by Nicci French
‘Why kill Finn then?’
He laughed then; really threw back his head and guffawed as if I’d made a brilliant joke.
‘For the money, of course. But you’re still not seeing the whole, beautiful picture.’
Then the boat tilted violently, as if the wind had suddenly changed direction. The sails flapped and the boom lurched. Without Michael saying anything, I tightened the jib as he pulled in his mainsail, and the boat raced towards the violent eddy. I could see it now: the shiny patch of sucked-in water. The outcrop of rocks was getting closer, their crags and splinters coming into focus. The wind was suddenly up and I could only shout.
‘Needle Point?’ I asked.
He nodded.
‘You’re going to kill me.’
But I spoke too quietly for him to have heard and he was immersed in the business of sailing. I looked at the bottom of the boat. A bailer. A long metal pole. A spare sail stowed at the bows. A coil of rope. A pair of oars. The boat was like a bucking horse now, thwacking its nose over and over into the trough of the sea. Suddenly it stopped, halted in its tracks, and I could feel no wind at all, although all around me I could see the wild sea. The sails wilted. We were in the eye of the storm. I looked across at Michael, who was looking at me. He shook his head, as if in disappointment.
‘It’s so irritating and unnecessary,’ he said. ‘Like the bloody cleaner.’
‘Like Mrs Ferrer? You…?’
Michael turned away. He was looking from side to side, trying to assess where the wind would come from. He said nothing, and we sat side by side – me and the man who was going to kill me – in the becalmed moment. For an instant Michael seemed almost embarrassed by the awkward hiatus. Then it hit us full from behind and the boat jolted. Its sails smacked loudly, like a gun going off, and it lifted its bow so high out of the water that I was flung to its bottom. For one moment I thought it would do a backward somersault on to us. I looked up, my legs thrashing, and saw Michael’s face looking down at me. It loomed out of the weather, handsome and polite.
‘Sorry, Sam,’ he said, leaning towards me as if he were bowing. He had the pole in his hand.
I rose, bailer in my hand, and hurled myself at the boom. It swung towards Michael but he ducked. I threw the bailer at his head and kicked wildly at him. He grunted and let go of the tiller and mainsheet and pole. Water was pouring in now and the boom was crashing from side to side. Michael dived at my waist and brought me down to the bottom of the boat once again. His face was a few inches from mine; a trickle of blood oozed down his forehead. There was a trace of stubble beneath the sweat and spray. I brought my knee up under the cage of his straining body and kneed him sharply in the groin, then, as he spasmodically jerked, I bit at the nearest lump of flesh. His nose. He shouted and punched at my jaw, my neck, into my breasts, into the bouncy rubber of my stomach. One finger pierced my eye so that for a moment the world was a red ball of pain. I could feel his breath and I could feel the blows rain down on my body, my jaw, my ribs.
Michael heaved himself into position, knees on my outstretched arms, and put his hands around my neck. I spat at him, my blood on his bloody, grimacing face. This was it. I was to be throttled and tossed overboard like a bit of live bait. He started to squeeze, slowly and with concentration. Behind his head I saw the giant shape of Needle Point bearing down on us, blotting out the sky. I bucked under Michael’s body. I needed to live. I needed to live so badly. I thought that if I could say Elsie’s name out loud I would live. I opened my mouth and felt my tongue slide forward, my eyes roll back. If I could say Elsie’s name I would still live, though my world had gone black.
There was a jolt from beneath the hull, a screeching sound of wood on rock. Michael was thrown off me. Black waves; black rocks all around. I knelt up, grasped the pole, and as Michael stood on the breaking boat I thrust it into his body with all the force I could manage and saw him tip. It wasn’t enough. I looked around, desperately, hungrily. The tiller. I pulled it sharply towards me. The wild boom jibed and viciously struck him; his body crashed into the sea.
‘Elsie,’ I said. ‘Elsie, I’m coming home.’ Then the boat broke against the rocks and the water closed around me.
