The Death of the Elver Man

by Jennie Finch

  Newt had been dismayed at his sentence. He’d hoped that by pleading guilty he’d be treated more leniently, especially in light of what his brief referred to as ‘this poor young man’s tragic family circumstances’. Unfortunately the judge was not swayed by this, remained unconvinced of his well-acted penitence and actually hinted he was fortunate not to receive a longer term. The only concession made was the speed with which his case had been handled. Pleading guilty helped to move things along but the prosecutor had pushed for a quick trial and sentence. Derek Johns was due for release in the next few weeks, he told the judge behind closed doors. The family had a history of witnesses developing total amnesia or conveniently vanishing just before they came to give evidence. Much better get it all sorted out before Johns could organize his supporters and colleagues. Everyone except Newt agreed this was for the best.

  Two years was bad enough but two years in Dartmoor was a real blow. Newt had hoped for Pucklechurch though he was just over the age limit for a Young Offenders Institution. Even Bristol or Exeter would have been okay – not too far for his mother to visit. But the prisons were filling up, space was at a premium and the only berth available on the day of his sentence was the grim Victorian mausoleum that was Dartmoor.

  ‘Don’t worry Mum,’ he’d said at their last meeting, ‘I’ll be alright. Just you hang on until Dad gets out.’ He watched her walk out of the visiting room, her face streaked with tears, and realized she looked old. Like a little old woman struggling to face the world alone. Anger burned in his heart and he vowed to find out who had set them up. Someone had – the police were there almost before the alarm was triggered. And that someone was responsible for his little brother’s death. Newt seemed much calmer, more easy-going than the rest of his family but when he did finally become angry he could be just as dangerous and now he was very, very angry.

  Dartmoor was a shock, especially as his experience of prison was limited to a few hours in a police cell and his time on remand awaiting sentence. It was cold, it was grey and it smelt. There was no privacy, little to do and precious little dignity to his life for the first few days and he was relieved and grateful for the protection offered by one of his father’s colleagues. Big Bill Boyd was a stalwart of Derek Johns’ ‘organization’ and he took Newt under his wing, explaining the system and introducing him to the people he needed to know in the prisoners’ hierarchy. Big Bill had access to his own sophisticated channels of communication and one morning as Newt queued for his breakfast the man next to him passed him a tiny slip of paper. Newt carried it in his pocket until he could read it late that night by the sliver of light that shone through his window. It was a message from his father telling him to keep his ears open for any information regarding the disastrous post office job. There was a rumour going around the Levels that a tip-off had come from a warder at Dartmoor and Derek Johns wanted to know if it was true. Newt read the note twice before spitting on it, chewing it up into tiny shreds and swallowing the pieces.

  The next morning he began a concerted charm campaign on the warders, the teachers and the Chaplain, with the sole aim of worming his way on to the outdoor details. It took him a few weeks but as the cold weather continued to bite, several men dropped out of the garden projects on the prison farm and Newt stepped forward, an eager volunteer. It was a job for a ‘trusty’ and by rights Newt shouldn’t have been eligible, but he’d been well behaved, hard working and in every way a model prisoner. He got the placement.

  For three weeks Newt shivered in the biting wind as he dug, hoed and weeded around the vegetable gardens. The garden workers were issued with overalls and donkey jackets but the wind cut through the layers of clothing and by the end of each day Newt’s hands were blue and stiff with cold. He was seriously considering chucking it for something indoors – even sign painting would be preferable – when he got his first piece of luck. He was leaning on his hoe out of sight of the warders, who were huddling in the relative warmth of the greenhouse door. As he glanced around he spotted a familiar figure. Newt turned his head slowly, looking around casually whilst allowing his eyes to run over the man being escorted to an unmarked van, through the fences and across the road. The man was older than he recalled, thin and unhealthy looking and he’d lost most of his hair, but Newt was sure. He watched as Kevin’s dad, Frank Mallory, was helped into the van, his bag placed in the boot before being driven off towards the town.

  ‘Bastard,’ came a mutter next to him. Newt glanced to his left at the prisoner who had materialized next to him. The man nodded and then spat into the line of cabbages Newt was supposed to be hoeing.

