Stella was standing in the companionway, elbows
resting on the roof. She made no immediate effort to move. âWho are you people â where are you from?'
Vickery had thought this out. âWe're from Castlemere. The kid's my niece, my sister's girl. The man's her father. He's trying to take her to Ireland.'
âHe did have an Irish accent,' nodded Sylvia.
âRight now it's a family matter,' said Vickery. âWe get her back and we don't need to involve the police. Which I'd rather not do, because they'll want to know why my sister left the kid alone in the house. She could end up in care.'
âI wish we could help,' said Sylvia. âBut honestly, the best thing you can do is go back the way you came. You're bound to catch them, it's miles to the next village.'
âI know,' nodded Vickery. âThat's what we'll do. But â I'm sorry but you understand, I have to do this â I want to search the boat first. I won't disturb anything and it won't take five minutes. But I can't risk him sneaking past us.'
For a moment nobody moved. The girls traded a glance; Stella shrugged. âYou're in charge.'
âAll right,' decided Sylvia. âGod knows I don't want to be the reason a woman loses her child. Go ahead. Just be careful you don't do any damage.'
âI won't.'
Stella swung aside and Vickery vanished below. Hunsecker went with him; the other two remained on deck.
No two narrowboats are exactly alike. Within the basic shell a wide variety of layouts is possible, and great ingenuity goes into fitting the maximum
facilities into the limited space. Particularly on smaller boats storage is the biggest problem, so cupboards and cubbyholes are built into every available niche. Even the spaces under the floorboards are used, accessed by hatches and ideal for keeping beer cold.
So a cursory search of the boat â a saloon, a sleeping cabin, the heads, the shower compartment and a hanging locker â was completed within thirty seconds. But a proper search took longer. Every door, however small, had to be opened and a torch flashed inside to be sure no one was hiding behind it. Every hatch had to be lifted, and this meant moving the furniture and even the carpets; then someone had to lie full length on the floor and stick his head inside. If he got lucky, that person could expect a fist to come rocketing out of the darkness, so the job was undertaken with more care than speed.
Then there was the chain locker under the forepeak. The last time Jim Vickery was on a boat like this the chain locker contained a spitting, snarling whirlwind of a dog. Again, he lifted the hatch cautiously and lowered his head inside an inch at a time.
But there was no one else on board. After seven minutes Vickery was sure enough to make his apologies to the girls and take his leave.
âBy the way,' he said, âthe damage to your bilge-pump â that wasn't me. I found it like that.'
Stella looked at him interestedly. âWhat's a bilge-pump?'
Vickery hadn't really time to explain. âIt's what stops you sinking. But it needs a hose between the
pump and the outlet. Could cost a few quid; could save you thousands.'
âYou'd think Uncle George'd know about things like that,' said Sylvia severely. âThank you. I'll make sure he gets one.'
âGet the fire extinguisher filled up again too. There's nothing worse than a fire on a boat.'
âYes; thanks,' said Sylvia.
âGood luck,' called Stella after the departing backs.
Â
Â
But the search party never picked up the trail again. They found the quad, shoved out of sight into some willow-scrub. A little way down the bank they found where Donovan had boarded
Periwinkle,
breaking the sedges and leaving a mud-slide to the water's edge as he did. They could not find where he came out of the water again.
âMaybe he swam over to the far bank,' said Hunsecker. âIf he did we've lost him.'
âAnd leave the child? I don't think so.' The scorn in Vickery's voice was mostly to hide the worry. âFor one thing, we'd have found her by now.'
âCould she have swum over too?'
The water was cold and dark, the banks steep. Thirty feet doesn't sound far to swim, but every year people drown in canals. âMaybe they didn't make it. Maybe they've solved the problem for us.'
âJim. Come down here.'
It was invisible from the top of the bank. But Hunsecker had climbed carefully to the water's edge, and
from there he had a view along the reeds. Something was caught among them. Something red.
