A Willing Victim (42 page)

Michael’s eyes shone electric-blue, with the wide, perfect stare of a child. They drew him in so that it seemed that there was no space between them, just absolute stillness, as though they were the centre of a vortex.

‘I understand,’ Stratton told him. ‘It will be all right, I promise.’

The boy remained motionless, his expression unchanged, and Stratton had no idea if he’d understood or even heard him. ‘Michael, please give me the gun.’

The boy gave him a brief, emphatic shake of the head and then, before Stratton or anyone else could move to stop him, whirled round and shot Roth, point-blank, in the chest.

*

Stratton heard a scream from somewhere behind him. Michael staggered backwards and then, righting himself, stared at the gun as though he’d never seen it before and, dropping it, hurled himself at Stratton, burying his face in his chest and bursting into noisy sobs. Roth was slumped against the wall, blood staining his grey waistcoat, cigarette still burning beside the upturned sole of his left shoe. His head was hanging, as if he were staring down at the wound, one hand clawing upwards at his chest, the other limp at his side. Miss Kirkland, who’d flown across the room, was kneeling beside him, keening and pawing at his clothing. Behind him, Adlard was herding the watchers onto the landing, with instructions that they were to remain where they were.

‘You,’ Stratton snapped at Tynan, who was still sitting, slack-jawed, in his chair, ‘telephone for an ambulance. And don’t even think of leaving the premises.’ Policewoman Wickstead pushed past him as he left and, shooing Miss Kirkland away from Roth, knelt down beside him and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. Stratton saw that a small amount of blood had pooled on his white shirt front and clamped Michael’s head more firmly against his chest so that he shouldn’t see.

Adlard appeared at his side. ‘I’ll make sure no one leaves.’

‘Keep an eye on Tynan,’ said Stratton. ‘He’ll be in the office.’

Adlard nodded and disappeared again, shutting the door after him. As his footsteps retreated down the corridor, there was silence, apart from Michael’s whimpers and the hoarse rasp of Roth’s breath.

Stratton stroked the boy’s head. ‘Can you get him out of here?’ he asked Wickstead. ‘Take him to his room and keep him quiet.’

Michael, limp now and placid, allowed himself to be led away. Kneeling beside Roth, Stratton could see just how hopeless the situation was. The bullet hole was over Roth’s heart. The small amount of visible blood was, he thought, a bad sign rather than
a good one – the bleeding would be internal. ‘The ambulance’ll be here soon,’ he murmured, pushing up Roth’s cuff to feel a pulse that was barely there. As he disengaged his hand, Roth gave a great groan. The force of this last expulsion of breath moved his head slightly, so that his face was a mere three inches from Stratton’s own. His skin was the colour and texture of putty, the lips a purplish blue. He wasn’t looking
at
Stratton, but
through
him, and his eyes were wide, fixed in an astonished stare.

To the left of him, Miss Kirkland, slumped in a chair like a marionette with its strings cut, gave a single sharp cry and put her hands over her face.

Stratton stood up and, facing her, said, ‘Patricia Kirkland, I am arresting you for the murder of Rosemary Aylett and Jeremy Lloyd. You are not obliged to say anything, but I must warn you that anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence against you.’

When she neither moved nor acknowledged this, Stratton leant down, put a hand on her shoulder and said, ‘You told me that my knowledge must be acquired through the facts alone, and I have acquired them.’

Miss Kirkland took her hands away from her face. For a moment, her gaze rested on Roth, and then she looked up at Stratton. Her expression, he thought, bore the imprint of a long and exhausting struggle that she had lost.

‘Someone … saw me?’

‘Yes. Come on,’ said Stratton. ‘Let’s get you out of here.’

Stratton stood on the driveway, watching the retreating tail-lights of the police cars taking Miss Kirkland and Michael back to the station. The boy, who had not yet been charged, had not spoken, but simply allowed himself to be led away by Wickstead, head bowed.

‘Parsons is going to telephone Trickett from the station,’ said Ballard, who’d arrived from Wickham Market while they were waiting for cars to be brought from Sudbury to collect the pair and gone straight inside to supervise things. ‘The ambulance people can take the body to the police mortuary. I asked Parsons to get hold of the welfare lady for Michael.’

