The Shape of Snakes (33 page)

I nodded. "Did Derek ever get done for rape?"

"That would suit you, wouldn't it?"

"Why?" I asked mildly. "I never accused him of rape."

"All but. You said he shoved his penis between your legs."

"I said he put something between my legs which I
thought
was his penis, and as a result I
thought
he was going to rape me. I also told you that's exactly what he wanted me to believe. He was giving me a demonstration of how bad things would get if I didn't keep my nigger-loving mouth shut. It was your choice to tell him I'd accused him of attempted rape ... your choice to put me in danger ... even though you'd already agreed with Andy's assessment that the worst Derek could be charged with was threatening behavior."

"We couldn't charge him with anything," he said dismissively. "He had an alibi. In any case, I thought the guy had a right to know what the latest accusation was. You weren't exactly stinting yourself on the Derek Slater front ... and sexual assault was a damn sight more serious than heavy breathing on the end of a phone."

"His alibi was a joke," I said. "You didn't follow it up until three days later."

"It makes no difference. It was watertight."

"Oh, come on!" I said impatiently. "A Kempton Park ticket stub which he could have picked out of the gutter the next day? The course is only a few miles outside Richmond in all conscience. And a telephone conversation with one of his friends? You didn't even bother to check on the remaining two."

"
You
didn't bother to report the incident until the day after it happened," he countered sarcastically.

I fingered my lip to quell the tic that was leaping and jumping beneath the skin. I couldn't stand the idea that he might interpret it as fear. "It took me twenty-four hours to pluck up the courage," I said matter-of-factly. "Half of me wanted to let the whole thing drop, the other half recognized that Derek wouldn't be terrorizing me if I wasn't right in what I was saying. I was very naive, of course. It never occurred to me you'd bend over backward to protect a man you described as scum ... just because he was white."

"That's not true, and you know it."

"Then why have you consistently protected the Slaters from questioning about Annie's death?"

"I haven't."

"Why didn't you follow through when Dr. Arnold told you Annie had been robbed? You must have realized then where the Quetzalcoatl mosaic came from."

"I didn't. I remember some bits of rubbish in the Slaters' sitting room, but I couldn't describe it now and I certainly didn't link it with anything Dr. Arnold said later."

I could almost believe him, if only because the death of a black woman had meant so little to him. "The children had been stealing from Annie for months," I said, "but they weren't very good at hiding what they were taking, and Maureen beat the truth out of Bridget Spalding when she spotted her wearing a ring that obviously hadn't come from Woolworth's. That's when she began to realize Annie might be sitting on a gold mine."

Drury flicked his hand dismissively. "The police can't act if a crime isn't reported."

I went on as if he hadn't spoken. "Annie was such an easy target. She wouldn't let people into her house, she distrusted anyone who spoke to her neighbors, thought council officials and men in uniform were against her, made an enemy of her bank manager. In fact the only person who came close to being a friend was her GP." I watched his face for a reaction, but it remained impassive. "Annie was fairly safe while Sheila was making regular visits because even Derek wasn't stupid enough to make a move while her doctor was taking an interest. Then Sheila left for America and everything changed."

"You can't blame me for that."

"More to the point, after Sheila's departure there was no one who could say what Annie did or didn't have." I held his gaze. "And you never bothered to ask because it suited you to believe a black woman would live in a slum."

"You're forgetting how many empty bottles we found. The conditions inside the house had nothing to do with the color of her skin, they were the result of a drink habit."

"They were vodka bottles," I said.

There was a tiny flicker of doubt in his eyes. "So?"

"She didn't drink vodka." I took a sheaf of papers from my rucksack. "Andy sent me a list of every landlord and off-license manager in Richmond in 1978. My father managed to locate just over half of them. Two of the off-license managers remember Annie well. They both say she was a regular and that she only bought Jamaican rum. And the landlord of the Green Man says he kept a stock of it just for Annie Butts because she used to get agitated if he ran out." I thrust the pages into his hand.

Drury frowned as he flicked through them. "It doesn't prove she wasn't buying vodka from a supermarket," he said.

"No," I agreed.

"Then it's not evidence."

"Not on its own, perhaps, but if you look at the last two pages you'll see that several off-license managers remember Maureen Slater as a vodka drinker. One of them describes how she used to come in after picking up her benefit money and buy half a dozen bottles at a time. He says he refused to serve her after she slapped one of her children-probably Alan-when he said he needed new shoes."

"So? All that proves is Maureen bought vodka; it doesn't prove Annie didn't. What are you trying to say, anyway? That the Slaters put their bottles in Annie's kitchen?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"After she was dead."

"Why?"

"To make you think what you did: that she was a chronic drunk who lived in a tip and neglected herself. That's why they turned off the main supplies and took away all the food that she'd bought for the cats."

"Oh, come on," he growled impatiently. "
Everyone
said she was a drunk, not just the Slaters." He smacked the paper with the back of his hand. "In any case, Derek was as thick as two short planks. He couldn't have followed through on a plan like that. He'd have given himself away the minute we started asking questions."

"Not Derek, maybe, but Maureen certainly could. All she had to do was play on your prejudices." I quoted his own words at him. "You'd never believe a 'downtrodden slut' could outmaneuver you, and 'a miserable black who couldn't hold her drink' was bound to soil her own floor and piss on herself. And why would you question the kind of bottles you found in Annie's house when the mere fact of their existence confirmed everything Maureen wanted you to believe?"

"There was no reason to question them. No one told us she didn't drink vodka."

I handed him another piece of paper.

"What's this?"

