The Hireling's Tale (8 page)

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Authors: Jo Bannister

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BOOK: The Hireling's Tale
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Liz didn’t know how to put this without upsetting them further. ‘We can do a better job of protecting you if we keep you all together.’
Iris Kendall wasn’t a stupid woman. The import of that sank through her eyes. ‘You mean, the children could be used against us?’ The pitch of her voice rose in fear and horror.
‘We’ll prevent that happening,’ Liz said, with as much conviction as she could muster. ‘But I don’t want to make the mistake of underestimating this man.’
While they were packing Superintendent Giles said, ‘Will you stay with them?’
Liz shook her head. ‘I can’t, sir, there’s too much to do. I’ll leave Morgan and, if you can spare her, WPC Wilson. They’re a couple of cool heads.’
‘Neither of them is an Authorized Firearms Officer.’
‘I doubt we can stop this man with guns, sir. Our best chance is to out-think him. If he finds Kendall, filling the house with Coldstream Guards won’t save him.’
Giles nodded. ‘All right. Er—’ He hesitated.
Liz smiled. ‘I know: you’ve been on to Division and they’re going to send someone to take over. I’ve been expecting it. You hadn’t much option: it’s too big a mess to leave to a DI. We’ll give him all the help we can.’
Giles looked relieved; more than that, he looked impressed. ‘It’s a real pleasure working with professionals.’
‘There is that,’ she said; and added a little impishly, ‘Plus, if it all goes pear-shaped, it’ll be on someone else’s record. Do you know who they’re sending?’
‘Hm. Detective Superintendent Hilton.’
It was the ‘Hm’ that alerted her, that made her search her memory. ‘Oh yes. Little chap - well, for a policeman. Little moustache. Takes himself a bit seriously.’
Giles nodded. ‘Do you know what his people call him - his own team, the people he’s worked with for years? Not to his face, I mean, but when they’re talking about him?’
Liz thought then shook her head. ‘Hitler’ came to mind, but if they did she didn’t think Giles would be telling her. ‘No.’
‘They call him Sir,’ said Superintendent Giles
quietly, and with that simple, accurate and perfectly inoffensive sentence conveyed everything that Liz needed to know.
 
 
Another hour passed and still no one came near Donovan. He didn’t know what to do. He was wasting time, and time was of the essence. They had a dead prostitute and a missing one to worry about. They had a dosser in the morgue, a Detective Superintendent in surgery and a local businessman in hiding. They had not one but two killers currently at large in Castlemere - unless whoever was responsible for the girl’s death had already left, in which case the chances of making him amenable were already small and diminishing by the hour. On top of all that, they had someone on his way over from Head Office to mind the shop. The last thing Donovan had time for was kicking his heels in a hospital waiting area in case sometime someone felt a sudden urge to tell him what was happening.
And yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Clearly DI Graham had felt the same way. She needed him at Queen’s Street, but she wanted him here. If Shapiro was going to die, he shouldn’t have to do it surrounded only by strangers in masks. One of the two of them should be here for him.
So should his family. With all that was going on, it seemed likely that no one had thought to call them - none of them lived locally any more, the closest was probably his ex-wife who now lived in Bedford. He was about to call Sergeant Bolsover to organize it
when a woman he recognized only from the photograph on Shapiro’s windowsill came through the swing doors from reception and stood looking round as if she wasn’t sure what to do next.
She was older than in the photograph, of course - ten years older. It was taken in Jerusalem, on the last family holiday before the Shapiros first started taking separate holidays and then living in separate houses. It wasn’t, of course, the holiday that split them up. But it had been a mistake to try to push five people who’d been growing steadily apart back into close proximity in what was after all a foreign land. It was something they’d all looked forward to, and it had been a disaster. The strain was already showing in the photograph in Shapiro’s office. David had taken it. Shapiro looked as if he was telling him how to do it - though David had gone on to make photography his career and his father’s excursions into the medium were marked by thumbs and left-on lens caps. Angela looked as if she wanted to bang their heads together. Rachael and Sally looked as if they wished they were somewhere else - better still, two somewhere-elses.
