A Bleeding of Innocents (23 page)

‘So who gave you a monopoly on suffering?' snarled Donovan, his patience exhausted. ‘You lost your wife. I'm sorry. George Swann lost his wife, his son, his business, and his home, and he's going to be an old man before he walks free. That's my idea of losing everything. You're young, you've got everything ahead of you. You can get over this, if you want to.'

‘Swann!' Page's voice soared till it cracked. ‘You want me to feel sorry for the man who murdered my wife? Because four years ago a doctor made a mistake and Kerry was too scared to report him? OK, it was hard to have that happen to his baby. Life is hard sometimes. And then you die.'

Donovan had his mouth open to snap back when Page's words hit him in the belly, knocking the breath out of him. His eyes rounded, otherwise his expression froze.

After a pause so long the electric silence crackled he managed, ‘
What
did you say?'

Page stared at him irritably. ‘What's the matter with you, aren't you even
listening
? I said it was tough on him to have that happen to his child. But it didn't give him the right to murder three people. He had no right to kill Kerry.'

‘No – no, you didn't,' stumbled Donovan, white-faced, shaking his head. ‘You said it was hard. You said, “Life's hard, and then you die.”'

‘So?' demanded Page, exasperated almost beyond bearing.

So he'd heard those words before. Those very words, that odd dour expression that he'd never met anywhere else. Lying in the dirt under the viaduct behind the gasworks, his vision a slice of tail-lights and shiny shoes, his body a pulsing mass of hurts and his mind numb with terror because he knew the car was coming back for him and he couldn't get himself out of the way. And the man standing over him had rolled him, lifting his shoulder with the toe of one shoe for a better look at his face. And seeing he was still alive, still at least marginally conscious, he'd said, ‘Life's hard, Donovan. And then you die.'

That was the thing buried in his subconscious that Shapiro had stirred up, that he'd known was worth digging for. He knew the man had said something to him. Concussion, and a degree of terror he couldn't cope with, had blanked it out; but he'd known there was something distinctive about it, something he would recognize when he heard it again. He thought it was the voice. But it was that: that lugubrious little aphorism. That, and the fact that the man knew his name.

For the briefest of moments he considered the possibility that David Page was the man in the car. But it made no sense. Page wasn't a killer: all his destructive urges were aimed at himself. Still it had to be more than random chance. There had to be a connection. The killer heard that expression from Page or Page heard it from the killer. He breathed out in a soft explosion, ‘Where the hell did you hear that?'

Page stared at him as if doubting his sanity. ‘My wife's dead. Kerry's dead, and people are dead all over this God-damned town, and you're worrying where I heard a God-damned Russian proverb?'

‘Is that what it is? A Russian proverb? Page, for pity's sake, try and remember! It's important – I promise you it's important. You heard it recently? Where – who said it?'

‘I don't know,' said Page, petulantly, offended by the shift of the conversation away from his troubles.

Donovan fought with a devil on his shoulder. He knew where Page had heard it – where he must have heard it, he had the man in his aeroplane only a week ago. The devil on his shoulder could see no harm in reminding Page of this. But Donovan wanted evidence that would stand up in court, and the connection was tenuous enough without the defence counsel being able to claim that the name of the accused was suggested to the witness by a police officer. The devil thought he was fussing. The value of the connection was not that it would stand up in court but that, deftly used, it would prise out a confession. Page would never have to testify to the genesis of the improbable epithet.

But what if he does, Donovan asked the devil.

Then lie, the devil said.

‘I remember,' said Page, just in time to save Donovan from the prospect of perjury. ‘Last week, the run I did to Cartmel. There was a pile-up in the third race and one of the fallers broke a leg. Coming back Mr Carney said a friend of his had big money on it. Then they both chuckled and the other one said, “Life's hard, then you die.”'

‘The other one?' Donovan's voice was so low as to be barely audible.

‘Terry something. McMeekin. Terry McMeekin.'

The phone was in the hall. ‘Stay here,' said Donovan. ‘I'll be right back.'

