‘He’s poor. He told you so. He keeps chickens in order to eat. I suspect that was why he decided not to kill one for the prank. It was probably his food for the next week.’
‘So you think he has stolen something in order to stay solvent?’
‘Has stolen or is stealing. The chance of being convicted of a single crime is worrisome, but would not, I think, cause the kind of panic we witnessed. I believe his activity is ongoing.’
‘But what could he steal that would provide him any significant amount of money? Students don’t keep valuable jewellery in their rooms, or great wads of cash. Electronics are worth something, I suppose, but if lots of thefts had been happening, Elaine would know about them, and she hasn’t mentioned anything of the kind.’
‘No. But there is something else that brings in a lot of money, and is highly illegal.’
‘Drugs. But Alan, think! If Mahala were dealing in drugs, he’d have some signs of prosperity. Maybe not fancy rings and chains and that sort of thing, like American street gangs, but a nice place to live, or at least money to buy food so he didn’t have to keep chickens. Elaine can look into his lifestyle, of course, but to me it doesn’t look like that of a dealer. And he certainly isn’t a user. Even I can spot the signs, and you would have picked up on it in a minute.’
‘Maybe he’s sending money home to Burkina Faso.’
‘To whom? He has no family there anymore. I suppose he could send some to his mother in Nigeria, but she’s working and may not need it. He didn’t say much about his sisters, but from the way he didn’t say it, he plainly thinks they are either dead or forced into prostitution. Father Ron wouldn’t take the money if he had any idea it was drug money. And he’d know, Alan. He knows Mahala hasn’t any way to make honest money – not yet, until he gets his degree.’
‘You’ve come around to his side, haven’t you, love? It was bound to happen sooner or later. You are a great collector of strays.’
‘I feel sorry for underdogs,’ I said defensively. ‘That’s the English in me coming out.’
‘All right. Touché. You will, I trust, not forget that an unfortunate background, dire poverty, unpopularity, all the rest, do not necessarily make a person trustworthy. Often quite the reverse, in fact.’
‘Point taken. Neither does a love for animals. We’re told Hitler loved his dog. But, Alan, you have to admit I’m often right about people, and something about Mahala tells me he’s not a criminal at heart. Yes, he’s rude and arrogant and defensive and difficult, and he has a quick temper, but I admire what he’s trying to do, against fearsome odds. And I’m always impressed by intelligence, which that young man has in abundance. I know he’s up to something. But whatever it is, I’ll bet it’s for a good reason.’
In which opinion, as it turned out, I was both right and disastrously wrong.
We talked for another hour or so, going round in circles and, as one might expect, getting nowhere. I slept badly, waking now and then from disturbing dreams, none of which I could remember in the morning. I woke late, with the headache I deserved after all the bourbon I’d put away, and no idea what to do next.
Alan had slept late, too, unusually for him, and was just getting out of the shower when I staggered out of bed. He filled the kettle and turned it on. I took my turn in the bathroom. Neither of us said anything coherent until we’d had a few sips of coffee. Then I muttered, ‘We’re stuck, aren’t we?’
Alan shrugged and grunted.
My phone rang, making me jump. ‘I’ve got to change that ringtone!’ I pawed through my purse and finally found the dratted thing just as the clamour stopped. The number displayed was unfamiliar, but it probably wasn’t a telemarketer. Too early in the day, and the phone number was too new for anybody much to have it. I poked the appropriate spots and got an immediate response.
‘Dorothy? Thank God! I tried to call Alan and got no answer.’ It was Elaine, and she sounded almost hysterical.
‘Elaine, what is it?’
She was talking over my words. ‘Can you come here right away? Both of you?’
‘Yes, but where are you? And what’s happened?’
‘The police station. I got – oh, I have to go.’ She rang off.
I probably looked as confused as I felt. ‘That was Elaine,’ I told Alan. ‘She’s beside herself, not making a lot of sense. She wants us at the police station ASAP. I think something awful’s happened. Oh, Alan, maybe they’ve found Tom …’ I couldn’t complete the thought.