And ten years later Angela Shapiro was again somewhere she didn’t want to be, in a hospital in a town where she used to live, looking for news of a man she’d given up trying to live with but still cared for enough to rush to his side when he was hurt.
She’d never met Donovan, had no way of recognizing him. He took a deep breath and went over to her. In the second before he opened his mouth
to introduce himself he remembered that his shirt was decorated with her husband’s blood. He stammered, ‘Er - Mrs Shapiro? I’m the chief’s - I’m with … I’m Donovan.’
She looked at him in some puzzlement. ‘Yes? You, er’ – she nodded at his shirt – ‘were operating on Mr Shapiro?’
He laughed. He always laughed at inappropriate times. ‘Jesus, it looks like it, doesn’t it? No. Detective Sergeant Donovan: I work for your husband.’ He wondered for a second if he should amend that; but ‘ex-husband’ sounded too much as if the man had died already.
Angela Shapiro was still staring at his shirt. ‘You were with him when it happened?’
‘Yes.’ He didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t coat weather, he had nothing he could button up to hide the blood. In desperation, yet with a kind of panache, he whipped off the offending garment - standing momently bare-chested in the middle of the waiting area - and pulled the sleeves through before putting it on again inside out. It was an improvement, just; mostly, it was a distraction.
Mrs Shapiro blinked. ‘Frank’s told me about you. I believe the expression he used was, Full of surprises.’
‘Yeah? One of my better weeks, obviously.’
It seemed to strike both of them at the same moment that they weren’t here for this. Angela said, ‘How is he?’ and Donovan said, ‘There’s nothing much I can tell you …’ in about the same breath.
Angela smiled wanly. ‘You first.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ said Donovan plaintively. ‘I’ve been here a couple of hours now and nobody’s been anywhere near me. My inspector insists that’s a good sign. Me, I’d rather know what’s happening.’
As if he’d said the magic words, a door opened and another man in those ubiquitous green pyjamas emerged, wiping his glasses on a corner of his smock. ‘Detective Sergeant Donovan?’
‘Yes! This is Mrs Shapiro.’
Glen Turner replaced his glasses and then blinked, wondering if the policeman knew he had his shirt on inside out. He decided it was none of his business. ‘Well, the superintendent. It’s too soon to say he’s out of the woods, but he coped well with the surgery, he’s stable and his vital signs are encouraging. He lost a lot of blood, but we sorted that out as soon as we got him into theatre. In fact, for a man who’s been shot in the back he’s not in bad shape. He’ll be waking up before long; you can probably talk to him this evening.
‘As to the injury itself, well, it’s nasty enough. But it could have been worse. The bullet glanced off the side of his spine, there’s some damage to the bony structures there and the plumbing to his right kidney’s been disrupted. It’ll be a few days before we know if that’s going to mend or if he’d be better off without it. Of course, if we have to remove it he’ll manage perfectly well on one.’
He looked between them with a sombre smile. ‘You want to know if he’ll be able to walk. The simple answer is, it’s too soon to tell. When he wakes up he’s
probably not going to have much feeling below the waist, but there’s a chance that’ll pass. What happens is that the tissues around the injury swell, and that can cut off the messages travelling up the spinal cord. But if the cord itself isn’t damaged, sensation will return when the swelling goes down.
‘We can’t be sure from the X-rays that that’s what’s happened. But there’s no obvious damage to the vertebrae that would mean the cord itself had to be involved. You see what I’m saying? - I can’t swear that the central nervous system isn’t compromised, but if it was I’d expect to be able to see where. There’s a good chance that a bit of time and physiotherapy will get him on his feet again.
‘But I know, what you want from me is a promise, and it wouldn’t be fair to any of us to make it. We have to wait and see.’
‘How long?’ asked Angela faintly.
