better luck.
It was slow work. The properties weren't arranged in neat rows along the canal, they were scattered in ones and twos separated by stretches of towpath that could be walked but not driven. Nor did the road run conveniently parallel to the water. It wandered off through Chevening and Fletton, and hamlets half the size. They managed to tick off five addresses in the first hour, seven in the second.
At five past nine Liz's mobile rang. She pulled over to answer it, was surprised to find herself talking to Keith Baker, the vet.
âThought you'd want to know,' he said. âDonovan's dog died in the night.'
Liz shut her eyes and vented a soft little pant. It wasn't the loss of the dog that distressed her. It wasn't a nice dog, a dog you could pat and get a wave of the tail in return, a dog you could slip half a Rich Tea biscuit under the coffee table. It was a pit bull terrier in all but name, jaws on legs, a dog that only chewed slippers to get at the feet inside. But it was Donovan's dog, and losing it seemed to lessen the chances of finding him.
It was nonsense, of course, the two things were unconnected; still she felt knocked back by the news.