Shapiro completed the last flight of stairs one at a time, his face rigid with pain. Mary Wilson followed him anxiously, wanting to help and afraid of hurting his feelings. She wondered what Liz would have done. Probably told him to stay where he was and brought Sheila Crosbie down to see him.
âSir, why don't Iâ?' she began.
âTell you what, constable,' he interrupted through gritted teeth, âwhy don't you make a note in your pocketbook? Suggested new regulation for consideration by Division: officers of superintendent rank or above should only interview suspects living above the first floor if there's a reliable lift.'
âIt'll get a lot of support, sir.'
âSo it should,' grunted Shapiro, finally reaching the last landing. âIt'll make a lot of fat old men very happy.'
Wilson took a minute to get out her pocketbook, test her pen, even blow her nose before knocking at Sheila's door. Shapiro wasn't fooled for a moment â she was giving him time to get his breath back.
Ms Crosbie answered the door with the baby in her arms. He wasn't asleep: he looked at Shapiro as if enquiring as to his business.
Sheila reacted differently. Her face slammed shut. She waited for a warrant card to confirm that the stout man at her door was who he claimed to be, then she nodded brusquely. She didn't ask them in, remained in the doorway, blocking it with her slight body. âAgain?' she said testily.
Shapiro pretended not to understand. âSorry?'
âThis is the third time. I told them at the police station what happened, and I told the woman detective who came here what happened. Why do you think I'll tell you something different?'
The superintendent appeared to give that some thought. âBecause,' he said at length, judiciously, âI'm not sure you were telling the truth.'
In polite society one doesn't often call another a liar to his face. Frank Shapiro was clearly a polite man, a decent respectable middle-class man, a husband and father and pillar of his community. Sheila didn't believe he'd have said that to her without good reason. Something behind her expression shrank and fell inward; she hugged the baby as if for protection. Her lips pursed and her eyes dropped. Then they rose again, defiantly. âI don't know what you mean.' But a thickness in her voice belied the words.
Wilson offered a sympathetic little smile. âMs Crosbie, why don't we go inside and sort this out? I don't expect you've done anything too dreadful â just embroidered the truth a little? Really, that's all we need to know. Then we won't waste time following up false leads. Put the record straight, then we'll all know where we stand.'
At last, still reluctantly, the girl let them inside. Jason continued to watch the encounter with interest.
âNow,' said Shapiro, âabout this baby lotion. We know you bought it at Simpson's; we know that the warning label was already attached. It matches the others we have, we know it was put there by the blackmailer. What I need you to be absolutely honest about is whether there actually was caustic soda in the bottle.'
His gaze was steady and he waited for her answer without further prompting. The next step she had to take alone, and if need be he'd wait all day.
She wasn't intimidated. If she was hiding something, she wasn't going to give it up just because he asked her. âYour doctor saw the state of my hands. What do you think â I did that to myself?'
âPeople do,' Shapiro assured her.
âJesus!' Sheila turned on her heel, into the nursery, and put the baby down. He gurgled and reached towards the wooden animals prancing their slow circle in the airs above his cot.
Her hands free, Sheila spread the palms under Shapiro's nose. âLook at them! They're still not right. It hurt like hell at the time, and it still hurts if I forget when I'm cooking or washing up. You think I did that deliberately? Why, for God's sake? You think I'm some kind of a pain freak?'
âPeople who do this,' Shapiro answered carefully, âdo it because they need attention. They're depressed, or frightened, or maybe just bored, and even pain is an acceptable price if they can get people to take
notice of them. It makes them feel alive. Being ignored is like being dead.'
Her eyes thought he was mad. She pointed one arm, shaking with anger, at the cot. âSee that? That's what we in the trade call a baby. They need your full attention, a hundred per cent, twenty-four hours a day. If they don't get it they grizzle. Then they cry, and after that they scream. The MOT people fail cars that make as much noise as a ratty baby. Ignored? Mr Shapiro, I'd give my income support for the chance of being ignored for a full hour every day. I don't need to burn myself in order to get noticed. I just need to take Jason into a busy supermarket and tell him he can't eat the mothballs.'
It was only a theory but it had been a good one, he'd had hopes of it. But it was the most basic error in criminal detection: to cling to a theory, even an elegant one, when the evidence starts to contradict it. Listening to Sheila Crosbie rant Shapiro felt his doubts growing. Maybe she was hiding something but it wasn't that. She wasn't seeking attention, so she hadn't applied caustic soda to her own hands. Which left her as a victim after all.
He gave it one last try. âDo you have caustic soda in the flat, Miss Crosbie?'
She glared at him. âNo. I don't use it; I've never used it. I like my household cleaners in handy sprays.'
âYou won't mind if I check under the sink?'
âNot if it'll get you to leave.'
After that he didn't expect to find the stuff, and he didn't. She could have disposed of it. But his gut
instinct was that he'd jumped to the wrong conclusion; again.
Standing in the nursery door, Mary Wilson said, âI like this mobile. Where did you get it?'
âWhat?' snapped Sheila, without taking her eyes off Shapiro.
âThe mobile. It's hand-carved, isn't it? Those balls-within-balls can't be made any other way. Did you make it?'
âNo.'
âNo, I couldn't either. It's clever work, that; someone's a real perfectionist. His father, was it?'
âNo,' Sheila said again, sharper.
âNo? Your father, perhaps.'
âMy father's dead. Will you go now?'
