The Death of the Elver Man

by Jennie Finch

  There was a ripple of expectation as Kevin was led into the court looking pale but surprisingly smart in his one decent suit. He’d put on a bit of weight, she noticed, and the suit no longer hung limply on him. His shoes were shined, his hair was lying fairly flat and generally he looked quite respectable. The only thing missing was a tie. She’d spoken to Ada about his clothes and Ada had shaken her head.

  ‘He won’t wear one,’ she’d said. ‘Don’t know why but he’s taken against ’um and there’s no shifting him.’

  Kevin sat next to Smythe who kept up a whispered commentary in his ear until the magistrates entered and silence fell over the room. It was over all very fast. The charges were read, Kevin’s guilty plea was entered and suddenly every eye was on Alex as the magistrates turned to the social enquiry report. Alex had worked very hard on it and was quite pleased with her assessments, her brief but lucid analysis of Kevin’s situation and her recommendations. After consulting with Ada and Kevin she had asked for a probation order with attendance at the fledgling day centre, one of the first compulsory orders in the county. She tried not to stare at the bench as the three figures flipped through the sheets in front of them, leaning over to check a point of law with the clerk before returning to the report.

  Alex had made sure it was delivered a few days in advance, hoping they would have taken their copies home and read them, but at least one magistrate, a portly man in a suit that was slightly too tight, acted as if he’d never seen any social enquiry report before, let alone this one. After a few minutes the clerk called out to the room and they all sprang to their feet as the magistrates tripped off to discuss the report in private. The clerk returned after a minute or so and hurried over to her.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ he muttered, ‘only two of them didn’t make the last liaison meeting, so this day centre stuff is new to them. They want to know what it involves – classes or community work or whatever.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alex. ‘Yes, classes, a bit of community work sometimes, learning skills in the workshop, some specialist groups for driving offenders or alcohol issues – whatever seems the most appropriate for the client.’

  ‘Do you have anything specific in mind here,’ the clerk said. ‘I know it’s putting you on the spot but it would really make it easier to sell it to them …’

  ‘I hope we can get some literacy classes for Mr Mallory,’ said Alex. ‘He’s finding it very hard to get regular employment because he can’t read or write. He would like to learn to drive and that would help him find employment, but he’ll struggle to pass the test unless he can read. We’re also offering metalwork and woodwork classes at present and vehicle maintenance comes on line soon.’

  Alex hoped she’d sounded convincing because at the moment they were struggling to find instructors willing to work for the low wages and also had a chronic lack of space and funding. They’d been promised another building and several new staff posts but with the continuing squeeze on all government funded departments, giving a helping hand to young criminals came a very long way down the agenda. The clerk seemed convinced, however, nodding his head before hurrying off to share the information with the magistrates. Alex glanced over at Kevin, who looked terrified, and tried to catch his eye, smiling in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. Smythe saw her looking at them and hurried over, an anxious frown on his face.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked, leaning a bit too close and putting his hands on the table in front of her. She knew it was just her imagination but she always thought he gave off a slight smell of mothballs and she had to resist an urge to shift away from him.

  ‘The clerk seemed happy enough,’ she said. ‘I don’t think there’s much danger they’ll send him back to prison is there? After all, he was there all that time and they had to drop the charges. Surely they’ll take that into consideration.’

  Smythe pulled at his earlobe and gazed over her head into the dim recesses of the courtroom ceiling.

  ‘One would certainly hope so,’ he mused, ‘in the interests of justice. I’m not sure about this day centre idea though. If they decide it’s a soft option they might decide to make an example of him, what with the concern about young men hanging around in gangs, not to mention the dramatic impact on elver stocks in the last few years.’

  Alex felt her stomach clench at the thought of Kevin returning to jail. Smythe sounded more like a prosecutor than the voice for the defence and she wondered, not for the first time, if he really believed in his work.