‘It shouldn’t have happened,’ said Stratton. ‘I should have stopped him.’ He shook two cigarettes from his packet and handed one to Ballard. ‘Chilly out here. You want to go back in?’

‘Rather stay put for a moment, if it’s all the same to you.’ Ballard bent his head for the match. ‘If you want the truth, I never want to set foot in the bloody place again.’

Stratton turned towards the house, where light was spilling out from gaps in the curtains, behind which the students, who’d been marshalled downstairs into the hall, were having their statements taken by two other policemen who’d been sent for from
nearby villages. He’d sensed their excitement when they’d arrived – this, they knew, was something that happened only once in a lifetime of country policing.

‘Me neither. Christ, I should have stopped him. I could have.’

Ballard shook his head. ‘Too quick. Adlard told me what happened. Nobody could have—’

‘I don’t mean then, so much, I mean before. I should have realised when I spoke to him—’

‘You didn’t tell him to kill Roth, did you?’

‘No, but I must have put the idea into his head, you know, telling him that things weren’t really the way Roth said they were.’

‘He probably had no idea he was going to do it when you spoke to him. He was asleep, wasn’t he, when you left?’

‘Definitely.’

‘There you are, then. And you didn’t know he had a loaded gun in his room, did you?’

‘No. How the hell did he get it, anyway?’

‘God knows,’ said Ballard. ‘But guess who searched his room?’

‘Don’t tell me – Harwood.’

‘The very same. The boy’d hidden it behind the skirting, down by his bed. Miss Wickstead said he had it out of there and in his hand in a matter of seconds. She thought he was asleep.’

‘What the bloody hell was Briggs doing?’

Ballard sighed. ‘The Gents. By the time he got back, Michael was in Roth’s room with the gun.’

‘For Christ’s sake. Right, I think we’d better see Tynan – try and clarify what happened.’

Tynan, sitting on an upright chair by the empty grate in the library, rose awkwardly as they entered. He looked smaller than before, as if he’d shrunk, and very shaken. Stratton noticed a tremor as he raised his cigarette to his lips.

‘Mr Roth?’ he asked. ‘Is he …? I didn’t hear the ambulance.’

‘He’s dead,’ said Stratton brutally. ‘Sit down.’ Looking around him, he saw a strangely cheerless room, made more so by the absence of a fire. There were no armchairs – nowhere cosy to curl up and read – and the books on the shelves, apart from the Bible and Shakespeare, were the same jumble of funny stuff he’d seen in Lloyd’s room in London. There were no novels, not even Tynan’s, or anything that could be called ‘light reading’.

Pulling up a chair, Stratton said, ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me what happened.’

‘Michael just appeared,’ said Tynan. ‘He was so angry – shouting – Mr Roth tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t listen. He kept saying something about a trick, and it being Mr Roth’s fault. He was so …’ Tynan shook his head, looking dazed. ‘Just like her.’

‘Like Mrs Milburn?’

‘Yes. That rage, that energy … I tried to take the gun from him, but he was too fast for me.’

‘Do you know where he got the gun?’

Tynan sighed. ‘I gave it to him.’

Stratton stared at him. ‘You
gave
a loaded gun to a boy who is not yet eleven. Are you insane?’ Tynan’s customary indignation wattled his face momentarily, but was then replaced by something else that Stratton couldn’t quite read. ‘What sort of gun is it?’ he asked.

‘A revolver. Webley Mark IV, .38. There’s no doubt – I recognised it.’

‘You do realise you could be charged with aiding and abetting, don’t you?’

‘I’ve been teaching Michael to shoot, Inspector. Several months ago he asked me if he could have a gun to practise with—’

‘But that’s a service weapon. You don’t shoot game with it.’

Tynan swallowed. ‘Target practice – tin cans on a wall and so on. That was the one he chose.’

‘So he asked for it, and you gave it to him without a second thought?’

‘Michael …’ Tynan leant forward.

Thinking he saw the familiar look – the initiate in smug possession of knowledge explaining to the outsider – on the man’s face, Stratton pounced. ‘Yes, we know. Michael’s a special case.’ Nodding meaningfully, he added, ‘Well, if he wasn’t a special case before, he certainly is now. Very special. Thanks to you people, he stands a very good chance of spending the rest of his life in a special institution. And – just before we go – I feel I should tell you that I have arrested Patricia Kirkland.’

Tynan gave Stratton a look of total incomprehension. ‘Why?’