‘No point in speculating, darling. The quicker you get dressed the quicker we can get there.’
I threw on the first clothes that came to hand, added a sweater that didn’t match, and we were off.
Alan was quite right, of course. Speculation was futile. That didn’t keep me from dreaming up one horrible scenario after another as we drove to the station. We hotfooted it to Elaine’s office, to find her in the midst of a meeting, firing rapid orders to her subordinates. Alan made sure she saw that we were there and then stood out of the way as men and women hurried away, presumably to do her bidding.
She stood looking blankly at us.
‘You asked us to come,’ said Alan gently.
She shook herself. ‘Yes. This just came in the post.’
She held out a box, about six inches long by a couple of inches wide, the sort with a hinged lid that they used to use for fancy pen-and-pencil sets. Alan opened it, took one look, and closed the box again, swearing quietly.
He never swears. ‘What?’ I asked urgently, reaching for the box.
He handed it back to Elaine. ‘Was there a note? Any other communication?’
‘A text. To my personal mobile, not here to the station.’
‘A ransom demand?’
‘Not exactly. It simply said “STOP LOOKING”.’
‘Alan. Elaine. What is going on? What’s in the box?’
Alan turned to me, his face bleak. ‘The box contains a human finger, Dorothy.’
TWENTY-TWO
I was overcome with such a rush of nausea and disgust and fear and sympathy for Elaine that I didn’t hear Alan’s next few words. When I could pay attention again, Elaine was saying, ‘I don’t know. There’s nothing distinctive about it. A little finger, probably left hand, certainly from a young person. They’ll take it away and print it, and try to match it with prints in his room, but if they don’t find a match, it needn’t mean anything one way or another.’ Her voice, her whole being, was under severe control. I wanted to give her a hug, offer sympathy and reassurance, but I knew that was the last thing she wanted or needed just then.
She went on. ‘The investigation is under way. I don’t know why I called you here. My people are doing all that can be done. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
‘I understand,’ said Alan in a strictly-business voice. ‘We’ll leave you to it. You’ll let us know?’
She nodded. Alan steered me out the door.
‘Alan, that poor woman!’ I said as soon as we were out of earshot.
‘Yes. She’ll be going through hell just now.’
‘I wonder if she’s told his parents yet.’
‘Probably. It’s the first thing I would have done, in similar circumstances. One of the damnable chores that go with the job, like notifying the next of kin of a murder victim.’
‘Do you think it means Tom has been killed?’
Alan shook his head impatiently. ‘Speculating again, Dorothy. They don’t even know for sure that the finger is his. Fingerprinting it may decide that.’
‘But, as Elaine said, if there isn’t a match, it could just mean that he never touched anything in his room with that particular finger. Your left little finger isn’t one of the ones you use a lot.’
‘No.’ We moved on out of the building to our car.
‘Is it speculating to wonder what the note means?’ I asked as I belted myself in.
Alan permitted himself a tiny smile. ‘No, that comes under the heading of deduction. One has to
make guesses of that sort.’
‘Well, then?’
‘The obvious inference is that it means either “stop looking for Tom” or “stop investigating the St Stephen’s mysteries”.’
‘Or both.’
‘Indeed.’ Alan braked sharply to avoid a cyclist who had appeared out of a blind drive, and I was silent while he negotiated the Cambridge morning traffic.
He parked the car in the multistorey garage he’d found not too far from St Stephen’s, and we sat there for a minute or two, not sure where to go or what to do. There seemed to be nothing we could do to help, and yet inaction was just not possible.
‘Breakfast?’ asked Alan finally.
I shuddered. ‘I couldn’t possibly eat anything. I wouldn’t mind a cup of decent coffee, though. It might help my headache.’
‘Right.’ We headed for the market.
It was another gorgeous day. The market thronged with tourists browsing for presents from Cambridge, students pursuing bargains in T-shirts and snacks, housewives shopping for supper. The scene was colourful, noisy and full of life. It seemed all wrong, when somewhere Tom Grenfell was in terrible trouble, or dead.