"A copy of Sharon Percy's statement. Your name's at the top as the interviewing officer. The first half deals with where she was during the evening-none of which is true as a matter of interest-the second half is her description of what Annie was like. Somewhere in the last paragraph it says: 'She used to get drunk on rum and start insulting everyone. She took swipes at the kids with the empty bottles. I kept reporting it but nothing was done.' "

Impatiently, he tore this page, too, into shreds and dropped it to the floor. "You're clutching at straws," he said. "You can muddy the waters as much as you like, it doesn't alter the fact that there was no reason to question anyone's statement at the time ... and that includes your husband's. The pathologist's findings were unambiguous-Ann Butts died because she walked in front of a truck."

"Which is what you told him to say."

"You can't prove it. If Hanley's files are missing, there's nothing to show which of us said what first."

I gave a small laugh. "He didn't do you any favors by getting rid of them. At the moment, the only document supporting your accident theory is the one-page report Hanley submitted to the coroner, and that has so many mistakes it's a joke. He spelled Annie's name wrong, referred to bruising on her left arm instead of her right, and completely ignored the lividity in her thighs, which is very pronounced in the photographs."

I was amazed to see him run a nervous tongue across his lips. "I don't think that's right."

"It is," I assured him. "Hanley was so incompetent by that time he was taking dictation from whichever police officer presented a body for inspection. I assume you got muddled over the arms because I told you she was lying left side uppermost with her back to the lamppost."

He had to think about his answer. "Not my responsibility. He had his job ... I had mine. Let him take the flak."

I reached for my rucksack and zipped up the pockets. "Reporters don't hound dead people," I told him. "Only the living. And there's more human interest in a racist policeman who refused to investigate a black woman's murder than a troubled pathologist who killed himself with drink because he couldn't stand the unnecessary mutilation of corpses. Radley's won't keep you on," I went on dispassionately, "not once you're plastered across the front of the newspapers. All your decent trade will vanish overnight to be supplanted by thugs from the National Front."

Small beads of sweat dampened his forehead. "Tell me what you came for," he said, "because we both know this has nothing to do with Annie."

Was he right?
I honestly didn't know anymore. "It was two years before I learned to trust myself again," I said slowly, "and another two before I dared trust anyone else. I still have nightmares ... still run to the basin to wash myself ... still check the bolts on the door ... still jump out of my skin every rime I hear a sound I don't recognize." I pushed back my chair and stood up, hooking my rucksack over my shoulder. "I'd say this has everything to do with Annie. The only difference Between us is that she had the courage to stand and fight ... and I ran away." I moved to the door. "Which is why she's dead and I'm alive."
 

Letter from Dr. Joseph Elias, psychiatrist
at the Queen Victoria Hospital, Hong Kong-dated 1999

QUEEN VICTORIA HOSPITAL
Hong Kong
Dept. of Psychiatry

Mrs. M. Ranelagh
Jacaranda
Hightor Road
Cape Town
South Africa

February 17, 1999

Dear Mrs. Ranelagh,

Goodness me! So it's home to England at last. I shall await your news with bated breath. Yes, despite my incredibly advanced years, I still have a small consultancy in the hospital, but only because my patients seem to prefer the devil they know to the devil they don't.

And what of your devils, my dear? Somehow I doubt that justice for Annie will be enough for you. But who am I to criticize when my friend the rabbi would say: To win the peace you must first fight the war?

As requested, I enclose the notes I made in 1979.

Yours fondly,
J. Elias

*22*

Drury couldn't leave it alone, as I knew he wouldn't. For all his protestations about hating having people in his face, he disliked it even more when they walked away. I turned, left the pub and went about fifty yards toward the trawler moorings before I heard his footsteps behind me. Lights from the buildings along the quay shone a quiet glow across the cobblestones and, far ahead, tiny beacons bobbed upon the water like multicolored jewels, showing safe navigation for incoming yachtsmen. I had a moment to wish I could enjoy the scene for what it was-something beautiful-before his fingers closed about my arm.

"This is crazy," he said, jerking me 'round to face him. "You say you want to get even. Well, how? Destroying me isn't going to produce justice for you or for Annie. Are you asking me to deliver Derek Slater on a plate? Is that what this is about?"

I tried to pull away. "People are watching," I said.

"Let them watch," he growled. "I want this sorted."

"Fine. So when I decide to scream-which I certainly will if you don't let go-there'll be a hundred witnesses to confirm your superintendent's assessment that you're a violent man."

He released me immediately.

I smiled cynically as I rubbed my arm. "It's not so much fun when the boot's on the other foot, is it? The way things are at the moment, you'd crawl on your belly over these cobbles in exchange for a promise to burn what's in my rucksack. Am I right?"

"Don't push your luck," he said in an undertone. "I'm in no mood for games. All you'll achieve by going public is to make me a scapegoat, and that's not going to put Derek behind bars ... not after all this time. Is that the kind of justice you want?"

"It's better than nothing."

He grasped one writhing fist inside the other as if afraid he wouldn't be able to control them. "If it was me you wanted, you wouldn't have put me on my guard," he said reasonably.

"Perhaps I like watching you sweat," I murmured.

"How about I break your fucking neck?" he said through gritted teeth.

"You wouldn't get very far. My two sons are standing right behind you."

The words made no sense to him-he didn't associate me with children-and he stared at me in baffled fury like a tired bull trying to work out how to defeat a matador. "What the hell are you talking about now?"

"Protection." I nodded to Luke and Tom. "I come better prepared these days."

It took a second or two for his brain to catch on, but he spun 'round eventually to discover I was telling the truth. Perhaps he was expecting something younger-
or smaller?
-but whichever, he was suitably impressed. "Shit!" he said. "What the fuck's going on?"