‘For the murder of both Jeremy Lloyd and Mrs Aylett.’

Tynan shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. Do you know what happened to the other boy?’

‘Billy? He died, Mr Tynan. Very soon after Mrs Milburn “adopted” him.’

Tynan put his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.

Wickstead was waiting for them at the police station. She looked shell-shocked, Stratton thought, as well she might. ‘He’s in the interview room,’ she said. ‘The welfare lady’s with him. Her name’s Mrs Dane.’

‘Has he said anything?’

‘Not a word. He must be wicked,’ she burst out suddenly, as if the thought could not be contained, utter revulsion in her face.

‘He’s not wicked,’ said Stratton wearily. ‘He’s a child. He’s angry and confused and probably very frightened.’

‘Some of the children round here are no better than animals,’ said the policewoman. ‘It’s their families – houses like stables – the way they live. You might expect it from them, but
him
!’ She fell silent, blinking back tears.

‘I know,’ said Stratton, gently. ‘And you can tell us about it later. But perhaps, for now, you might bring us some tea?’

When she had gone, Stratton and Ballard exchanged glances. ‘Can’t blame her,’ said Ballard. ‘Delayed shock. She’s just had the fright of her life, and she’s only young, too. And,’ he added, ‘she’s got a point. You can imagine what a jury will make of it.’

Interesting that Tynan said Michael reminded him of Mary/ Ananda, though,’ Stratton said. ‘Perhaps it’s hereditary.’

‘Usually is, isn’t it, madness? But we both know it’s about a lot more than that.’

Stratton sighed. The collective lunacy that had brought Michael to this point was going to be well-nigh impossible, even for a clever defence barrister, to explain in any way that was comprehensible to the average person.

Ballard cut across his thoughts. ‘I take it Mary/Ananda hasn’t improved, then?’

‘’Fraid not. And I get the impression we shouldn’t hold our breath.’

Mrs Dane, solid and unflappable with a long face and downy hair on her upper lip, made Stratton think of a police horse. By contrast Michael, huddled in a chair next to her, looked small, cold and horribly vulnerable; a child entirely alone but for such official comfort as the state could provide. Of course, thought Stratton, he had always been alone, in the sense of being treated virtually as a living god and having no shared experience with friends his own age. He hardly knew he was a boy at all. But now, in the course of a week, he’d lost everyone and everything he’d ever had.

If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, Stratton thought, I’d have a bloody hard job believing he’d killed a mouse, never mind a human being. Glancing at Ballard, he could tell that he was thinking the same thing.

Realising how imposing the pair of them must look, Stratton hunched over the table in an effort to appear smaller. The tea being brought, Wickstead retreated to a chair by the door and stared at Michael, as if she didn’t quite believe that he wouldn’t produce another pistol and kill them all.

‘How are you feeling, Michael? Are you warm enough?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ said the boy, automatically polite. After a second’s hesitation, he added, ‘Is Mr Roth dead?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure.’ Suddenly realising that Michael was having a hard time understanding that Roth
could
die he added, ‘A person – even Mr Roth – is no different from a partridge in that respect.’ This got him a reproving look from Mrs Dane. ‘We’re all mortal, I’m afraid. Even you. Now, I’m going to have to charge you with killing Mr Roth. Do you understand what that means?’

‘Yes. Mr Hardy – he’s my tutor – he told me about the law.’

‘That’s good.’ Clearing his throat, Stratton said, ‘Michael James Milburn, I am arresting you for the murder of Theodore Roth. You are not obliged to say anything, but I must warn you that anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence against you.’

Michael blinked. ‘How will I know it’s right?’

‘Well, you can tell us what happened in your own words, and DI Ballard here is going to write it down. Then you can read it and see if it’s right and a true record of what you said, and then, if it is, you sign it. That will be your statement. After that, we’ll need to take your fingerprints, and then we’ll get you some supper, and you can stay here overnight. Is there anything you’d like to ask me at this point?’

Michael hung his head, picked at a loose thread on the knee of his trousers for a moment and then said, ‘I won’t be on my own, will I? You won’t lock me in and leave me?’

He looked so forlorn that Stratton felt an actual physical pang in his heart. ‘Of course not. There’ll be someone here all the time. You can bang on the door if you need anything. Now, why don’t you tell us what happened.’