The Death of the Elver Man

by Jennie Finch

  Alex thanked her profusely. She knew Margie would have to put up with all kind of snide, sexist remarks about ‘soft-hearted women’ and ‘mothering the criminals’. As she hung up she wondered why any woman would choose to work in such a place. Still, it was a good thing for Kevin she did and, on reflection, wasn’t that exactly the sort of knee-jerk reaction she had to put up from her own family?

  Desperate for a coffee, she made her way downstairs to the communal lounge. To her relief it was empty and she filled the kettle and began spooning coffee (only instant but better than nothing) and sugar into a relatively clean mug. She was rooting through the fridge for milk when she heard the main door open behind her and Alison walked in. Alex turned to face her and knew something was wrong. Alison wore her usual sulky face but this morning it was embellished with a scowl.

  ‘Ah, morning Alison,’ said Alex, trying to inject some enthusiasm into her tone. ‘How are you today?’

  Alison blinked at her with watery eyes and gave a sniff, another of her delightful mannerisms, the product of a low-grade but seemingly eternal cold.

  ‘Fine, thank you, just fine. Are you finished with that?’ She held out her hand for the milk bottle and Alex tipped milk into her beaker and handed it over. Alison turned her back and began to pick through the sink searching for a cup that didn’t have green crusty mould in the bottom. She was muttering to herself, Alex realized.

  ‘I’m sorry Alison, is there a problem?’ she asked. For a moment she thought the woman would back down, but her hopes were dashed when she launched into a tirade about ‘snooty, overpaid officers thinking they were too good to clear up after themselves’. She was almost crying, Alex noticed with some alarm. She was no psychologist but she was pretty sure this wasn’t about who did the washing up. Struggling with a cowardly impulse to flee the scene and nurse her hangover upstairs, she put down her own beaker and guided Alison gently towards the window seats.

  ‘Here, sit down for a moment. I’ll get you a drink. Oh – do you prefer tea or coffee?’ She felt a flash of guilt. She’d taken so little interest in Alison she didn’t even know which she preferred. Maybe there was some truth in her view of ‘snooty officers’ thinking they were better than everyone else. Deep down inside, Alex had to admit to herself she did think she was better than Alison, but she certainly didn’t consider herself in any way superior to Lauren, so what did that say about her? She hastily made tea, picked up her own mug and walked over to join Alison at the table. Alison took the cup and muttered ‘Ta’ before resuming her moody contemplation of the sky through the window.

  ‘So, what is it Alison? I can see you’re upset about something.’ Alison gave a shrug worthy of Brian at his sulky best – or worst. Fighting an almost overwhelming urge to reach over and slap her very hard, Alex ploughed on. ‘Has someone upset you or perhaps there’s a problem in the office?’

  Alison swivelled her head round on her long, skinny neck and stared at her. ‘As if you don’t know,’ she said.

  Alex waited, but Alison just sat, in silence, staring at her until she gave another watery sniff and turned back to the window. Alex’s patience was exhausted. She had enough of this type of behaviour from the clients – she was damned if she’d put up with it from the staff as well.

  ‘Fine, if you don’t want to talk there’s nothing I can do. I’ve got work to be getting on with,’ she said as she rose to her feet.

  ‘You know what you did,’ muttered Alison, the sulky child fully in evidence as she screwed up her face and pouted.

  ‘No, I don’t. I don’t know what you think I’ve done and unless you tell me I can’t do anything about it.’

  ‘Yesterday, when you were with Garry. You didn’t have to tell him I’d had to go out. Now he’s put a note on my file. He was really horrible this morning.’

  Alex was aghast. ‘You think I told Garry you’d gone out yesterday? What on earth gave you that idea?’

  Alison snuffled into a soggy tissue. ‘You were up there in the afternoon, at the meeting just after we spoke. Someone said you came down to find me.’

  Alex gave a deep sigh. ‘Alison, stand up. Now, where’s Garry’s office from here?’

  Alison pointed out of the window, up another floor to the imposing centrepiece of the block at right angles to them.

  ‘Right. Now, look down into the yard – see? He’s got a perfect view of the entrance. He spends half his time at that window, watching who goes in and out. Haven’t you ever noticed him up there?’