He met his inspector and chief inspector on the stairs and took them up to Page's flat. Page was still slumped in his chair in the corner of the room, but the aura of despair that had hung over him had given way to the faintly electric crackle of incredulous annoyance. Where sympathy and concern had failed to reach him, the sheer tactlessness of Donovan's reaction had goaded Page to an altogether human and healthy regard for his own importance. He was sulking because Donovan wanted to talk about somebody else's troubles.

Liz greeted him quietly, received a sullen nod in return. The last time they met she'd been working up to charging him with the murder of his wife.

Shapiro had taken longer coming up the stairs and was out of breath. He still sought Page's permission before he sat down. Then he said, ‘Sergeant Donovan thinks you can help us clear up another matter, Mr Page. He says you know how DI Clarke died.'

‘Does he?' Page's whole attitude was unhelpful. ‘It's news to me.'

Shapiro's head gave a little jerk and he frowned. ‘You mean it isn't true?'

‘I don't know what he's talking about. I've understood almost nothing he's said since he came up here.'

Liz was watching Donovan. Donovan was watching Page and trying hard not to intervene. She said levelly, ‘Sergeant? Can you explain?'

So Donovan told them what Page had said, and how it had hit him like a fist. He told them where Page had heard it, and where he had. His eyes burned with the intensity of how much he wanted this to work. He wasn't a naive young constable, he knew that Page's contribution wasn't the pink ribbon bow that would tie the Carney case up neatly for the court. He knew a good brief would make it sound like nothing, the flimsiest of coincidences.

But for the moment persuading a jury wasn't his problem. He wanted to persuade Shapiro. If Shapiro believed in this he would have Carney, go after him and not give up until he brought him down. If this fragment of information, this oddly shaped little piece of jigsaw that had been lying unsuspected in David Page's back pocket all the time they'd been working out what happened to his wife, was accepted by Shapiro as independent corroboration of Carney's guilt, the rest would follow.

For a moment after Donovan had finished, even with the man's eyes burning his face, Shapiro refused to commit himself. He said to Page, ‘This is right enough, is it? You heard Terry McMeekin say that?'

Page's manner was both bitter and negligent but his answer was unambiguous. ‘Yes.'

‘And Donovan, you're sure that's what you heard before you passed out? There's no wishful thinking at work here? Minds are funny things, sometimes they tell you what you want to hear. If there's any doubt in your mind about this, I want to know now.'

The accent was thicker than ever in Donovan's voice. ‘I didn't imagine it. I can't prove it, but that's what I heard. What I was trying to remember.' He waited, his long body profoundly still, his concentration focused minutely on Shapiro. Liz thought he looked like a gun-fighter, watching for the fractional signal in the muscles of the other man's face that would be the only warning he'd get of what was coming.

Finally Shapiro let out a breath like a sigh. ‘You don't have to prove it, lad, at least not to me. Convincing the DPP's another matter, but that's not today's problem. By the time we get there we'll have a case. For now, this is enough to work with.'

The blaze in Donovan's eyes flared up like fireworks.

As they were leaving, with a sudden pang of shame Liz excused herself and went back inside. Page was watching her: she winced under his acid gaze. ‘We owe you an apology, Mr Page.'

His voice was cold, remote. ‘Do you?'

Her eyebrows took on a wry slant. ‘Well, Donovan does mostly. But you'll be a while waiting for it from him so I hope you'll accept it from me. Anyway, none of us has much to be proud about as far as you're concerned. You're entitled to feel let down. I'm sorry.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.' But there was a faint yielding in Page's manner that suggested that perhaps he did.

‘That must have been very hurtful,' Liz said. ‘It's no excuse that he didn't realize how offensive he was being – he should have done. He'd no right to behave as if Kerry's death was less important than DI Clarke's, as if the main purpose of your suffering was to provide him with evidence in another case. It was crass and insensitive, and more than that it was wrong. Nothing that's happened was more dreadful than the murder of your wife.'

The bitterness was dying in Page's heart, leaving only ashes. Robbed of his anger he seemed childlike again, small and damaged. ‘That's right,' he said softly, insistently. ‘That's right.'

‘The only excuse I can offer is the pressure we've been under – four murders in a week, one of them the man best qualified to deal with the other three. I don't suppose it alters anything but when we've had time to catch our breath we'll all be rather ashamed of how we've treated you. All I can say is it wasn't deliberate.'