  ‘It’s not a soft option,’ she insisted, ‘it’s a higher tariff than an ordinary probation order. He’d have to attend every week or he’d be in breach and he’ll hopefully learn some skills to make him able to earn a living some way other than poaching. Anyway, he doesn’t belong to a ‘gang’; he lives out on the Levels with his mother.’

  ‘Ah yes, the redoubtable Ada,’ Smythe murmured, but Alex was saved his opinions on the Mallory family by the return of the clerk.

  ‘All rise,’ he called, as the magistrates trooped back and took their places on the bench. Kevin was white, visibly shaking as he remained standing to hear his fate with Smythe standing next to him. The press bench leaned forwards, their pens poised and their eyes darting from the bench to Kevin and back again, hoping for drama or despair. In the event, it was an anti-climax as the senior magistrate summed up his recent time on remand, set his guilty plea against his criminal activities and sentenced him to two years’ probation with forty days attendance at the day centre. The only drama came as the clerk called the court to its feet. The magistrates stood up and headed for their room, the press turned to the door ready to head back to their respective desks and Kevin closed his eyes and collapsed in a dead faint.

  Derek didn’t feel safe in the cottage any more. Every time there was a car on the track he jumped, peering out of the window to see if it was Alex-bloody-probation or the police dropping by to check on Frank. He didn’t worry about Iris. She wouldn’t say anything about his return as long as he stayed away from the house. Well, that was fine by him, though he longed for the comforts of home some evenings as he sat in the almost empty front room reading the paper by the evening light. He used a couple of lanterns in the back room at night but the smell was pretty awful now and he was giving serious consideration to just dumping what was left in the freezer in a bog somewhere and taking off. There were a couple of bits of unfinished business he needed to take care of first however. It was all so much harder than he’d imagined as he lay on his bunk in prison, dreaming of his revenge. It had all seemed so easy when he planned it out, but now it was dirty and messy and nothing was going to plan. Derek was sick and tired of the whole business, but the anger at his son’s death still burned in him, warping his outlook on life and disrupting his thinking. When he was done, he thought, when it was finished, he’d feel better. He’d be able to sleep properly, he’d go away for a while until all the fuss died down and he’d come back and patch things up with Iris and Newt. Just another few weeks and everything would be okay.

  It was time for another little run out and he waited until it was dark before he slipped out to the car, now hidden past the sluice gate in an abandoned barn. He had dressed with care, all in black except for a navy balaclava stuffed in his trouser pocket. His trusty fishing knife was clipped to the back of his belt and he felt more confident this time. He’d planned it all out carefully and practised the moves in his front room over and over until he could do it with his eyes shut. The roads were empty until he hit the edge of town and he drove carefully, keeping an eye out for the police. But, as he rounded a corner on the approach to his turning, he suddenly came upon a figure, a young man, trotting down the middle of the road and had to swerve violently in order to miss him. His heart was pounding with the shock – if he’d hit him, well it didn’t bear thinking about. He slammed his brakes on and flung himself out of the car, banging the door behind him.

  Simon was still shuffling along, making engine noises and turning his ima
ginary steering-wheel, seemingly oblivious to his brush with death. Derek grabbed him by the throat as the lad made to pull out around him.

  ‘You bloody little freak!’ he snarled, shaking him like a terrier with a rat. ‘You nearly got killed, do you know that? Can you even hear me?’

  He dropped Simon on to the pavement where the boy rolled into a ball making little squeaking noises. Derek kicked at him before turning away in disgust.

  ‘Stay off the road!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Freak.’ On an impulse he turned back and landed several more kicks before he got back into his car and drove off, his calm self-control shattered.