‘Life goes on, love.’
‘I know. It’s heartless.’
‘Or hopeful. No matter what happens, the ordinary business of life keeps marching along, providing a counterweight to doom and gloom.’
‘I suppose.’ I wasn’t convinced, but I was a little comforted.
We found the little café where Elaine and I had become acquainted, and ordered coffee. The smell of baked goodies was overwhelming. My stomach rumbled, but I thought of a severed finger and had no desire to eat.
We didn’t talk. I was content to let the sounds of Cambridge swirl around me while caffeine ratcheted my brain up to full speed. Alan had that faraway look that meant he, too, was thinking furiously.
When we’d finished our coffee, he stood. ‘Mahala?’ he said. It wasn’t really a question.
I nodded. ‘Elaine’s probably already sent someone to talk to him, though. He’s our only lead.’
‘Even so, she won’t mind having us ask a few questions ourselves. He might talk to you, when he wouldn’t to anyone else.’
I shrugged and made my way through the maze of tables and chairs to the door.
‘Right. Will he be at home or working at the Hutchins Building?’
‘Oh, working, definiely. He’s a workaholic. Anyway, he has no friends except those miserable rats. He’ll be with them.’
But he wasn’t. We went into the building and made our way up to the rat dormitory. A young woman was tending them, replacing water bottles, giving them fresh food and bedding.
‘No, I haven’t seen Mahala. He’s always here. It’s very odd. Three of the females are due to have their babies any day now; he should be here.’ She sounded surprised, but not terribly interested. Well, of course, she didn’t like Mahala. Nobody did.
Alan handed her a card. ‘Phone me if he turns up, please. It’s very important.’
She glanced at the card, one of his ‘civilian’ ones, and pocketed it. ‘You could try the zoology lab downstairs. He works there sometimes, though not usually at this time of day.’
‘Will you be here looking after the rats?’
‘No fear! I can’t stand rats. I mostly feed the guinea pigs, but they sent me here because somebody needed to do it.’ Her resentment sounded loud and clear. I doubted very much if she’d pass Alan’s message along to Mahala.
We did a quick scan of the building, knocking on locked doors and interrupting students at work. We created a fair amount of irritation, but we didn’t find Mahala.
Alan had Mahala’s address – the right one this time, we hoped – but he had to ask the porter how to get there. It seemed the boy lived on the very edge of town.
Once we got away from the city centre, driving was easier, and Alan had no trouble finding the address. It was a seedy house in a seedy neighbourhood, but it did at least look inhabited. ‘I’m coming with you,’ I said firmly as Alan unbuckled his seat belt.
‘Of course. You have a rapport with him.’
The door was answered by a very large young black man with a scowl on his face. He said nothing, just stood filling the doorway.
‘Good morning,’ I said brightly. ‘I’m a friend of Mahala’s. Is he at home?’
‘No.’
The man started to close the door.
‘Wait! I really need to talk to him. Where can I find him?’
‘Don’t know.’ The door was closing further.
‘Just a moment, sir.’ Alan’s voice had become very official. ‘It is important that we find him as soon as possible. Do you have any idea where he might be? Or would it be possible to look in his room? He might have left a diary that would give us a place to start.’
‘This is my house. I do not know you. I do not know where he is, nor do I care.’
This time the door closed firmly, and we heard the snick of a lock.
‘So Mahala’s missing, too. Alan, this is getting really frightening!’
But Alan had pulled out his phone and was speaking into it in an undertone. ‘Yes, we’ll stay here until your people come. Yes. I don’t think so, but certainly not cooperative. Yes.’ He ended the call.
‘Elaine?’
Alan nodded. ‘She’s sending someone immediately. I don’t have the authority to detain this chap and require him to answer some questions. She does.’
‘But will she? I know I’d like to see him questioned by someone in authority, but he’s done nothing wrong, really – not that we know of. She didn’t detain Mahala. What’s the difference?’
