The Devil's Chair (10 page)

‘Naturally, you believe that this woman …' she tapped the tape, ‘holds the key to the missing child?'

‘I'll be honest,' Randall said. ‘I haven't got any other ideas. If
she
doesn't know where the child is, who does?'

‘You're certain she's nowhere on the hills around the Devil's Chair?'

Randall replied frankly. ‘As certain as we can be. It's a huge area. We've searched it as thoroughly as we possibly can. I'm ninety-nine per cent certain she isn't there.' He paused, frowning, but determined to be as honest and open as he could be. ‘There are a couple of caves,' he said. ‘We have searched them and it's unlikely that a four-year-old would have gone deep into them and not responded to someone calling her name but, I suppose, it's not theoretically impossible. We've had the helicopter up with a heat-seeking device. It isn't impossible she's out there but if she is she's not alive. Or, at least, not able to respond.'

‘So.' She removed her glasses, holding them loosely in her fingers. ‘You want to know …?' The blue eyes looked sharply into his.

‘We're not a hundred per cent sure whether it's a man or a woman,' he began.

‘A woman. Without a doubt.'

Randall nodded. ‘One of our officers wondered whether the caller really is local – or whether they are affecting a local accent to put us off the scent.'

‘Well, your officer is wrong,' Claire said, frowning. ‘This woman is Shropshire born and bred. The way she uses words is typical of that part of Shropshire. Church Stretton and its surrounds hold a fairly isolated population. There is also a hint of Welsh in her intonation, which isn't surprising considering we're practically
in
the country.'

Randall listened.

‘And she is a rural person, I'd say,' Claire continued. ‘Not a townie and not someone who spends much time in the town. There's very little contamination of her speech with contemporary phrases, so I suggest she's not a great one for TV either. I think she lives an isolated life and has probably never been resident out of the area. She's unlikely to have gone to university. Her sentence construction and vocabulary would suggest perhaps a farmer's wife or country dweller. The
gorn orf
is very telling. As is the fact that she uses the word
wrecked
.' She looked up at him, frowning. ‘That's unusual in this day and age. Most people would use the word
crashed
. It's almost as though she belongs in a different time.' She made a wry face. ‘I'm not being much help, am I?'

‘You can only do what you can do,' Randall said glumly, wondering what he'd really expected from her. ‘Any idea of age?'

‘Forties, I'd think.' Claire looked thoughtful. ‘Is there a mobile signal in Carding Mill Valley?'

‘It's patchy. Why?'

‘I was just wondering if your caller had a mobile phone.'

Randall listened.

‘Everyone does these days,' Claire said, ‘even country folk. I wondered why your caller broke into a cottage and used a landline which would lead you straight to Hope Cottage?'

‘Mmm.' Randall was impressed. Perhaps it was something they should have paid more attention to. He proffered an explanation. ‘It is the nearest house to the crash site so would be the obvious choice.'

Claire persisted with her ideas. ‘Did she know it would be empty? Or was she expecting someone to answer to her knock?'

Randall made a mental note to look again at the results of the fingerprints in and around the cottage; in particular, any prints on the front door and knocker. He wasn't particularly hopeful. A person who had left not one fingerprint
inside
the cottage after she'd used the telephone would be unlikely to omit the chance of prints on the front door. But they could hit lucky.

Again, Claire spoke, more musing than questioning this time. ‘Was it happenstance that Ms Ignatio was away or did she know that the cottage was frequently empty?'

Randall's ears were cocked. ‘You mean she knows the person who lives in Hope Cottage spends a lot of time away?'

Claire nodded. ‘Local knowledge. Was it lucky or unlucky that no one was in?'

Randall shrugged.

‘And another thing – what was she doing in that area so early in the morning?' She hardly waited for a reply before hurrying on. ‘Well, I can only reiterate what I can say with certainty, Inspector. Your lady is a local. Born and bred here and she hasn't lived away. At least, if she has it hasn't affected her local accent. She may be a country person and local but she's not uneducated. If the little girl is with her I agree with the theory you say you're working on. Your caller lives within a ten-mile radius of the Long Mynd.'

