by Jane Adams
“Nice arrangement.”
“Exit Donovan Baker, considerably better off. We know it goes on — know he’s at the heart of it — but no one, so far, is willing to testify. After all, they’ve been on the take too.”
“You can’t cut a deal?”
Steven’s groaned. “Don’t think we haven’t tried but the collectors in question are usually wealthy society types for whom reputation is everything and they’ll move hell and high water to keep us plebs of police officers at bay.”
“People who don’t need the money, then? So why risk it?”
“Because some of them are in hock up to their eyeballs. Sell the normal way and the tax man gets his share, or the government refuses an export licence and, believe me, that’s happened more than once. Someone’s got all upset at the idea of a national treasure being sold off, export licence is delayed to give some UK museum or other the chance to get the cash and, suddenly, the item in question is part of a general haul snatched by picky thieves. Sure, it looks suspicious, but in one case — and I can’t name names, we’re still investigating — the claim was that all the media coverage alerted thieves to the presence of said valuable object.”
“And you’re certain Donovan Baker is involved?”
“Certain as we can be without actually catching him in the act. Like I say, we believe he has full cooperation from the owners, but to act as a cover, we know he sometimes involves domestic staff — the lowest paid and most easily disaffected. One let him down. Our GBH recipient. Seems he should have let Donovan know about changes to the security system. Instead, he went to his boss, who, we figure was in on the game. Baker beat seven shades out of him and he confessed all to a junior doctor at the hospital that night. Of course, he then withdrew his statement before we could make it official and any good defence brief would tear his testimony apart because of when and where it was given. CPS decided it wasn’t in the public interest to pursue. End of story.”
Rozlyn thought about Mouse Man. Would he even recognise Donovan Baker again? Never mind agree to testify. “How did he get from professor to bruiser?” she asked.
“He had a record from age sixteen,” Stevens told him. “Seemed to get himself straightened out when he went to live with an uncle up north somewhere. Got him back into school and then university, but it seems that was just a veneer. I’ve interviewed several people who knew him from those days and they all recall him as having a short fuse and a liking for his own way. He was making a decent living. I guess it just wasn’t enough quickly enough. Look, I’ve got to go. You watch yourself, you hear? He’s a vicious bugger.”
“Already figured that,” Rozlyn muttered as she replaced the receiver. She picked up the books she had bought and flicked through them again, pausing from time to time to read an extract. Far from being dry and technical, the book authored by Baker shone with the man’s enthusiasm for his subject. The pages were enlivened by small asides and witty footnotes and the style of writing was easy and surprisingly accessible.
She turned back to the slimmer volume published by Ethan Merrill. There was no reason at all that Merrill should have mentioned Donovan; Rozlyn had not asked about him, but . . . the doubt set in. Did Merrill know something about Donovan’s activities? Was he even a party to them?
Rozlyn shook her head, dismissing that idea, then reminding herself that she’d not even met Ethan Merrill until a few days before and the man could in fact be capable of anything.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of her mobile phone. It was the hospital. Mouse Man had disappeared.
CHAPTER 31
“It was visiting time,” the ward sister told her. “There were people coming and going all the time and we’d encouraged him to get out of bed and go to the day room, so I don’t know how long he’d been gone before we noticed. It was only when we did the drugs rounds and couldn’t track him down that we realised and then a visitor came back to look for her coat . . .”
“He took a coat?”
“A raincoat, yes. He even left a note. Here, at the nurse’s station. Apologising and promising to bring it back as soon as he’d finished with it.”
“Can I see this note?”
“Oh yes, sorry. I should have given it to you straight away.” The paper was crumpled and had someone’s shopping list written on the other side. Mouse must have scrounged it from a bin. He’d written in small but clear letters, cramped together so he could get it all in and had obviously been planning his escape since earlier that day.