  He took the back road again, slowing as he drove past Alex’s house. The front curtains were drawn tight as usual, but there was a light on in an upstairs room. He must pay her another visit, he thought, and unconsciously licked his lips in anticipation. Not tonight though. He had other fish to fry tonight. He gave a tiny, high-pitched giggle as he accelerated down the street. Other fish to fry – that was funny. He giggled again as he drove over the bridge heading for the car park behind the Iron Beehive. It was almost deserted and he took up position in a dark corner where he could watch the car he was interested in. After a moment he slid out and wandered over to it, checked he was alone and swiftly punctured the two front tyres with his knife. Back in the shelter of his own vehicle he waited until the back doors opened and the few remaining drinkers were ejected into the night. Exchanging farewells and friendly insults they wandered off into the darkness, leaving one burly figure bringing up the rear. Derek hunched forwards over the steering wheel and grinned as the figure spotted the first flat tyre. Cursing and stumbling round the vehicle, the driver flung open the boot and leaned in searching for the tools to change the wheel. Derek pulled on the balaclava and checked his knife was loose in the sheath at his back before opening the door. Too late he realized his mistake as the interior light flashed on and the figure turned to face him. He closed the door and darkness fell once more as a voice called out to him.

  ‘Hey, give us a hand mate. Some bastard’s done one of me tyres.’

  The man turned back to the boot, rummaging through boxes and the usual litter found in cars as he hunted for the jack. Derek moved up to stand behind him and pulled the knife from his belt, but at that moment the man straightened up and turned towards him, pulling a face.

  ‘Phew, where you been then? Sorry mate but you smell …’

  He saw the knife coming towards him and raised his hands instinctively. Derek lunged, but the knife hit an upraised arm. He pulled it back as the man shrieked in agony, then slashed at him once more as the man fell to his knees. The razor-sharp blade sliced through the hand and a spurt of blood hit Derek in the chest, soaking his jumper and shirt. He stepped back in disgust.

  ‘That’s what you deserve,’ he snarled. ‘Maybe help you keep awake on duty!’ He hurried back to his car, dropping the knife on the seat as he tried to wipe the sticky blood from his hands.

  Behind him the man rolled on to his back clutching his ruined hand and moaning as he struggled to raise himself up off the ground. The sound of the car engine faded away in the distance and he fought for breath. However hard he tried he couldn’t raise his voice above a squeak after that one great scream. It was so quiet he could hear the water lapping against the canal banks just on the other side of the pub. He was bleeding badly, he realized. He was going to die here, the victim of an unknown madman. His colleagues would be called and they’d all stand around staring down at his body. He didn’t want to die here like this, alone and unnoticed in a pub car park. He gritted his teeth and struggled to his feet, the blood seeping through the fingers of his other hand as he tried to apply some pressure. There was a ringing in his ears and he thought he was going to pass out when suddenly the back door opened and a head poked out.

  ‘You okay there?’ said the barman’s voice. There was the sound of approaching footsteps and the yard light came on again, harsh and white.

  ‘Oh hell …’ the barman stopped short as he got a good look at the gore-splashed figure leaning on the car.

  ‘Call the police!’ he yelled over his shoulder. ‘Quick – police and ambulance. Sergeant Michaels has been attacked in the car park.’

  The sirens and blue lights across the river woke Alex, and she stood at the back window watching the comings and goings with some concern. She’d thought about reporting the incidents of last week to the police but kept putting it off. As she’d said to Sue, when it came down to facts, her curtains were moved and there was a fish head in the fridge. Put like that it seemed more like a sick joke than a serious threat. Sue was not convinced and they had spent the evening arguing, parting on bad terms for the first time.

  ‘It was a pike for heaven’s sake!’ said Sue, ‘a big, mean ugly vicious bugger. And how did it get in there then? Maybe it swam in.’

  Alex had been equally stubborn. She thought of all Garry’s little digs at her competence, all the snide remarks about her ability to cope with the rural population and decided to deal with it herself. She wasn’t going to run off scared to the police over a fish head. Hell, she’d once slipped a kipper down the back of her landlady’s electric fire on leaving some particularly horrible digs. Bleating to the police was the probation equivalent of having the head teacher come in to quiet your class for you. Besides she was fairly sure she knew where it had come from.