Twenty-Nine
First I was dimly aware of movement. I knew I’d been gone, lost somewhere timeless, dark. My eyelids fluttered. I saw a face. I yielded with relief to the blackness once more. On later attempts – I didn’t know how much later – the light became easier to take and the shapes that sometimes moved around my bed became clearer, but I still couldn’t make sense of them. I started to put imaginary faces on the shapes. Danny, Finn, my father, Michael. It was all too much effort.
One day, the light seemed greyer and more bearable. I heard a footstep and felt a nudge against the bed. I opened my eyes and everything was clear. I was back and Geoff Marsh was standing over me with a quizzical gaze.
‘Fuck,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said, looking uneasily at the door. ‘Your mother went down to the cafeteria. I said I’d stay for a few minutes. I just walked down from the office for a moment. Maybe I should get a doctor. How are you, Sam?’
I murmured something.
‘Eh?’
‘All right.’
Geoff pulled a chair over and sat beside me. He smiled suddenly. Almost laughed. I wrinkled my face in puzzlement. Even that small movement made me flinch in pain.
‘I was thinking of our last meeting,’ he said. ‘Do you remember it?’
I gave a slow, painful shrug.
‘You agreed that you were going to keep a low profile. Avoid publicity.’
It seemed too much of an effort to speak.
‘At least the media aren’t interested in post-traumatic stress any more,’ Geoff continued jovially. ‘Boating accidents, miraculous escapes. I think the unit is safely out of the spotlight.’
I gathered all my resources and grabbed Geoff’s sleeve.
‘Michael.’
‘What?’
‘Daley. Where?’ I forced myself. ‘Where is Michael Daley?’
Suddenly Geoff looked scared and shifty. I tightened my grip on his sleeve.
‘Is he here? Must tell me.’
‘They haven’t told you? You haven’t been conscious really.’
‘What?’
‘I think you should talk to a doctor.’
‘What?’
I was shouting now.
‘All right, Sam,’ Geoff hissed. ‘For God’s sake, don’t make a scene. I’ll tell you. Daley is dead. He was drowned. They only found his body yesterday. It was amazing that anybody could survive that. I don’t know how you got to the shore. And then it was hours before you were found. With the shock and the exposure, you’re lucky to be alive.’ He tried to remove his sleeve from my grasp. ‘Could you let me go now?’
‘Baird. Get me Baird.’
‘Who’s Baird?’
‘Detective. Stamford CID.’
‘I think I should get a doctor first. And your mother’s been here for days.’
I was almost at the limit of strength. Trying to shout, I could only manage a croaking whisper.
‘Baird. Now.’
I was woken by a murmured conversation. I opened my eyes. Rupert Baird was talking to a middle-aged man in a pinstriped suit. When he noticed I was awake, the man came and sat on the side of the bed. He gave me an almost mischievous smile.
‘Hello, I’m Frank Greenberg. I’d been looking forward to meeting you on your arrival. I didn’t quite expect it to happen like this though.’
I almost laughed and as I did so realized I was feeling stronger, more supple.
‘Sorry to be dramatic,’ I said.
‘Is this how you generally arrive at your new posts?’
‘I didn’t know I had arrived.’
‘Oh yes, in fact your PTSD unit will be just along the corridor. We can wheel you along there for a look in a day or two if you keep improving.’
‘I’m feeling better, I t
hink.’
‘Good. You may be surprised to learn that you were in a very serious condition indeed when you were brought in.’
‘What symptoms?’
‘BP crashing. Obvious signs of peripheral vasoconstriction. It was a cocktail of exposure and shock symptoms. You were extremely fortunate. As you can see, you were on the verge of acute circulatory failure.’
‘How was I found?’
‘A man was walking on the shore with his dog and his mobile phone.’
Baird stepped forward.
‘Can I have a word?’ he asked.
Dr Greenberg turned to me.
‘All right?’
‘Yes.’
‘No more than five minutes.’
I nodded. Dr Greenberg held out his hand.
‘Good to meet you, Dr Laschen,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you again tomorrow morning.’