Dear Inspector Priest, I been thinking hard about what we talked about and I think I know where to find that Donovan man but I have to find him today or he’ll be gone from the place. I decided I would borrow someones coat when they came visiting and get off into town some people goes out to smoke so noone will notice if im in my pijamas.
“A raincoat, you said?”
“Yes, trench-coat type with a belt. Dark blue, the woman said.”
“So he’s walking the streets in striped pyjamas and plaid slippers and a dark blue trench coat.” Rozlyn sighed. “He’s gonna freeze. Was his head still bandaged?”
“No, we’d just taped a gauze pad over the wound. Doctor wanted it to dry out. The woman was tall, that he took the coat from. It’ll probably reach his ankles. I’m so sorry.” She fretted. “This just shouldn’t have happened. It never occurred to me . . . and this Donovan, he mentioned?”
“We think it might be the man who attacked him,” Rozlyn told her.
Shock and horror spread across the sister’s face and drained the colour from her already pale skin. “Oh, dear God. You think he went to find him? That’s . . .”
Rozlyn nodded. Something she’d never have expected Mouse to do. “You’ve got my mobile number just in case he gets brought back here?”
She nodded. “You’re going to look for him.”
“Of course. I’ll get a call put out, that way we’ve eyes and ears all over the town.”
The ward sister nodded. She looked so stricken that Rozlyn felt she had to reassure her. “Look, how hard can it be to spot a man in a trench coat and striped pyjamas? I’ll find him and I’ll bring him back.”
* * *
It was a question Rozlyn was still asking herself two hours later. She’d driven to all the places she thought Mouse might go. His house was boarded up and secure. The little chapel he attended on Sunday? Locked on a weekday, with no obvious way inside. The pubs he sometimes frequented; others he’d mentioned in passing. She drove, she walked, she asked questions and finally arrived at the Queen’s at six-fifteen, a scant quarter hour after it had opened. Big Frank was already in residence in his favourite corner. He nodded almost amiably at Rozlyn and pointed at the bar. Rozlyn duly ordered him a pint and orange juice for herself, hoping the sugars and vitamins might help to counteract the weariness and deep bone ache that suffused her entire body.
“Fruit juice?” Big Frank was not impressed. “Going soft on me?” He scrutinised Rozlyn closely, leaning across the table to peer into her eyes. He grinned. “You look pale,” he said, then laughed at his own joke. Frank’s boys joined in. “You going down with something?”
“Feels like it.” Rozlyn’s voice croaked.
Frank pursed his little cupids bow of a mouth. “You should be home in bed,” he affirmed. “Not spreading your germs amongst decent folk.”
Rozlyn thought of telling him that if she met any decent folk, she’d be sure to follow that advice, but she didn’t know if Frank’s sense of humour stretched to subtle. “So I’ve been told,” she said. “I’m looking for Mouse Man. Once I find him, I will be going home to bed.”
“Tried the hospital?” Big Frank laughed again.
“He took off from there. Seems to think he can find this Donovan Baker. He . . . borrowed a coat but he’s only got his slippers and pyjamas between him and the weather and it’s bitter out there already.”
“Donovan,” Big Frank said. He narrowed his already tiny eyes and squinted at Rozly
n as through seeing her through bright sunlight. “Get the lass a brandy,” he barked. One of his boys moved to obey. “I’ll have my people keep a look out for him, that’s what you want?”
Rozlyn hadn’t actually thought this through. Her head was packed too full of painful cotton wool for that, but she croaked that it would be good to have extra eyes and ears on the job.
Big Frank nodded sagely. “I know how shorthanded you lot are,” he said, then roared again, the room erupting, this time, with genuine amusement. The brandy arrived and Rozlyn drank it, the fiery liquid warming her throat and momentarily cancelling out the burning, fevered sensation that had been her companion throughout the afternoon. She dug in her pocket for the last two of Jenny’s Max Strength tablets and swallowed them with a swig of orange juice, earning herself a look of disapproval from her drinking companion.