âSheila,' Wilson said quietly, âI don't believe you bought this. If you got it in a shop â if you could find it in a shop â it would cost a fortune, and I don't think you have money to waste on decorations. I think somebody made it for Jason. And I can't imagine why you won't tell me who.'
âIt's none of your business!'
Shapiro said, âYou're acting as if it is.'
âWho is Jason's father?' asked Wilson. It was impertinent but the way Sheila was behaving suggested it was relevant. Still, Shapiro was glad she'd asked and saved him having to.
âI don't know. All right? â I don't know. That month, the fun just never stopped. I don't know who Jason's father is, and he doesn't know he has a son. I found the mobile in a second-hand shop, and it cost me three pounds.'
âIt's brand new. It's new, and beautifully made. Made with love.'
She couldn't stop herself. âOh no it wasn't!'
Shapiro regarded the girl with a degree of compassion. Whatever was going on here, whatever she was trying to hide, she was in deep trouble; and she knew it, and she didn't know what to do about it. âSheila, talk to us. I know you're involved in this somehow. You're not going to convince me otherwise. Do you know who's behind the blackmail? Jason's father â is that who it is? Is that who you're protecting?'
âHe burnt me!' She thrust out her hands again. âHe would have burnt Jason! Why would I protect him?'
âWould have?' echoed Shapiro softly.
âWhat?' She didn't understand.
âWould have. Not “He could have burnt Jason” â he would have. Did he threaten your baby, Miss Crosbie? Is that why you agreed to help him? Why you put your hands in caustic soda and then came to us to complain about it?'
âNo.' Just that: a blanket denial. He'd worn her down. She had no explanations, no alibi, nothing she could say in her own defence. All she could do was deny everything.
Shapiro sighed. âAll right, Miss Crosbie. Well, I know you're lying. I'm not sure what you're lying about, but I know you're not being honest with me. I think we need to talk about it, at length and without distractions. Do you have family locally? â if you want to call your mother, we can drop off Jason on the way.'
âNo!'
Her vehemence took them both by surprise. Lots of people have issues with their mothers; lots of people, in defiance of the evidence, doubt their mother's ability to look after a baby. But it was as if Shapiro had suggested parking Jason on a high window ledge while they talked, and that wasn't normal. The girl was having to help police with their inquiries, but still she wasn't as worried for herself as she was for her baby.
âMiss Crosbie,' said Shapiro, âit's obvious that you're worried sick about something, and I don't think it's me. So either you haven't done anything I can lock you up for, or someone else is threatening you with something worse than the judicial process. I'm right, aren't I? You know who's doing this, and you're afraid what he'll do to Jason if you tell me.' He made her look at him. âMiss Crosbie, I can't help you, and I can't protect either of you, until I know who it is you're afraid of.'
She shook her head, the rats' tails of her fringe flying. âI don't need any help,' she said, âand I can't help you. And the only protection Jason needs is me. If you're going to take me away,
you
take the responsibility. Take him into care.'
Shapiro stared at her in astonishment. People do occasionally put their own children into care, as a last resort. But Sheila Crosbie would rather have social services look after her baby for the time this was going to take rather than leave him with her own mother? Shapiro had come here suspecting this girl of exaggerating her involvement. He was beginning
to think it would be impossible to exaggerate her involvement.
âAre you sure that's what you want?'
Sheila nodded stubbornly. âIf I'm not with him, that's the only place he'll be safe.'
âFrom your mother?'
She eyed him with overt scorn. âOf course not from my mother.'
âThen â from his father?'
Her lips tightened, and she shook her head once more, decisively. âI'm saying nothing more. You think I'm lying? Then prove it.'
Â
Â
Donovan demanded to know where Dr Chapel lived. He believed that Chapel, if asked a direct question, would disdain to lie to him. He remembered the conversation between Simon Turner and the doctor at dinner. He no longer believed they were talking about pest control.
Sarah wouldn't tell him. She blocked the kitchen door with her body. He could have moved her aside; but she was a woman old enough to be his mother who'd been good to him. And she was so afraid. He didn't think she was trying to protect herself from the consequences of what happened eight years ago. She must know that keeping him here would only delay the inevitable. No, what she feared was a still avoidable catastrophe.
And it wasn't Donovan she was afraid of. For a bizarre moment he thought she was afraid
for
him. That was absurd; but the terror in her eyes was
certainly for someone else. Someone close to her, someone who mattered a damn sight more than an itinerant policeman who'd been unwise enough to fall ill in the vicinity of East Beckham. Simon or Elphie: no one else had the power to tap her emotions like that.
He had to remind himself that this was a woman who'd allowed her sister to be hounded to death. She didn't deserve his sympathy. âSarah,' he said gruffly, âI
am
going to talk to Chapel. I think he knows what happened here, and I think he's arrogant enough to tell me. Now, either you can get out of my way or I can move you.'
Clinging to the door handle behind her back she pleaded with him. âCal, you don't know what you're doing! You're wrong about Rosemary. I swear to God, she came to no harm here.'
âYou know that? For a fact?'
âYes! Listen: if you don't believe me, ask Simon. Let me call him. Wait till he gets here.'
âCall him how?'
âOn his mob â ' She bit the word off short with a guilty start.
It was already too late. He'd been pretty sure they'd been preventing him from communicating with the outside world: now he knew. âOK. But now: I'm not wasting any more time.'
âHe'll be here in five minutes. God in heaven, Cal, you owe us five minutes!'