Baird approached and awkwardly looked for a perch. The moulded plastic chair was in the far corner. He considered whether to sit on the bed in the spot that Dr Greenberg had vacated.
‘Take a seat,’ I said and he sat uncomfortably on the very edge. He looked utterly miserable.
‘I’m glad you’re all right, Sam. This is a blighted case, isn’t it?’ He put his right hand on mine, awkwardly. ‘At some point there may be one or two routine questions but there’s no need now…’
‘It was Michael.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was in the boat-house and on the floor I found one of those little paper animals Danny used to make.’
Baird gave a resigned sigh and tried to look sympathetic.
‘Yes, well, in itself, that doesn’t prove…’
‘Michael told me, Rupert. He tried to kill me on the boat. That’s how we went overboard. He and Finn killed Finn’s parents. And he killed Mrs Ferrer. And then Michael killed Finn. He killed Danny.’
Baird responded with a mock double take and his eyes wrinkled into a smile.
‘You don’t believe me.’
‘Of course I believe you, Sam. Now, a cynical copper might say that you have been through a terrible experience, you suffered from concussion and shock and you… er…’
‘Might have imagined it all?’
‘I’m an overly cautious man, Sam. I have to imagine what certain sticklers for evidence might say to me as they demoted me to walking the beat again. If you have anything concrete to offer us, Sam, we will be most interested in investigating it.’
I’d been sitting up, but now I sank back exhausted on to my pillow.
‘I don’t care what you do, Rupert. I know, and that’s enough for me. Why don’t you have a look at Michael’s boat-house? I think that’s where he kept Danny’s body. Where he made him write that suicide note. Shot him.’
Baird was silent for a long time. I couldn’t see his face.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a look. I think my five minutes must be up and there is one more senior figure who requires to see you straight away.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, if it’s Geoff Marsh or some other bloody manager, tell them to fuck off.’
Baird smiled.
‘I’m sorry, Sam. I’m afraid this is somebody who is too senior for me to give orders to.’
‘What is it? A royal visit or something?’
‘Close.’ Baird walked to the door and spoke to someone outside who I couldn’t see. ‘She can come in now.’
I looked, expectantly, and a familiar freckled face appeared about a yard below where I was expecting one.
Shoes clicked across the floor and Elsie jumped on to the bed and on top of me. I hugged her so close and tight that I could count the vertebrae in her spine. I was afraid of hurting her with the urgency of my grasp.
‘Oh, Elsie,’ I said. ‘You can be my nurse now.’
She wriggled free of me.
‘I am not your nurse,’ she replied firmly.
‘My doctor, then.’
‘I am not your doctor. Can we go out and play?’
‘Not just yet, my love.’
She looked at me with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
‘You’re not ill,’ she announced, almost in challenge.
‘No, I’m not. I’m a bit tired, but in a couple of days we can run around and play.’
‘I saw a camel.’
‘Where?’
‘And a big camel.’
In the doorway I saw my mother hovering with ostentatious discretion. I waved her over and we hugged like we hadn’t hugged for years, and then she started whispering about Elsie with such a show of secrecy that Elsie immediately began asking about it. I started to cry and couldn’t conceal it and my mother led Elsie out of the room and I was alone again. I’d suddenly thought of Danny. Not the Danny from the past but the Danny I would never know anything about. I pictured him being held at gunpoint and made to write his note to me and I made myself imagine what he must have felt. He must have died thinking he had betrayed me and that I would never know. Ever since I was a teenager, I have been able to make myself giddy with the thought of my death, the disappearance into oblivion. The idea of Danny’s death was more terrible and I felt it not just in my mind but on my skin and and at the back of my eyes and humming in my ears, and it made me cold and implacable.
My mother had moved into the house to look after Elsie. Her sympathy was operatic.
‘I suppose the house will hold unhappy memories for you,’ she said. ‘Can you bear to go back to it?’
I didn’t want to be told what to feel.
‘The house has Elsie. It has no bad memories for me.’