Mr Turner shook his head apologetically. ‘Even that’s more than I know right now.’
Liz collected the Kendall children from school and took them to the safe house in Northampton. Castlemere didn’t have one of its own: it wasn’t big enough and there’d never been the need before. Besides, it made sense to get the family out of town. It wouldn’t make their pursuer throw up his hands in despair and go home, but it would make his job harder. Unless and until Liz could find out what this was all about and stop it at source, buying time was not only the best option, it was the only one.
She fetched the children herself because she didn’t want more people than necessary to know where the Kendalls were. Not because there were those at Queen’s Street whose discretion couldn’t be trusted, but because this man would go through anyone to get at Kendall and the fewer who knew, the fewer were in danger from him. For the same reason she stopped Iris Kendall giving the address or even the phone number to her mother. ‘We’ll keep an eye on her, but the best protection is that she doesn’t know anything.’
Now he’d got over the shock of seeing a man dropped by a bullet meant for him, Philip Kendall
was coping well. He understood the need for absolute discretion, didn’t think he could continue going to work through the crisis. He used Liz’s mobile to phone his secretary and put his appointments on hold. He didn’t offer much of an explanation, but there wasn’t much need. Anyone with a television would know exactly why he was keeping his head down as soon as the evening news went out.
‘Feeling any better?’ asked Liz when Mrs Kendall took the children upstairs to work out the sleeping arrangements.
Kendall made a non-committal rocking movement with his hand. ‘I’m not sure how I feel. I’ve never seen anyone shot before. Is there any news - is he going to be all right?’
Liz could only shrug. ‘Nothing yet. But that means he’s still hanging in there. Take it from me: he’s tougher than he looks.’
‘But it’s my fault, isn’t it? That other man, and now Superintendent Shapiro - it’s my fault they were shot. I don’t know why, I don’t think it’s anything I’ve done, but they were shot because of me.’
Liz shook her head. ‘They were shot because someone with a lot of money and no conscience decided murder was the answer to a problem he had. You can blame the gunman, you can blame the man who sent him, but I honestly don’t see how you can blame yourself.’
He smiled gratefully. He had noticeably bright-blue eyes that he’d passed on to both his children. Her first thought when the school principal gave
them into her keeping was, No blaming these on the milkman! ‘I appreciate everything you’re doing for us,’ he said. ‘I only wish I could offer a proper explanation.’
‘You still can’t think who’s behind this?’
‘I’ve no idea. But look.’ He produced a dog-eared copy of the same list of delegates she’d already seen. This one had notes jotted on it. ‘I’ve been going through my diary. The names I’ve underlined are foreign clients that I’ve visited in their own cities in the last four months. The dates are beside them. I’ve also put down the sort of business each is in. Those marked with asterisks are in what you might call sensitive areas, either in terms of what they do or where they are. Don’t take that as a suggestion that I know or suspect anything discreditable about any of them: I don’t. But if we’re into speculation, and we start by assuming that the man behind this is more likely to be an ex-Warsaw Pact arms manufacturer than a Swedish bicycle magnate, the asterisks are the arms manufacturers.’
Liz took the list with an appreciative nod. ‘I’ll get someone with a knowledge of international affairs to look at this. Maybe one of the names will ring a bell. In the meantime, I know it’s not much comfort but we’ll be doing everything we can think of to keep you and your family safe. Don’t go outside. Don’t use the phone - if you need to contact someone, Detective Constable Morgan will do it for you, untraceably. Try not to worry. This could all finish as quickly as it started.’
‘You’re very kind, Inspector.’ There was something
vastly attractive about those blue eyes. Liz had to remind herself that Brian had things going for him too: one, that he was her husband, and two, he’d probably still be alive at the end of the week. ‘You’re all putting yourselves at risk to protect us, and I can’t even tell you who we need protecting from. You will let me know if there’s any news about Superintendent Shapiro?’