  Alison looked so stricken Alex wondered what else she’d been up to recently.

  ‘So it wasn’t you?’ she asked in a tiny voice.

  ‘No, it wasn’t me. I don’t do things like that. If I’m annoyed because I can’t find you I’ll ask you about it, not tattle away to Pauline or Garry. So, is there anything else?’

  Alison shook her head. She looked close to tears as she reached over and tried to give Alex a hug. Her hands were damp and fortunately the table was in the way. Alex patted her shoulder and gave a rather sickly smile.

  ‘Well, I’m glad that’s sorted out. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.’

  She extricated herself as gently as possible and hurried out, wondering how anyone could possibly think she’d toady up to Garry, of all people.

  Back in her office she mused on the problem of Kevin. It was highly unlikely she’d be able to get Brian to make a statement and he was neither the most reliable nor the most believable of witnesses at the best of times. There had to be something else she could point to. The police case seemed weak, relying on circumstantial evidence – Kevin’s presence in the van and the money in his pockets. There was no sign of the knife used, Kevin had no blood on him or his clothes, except for his shoes, and, crucially, he had no reason to murder the Elver Man. Kevin was obsessed with the Carnival gangs and he needed his income from elvering to meet the hefty subscription demanded by the town clubs. Even if he had robbed him that night, he’d needed more – quite a lot more according to Lauren. The Elver Man had been the best source of income Kevin had. Besides, Kevin was a nervous specimen. He was going to pieces in the prison, not the sort of character to kill someone in cold blood, take their money and calmly settle down at the scene for a snooze until the rain stopped…. She was struck by a sudden memory. Kevin’s clothes were still wet when he was arrested. He’d been out in the rain just a few minutes before the police arrived. And the elvers – the elvers were still alive! She realized she didn’t know anything about elvers. How long did they live out of water, for example? Maybe Eddie would know. He was the outdoorsy type, after all, and he was a local boy, raised near Glastonbury. He’d probably sneaked out to go elvering himself when young. She picked up the phone and buzzed his office.

  ‘Well now, it really depends on so many things,’ said Eddie. Alex smothered a sigh. She just wanted a simple yes or no answer, but like most things in her life at the moment it looked as if she was going to get a lecture on the difficulties inherent in her question.

  ‘They travel overland if the way is blocked,’ Eddie continued, warming to his theme. ‘It’s an extraordinary sight, hundreds and hundreds of tiny eels glittering in the sunlight as they wriggle their way over river banks and across fields. They’re almost transparent, you know, so some books call them glass eels.’

  Alex did know that but she nodded anyway, hoping he’d get to the point more quickly. Eddie frowned as he considered the likely fate of Kevin’s haul.

  ‘Well, I’m not 100 per cent certain,’ he said finally, ‘but I wouldn’t expect the elvers at the bottom of the crates to last too long, especially if they were stacked up on one another. Silly boy, he could have lost a lot of money like that. They really need to be alive when they’re delivered to the wholesaler. They’re so fragile, you see, they can go off really fast once they’re dead.’

  Privately, Alex thought this was a suspiciously high level of knowledge concerning the marketability of the elver.

  ‘So how long is not long
do you think?’ she asked.

  Eddie shook his head. ‘Couldn’t say really. Probably only a matter of minutes if they were crushed, of course. I don’t suppose anyone photographed the elvers at the scene?’

  Alex considered this to be highly unlikely. It looked as if Kevin’s alibi was evaporating before her eyes. She thanked Eddie and went back to her room. Even if she could get Brian to testify she needed something more. His clothes had been wet but it was hardly definitive. Anyone who knew Kevin would assume he’d been wading in the river or splashed himself getting his elvers out of the net. She sat at her desk trying not to stare at the calendar. It was Thursday already and Kevin had been in the hospital since Tuesday evening. She was running out of time and had no idea what to do next.