‘I know that,' Page said slowly, resignedly, as if giving something away. ‘I know. It's all right.'

‘Will you be all right? I can get someone to stay with you if you'd rather not be alone.'

‘I think,' David Page said tiredly, ‘being alone is what I'd like most. I think it's what I need. Go on, go catch your murderer. Really, I'll be fine.'

Liz smiled and nodded. ‘Yes. I know you will.' Then she followed the men downstairs.

For Castlemere CID the day ended more happily than it had begun, with a celebration in the public bar of the Ginger Pig. Wrapping up the Swann case, that so recently had seemed an impenetrable knot of contradictions punctuated at intervals by sudden acts of ferocious violence, had left them with an unexpectedly clear deck. Tomorrow they would resume work with a vengeance, switching thoughts and efforts from one grim pursuit to another, hungrier than usual for a result because of the sharply personal turn the case against Jack Carney had taken. But tonight they were relaxing. Being policemen, they seemed to know no ways of relaxing that were either dry or quiet.

Shapiro and Liz had found a corner a safe distance from their colleagues and watched with the good-natured tolerance of people out of range of a game of Lager Roulette. DC Scobie had shaken one can thoroughly before hiding it in an identity parade. Now he and DC Morris were taking turns to open the cans close under their noses. They were down to three and the tension at surrounding tables was becoming unbearable.

There was a notable absentee from the festivities. Liz peered through the press of bodies. ‘Where's Donovan?'

‘He'll be here.'

The loaded can went off, lager spraying DC Morris and much of the room. DC Scobie almost fell off his chair with the sheer hilarity of it. Doris the barmaid gave Morris a resigned look and a towel. WPC Wilson gave him a piece of her mind.

About then the door opened, admitting a flurry of cold air and something else. By degrees the noise died away and the eyes of all present, even those who were not policemen, were drawn to the open door and the gaunt figure stood there like an omen.

It was Donovan. His face was a mask of barely constrained fury, his voice aquiver with rage. ‘What the hell are you doing here, all of you? Do you think you've
finished
?'

Shapiro raised a hand and, mildly, his voice. ‘They're having a breather, Sergeant, and so are we. Come and join us.'

For a second Donovan stayed where he was. Then he strode to where his superiors were sitting and leaned over the table, his voice dropping to a querulous murmur. ‘There isn't time for this, sir. We can have them now, both of them: McMeekin because it was him under the viaduct and Carney because McMeekin doesn't even blow his nose unless he's told to. We're wasting time. When we've nailed Carney: that's when we celebrate.'

Shapiro's voice hardened slightly. ‘Sit down, Sergeant, and stop talking into my face.' It was an order so reluctantly Donovan obeyed. ‘We're in here for some R and R because everybody's been working hard, everybody's tired, and we're glad to have cleared up a really rather dreadful case. It doesn't mean we've forgotten about Alan, it doesn't mean we won't find out what happened to him. It just means we're not doing it tonight.'

‘Find out what happened to him?' yelped Donovan. ‘We know what happened to him! A stolen car driven by Carney's mechanic wiped him all over the road. Then that cocky bastard McMeekin got out for a gloat. I know he was there, I heard him say my name. And that same weird proverb that Page heard him say to Carney. I even saw his God-damned shiny shoes! What more do you need? Together me and Page put McMeekin at the scene. Then we have Carney too.'

Liz cast a nervous glance round the bar. The patrons had resumed their own conversations when Donovan sat down but there still wasn't enough noise to cover the argument. ‘Keep your voice down, Sergeant, you're not in the police station now.'

He encompassed all his colleagues in a scathing sweep of a look. ‘You could have fooled me.'

Shapiro didn't want to finish the day trading snide remarks with a detective sergeant. ‘Donovan, listen to me. I know you think we've got this case wrapped up. Believe me, even with what Page will say, what we have so far will not convince a jury. Look at it from their point of view. You were unconscious six hours, you had a bad concussion. And you want them to send two men to prison for a long time on the strength of what you think you heard and saw between being hit by the car and passing out? McMeekin does have an alibi, you know, of sorts.'