‘Of course. Now, I’d better get back. Is there anything more you’re likely to need from home?’
Kendall shook his head. ‘I think we’ve got everything - right down to the kids’ favourite toys.’ They were spilling out of a hold-all on the sofa: electronic games, a plush kangaroo, a straw donkey, a racing car half-metamorphosed into a robot. He saw her expression and gave a shame-faced grin. ‘I take it you don’t have children, Inspector Graham. If you had you’d know that there’s nothing in the entire house as important to our peace of mind as having the right toy -
this
week’s right toy, not last week’s! If we’d brought the camel instead of the kangaroo, by the end of a week we’d be ready to take our chances with the gunman.’
 
 
Liz had some difficulty finding a financial expert. In view of the fact that more crimes are committed for money than any other motive, there are surprisingly few police officers who are thoroughly at home with the genre. Someone at Divisional HQ suggested a DI Colwyn and she left a message for him to call her. But by close of play on Tuesday she still hadn’t heard
from him. Tomorrow she’d have to try someone else. Maybe Scotland Yard could come up with a name.
Meanwhile there was still the poor girl from the boat. A day and a half had passed since she was found, and Liz was no closer to knowing who she was or who killed her. He was probably on Kendall’s list, but so were almost fifty others. He wouldn’t have to be particularly rich or particularly powerful, but if he’d thought sufficiently far ahead to meet her in someone else’s room he was particularly clever and he’d have covered his tracks with the same aplomb.
As evidenced by how he disposed of the girl’s clothes and the bloodied sheets off Mrs Atwood’s bed. Sergeant Tripp, who was also quite astute, found them at the bottom of the linen cupboard down the hall. Despite everything the killer had had the presence of mind to fold them neatly, with nothing untoward showing, and conceal them under a stack of identical sheets.
Sooner or later, if SOCO hadn’t found them first, the housekeeper would have got a nasty shock, but by then the man would have been safely home. Replacing the bloody linens with a clean set bought him some time. Even if the body had been found earlier, no one would have looked for evidence in Grace Atwood’s room if Mrs Atwood herself was unaware of anything amiss.
At three o‘clock the phone rang. It was Donovan. ‘Update on the chief.’
Liz steeled herself. ‘Go on.’
‘Without staking his pension on it, the surgeon
reckons he’s out of danger. He just might lose a kidney, they’re going to wait and see. There’s some paralysis but it may not be permanent. It’ll be a while before they can be sure.’
‘But we’re not going to lose him.’
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
For a minute she just breathed. Right now that was all that mattered. Later she’d start worrying how good a recovery Shapiro would make, how mobile he was going to be, whether he’d get back to work or if he’d have to take that early retirement he’d managed to fend off so far. At fifty-six he had another four years in the job - if he wanted, and if he was fit to do them. After a shave as close as this one, he might be ready to call it a day.
But that could wait. He could take his decision in the light of his recovery over the next weeks. Right now Liz was too relieved that his life was out of danger to worry that he might be in a wheelchair and she might have to break in a new superior.
Donovan was speaking again. ‘His wife’s here.’
‘Mr Giles called her. I’m afraid I didn’t think of it.’
‘I thought I’d take her over to the chiefs house. He had his keys on him, so I can let her in. Then I’ll go home and get cleaned up. I’ll see you in about an hour.’
 
 
Donovan got a taxi to take them back into town. He didn’t have it wait: from Shapiro’s little stone house in Castle Mews it was only a ten-minute walk to
Mere Basin and up Broad Wharf to where
Tara
was moored.
He found the key on Shapiro’s ring and opened the door. Angela Shapiro stood in the hall, looking round her as if she’d never been there before. Donovan said awkwardly, ‘I think there’s a spare bedroom on the left, at the top of the stairs.’