Within a couple of days I felt strong enough to leave hospital and two days after that I was able to ease my mother on to a train at Stamford and myself out of her debt. Everything was all right, except that I heard nothing from Baird and I knew that there was something I wasn’t dwelling on because if I did, I didn’t know where it could stop. A full week after I had spoken to Baird, Chris Angeloglou rang and asked me if I could come in to the station. I asked what for and he said they wanted a statement but also that I might learn something to my advantage. Could I come that afternoon?
I was led into an interview room with Chris and Rupert. They were being very nice to me and smiling. They sat me down, brought me tea and biscuits, switched on their double tape recorder and asked me about the events of the day of Michael’s death. With all their questions and my replies, additions and insertions, it took me almost an hour and a half, but by the end they seemed well satisfied.
‘Excellent,’ said Rupert, as he finally switched off the machine.
‘So you believe me?’
‘Of course we do. Hang on a moment. Phil Kale was supposed to be here at three-thirty. I’ll go and see if he’s around.’
Rupert got up and left the room. Chris yawned and rubbed his eyes.
‘You look the way I’m supposed to look,’ I said.
‘It’s all your fault,’ said Chris with a grin. ‘We’ve been hard at it since your tip-off. You’re going to enjoy this.’
‘Good. I need some enjoyment.’
Baird came back in leading the distracted, dishevelled man I remembered from the day we found Mrs Ferrer dead. Now his wire-framed spectacles had a sticking-plaster on one of the hinges and he wore a corduroy jacket of the sort that I had last seen on several of my teachers in the late seventies. Under his arm was a thick stack of files. Chris pulled a chair over and the man sat down.
‘This is Dr Philip Kale, Home Office pathologist. Phil, this is our heroine, Dr Sam Laschen.’
We shook hands, which resulted in many files being scattered on the floor.
‘DI Baird tells me you’ve just made a statement about Dr Daley’s admission.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I can only stay a minute. They’ve just pulled a lollipop lady out of the canal. I can just tell you that what you told the police seems to be confirmed by the full range of forensic evidence. God, where should I start?’
; ‘Did you check Michael’s boat-house?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Kale said. ‘There were copious traces of blood in the boat-house. We’ve done a series of serological tests. We also found fibres and hairs and did a Neutron Activation Analysis on the hair samples. We’ve cross-referenced them with hair samples from Mr Rees and some found at the Mackenzie house. We’re still waiting for some results of DNA tests but I know what they’re going to tell us. For undetermined periods and at undetermined times, the bodies of Daniel Rees and Fiona Mackenzie were kept in Michael Daley’s boat-house. This is confirmed by my post-mortem findings on the burnt bodies. There was an absence of hyperaemia, no positive protein reaction, and a host of other signs showing that they were dead when the car was set on fire.’
‘So Finn’s, I mean Fiona’s, dead body was in the boat-house as well?’
‘Traces of hair and fibre associated with Fiona Mackenzie were found attached to a canvas sheet in a rear corner of the boat-house. The assumption, the near certainty, is that it was used for wrapping her body. And now I must go to the canal.’
‘What about Mrs Ferrer?’
Kale shook his head.
‘I think you must have misunderstood. I’ve been over my report. There’s nothing I could find.’
‘Why would he have done it?’ Baird asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said numbly.
Kale held out his hand.
‘Well done, Dr Laschen.’
‘Well done?’
‘This is your triumph.’
‘It’s not my triumph.’
We shook hands and Kale left the room. Angeloglou and Baird were grinning like schoolboys with a dirty secret.
‘What have you got to look so happy about?’ I asked.
‘We’re holding a press conference tomorrow morning,’ said Baird. ‘We shall be revealing our findings and announcing that the cases involving the murders of Leopold and Elizabeth Mackenzie, Fiona Mackenzie and Daniel Rees are now closed. There are no further inquiries pending. We shall also give you full credit for your own contribution and your heroic actions vis-á-vis Michael Daley. You may even be recommended for some form of civilian award. That should square you with the hospital. Everybody will be happy.’