  ‘Suppose it was someone like Brian?’ she said. ‘What do you think would happen if I reported it then? I’d be a laughing stock amongst my clients but he’d never trust me again. Hell, none of them would. I’m going to ignore it and he’ll realize he’s wasting his time.’

  Sue sighed heavily but could see her point. Running off to report to the police could mean the end of any authority an officer might have built up and some clients would see it as a breach of trust. In their eyes, ‘them’ meant the police and it was hard work getting accepted as part of ‘us’. Finally, Sue had given up, but not before extracting a promise that, if anything else happened, Alex would report everything.

  Nonetheless, since the incident Alex had become increasingly obsessive about locking up the house, closing the curtains at night and had changed the telephone number.

  On the morning after they found Sergeant Michaels there was a knock on the front door and she opened it to find young Constable Brown outside.

  ‘Oh, hello – I didn’t know you lived here,’ he said, blinking at her in surprise. ‘You’re from Probation aren’t you.’ Alex admitted she was and invited him inside.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked, but the policeman shook his head.

  ‘No thanks. I’ve got the whole street to get through and a lot of people are off to work – or settling down after the night shift. I don’t know which is worse. What do you think, making people late or waking them up?’

  Alex smiled. ‘And I thought I had a crap job,’ she said. ‘Is this about what happened last night?’

  ‘Yes, did you see anything?’ Constable Brown asked eagerly. Alex shook her head. ‘Sorry, I just heard to sirens and then saw the lights. What happened anyway?’ The Constable looked nervous, ‘Well, I’m not supposed to say anything, but someone was attacked with a knife in the car park of the Iron Beehive, just after closing time.’

  ‘Who was it?’ asked Alex. ‘Is he alright?’

  ‘Do you know Sergeant Michaels – the custody sergeant at our station? It was him. How did you know it was a man?’ he added suspiciously. Alex laughed. ‘Only a man would drink at the Iron Beehive on his own,’ she said. ‘It’s not terribly welcoming at the best of times and late at night it’s a horrible, dark place. I know because I’ve had to drag a client out of there when he was drinking underage. Not my choice of venue for a quiet evening.’ Constable Brown nodded and slipped his notebook back into his pocket.

  ‘Well, yes it does have a bit of a reputation. It certainly lived up to it last night. Sergeant Michaels came out and found his front tyres had been sl
ashed and as he was looking for his jack someone jumped him from behind and tried to cut his throat, they reckon. Was a terribly sharp knife anyway – almost cut clear through his fingers. If the barman hadn’t come out he’d have bled to death. Are you okay?’

  Alex sat very still, her mind racing over the words ‘front tyres slashed’. ‘It’s probably a coincidence but someone slashed my front tyres too, about a month ago,’ she said quietly.

  Constable Brown had his notebook out again in a flash.

  ‘Where were you parked?’ he asked.

  ‘Just outside the house. I was away and forgot to move the car. Came back to that and a parking ticket,’ she added bitterly.

  ‘I don’t suppose you can remember what sort of damage it was? Were there a lot of cuts or just one, for example?’

  Alex rose and went to the front door.

  ‘I can show you if you like,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t afford to get both fixed so I paid for one and I’ve been using the spare. The other tyre’s still in the boot.’

  The pathologist peered through his microscope at the photographs, made some tiny adjustments and looked again.

  ‘Well,’ he said after a moment, ‘it is certainly the same type of knife. The wounds match, both were inflicted by a right-handed assailant; this blow was almost certainly aimed at the throat. Sergeant Michaels is a very lucky man,’ he mused.

  The Action Group Inspector cleared his throat. ‘What about the tyres?’ he asked. The pathologist picked up a sample slide and slid it into place.

  ‘Ah, yes, the tyres … interesting. Single cut in each, more of a stab than a slash actually, and made with a single edged knife – either the same as the weapon used in the assault or one very similar.’ There was a pause as he swapped samples. ‘You say one of these comes from a second tyre incident?’