  ‘Fucking grass,’ the man added. Before he could say any more there was a call from the warders, who emerged from the greenhouse warmed and eager to spur their charges on to greater efforts.

  Newt spent his social time drifting around the open landings, exchanging a few words, offering his cigarettes around and fishing for tiny snippets of information. By the end of the week he had enough to piece together a reasonable story. Frank Mallory had washed up in Dartmoor several months ago. A petty thief of weak character and few connections, he was the butt of numerous practical ‘jokes’. After several weeks he was transferred to the Infirmary and thence on to the VP wing. Although it was supposed to be a secure and safe environment, news and gossip about the Vulnerable Prisoner block still leaked out into the main population and Frank’s transfer had raised a few eyebrows – he wasn’t a sex offender, drug dealer or a disgraced copper so why was he there, people were asking. Frank, a nonentity most of his life, was the subject of intense speculation. It was obvious to all that he was ill, very ill and he was desperate to secure a release on compassionate grounds, but his history worked against him. Every time he was released he re-offended, mainly dumb, petty crimes involving little or no skill, imagination or even profit. He was separated from his wife, never saw his family and had nowhere to go. It was doubtful he would survive long on the outside, so limited was his experience of independent living. Better he stay in prison where he was warm, fed and looked after was the general consensus, but Frank had one great burning desire. He wanted to spend next Christmas, his last Christmas, as a free man. He wanted to see Kevin once more and give him a present, some small token to balance against the years of abandonment and neglect. He was a driven man and was willing to do anything to make his dream come true.

  In his first few weeks, Frank picked up snippets of talk from the general population. Most were of no use to him but he started out on the same landing as Big Bill and he heard him boasting of Newt’s exploits. Three post offices turned over, all at night with the culprits getting away clean – the coppers were desperate for a break in the case. Frank was careful. He knew the Johns gang could reach him even in Dartmoor, and they were noted for their imaginative brutality, but the information was a gift he could not ignore. He took his chances with a soft word to the prison doctor and eight weeks later he was in the back of a plain blue van, a new identity in his pocket and a place on a secure protection scheme awaiting him. He glanced back at the prison as he drove away. He knew he’d never go back inside. He might just make it to Christmas if he was lucky. He didn’t see Newt’s eyes following him down the road, he didn’t know Biff was dead and he had no idea Derek Johns was out of prison and looking for the man responsible.

  In one of those sudden climatic shifts, Dartmoor was flooded in sunshine for most of February. Warm breezes blew in from the Gulf Stream and walkers and climbers were often sighted following the trails across the moor and through the village. Newt, on his outside work party at the prison farm, bided his time, lurking by the pig-pens until a fight broke out on the other side of the gardens. As the warders hurried over to separate the culprits he stripped off his jacket and overalls, shivering in the breeze. Dressed in white prison vest and navy boxer shorts he looked at first glance like one of the occasional joggers, lean and hardy runners who used the footpaths and trails for long-distance training. Slipping under the fence and crou
ching until he was clear of the garden area, Newt set off at a steady pace for the village a mile down the road.

  The phone box was at the other end of the short row of houses, most of them homes for prison warders and other staff. Newt felt his heart race as he jogged as casually as he could past the closed doors. It would take just one glance from a window and he would be caught, but luck was with him. He reached the box, stepped in and dialled for a reverse-charge call. When the call was accepted he delivered his message as swiftly as possible, replaced the receiver and stepped out into the winter sunshine. He waited, leaning against the glass of the phone box until the warders picked him up a few minutes later. Ushered him into an isolation cell they shook their heads at his folly.

  ‘What did you do that for you daft lad?’ one asked.

  Newt shrugged. ‘Just fancied stretching my legs a bit. You was quick though, spottin’ I’d gone.’

  The warder stared at him and burst out laughing. ‘You looked the part, until you got out on the road. Then you was easy to see. Not many joggers around here in wellies.’

  Newt smiled to himself as they closed the door and went off to tell their fellow guards about the Somerset lad’s ‘great escape’. He’d done what was needed. It was up to his father now.