âIt's her,' whispered Vickery. âThat coat she was wearing: you could see it a mile away.'
âWhat do we do?'
Jim Vickery thought. If both the fugitives had drowned they were safe. If Elphie had drowned and Donovan had made the far bank, they had as long as it would take him to find a phone to dispose of the body. Maybe East Beckham could stare down the police as long as the child could not be cited as evidence. Dr Chapel would know what to do. There seemed no point in hunting further: either the policeman was safe or he was dead. Right now it was more important to use what might be the limited time left to help themselves.
âGive me your hand,' said Vickery, stepping down the bank. âI can almost reach â¦'
The sodden bank gave way under him, and he found himself floundering in four feet of water. It was too late to care. He kept hold of Hunsecker's hand and waded, chest-deep, along the reed line until he could reach with his other hand for the floating hem of the red duffle coat. With a kind of reverence he pulled it towards him.
âAh â¦'
There was no resistance. Not even Elphie could lie that lightly in the water. The coat was empty.
At seven thirty they were watching themselves on the television in Shapiro's office. Superintendent Giles had made a statement after the shooting at Dunstan House. Neither Liz nor Shapiro had added anything to it, but both had been filmed outside the hospital. Liz thought she was putting on weight. Shapiro thought he looked as if he'd wandered off from a day-care facility.
âWe've had a busy week,' he said defensively.
She cast him a wan smile. âWe'll have another. There'll be a lot of questions to answer. A man ended up dead: somehow we have to justify that.'
He watched her with concern. âIs that giving you a problem?'
Liz looked pensive for a moment before responding with a gesture that was half a shrug, half a shake of her head. âI don't think I had any choice. Whether Internal Investigations will see it that way is another matter.'
âWhy wouldn't they? There'll be a fatal shooting inquiry but I can't see why it wouldn't support your actions. The man who died had been terrorizing this town for a week. He'd burned Sheila Crosbie and
stabbed Mitchell Tyler and was trying to infect a children's home with typhoid. No one's going to think you should have given it a bit more thought first. The people of this town will feel you did them a great favour.'
âThat'll be a comfort when I'm looking for a job as a nightclub bouncer!'
Shapiro was dismissive. âDon't worry about your career. It won't damage you to have it on record that, when the alternative was watching other people get hurt, you took a difficult decision and did what was necessary.'
âAssuming the record agrees it
was
necessary.' She sighed. âIt seemed so at the time. Now â I don't know. Maybe there was something else I could have done. Maybe I
should
have shot to wound. Maybe I could have talked him down.'
âYou tried. It didn't work. A man like that, it was never going to work.'
âMaybe someone else could have made it work. You could.'
He shook his head, more annoyed than flattered. âLiz, I'm not SuperCop! I do the best I can, but I can't work miracles and I couldn't have turned Martin Wingrave into a reasonable man. He was a psychopath. It doesn't matter what you or I think, he didn't believe he could be stopped. There was only the one way.'
âTyler thought he could take him. Maybe if I'd helped ⦠'
âTyler only tried to take him because you'd got his gun! And he got three inches of wood chisel in
his chest. If you hadn't shot when you did Wingrave would have killed him. Then he'd have gone on to infect twenty-two children and eight members of staff with dangerous diseases. You did the right thing, Liz.'
âThen why doesn't it feel like that?'
âBecause good and decent people hate the idea of damaging other people, even those who're neither good nor decent. What you're feeling now, it's about you not Wingrave. It doesn't hurt because there was a spark of human decency left in him that was worth saving. It hurts because of who and what you are. Let's be honest here: Martin Wingrave is no loss. I'm only sorry you were the one who had to do sit.'
âIt was your idea,' she reminded him, troubled enough to be unkind.
âI know. On paper that was a good decision too. Here' â he tapped his chest â âit feels like a mistake. Next time this comes up, be damned to how it looks!'