  Derek found himself in a quandary and he knew who was to blame. That interfering bitch of a probation officer – it was all her fault. He’d never intended to live in the cottage, just drop by to do his work and be off to somewhere a bit more comfortable. No-one in their right mind would want to stay in this poky little hovel, not if they had a choice anyway. It was cold, it was dark and it leaked when the rain fell. Derek sat in his armchair, feet up on an old crate he’d fished out of the canal at the back. He sniffed the air and pulled a face, convinced he could smell something in the kitchen. Just the smell of the river, he told himself. Just a bit of mould and rot coming up from the surrounding peat that’s all. Nothing to do with his work. He dismissed the thought as he concentrated on the problem posed by Alex-bloody- probation. He had to check back on Iris, see if she was pulling herself together a bit. He had business to attend to elsewhere and the whole organization needed a firm hand and he needed to check each day, see who had come by. He’d bought himself a couple of weeks with the story about the car, but she’d be back after that, unless he went into the office in town and that was out of the question, especially during the day. Too many people knew him, knew who he really was. He had to get a move on, finish up and get out of there before someone dropped by and started nosing about. With a sigh, he pushed himself up out of the chair and went into the kitchen to prepare the next meal for the pike.

  Newt lay on his bunk and stared at the ceiling. Although he was one of the youngest on the wing, his position had been enhanced by the support of Big Bill and his escape attempt. His cell mate, a wizened little safe-breaker who smoked the thinnest roll-up cigarettes Newt had ever seen, had insisted he should have the top bunk, and Newt was happy to accept. From his elevated position Newt was partially hidden from the eyes that peered in at odd intervals, and as the days ground on he was able to read by the security floodlight shining through the high barred window. The prison library had a reasonable selection of thrillers and war stories and he was content to pass the time and rebuild his reputation as a steady prisoner, his jog into the village appearing to be just a moment of recklessness. He was not likely to get an outside work-place for a long, long time, but at least his exploits had earned him a measure of respect amongst his fellow inmates.

  There was a knock on the door and Big Bill looked in, beaming all over his battered face.

  ‘Watcha Newt,’ he said.

  Newt sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bunk.

  ‘You’re looking right cheerful,’ he said.

  Bill stepped into the cell, his head almost level with Newt’s as he grinned at him happily. ‘Heading for the great outdoors tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Time’s up and you’re on your own for a bit.’

  Newt nodded, unconcerned by the news. He was more confident now, secure in his position as the heir to the Johns gang empire. Big Bill had been useful but he was not really needed any more. He held out his hand for Bill to shake.

  ‘Well, good luck then and thanks for the help. I made sure Dad got the message, about our one-time friend.’

  Bill grunted. ‘Wouldn’t like to be in his shoes. Well, I’ll be dropping in to see your family, so any messages I can take?’

  Newt considered for a moment and then shook his head. ‘Just let Mum know I’m doin’ alright. Don’t want her fussing, what with Biff gone and all …’

  There was a moment’s silence between them, which was broken as the door opened and Mack, Newt’s cellmate, strolled in. He stopped, turned abruptly and scooted out again mumbling an apology. Totally ignoring him, the two men shook hands again. Bill hesitated before turning to leave but Newt was already settling down to catch the last of the quiet spell before dinner.

  ‘Tell Mack he can come in again, will you,’ he said without looking up from his book.

  ‘Right, Boss,’ Bill replied before he realized what he’d said.

  Up on his bunk Newt hid the traces of a smile behind his book.

  Chapter Seven

  Ada Mallory had been born on the Levels, arriving unaided in the front room of her parents’ small cottage over by the sluice gate on the main drain. Her father, a hard-drinking man with a tendency to spread his affections far and wide, had scraped a living from seasonal work – peat cutting, apple picking and poaching mainly. Her mother was tied to the family home by the needs of four young children and by the time she was ten Ada was working alongside her. Washing, cleaning and cooking took precedent over schoolwork, especially when her father was away ‘working’, as her mother put it, though he rarely brought much of his earnings home with him when he did come back.

  Ada had quite enjoyed her time at school. It had offered a break from the endless demands of her younger siblings, a period of quiet away from the chatter and cries of the family. She was a good student too, picking up the basics of reading and writing ahead of many of her classmates. Only numbers defeated her. Try as she might, as soon as she ran out of fingers for counting, all the numbers mixed up together in her head and she was left confused and angry by her inability to complete all but the simplest sum.