“You shouldn’t mix tablets and alcohol,” Big Frank told her sternly. “They can mix funny like.”
“It’s only paracetamol, or something.” Truthfully, she hadn’t looked to see what it was that Jenny had dosed her with.
“That’s what a lot of people think but let me tell you they can interact in ways you don’t know about until you’re swerving off the road and into a ditch. I won’t let any of my boys touch drink and drugs together. I saw a documentary on the dangers of over-the-counter medicine and alcohol. Opened my eyes, I can tell you. Maybe I should get someone to drive you home.”
It wasn’t the sort of conversation police training taught you to react to, Rozlyn thought. “I’ll be careful,” she promised with utmost seriousness.
“You let us find Mouse. I’ll get in touch and you take my advice. Now. Get yourself off home.”
Rozlyn nodded and thanked him. She left the pub wondering if accepting a brandy from Big Frank was against regulations and if so, what the hell was accepting his help because they were shorthanded. Her relationship with the Mastermind of Marfitt Street had taken some strange turns in the past few days, she thought. Her dealings with Big Frank had previously all been at arm’s length — preferably someone else’s arms — and she was still trying to figure out how this sudden camaraderie had come about and where it was all going to end.
Then she gave up trying to figure it out. Big Frank was right, she wasn’t fit to be out unsupervised, never mind in charge of a car. Her head was throbbing and her eyes and throat felt raw. The brandy — had it been a double? Was she still legal to drive? — had gone to her head and the painful wadding was now swimming in a sea of loose brain. She could swear she could hear it sloshing about inside her head.
She phoned Jenny to tell her what was going on, then headed for home, just making it upstairs before collapsing, fully clothed, onto the bed and falling into a heavy, troubled sleep.
CHAPTER 32
Treven had never known three days pass so slowly. He had kept away from Theading, knowing that he must be seen to accept the conditions of the trial and not interfere. Osric gathered news for him. The comings and goings of serving men excited little interest or comment and from this he knew that Hugh was in great pain and had not slept more than odd half hours since the ordeal. There was no fever, Osric told him, although they would not know if the hand showed signs of putrefaction until the dressing was removed.
“He does not stink,” was all the comment Osric could make and Treven had to accept that. Osric knew as well as Treven himself the sweet, choking stench of rotting flesh.
The morning of the third day dawned as clear and cold as that morning of the trial. Pearl-pink clouds blemished the brilliant blue of the sky, churning and moiling on the horizon in a manner that caused Treven to expect snow before nightfall. He pulled his cloak tight about his shoulders, tugged his winter sleeves down to cover his hands and donned his gloves, noticing how worn they were and wondering how long since they had been new. Treven had no love of the cold. Too many nights spent lying on ice-chilled mud, his bones aching and his joints too stiff to move had stolen any joy he might have had at the sight of snow. He welcomed winter only as a time when men were less inclined to war and he still took pleasure in the feasting and celebration of Yule and, before that, the celebration of All Souls and the night of heroes that followed eleven days after. A time for fresh beginnings and remembrance of those lost, it was, by turns, both joyful and solemn. This year, though, he was among neither family nor comrades and when the festivals came, he wondered if he’d have the heart to celebrate.
Treven rode ahead of his little company, a borrowed wagon trundling and creaking behind. Its use, either to convey Hugh alive to Theadingford and to receive due care and treatment for his wounds, or to carry him bound and trussed to the gallows on the hill.
Kendryk waited for him. He too had been absent these last days but had left five of his monks in charge of Hugh: burly men, trained in use of the quarterstaff and sword. Kendryk had chosen them for his own bodyguard when he travelled and upon their heads the tonsure sat somewhat oddly. Kendryk, wrapped in his travelling cloak, had only just arrived when Treven and his modest entourage clopped and clattered into the open space before the Hall
“Let us go now,” he said. “I’ve no stomach for the food Edmund has provided until I know what is to follow.”
