Only when he was sure Liz wasn't coming back did Donovan leave the office. But he didn't go straight home. He was looking for two things: Liam Brady and a fight.
At the tent the crew were preparing for the evening meeting. The tall woman was supervising from the modest eminence of the dais, a clipboard in her hand, a cigarette held lightly between her lips. She wanted the seats arranged with mathematical precision and an Order of Service â fresh from the local copy-shop, it was only Wednesday but what had seemed an adequate supply had already run out â on each. She gave her orders confidently and didn't have to repeat herself too often. Donovan stood in the flap of the tent taking a malicious pleasure in the sight of the mad dog of the Provisional IRA lining up chairs and laying out prayer-sheets at the behest of a woman with an eagle eye and a clipboard.
Jennifer Mills saw him too. She let him watch for a minute while she arranged things to her satisfaction. Then she said, âI'm afraid you're too early for the meeting.'
Being on duty prevented him from replying as he would have liked. âI'm looking for someone.'
âWe're rather busy just now. Could you come back later?' The well-bred voice remained friendly but it really wasn't a question.
Of course he could have come back later. His boat was a hundred metres away: he could have gone home, made himself a meal, come back when Brady had finished work. But Donovan was in no mood to co-operate. âNo.' He put his hand inside his jacket, reaching for his warrant card.
The Geordie, who was nearest, reacted as if Donovan had produced a hand-grenade. He glanced up casually to see who was arguing with his boss, then in a split second his whole manner changed and he launched himself at the man in the entrance. One big fist locked on Donovan's wrist and the other on his throat. The impetus of the attack carried both of them out of the tent
and they crashed into the generator throbbing industriously outside. The machine caught Donovan in the small of the back, knocking the wind out of him, but the collision did nothing to loosen Kelso's grip. He kept coming, bearing down on the younger man, bending him backwards over the machinery with all his weight and strength. His eyes glaring into Donovan's were filled with cold resolve. For a fleeting moment Donovan thought the man meant to break his back.
Then it was all over. Brady came sprinting out of the tent behind them, and gripped Kelso's arm. âFor God's sake don't throttle him, he's another frigging peeler!'
From a range of centimetres Donovan watched the man's eyes come back to life. The heavy brows stapled down in a puzzled frown. He released his grip on Donovan's throat and let him straighten up. âThen why's the bugger pulling a piece?'
âI wasn't.' Even to himself Donovan's voice sounded rusty, creaking through his bruised larynx. He produced the card.
Kelso looked. He pursed his lips in thought. He reached out and solicitously straightened Donovan's jacket. âWhoops.'
Brady steered Donovan away as a mother might a fractious child. âThere we are now, Sergeant, no harm done. I suppose it was me you were looking for?'
âYes. No.' Donovan was so taken aback by what had happened that for a moment he couldn't remember. âThat lunatic tried to strangle me!'
âNo, he didn't,' Brady said patiently, as if he might persuade Donovan that he'd imagined it. âIt was self-defence. He thought you had a gun.'
Donovan's voice soared incredulously. âWhy would he think that?'
Brady stared at him. âThis may come as a surprise to you, Sergeant, but Castlemere is a dangerous town. People get hurt here. People get killed. OK, so the gaffer over-reacted. He's feeling a bit twitchy. We all are. The whole bloody town is, or hadn't you noticed? The guy made a mistake, that's all. Now, what was it you wanted?'
All Donovan's instincts told him that it was not an honest mistake, the result of normal caution exaggerated by recent events. But he couldn't prove it. He hadn't been hurt, Kelso hadn't produced a weapon, and it was possible to put Brady's interpretation on the facts. He saw no point in pursuing the incident, though he was not ready to forget it.
Anyway, his earlier grievance took precedence. He rounded on
Brady, throwing the calming hand off his arm. âAll right. I want to know why it took you fifteen minutes to get to a phone last night. Fifteen minutes, when you could have walked to Queen's Street in five.'
âI'm a stranger here,' Brady said reasonably. âIs Queen's Street where you have your nick? I don't know where that is.'