Liz sighed and shook her head. âNo, that matters too. And if you weren't sitting here commiserating with me you'd be doing it with Jim Stark, and quite possibly he'd have a tougher time ahead.
âIf I wasn't prepared to shoot people I shouldn't have done the firearms course. I knew what it meant. I accepted that, just sometimes, shooting someone is the right and necessary thing to do. I still do. It's just â you can't help wondering. Logically, killing Martin Wingrave was both vital and urgent. So why don't I feel â vindicated? Why does it feel so bad, so wrong?'
âYou have to wonder,' said Shapiro sombrely. âTo be unsure. It's a necessary safeguard. You couldn't give a gun to someone who was comfortable about using it.'
They sat in silence, lacking the energy to go home.
The phone rang. Shapiro picked it up. He listened without speaking for a minute, then he held it out. âSorry, Liz,' he said with an odd ring in his voice, âit seems today hasn't finished throwing surprises at us yet.'
She took it, scowling. She really didn't need anything more to deal with. âYes?'
Shapiro watched, feeling the tiredness roll back, feeling a little warmth creep back into his heart, watching astonishment and then delight burst across her face like a sunrise. For a minute her lips moved, sketching questions and essaying responses, and no words came. Finally the pressure built up enough to burst the dam, and all the emotions whirling through her â shock, regret, relief, anger, incredulity, amazement, suspicion and impatience â erupted in one great geyser of a cry that filled the upper storey like a cheer and made the people downstairs look up in alarm.
âDONOVAN!!???'
Â
Â
Just about then Dr Chapel was sitting on Sarah Turner's sofa, holding a bag of frozen peas to his head and listening to Jim Vickery recount the events of the last hour. He did it in great detail, concluding with what he'd found floating in the reeds and what he hoped it meant. Chapel listened patiently because it was too late to do anything else.
âSo we came back here,' finished Vickery. âWe couldn't see any bodies but that doesn't mean they aren't there somewhere. What do you think? â maybe
we should make a proper search of the bank at first light?'
âI think,' said Dr Chapel carefully, âthe police will be here in about half an hour. I think, if you want to kiss your children goodbye, now would be a good time.'
Vickery stared at him, appalled. âYou mean it? You think he got away?'
âI think he got away,' nodded Chapel.
âBut â
how?
He couldn't have swum the canal, not with the child in tow.'
âHe didn't have to. They were on the boat.'
The foreman shook his head firmly. âI'm sorry, Doc, but you weren't there. We searched that boat from stern to stern. No way could we have missed them.'
Chapel was still nodding â carefully because his head hurt. âYou checked everywhere?'
âI told you. The cabins, the lockers, the cupboards â even under the goddamned floorboards. They weren't there.'
âYou looked underneath?'
Vickery stared at him as if only now beginning to doubt his sanity. âUnderneath what?'
Chapel sighed. âUnderneath the boat. Jim, what do you suppose happened to the hose from the bilge-pump?'
Â
Â
They were at the Posset Inn. It was the first place
Periwinkle
arrived that Donovan could count on getting help. He no longer expected to find his boat there, or
his dog. But he found people he knew would protect him and Elphie if the East Beckham militia made a last desperate sortie this far, and he finally found a working phone.
Liz didn't park the car: she abandoned it at the front door. She abandoned Shapiro too. She felt badly about leaving him to unfold creakily from the passenger seat, but not badly enough to wait for him.
George Jackson, the publican, checked who it was before admitting her. He nodded towards his back parlour. âIn there.'
Her first impression was that sitting round a roaring fire in the grate were two Indians, a big one and a little one. Jackson had raided his hope chest for something to get them warm, and these large and rather colourful blankets were the best he could come up with. The tall Indian was hunched over the fire with his back to the door and a faint steam rising from him. The small Indian appeared to have gone to sleep on his knee.
So Liz tiptoed over and laid a soft hand on his shoulder. âDonovan. I am so glad to see you. Now â what the hell's been going on?'