‘The difference, though I hate to remind you, is a severed finger. The stakes are higher now. And until her people get here, we want to make sure this chap doesn’t disappear, too. Do you have your little notebook in your bag?’
I almost always carry a small spiral-bound pad with me. I rummaged, found it and pulled it out. ‘Do you want me to make a note about something?’
‘No, if you’re willing to sacrifice it, I thought it would make an effective wedge.’
He lifted his eyebrows and I nodded. He folded the thing in half, bending the spiral coil out of all usefulness, and wedged it under the front door. ‘There. That’ll do to secure this one while we walk around the house to see if there’s another door.’
‘Brilliant!’
‘Also illegal. Fire code. One may not obstruct an exit. However, it’s only for a minute or two.’
The conversation had been conducted in a near whisper, and our progress around the house was as quiet as we could manage. I had little doubt that Mahala’s unpleasant housemate was watching every move we made, and I was extremely glad to have my stalwart husband by my side.
The back door gave on into a little porch or shed which was cluttered with discarded furniture and broken gardening implements, rags and old newspapers, and other detritus. ‘No way out there,’ I said.
‘Not without earth-moving equipment,’ Alan agreed.
There was a small, shabby little hut at the back of the property, with a wire netting fence around it. ‘The chickens?’
Alan nodded. ‘I’ll just check.’ He poked his head in the door. ‘Nesting boxes, no chickens. The fox must have got the rest. No Mahala, either.’
I shook my head in frustration. We moved to a place where we could watch the front door without being in full view of the windows and waited for the police to arrive. The occupant made no attempt to leave, or none that we could see. ‘That wedge wouldn’t hold very long if he really wanted to get out,’ I said. ‘He’s huge, and powerful, I should think.’
‘No, but it would take him a moment or two, and I hope I’d be able to hold the door.’
‘With my help.’
‘No, my dear, definitely not with your help. You’ve already been injured in the course of this frustrating investigation. I’m not going to allow you to be pitted against that Incredible Hulk in
there.’
Well, we’d see about that, I thought. But there was no point in arguing.
We didn’t have long to wait. Two police cars pulled up a few minutes later and uniformed officers piled out of one. From the other came two plain-clothes men and Elaine. She looked more formidable than any of the others.
‘Still there?’ she queried us.
Alan said, ‘Yes.’ I knew better than to say anything at all. This was no time for me to stick my oar in.
Elaine signalled to one of the men, who looked to be Asian and was nearly bursting out of his uniform. Though nothing like as big as a Sumo wrestler, there was a distinct resemblance. Yes, he could deal with Mr Hostile in there.
And so he did, but not entirely easily. The officer removed the wedge from the door and pounded on it. When Mahala’s housemate opened the door and saw the uniformed officer, he responded with a furious shout and tried to slam the door. The officer’s foot was in the way. The man gave the officer a shove. He didn’t move an inch, but that shove gave Elaine all the excuse she needed to take him into custody.
My admiration for the English police, always high, went up a notch or two that morning. With very little more fuss or noise, the man was escorted to one of the police cars, helped inside with courteous firmness, and it took off. No siren, no commotion. I was sure that the neighbours had watched the whole thing with avid interest, but there could be no accusations of police brutality.
Elaine stayed behind for a moment. ‘Well done, both of you.’ She sounded strained and exhausted, but in full command of herself. ‘There was a huge jam at the Chesterton Road roundabout – a car smash – or we’d have been here before you.’ She turned to me. ‘Dorothy, you’re convinced, then, that Mahala is involved in Tom’s disappearance?’
She was, I noted, not yet referring to an abduction – or worse. ‘I don’t know how much he’s involved. I’m certain that he knows a great deal more than he’s saying. When you do find him, he may not talk. He doesn’t like the police.’
‘Yes, he’s demonstrated that, hasn’t he? I have that Nigerian constable I mentioned on tap to talk to him. He’s not a detective, but he’s sharp, and, with some coaching, I think he might get more out of that little pain in the neck than anyone else at the station. I must go and see if I can’t speed up a search warrant for this house.’
Blood Will Tell Page 19