Randall felt uplifted until Claire continued, ‘That isn't to say that she hasn't taken the little girl somewhere else.'

His spirits dropped right down as he faced the truth. ‘In spite of a well-publicized press campaign, she could be anywhere.'

Claire didn't respond to this.

He realized he still wanted to squeeze more from her. ‘What about this person's character?'

‘There we're in the realms of conjecture,' she said, almost scolding him. ‘Accents and intonation, the way we speak and so on is one science. To try and analyse a person's character through their speech is a bit more difficult.' She smiled, softening her words. ‘And that,' she said, ‘is the realm of the psychiatrist. I wouldn't pick up on personalities – unless, of course, they make threats or say something that makes you realize they're a psycho, a weirdo or troubled in some way.'

‘And this woman?'

Claire smiled. ‘I don't think she's a weirdo or a psycho or troubled in any way. Quite the reverse, actually. She's stolid and practical.'

‘If she's so stolid and practical what's she doing abducting a child from the scene of an accident?'

‘You're absolutely sure she did?'

‘Too much coincidence,' he said, ‘given the circumstances.'

‘Probably,' she responded.

Randall persisted. ‘Why take the child?'

Claire sighed and answered with reluctance. ‘Because she lives in the past.'

‘Which means what, exactly …?'

‘Church Stretton and the Long Mynd is an area steeped in folklore and old traditions,' she said slowly. ‘I suspect it's something to do with that.'

Randall didn't even feel like laughing. ‘You mean black magic?' He couldn't believe he was having this conversation.

Claire shrugged. ‘Black magic, white magic. I don't know, Inspector. I just feel that there is something mystical going on here, don't you?' She opened her eyes wide and smiled. ‘It's up to you to find out what.'

Randall nodded. He'd finally run out of questions.

‘We'll extend our house-to-house search,' he offered.

Claire Tarrow picked up her bag. ‘Sounds like a good idea to me.'

Randall thanked her and asked her to submit her bill to the finance department.

He held out his hand. ‘Thank you very much for coming up, Claire.'

‘I'm afraid I haven't helped very much.'

‘You might have done,' he said cryptically. ‘And you don't mind if I ring if there's something else I need to ask?'

‘Not at all.' Claire Tarrow lifted her eyebrows.

The room felt empty when she'd gone. Randall sat for a while assimilating the facts she had given him. A middle-aged local woman. Surely it would narrow the search?

‘M
r Mansfield.'

Neil turned around with a guilty start.

The doctor and nurse were both watching him with curious expressions, suspicious but with a heavy dose of sympathy. He couldn't work it out.

‘Can we have a word?'

‘Yeah. Sure.'

They led him back into the small visitors' room and closed the door. This time the nurse sat by his side, her look of sympathy deepening.

Mansfield looked from one to the other. What the hell was going on? Had they read his mind? Seen him finger one of the plugs on the wall? Had they heard the voice advising him to switch her off?

‘I'm Doctor James,' the doctor said, blinking sandy lashes out of sandy eyes. ‘This is a little awkward. Basically, Mr Mansfield, we've done some tests.'

Mansfield looked even more quickly from one to the other, his glance bouncing between them. The doctor's words seemed to blur into one another, as though something was blocking his hearing.

‘What we're saying is that Tracy is highly unlikely to recover,' the doctor said.

Mansfield was panicking now. Were they saying that he was going to have to care for her, when she was like this? How long was she going to live? Like this …

‘There's very little brain response,' the doctor said, pressing on. ‘And we find that if a patient doesn't recover in the first week or so they are unlikely ever to.'

Mansfield put his head on one side, like a chicken, frowning and trying to understand what it was the doctor was saying.

Whatever it was, he was finding it difficult.