âAnd you couldn't find a phone? There's one in Mere Basin three minutes away. There's one at the end of Brick Lane. You could have tried the boats: at least two of them have phones. You could have knocked a few doors in Brick Laneâ'
âI could have got myself caught up in that mob,' Brady reminded him. âYou were hardly away when they came out of the tent. I couldn't get through them. I went up the tow-path to the basin but the phone there had been ripped out. I tried the flats over the basin: there were plenty of lights on but nobody was answering their bell. This is a scared town, you know that? Finally a man answered and I told him to call the police. Fifteen minutes? I dare say it was. It was still the best I could do.'
Donovan was inclined to believe him. He felt the anger running out of him, weariness taking its place. âYeah, OK. It's just, if the cavalry had arrived even two minutes earlier it wouldn't have happened. That's all the time it was from that mad bastard set Carver on fire till the wooden-tops put him out. It was the petrol. I got to him but I couldn't make any impression on it.'
Unconsciously his hands were repeating the futile pawing gestures that had achieved nothing beyond adding burns to his own list of hurts. All he had to fight the fire with was his jacket which wasn't voluminous enough to wrap round and smother the flames. He desperately needed help, begged for it, but no one in the ring of men responded. They just stood watching the screaming man burn. Then sirens wailed round the corner into The Jubilee, the crowd scattered and a constable ran over with a fire blanket.
Brady looked from Donovan's hand to his face. âI'm sorry. If I could have got you those two minutes I would have.'
Â
Liz went straight home. Brian had a stew simmering. She put her arms round him. âJust what I need.'
He dropped a kiss lightly on top of her head. âI thought you might get home at lunchtime.'
âSorry, I couldn't.' She collapsed into a chair. The dining table was still stacked with tea-chests, they'd be eating off trays for a while yet. âI had someone to see.'
She had nothing to hide from Brian. She had taken advantage
of a chance meeting to seek information that might have had a bearing on an urgent inquiry. It was irrelevant that no useful information had emerged and that she'd enjoyed lunch more than she'd expected. They had said and done nothing she was reluctant to tell him. On the other hand, it almost seemed to be investing the meeting with too much significance, to come home and tell her husband about it. Something less than professional. If she had nothing to hide, equally she had nothing to confess.
In the end she made a wholly justifiable decision for the most trivial of reasons: so that she could throw it in Donovan's face. âThat evangelist with the tent by the canal. Michael Davey.'
Brian blinked. âEvangelist? Whatever has he been up to?'
âProbably nothing. There've been some odd coincidences but that's likely all it is. But Donovan's gunning for him after what happened in The Jubilee and I felt I had to look into it. But I know now he wasn't there when the girl on the pony was killed, which is as good as saying he had nothing to do with any of the murders.'
âAny
of the murders?' Brian echoed weakly.
âSorry, I keep forgetting you don't know the ins and outs of this. The same killer seems to have struck at least three times: the two girls in Castlemere and one in Dover. But one of them couldn't have been Davey which really means that none of them were. Coincidence.'
âSo what's the problem?'
âThere isn't one.' Then as an afterthought: âThe problem's Donovan. He's convinced Davey's doing something illegal, if not murder then perhaps drugs. There's no evidence. He sees that more as a challenge than the natural end to a line of inquiry.'
âHe's your sergeant,' Brian said reasonably, putting the tray in front of her, âtell him to drop it.'
âAnd if he doesn't?'
Brian shrugged. âI suppose, in the last resort, you get Frank Shapiro to slap him down.'
Liz scowled. âThat's what I'm trying to avoid. You said it: Donovan's my sergeant. If I need help to handle him, what credibility do I have left?'
âListen,' Brian said, âhe isn't a child. Kids in fourth form have no choice but go to school, whether they see the point or not. Them I expect a little trouble from. Teachers can leave tomorrow if they don't like what they're doing. The education system is not, nor should it be, geared to the needs and aspirations of teachers.
I'd have said the same was true of the police. Don't be afraid to read him the Riot Act. You know Frank'll back you.'