She smiled at him. At fifty she was still a notably attractive woman. Too damned attractive, people had said, to be snared by the man she married: a wry twenty-six-year-old Detective Sergeant built like a brick privy, with a crumpled face and an odd way of looking at things. It was by no means certain then that this last feature would help him to a good career in CID. It might equally well have led to his being labelled a maverick, someone who didn’t do things the establishment way. Someone who got results his own way often enough that the job he had was safe but it was as high as he’d ever go. Someone like Donovan, in fact. Angela became Mrs Frank Shapiro knowing he might be a DS to the end of his career.
And left him when he was a Chief Inspector. Where was the sense in that? Only that they’d been in love when they were younger and somehow, between the work and the hours, that love had shrunk first to a simple fondness, then to indifference, finally to irritation. They had different priorities. Angela grew tired of the things that mattered to her, that mattered to the family, always having to play second fiddle to the victims and criminals who seemed to matter to him more.
‘Can I make you some tea?’ she asked. ‘Or at least find you a clean shirt?’
Donovan shook his head abruptly, startled out of a kind of reverie of contemplation. Of course, he was tired. ‘I’m only a step from home. I’ll get over there and get cleaned up. Is there anything you need?’
‘I don’t expect so. If there is I can pop down to the shops. I lived in this town for three years, you know, I still remember my way round.’
He left his number anyway. ‘We’ll be at Queen’s Street till late, but call me anytime if there’s any problems.’ It wasn’t grammatical but it was kindly meant.
There was a way in which this dour, awkward man reminded her of her son. It wasn’t physical. They were both dark, but where David was small and compact, Donovan was long and thin as string. So it went deeper than that. It was something in the eyes, in the way they looked at the world - wary, intense, committed, like explorers in an alien environment. She’d long suspected that David was a changeling, a fairy child left to be raised by humans and somehow - change of policy or a new filing system at Fairy HQ – never collected. Perhaps the same administrative cock-up had abandoned DS Donovan in a world for which his genes, his racial memory, did not prepare him.
‘I’ll phone the hospital later. When Frank’s awake I’ll go in and see him. I’ll let you know how he is.’
Donovan nodded and left. Attracting strange looks as he crossed Castle Place, he remembered he was still wearing his shirt inside out.
 
*
 
‘You were right about the visiting fireman,’ said Liz when he got in about four o’clock. ‘The Son of God knows him; I’ve met him a time or two. Detective Superintendent Hilton. He’ll be here tomorrow morning.’
Donovan’s eyes widened in recognition. ‘Hilton? I had him when I was a DC in Kilburn. He hates me!’
‘It’s not just you he hates,’ said Liz comfortingly. ‘General consensus is, he hates the whole human race.’ She gave it a little more thought. ‘Still, knowing him, and knowing you, it is possible he hates you more than most. What can I say? - keep out of his way as much as you can.’
‘How am I supposed to do that?’ demanded Donovan indignantly. ‘I think he’ll notice if I hide in the bog every time he calls a briefing.’
They turned on the television for the six o’clock news. As expected, the shooting of a Detective Superintendent while protecting a Castlemere businessman headed the run-list. The item had Shapiro’s photograph and another of Kendall’s house. Liz had agonized with Superintendent Giles over how much detail they should give out with the press release, but they needn’t have bothered. The reporters had got hold of everything they left out anyway. It didn’t matter. The mechanic obviously knew who his target was so there was no point making a great secret of it. As long as nobody knew where he was, and so far even the BBC had failed to discover that.
‘I wonder if Frank was watching,’ said Liz
pensively. ‘He’d have liked that bit about “brave and self-sacrificing”.’
‘He’d have liked the bit about “swift and agile” even better,’ said Donovan with a grin.
The girl in the boat got a one-line mention, mostly because of the curiosity of another serious crime in the same small town in the same brief space of time. Wicksy didn’t get even that.
A little after eight WPC Flynn rang up from the switchboard. ‘I’ve got a caller wanting to talk to someone about Mr Shapiro. She won’t give her name. She sounds drunk to me. I think it’s probably a crank, but I thought you’d want to talk to her anyway.’

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