  When she stopped going one November, the school sent a truancy officer, but it was to no avail as the Levels were still poorly drained and the roads mainly unmetalled and virtually impassable in winter. By the time the summer came they had pretty much written her off, just another child of uneducated and illiterate parents and not worth the effort. All except one teacher, that is, a student from the college in Taunton who believed every child was important and every one had potential.

  Miss Nichols had been impressed by Ada’s ability, the quickness of her mind and her almost painful enthusiasm for any and all knowledge. So, in due course, she arrived at Ada’s home one evening on her bicycle with a basket full of books gleaned from the depths of the library store cupboards. For the first time in her life Ada cried in front of an outsider as she turned the pages of the old, worn textbooks and outdated dictionary. In some ways it made it worse, this unspoken acknowledgement that her formal education was over. She took the books inside and hid them under a loose floorboard beneath the big bed she shared with her two sisters, safe from her father’s periodic raids on the family’s possessions. On the rare occasions when she had time to herself and the house was empty she would take out a book and read, slowly and laboriously but with a sense of triumph in her heart.

  The books, Ada’s only books, were now lined up neatly on a little shelf Kevin had made for her one Mother’s Day. She had read to Kevin from them when he was a baby, sharing tales of explorers in foreign lands, kings and battles, folk wisdom and ancient legend. She’d tried to help him learn to read himself but somehow he’d never managed it. Letters to Kevin were like numbers to her – unintelligible squiggles that taunted from the page as they refused to give up their meaning. She’d fought each day to get him to school and fought to keep him there, ignoring all his efforts to get himself expelled, but despite everything he had left school at 16 with no formal qualifications – hardly surprising as he still could not read. He was good with his hands, though, as the bookshelf and many other little projects around the house demonstrated, and he was an absolute wizard with numbers. He would be sorting out the right coins to pay for something whilst she was still strugg
ling to read a price and often he had stood beside the till in a shop and challenged the total. Somehow he was never wrong and it grieved her to know he could easily have passed his maths exams – if only he could have read the questions. She had heard on the radio that some children got help with their exams and she’d written to the school to ask about this but it seems it wasn’t for the likes of Kevin. The help was expensive and he’d needed a good attendance record and a willingness to work. The school didn’t even expect him to turn up for his exams so what was the point? And now he was in prison, locked up miles away and facing a possible life sentence. Ada stared out of her back window and tried not to weep.

  The best way to cope with life was to just get on with it, she told herself. Enough moping around – that won’t help anyone. She took a deep breath and stood up straight, forcing her mind towards the mundane concerns of everyday life. She opened the back door and stepped out into her garden, her own little kingdom. Bordered by willows to the sides, it ran down gently to a stream that bubbled and frothed through the reeds until curving away towards the big drain to the front of the house. As she closed the door behind her the dogs materialized, moving in silence on their wide, soft paws. Mickey, the older of the pair, turned and walked back to the side gate where he stretched out in a sheltered spot, away from the wind that swept the Levels in the spring. Mouse, the younger dog, moved up and nuzzled her hand hopefully.

  ‘Get away you big daft thing,’ she said, and gave him a gentle shove. Mouse took up his post behind her, following as Ada walked down the cinder path peering at her rows of vegetables in search of something ready to eat. Late April was a lean time of year: the last of the cabbages had turned yellow on their stalks and the early greens needed an extra week before they were large enough to eat. She carried on past the newly sown beds of salad leaves in their home-made cloches and on to a ramshackle greenhouse composed partly of a garden shed with plastic sheets for a roof and partly a variety of old windows nailed together into larger frames. Opening the door a fraction she ran her eye over the rows of seed trays, each labelled and sprouting a soft feathery green. She smiled to herself as she sniffed the rich, earthy smell of the peat, dug at night by Kevin from the surrounding bog. Who had the right to say she couldn’t have just a bit of peat she thought. This was her home and her family had been making their living from the land for generations. As far as Ada was concerned, everything inside her boundary (and most things she could see from the garden, if the truth be told) belonged to her and no busy-body, ignorant, bossy government man was going to tell her what she could or could not use.