When he turned and she saw him properly she was a little shocked. Not because he was wet and dirty and smelled of the canal, but at how white and drawn he looked. He might not have had cholera but he'd obviously been ill. His chest rattled as he spoke. âAmbulance?'
âOn its way. They'll sort you out.'
âNot for me,' he said scathingly, âfor her. She needs
looking after. She probably needs shots: she swallowed half the canal. I swallowed the other half.'
Shapiro had found them. He wasn't an effusive man, didn't go in for hugging and kissing. He regarded Donovan levelly for a moment, then he shook his hand. âI was beginning to think you'd got yourself into some kind of trouble.'
Donovan snorted a weary little chuckle. âMe? Chief, whatever would make you think that?'
Shapiro was too old for sitting cross-legged round fires. He found himself an armchair. âTell us what happened.'
So he did. With the changeling child asleep in the hollow of his side, he related enough of her family history to make sense of the things that had been done, of his own actions and those of others.
Liz listened in amazement. âYou think they'd have hurt her?' Lying against him Elphie looked so small and frail it was impossible to imagine anyone feeling threatened by her.
âBoss, they'd have killed her. They'd have killed me; and then they'd have had two murders to cover up, and a fey child standing between them and safety. Damn right they'd have killed her, and sooner rather than later.'
âAnd the doctor was behind it all?'
Donovan nodded. âI think Simon Turner would be alive today if East Beckham hadn't had its own doctor. It's possible to be too damned self-sufficient. People think it's some kind of an idyll, a little rural community miles from anywhere where everyone knows everyone else and the village is more important than
the people who live in it. It isn't: it's a monster. Sure, you can blame Chapel, he orchestrated the ill-feeling and then channelled it. It would likely have stopped at a black eye or a broken window, except he was clever enough to see how they could salvage the situation.
âBut Chapel wasn't the reason it happened. The reason was East Beckham.'
âExplain,' said Shapiro.
âSomething like that couldn't happen in Castlemere. But it happened just ten miles away in East Beckham, because the people there aren't individuals, they're ants in a colony. They lived together, they worked together, what was good for one was good for all. That village gave them birth and nurtured them, and in return it expected them to protect it. Whatever the cost. They weren't afraid of the consequences. They were all in it together, it never occurred to them they might have to answer to a wider world. They thought they could get away with murder.'
âThey almost did,' murmured Shapiro. âBut for the fluke of you having to spend long enough among them to start piecing it together, they might never have been found out.'
âThat's what they reckoned,' said Donovan grimly. âThat's why they thought it was worth killing again.'
âWhat would you have done,' wondered Liz, âif that boat hadn't appeared when it did?'
Donovan looked at her askance. âI'd have been caught and had my head beat in, that's what! I was all out of options.'
âBut not ingenuity,' observed Shapiro, chin on his chest, smiling to himself. âYou realize that'll go down in police mythology: the detective who hid out underwater?'
Donovan shrugged ruefully. âThere was nowhere else. They couldn't miss seeing the boat, they were bound to stop and search it. Me, two girls and a child weren't going to fight them off. The canal was the only place left. The hose from the bilge-pump gave us an air supply. It tasted foul but it kept us alive until they left.'
âThey never looked over the side?' asked Liz.
âThey wouldn't have seen us if they had. We stayed hard against the hull, under the rubbing strake â they' d have had to hang out over the water to spot us. Any time someone leaned on the rail we dropped down under the boat and breathed by tube. Someone on the far bank might have seen us but the men on the boat would have had to know we were there.'
Liz looked at the sleeping Elphie. âIt was a lot to ask of a child. How did you know she could do it â that she wouldn't panic and give you away?'
He shrugged, embarrassed. âI didn't. I made sure she couldn't. I strapped her against my chest: when I went down she came too. I kept my hand over her mouth, and the air-pipe in it except when I needed to breath. It wasn't very long. We were only in the water fifteen minutes, under it for maybe five.'
âI bet it felt longer.'