“You believe him guilty.” Treven stated.
“But guilty of what? The trial was for the murder of Cate, nothing more or less. God will have judged him solely on that score.”
Treven snorted, wishing in his heart that God could be a little more comprehensive in his judgement.
Hugh had been confined in one of the ancillary buildings belonging to the Scriveners and used for storage. A pallet had been provided, with a straw mattress and blankets, food and water given to him twice daily. That apart, he had been left alone to contemplate.
Hugh was not a man used to confinement and Treven had expected to find him chafing with impatience for whatever the outcome should be. Instead, as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light inside, he saw that Hugh lay motionless on his bed, his good hand resting on his chest and the wounded one lying beside him almost as though he disowned it.
He’s dead, Treven thought and felt a guilty stab of relief. Then he saw the slight rise of his chest as he breathed.
“Hugh,” Kendryk commanded.
Painfully, Hugh opened his eyes and then sat. As Kendryk brought the rush light closer, Treven could see that he looked green and sick, but his eyes were not brightened by fever and, as Treven sniffed the air, he caught only the hog-grease smell of the oil lamp, the fragrance of fresh bread and the stink of a man left in the same clothing for too long without means of washing.
“Stand,” Kendryk ordered and Hugh rose wearily to his feet. He did not lift his eyes to face either of them, but instead, he extended the wounded hand for Kendryk to see.
They had been unable to prise open the fingers; the hot bar had been dragged from his fist, taking palm flesh with it. The hand was still closed and Treven, who had seen such wounds before, knew that he would never have the use of it again. It seemed wasteful, Treven thought, that such a warrior as Hugh was brought down by . . . by what? By a woman? By love or lust or some combination of both. Had he truly had such feelings for Cate Scrivener? Or by pride or conviction or something else that Treven could not name. Whatever the cause, Treven counted it waste. Better to have respected his father’s wishes and entered the monastery than come to this.
Kendryk himself began to unwind the bandages. The hand had been bound with clean linen and no attempt had been made to open it flat: the fingers had simply been wrapped as they lay, cramped against the palm bones. Kendryk paused as the first layer was pulled free. He fingered the wrapping, then called Treven to his side. “I feel oil on this,” he said, “and there is a scent too that I cannot identify.”
“I knocked the grease lamp while I slept,” Hugh told him. “It was out but the grease still warm.”
Treven frowned. He bent his head to catch the scent Kendryk had mentioned. It was familiar, bu
t he couldn’t name the herb, though he knew one who could. Osric, he thought, and his throat clamped closed with fear.
Kendryk looked at him, expecting an opinion but when none came he shrugged and continued with his work. Hugh was in great pain now, as the inner layers of bandaging pulled and tore the still open wound.
Slowly the layers were undone and Kendryk leaned close to sniff and examine the wound. “The fingers are fused and the hand will not unbend,” he said. “But I see no pus and there is no smell of putrefaction.” He inclined his head towards one of his servant monks. “Bring him outside, we will examine him properly in God’s own light.”
Outside a crowd had gathered, smaller than that which had come to watch Hugh maimed. “If you had choice and could go back, would you do this thing again?” Treven asked him softly.
Hugh did not reply direct. Instead he said. “I did not kill her.” Then, more quietly. “But I can name the man that did.”
“What?!”
Treven’s shock was loud enough to have others turn and stare. He recovered himself and murmured some excuse, then stepped back to allow Kendryk to complete his work. He was aware that Kendryk had also heard Hugh’s words.
Kendryk turned the hand this way and that in the daylight, ignoring Hugh’s cries of pain. In the end he pronounced himself satisfied. Though there was little sign as yet of healing, the burns were dry and clean.
“God in his wisdom has spoken,” he declared.
He sounds disappointed, Treven thought.
“The man accused is declared innocent of the crime of murder and stands free to leave this place.”