He felt like saying
spit it out, mate
but it seemed a bit cheeky to prompt the medic, so he stayed silent.

‘At some point we may think it's best to switch the ventilator off, in which case …' The doctor couldn't look at him. ‘We will need to consult the next of kin. Umm, you're not actually married?'

Mansfield frowned. What were they saying?

‘So her next of kin would be …'

Suddenly the penny dropped and Mansfield was appalled. ‘She has a mum and a sister,' he mumbled. Tracy's mum and her horrible sister who had never forgiven Tracy for being prettier than her.

The nurse spoke now. ‘I don't believe they've been in to visit her,' she said. ‘There's only been you.'

Mansfield stopped looking at the doctor and focused on the nurse instead. ‘It doesn't surprise me,' he said. ‘She hasn't spoken to either of them for years.' He paused. He was beginning to realize what it was they were saying.

The doctor spoke again. ‘Right, well, it's very difficult in these sorts of cases,' the doctor continued, ‘but …' Again, he gave Neil a long, calculating look and suddenly with awful and sharp clarity Neil knew exactly what it was that they were finding so hard to say. He knew now what the
tough decision
was.

They
were going to turn her off. Because … But wait. It wasn't just that. There was something else. He only knew half the story. The doctor was speaking about … organ donation. The words became distinct. And now he realized that Tracy, his partner, could be about to be turned into a collection of random spare parts, and that it would be her mother and sister, not him, who would make the decision. This was patently not how it should be. It was not right. He tried to protest.

The doctor was still talking. ‘How much do you know about transplants?'

Mansfield stared.

‘Or renal dialysis?'

‘Nothing.'

But that wasn't quite true. He
did
know something. He'd walked past the dialysis unit on his way into the hospital. He'd seen the sign and all those people hooked up to those huge machines, pipes and tubes everywhere. And they had just been sitting, reading the paper, some on their iPads, some chatting to the nurses, having a cup of tea.

‘They have to come in for that three times a week,' the doctor said, as though he'd read his thoughts, seen the images crowding his mind. ‘Tracy can help those people.'

The nurse spoke next. ‘We have people who are blind because they need corneal transplants.'

Neil was recalling Tracy's eyes. Her pretty, dark eyes. He squeezed his own tight shut.

‘And her heart and lungs,' the nurse added.

Neil stared at her. And in ten days' time it would be Tracy's birthday. What a great present. Instead of perfume, clothes, money and dinner out here it was being suggested she donate her liver, her lungs, her spleen, her eyes, her heart and Neil didn't want to think what else.

So they were keeping her alive only to harvest her organs?

Then they rubbed salt into the wound. ‘Do you have a number for her mother?'

I
n spite of a few messages left on both her landline and mobile, it had taken the hospital a few days to track down Tracy's mother, Pat Waterman. The doctor spoke to her, trying to explain what it was they wanted.

‘Yeah,' she said. ‘OK with me.'

Doctor James pointed out that they would need written consent and Pat appeared irritated. ‘You're saying I got to come all the way to Shrewsbury just to sign some form?'

‘You may want to say goodbye to your daughter,' the doctor said patiently.

Perhaps Pat Waterman realized then that she should make some effort. ‘I can come this afternoon,' she said in a chastened voice. ‘'Bout four. OK?'

‘That should be fine,' the doctor said, already making plans.

Organ harvesting takes place in the morning. It makes it easier to plan for the beneficiaries who have to be lined up, hopeful contestants in a life-and-death tournament. Theatres have to be prepared, patients called in, surgeons, nurses, theatre attendants, anaesthetists. All have to be ready, waiting in the wings in gloves and scrubs.

Tracy Walsh finally gave up her struggle – or rather, the doctors did – at eight o'clock in the morning. She was taken to the operating theatre, her organs treated as carefully as though they belonged to an ancient Pharoah of Egypt, and finally, when all that could be done had been done, she was pronounced dead and, as was the custom, the team made a prayer of thanks from the people who would be eternally grateful for the decision.