  Chapter Two

  Kevin shivered in his thin jacket as the March night turned cold and squinted at the nets in the muddy river. This was the delicate bit. Pull them in too soon and you only got half a catch, leave them too long and the homemade frame might give way and that was a night’s work swimming away downstream for someone else to harvest. The moonlight faded as dark clouds rolled in from the west and he decided he’d had enough. Hauling at the square net he tipped the contents into several plastic boxes stamped ‘Property of Highpoint Fish Quay’. He hefted the boxes into an old pram careful to keep the baby eels upright as they squirmed and rolled in their hundreds. Not bad, he though as he packed up his gear, stowed his nets in the reeds and began to push the pram and its precious cargo along the towpath. Nearly three boxes – might be over thirty quid. It was nearly a mile to the underpass where the Elver Man waited each night and he put his head down and plodded steadily along in the dark, watching for any signs of the river wardens as he went.

  The Elver Man’s van was parked in the shadow of the motorway bridge, lights off to avoid attracting unwanted attention. Kevin pulled his pram up to the back and rapped on the door. When there was no answer he went round to the driver’s window and peered in. The seat was empty but he spotted the keys in the ignition. It began to rain and the wind was getting up, blowing the water sideways under the bridge. Kevin hesitated for a moment but as the rain increased he opened the door and slid inside. He’ll be back soon, Kevin reasoned. The keys were there so he’d not be far. He glanced in the wing-mirror to make sure his precious elvers were safe and felt in his pocket, pulling out a fistful of money. Over two hundred quid now he gloated, running his thumb over the edges so the notes rustled. Another fifty or so and he’d have his dues. He would be a fully paid up member of the Watermen, the best and finest Carnival gang in town. He shoved the money back into his pocket and settled back in the worn seat. It had been a long night and the interior of the van was warm. In the dark, with the rain pouring down he didn’t notice the blood as it dripped from the back doors to gather in a sticky pool around the van. He didn’t realize his shoes were splashed with it where he’d circled the vehicle. After a few minutes he drifted off to sleep.

  Alex gazed from her office window at the grass along the banks of the River Parratt. Bright daffodils, blocks of vibrant gold and cream, had sprung up seemingly overnight and there was real warmth in the pale spring sunlight. Her phone rang and she turned back to her desk as she saw the clock. Kevin, she thought. Bloody Kevin’s late again.

  ‘Message from Kevin,’ said Lauren’s voice. ‘He’s got himself arrested and won’t be in.’

  ‘I’m coming down. Don’t let his mother leave,’ Alex said, and dived for the stairs. The main room was empty by the time she got there and Lauren was leaning on the counter looking anxious.

  ‘You let her go!’

  Lauren shook her head and beckoned her over.

  ‘Never mind that, she’s gone off to find a solicitor.’

  Alex stopped and asked, ‘What’s wrong with old Smythe? He’s been Kevin’s solicitor since – well, for ever.’

  ‘I think Kevin’s going to need someone a bit better than Smythe,’ said Lauren. ‘He’s on his way to Bristol as we speak. Word is, he’s murdered the Elver Man.’

  Alex took a deep breath, confounded by yet another unknown in this strange world but was distracted by the main door flying open. Three young men sporting Mohican haircuts and leather jackets swaggered in and flung themselves onto chairs in the waiting area. They were full of themselves, laughing about the ‘Lorry Boy’ they’d left standing outside, too scared to come in. The leader, a tall rangy boy with broken front teeth, shouted across to the office window.

  ‘Mornin’ Bridget. Tell him I’m here, right?’

  Lauren glanced in his direction and waved vaguely before turning back to Alex.

  ‘Hang on – Bridget? Why Bridget?’ Alex asked. The whole office fell quiet and suddenly everyone was busy, their attention fixed on papers and typewriters.

  ‘Lauren! Why did he call you Bridget?’ Alex insisted. Lauren looked up at her defiantly.

  ‘Like the song. You know – “Bridget the Midget”, okay? It’s a joke.’