âI know that. That's why I'd rather not put either of them in that position. Donovan has his faults, God knows, but he's worthâ' She gave a little snort of laughter. âIt sounds silly, but he's worth nurturing. I want him on my side. I don't want to turn him into another time-server waiting for his pension and going by the book because that way nobody can blame you no matter what the outcome. He's a better copper than that. With all his failings, he does at least
care
about what he's doing. That's not so common I can afford to waste it.'
âCan you afford to have him playing by his own rules?'
She shook her head. She'd pulled out the pins that held her hair in its brisk no-nonsense pleat as she'd come through the door and it tossed on her shoulders in a corn-coloured riot. âI had a run-in with him this afternoon. By tomorrow, either he's ready to toe the line or he starts looking for someone else to work for.'
âThere's something going on there,' insisted Donovan when they met on Thursday morning. âI honest to God don't know what, but something. They do not behave like normal people.'
âOf course they don't,' said Liz, exasperated. âThey aren't normal people. They're a bunch of gypsies led by a man who thinks he has a mission from God. What standard do you judge them by?'
âAny standard you know will still leave them behaving like people with something to hide. I went over there last nightâ'
âDid you?' murmured Shapiro, with just enough emphasis to make Donovan stumble.
âEr â and that Geordie came down on me like a ton of bricks. And Brady said' â this time an elevated eyebrow was the extent of Shapiro's interruption â âthat he thought I was pulling a gun. Now you tell me: what kind of people is it that assume an inside pocket contains a gun? And what kind of company are they for a genuine missionary?'
âI imagine,' Liz said caustically, âthey were employed more for the strength of their arms than for any great religious conviction. Davey believes in God, Mills believes in him, and I imagine the rest of them believe that the labourer is worthy of his hire. That's a rough life they lead, living in a caravan parked mostly on waste ground. Look where we put them: begging your pardon, Donovan, but Broad Wharf is not the most salubrious part of town. They're probably used to the occasional trouble-maker, find it wise to jump him first and search his pockets afterwards. They didn't know you were a copper.'
âBrady did. If he did, why didn't Kelso?'
âMaybe they've better things to do of an evening than talk about you,' growled Liz.
Both of them, in the quiet of their own homes the previous evening, reviewing their last undignified exchange, had resolved
to strive harder for a calm professional relationship untroubled by the clash of their different, sometimes conflicting styles. They had decided that such an accommodation should pose no problem to two intelligent, adult people who, differences notwithstanding, shared a mutual respect for one another's abilities. Moreover, there were selfish reasons for them to make it work. Donovan thought his job might depend on it. Liz thought her credibility might.
Only minutes into the meeting in Shapiro's office Liz's resolution went out the window, and Donovan's went winging swiftly after it.
âAre you telling me,' he demanded, âthat nothing about this setup seems wrong to you? You can't smell it? You don't have a deep gut feeling that, evidence or no evidence, there's something going on here that we need to know about?'
âNo, I can't say that,' allowed Liz. âBut I also can't say what you just said â “evidence or no evidence”. People are entitled to be odd; it's only if we have reason to suspect them of crimes that we have a right to interfere. That means facts not feelings, and the fact is that Michael Davey didn't kill Alice Elton. As for your drug statistics â well, we all know what statistics are like. Jennifer Mills thought the same ones showed that crime had dropped in the wake of the crusade. Have you been on to Drugs Squad?'
He glowered. âThey thanked me for the suggestion, said they'd give it some thought.' There was a small chorus of nods and sniffs. All three of them knew what that meant.
Shapiro said, âThis man Kelso: do you want to do
him
for assault?' He was getting tired of asking Donovan this same question.
Again Donovan declined. âIf we haul him in, whatever it is they're up to they'll put it on ice. Let him run. I'd sooner get him for pushing drugs than for pushing me.'
Liz breathed heavily. âDrugs again. What drugs? This isn't hypothesis, it's sheer guesswork. Do you want to search their vehicles for drugs? Would that satisfy you?'
He shook his head. âIf they're well enough hid for Customs to miss them we wouldn't find them either. Not without turning them inside out, and we can't justify that. Not yet. What I'd like is to keep an eye on them. See where they go when they're not setting out chairs and hymn-sheets. See who they meet. If we can catch them with a known dealer, then we have reason to suspect. Then we take them apart.'
Shapiro nodded slowly. âSounds reasonable. Inspector?'
Liz agreed. âAfter last night, though, it might be better to put someone else on it. They all know Donovan's face now.'
Donovan got in fast, before Shapiro could concur. âSir, I live there. I can watch them without them knowing. I can move about without them getting suspicious. If you put someone else on them he'll only have the edge until they spot him and then they'll know we're interested. With me they can only wonder, and they won't even wonder unless I have to follow them somewhere they've no reason to be.'
Shapiro weighed it a moment longer then decided. âAll right, Sergeant, you take it. Two conditions. If you follow them off the wharf, let me know. And if you so much as suspect there's a deal going down, you call for back-up. If you're right about them and they spot you, you'll need more than your warrant card to fend them off.'
Liz didn't argue. âWhat do you want me to do?'
Shapiro gave her a weary smile. âI want you to catch the man who murdered Charlene Pierce and Alice Elton. I can't offer a single suggestion that might help you do it.'
She smiled too. âPerhaps I'll pay another visit to The Jubilee. They'll be a bit shaken after what happened to Ray Carver, perhaps they're ready to talk now. When we asked round after Charisma was killed it was like asking the walls if they'd seen anything. Perhaps if we try again someone'll remember seeing her with a customer that night.'
Shapiro wasn't hopeful. âHe met Alice, killed her and was away from the scene inside a very few minutes. Why would he hang around with Charisma long enough to be spotted?'
âProbably he didn't, in which case it's a wild goose chase. But it was dark, it's the sort of area where people mind their own business, perhaps he felt safe enough to talk to her for a little while. He probably made some sort of arrangement with her to get her into the alley. Or perhaps someone saw him before he met her. Yes, it's a long shot. I don't know what else to do.'
Shapiro shook his head lugubriously. âYou'll never make chief inspector this way.'
âRunning out of ideas?'
âAdmitting it.'
She grinned. âIf Special Branch call back while I'm out, will you talk to them? I've told them their information is incorrect, that Brady's alive and he's here, and asked for guidance as to whether
we should consider him a threat. If they knew, if they're helping him to disappear, the answer should be no.'
âIf they tell us the truth.'
âAnd if he isn't making fools of them. Oh no, whatever they say, I'd like to keep an eye on him. But if they genuinely believe he's dead, perhaps we should haul him in and ask him why he's not.'
âAnd tell him that Donovan told us about Brady jumping him on his boat? I don't know, Liz. I'm not sure Donovan isn't right â that the best thing we can do for the moment is wait and watch. If he is up to something, almost the best thing we have at the moment is that he thinks he's safe.'
It made sense. She nodded. âFair enough.' She went out, closing the door behind her.
Donovan hurried after her. âMa'am?'
âYes?'
He stood awkwardly in the corridor as if he had more limbs than he knew what to do with. His eyes were low. âAbout last night. I'm sorry. I was out of line.'
She watched him for a minute, then said coolly, âYes, you were.' She seemed about to walk on when a thought hit her. âHow long did you wait for me?'
He looked up quickly to see if she'd forgiven him sufficiently to joke about it. But her face was straight and he couldn't tell. âAbout an hour and a half,' he mumbled.
Liz said nothing more but departed, chuckling.
Â
She was right about one thing: the mood in The Jubilee. When she was here before, after Charisma died, nobody wanted to talk to her. Time and again as she worked round the Pierces' neighbours her knock at a door elicited only a fractional movement at an upstairs window. Seeing the uniform the householder then kept his or her head down until by repeated hammering Liz made it clear that she wasn't leaving. When she finally got someone to answer it was never worth the effort. They listened stony-faced, their eyes giving nothing away, and when asked what they had seen or heard the answer was always nothing.