  Alex was scarcely average height herself and looked skinny, but her lean frame hid muscles developed from years of sports. She was round the counter and had the boy by the arm before he could react. Holding him in a wrestling hold she forced him to his knees and pressed the palm of her free hand onto his, exerting a steady pressure on his splayed fingers.

  ‘Shit, stop, you’re breaking my hand!’ he cried.

  ‘Apologise,’ said Alex.

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry! It was just a joke. We all do it … aah!’ The pressure increased and he was forced down further until he was huddled on the carpet at her feet.

  ‘Alex, stop, please!’ Lauren hurried towards her and pulled at her elbow. Alex lifted her hand but leaned on the boy’s shoulder to stop him rising.

  ‘It is not a joke and it will not be tolerated. Tell everyone – your friends and cronies – because if I ever hear that again I’m coming after you – understand?’

  The boy nodded, cradling his hand to his chest.

  ‘Good. Now, who have you come to see? And you can get up now.’

  The young man struggled to his feet and slunk back to his chair.

  ‘Girt bitch,’ he muttered.

  Alex swung round to face him again. ‘You have something else to say?’

  The boy sneered at her. ‘You’m in trouble. I’m going to tell my probation officer on you. You’m can’t do that – ’tis not right.’

  Lauren laughed and held up a buff folder. ‘Good luck with that Brian. Alex is your new P.O.’

  Brian stared at Alex. ‘That’s not it. I always get Mr Malcolm. I don’t want you!’

  Alex reached over and took the folder, flipping through a sorry catalogue of petty crime and minor misdemeanours. Brian had been a very busy boy for the past few years. She snapped the file shut and beckoned to him.

  ‘Well Brian, you had the misfortune to turn seventeen last month,’ she said. ‘Mr Malcolm looks after the juveniles but you, alas, are no longer numbered amongst them.’

  There was a pause as Brian struggled to make out what had happened. Alex waited for a moment then said softly, ‘You’re a youth now, Brian. You get me, not Mr Malcolm. Now come on, we’ve got work to do.’

  ‘So what exactly is an elver?’ asked Alex later that day, as she and Lauren sat in the lunch room. It was a glorious day, the sun streaming through the open windows accompanied by the gentle cooing of doves from the eaves of the converted schoolhouse they now occupied. Lauren took a bite of her sandwich a
nd chewed thoughtfully.

  ‘It’s a baby eel,’ she said. ‘They swarm up the rivers and the locals set up nets and haul them out in their thousands. But it’s not legal unless you have a licence.’

  Alex sipped her tea. ‘So Kevin was poaching?’

  Lauren nodded. ‘Yep. All of them’s poaching I suppose. That’s why they sell to the Elver Man. He comes down here just for a few weeks. Buys up everything the lads catch and disappears again. All cash, no questions. Is big business down here, is elvering.’

  ‘Why did Kevin have all that money on him then? The police say he had over £200 in his pockets. That’s an absolute fortune for a lad like him, surely.’

  Lauren shrugged and took another bite. ‘His mother says ‘twas his subs for the Watermen. Seems like Kevin didn’t trust the banks so he carried it around with him.’

  ‘Okay, who or what’s the “Watermen”,’ asked Alex wearily.

  ‘Now that don’t make sense,’ said Lauren. ‘Watermen’s a Carnival club. Big one too, one of the oldest and most important. No way would they let someone like Kevin join, not if he had a thousand pounds. I reckon they was just fobbing him off, asking for such a big sub. They never expected him to raise it.’

  ‘Well, it’s given the police a motive,’ said Alex sadly. ‘They told me he was charged with robbery with violence as well as murder.’

  Lauren shook her head, ‘Whole thing’s just stupid,’ she said. ‘I know Kevin’s several sandwiches short of a picnic but even he’s not dumb enough to rob the Elver Man, kill him and then fall asleep in the van. Something’s wrong there I reckon.’

  ‘I must say I don’t have Kevin down as a murderer,’ Alex agreed. ‘The police seem happy enough though. What do they say – method, opportunity and motive? They’ve got two of the three and they reckon the poor man was stabbed with some sort of curved blade, like a fishing knife. Kevin’s got one of those so it doesn’t look too good for him.’