They weren't afraid, not then. They didn't even seem to be protecting anyone. It was just that they had made a lifetime habit of not co-operating with the police and didn't see the murder of a working girl, even a local one, as reason enough to change. Working girls getting their throats cut was like rent-collectors getting mugged and sub-postmasters getting held up on pension
day: a fact of life. Nothing in the faces of those she spoke to suggested that they found it intolerable.
That was on Sunday. It was now Thursday. In the meantime a young girl had been murdered in a public park, a young man had been run down and burned by a mob under their very windows, and the whole town was in a state of hysteria. The normal trickle of everyday comings and goings had dried up. People moved around in groups or not at all. Castlemere's children might have followed Hamelin's into a hole in the ground. Many of them were being kept off school, others were being delivered and collected in gangs surrounded by watchful adults.
When the children were safe inside some of the adults turned vigilante, pacing the streets in tight-lipped knots, peering intently at the faces of anyone they met, even other vigilantes. As if they might see the mark of Cain on the face of the murderer. As if they would know what to do if they did. Others sought the solace of religion. They didn't blame Michael Davey for the episode that put Ray Carver in the burns unit of Castlemere General.
Or perhaps they did, and in some way they could not have explained took it as proof that this man at least cared enough about their plight to try and do something. The police said Carver was innocent; if so it was all very unfortunate. On the other hand, perhaps Reverend Davey knew better than the police. One thing was sure: people could die waiting for an arrest.
But one consequence of all the dirty water that had rushed under the bridges since Sunday was that the second time Liz went door-stepping in The Jubilee people were ready to talk to her. They still checked from their upstairs windows, but now seeing police outside they hurried to open the door.
It speeded the process, made it less frustrating, but in fact nothing helpful ensued. Assorted witnesses had seen one another and, a little before one o'clock on Saturday morning, Charisma herself. None of them had seen a strange man.
Liz stayed with the house-to-house until there seemed to be no more mileage left in it, then she sent the team back to Queen's Street. She didn't follow at once. She needed a new line of thought on this, and she'd already had everything Shapiro had to offer. She was no distance from
Tara;
a walk along the tow-path was a good way to clear her head; and if Donovan, watching for suspicious activities, happened to see her and ask her aboard, or join her in her stroll, she was not too proud to pick his fertile mind.
In the event she did not see Donovan, though he probably saw
her. Indeed, he wasn't keeping much of a watch if he did not. For as soon as she emerged on to Broad Wharf a deep musical voice hailed her and Michael Davey came towards her, propelling himself with purposeful thrusts of his powerful arms.
The white suit was for business. Off duty he dressed like any other middle-aged man with a lawn to mow or a car to wash, in jeans and a rugby shirt in the Welsh colours. On his feet he wore trainers. Because they hardly touched the ground they stayed cleaner than most people's trainers. However, the wheels of his chair were filthy and a bearing needed oiling.
âMrs Graham. Were you looking for me?'
She shook her head. âNot this time.'
Unconsciously or by design his face fell. âOh. Dammo.'
Liz smiled. âNothing personal. I just felt like a walk. We don't have any parks in the middle of town, just the canals.'
âFunny things, canals. We think of them as the next best thing to nature, a piece of countryside sneaking into town. But actually they're industrial engineering on a grand scale. Every cubic foot of water in them represents a foot of earth taken out by a man with a spade and a barrow.'
âYou should talk to my sergeant, he's a canal buff.' She stopped just short of telling him, or reminding him if he already knew, that Donovan lived on the wharf. Careful, girl, she thought: you liking the man doesn't mean Donovan's wrong.
Davey laughed. Two young men fishing turned their heads at the echoing sound. Michael Davey had spent too many years projecting his voice and personality into the furthest reaches of a tent to hold discreet conversations now. âI've spent more hours by canals than the average bargee. Don't know why but as soon as a local authority sees an application to erect a marquee they ask themselves where the nearest canal is. They must think the water'll come in handy for baptisms.'