Authors: Jo Bannister
Changelings (28 page)
The sting of his skin parting told him better than his obstructed vision that he'd found it. One powerful hand closed over Wingrave's as Tyler struggled to free the other from under him. He wished he could see. At least the man was no match for him physically. It was as if Tyler's ill-judged assault had been the last straw and he'd given up.
Given up? Psychopaths don't give up.
A hand on his shoulder made Tyler squirm like a bulky snake; the voice in his ear stopped him. âMitchell, it's all right. It's over.'
Liz helped him out from under the still form. Even now he was reluctant to release the chisel. But when he did, and wiped his sleeve across his eyes, finally he understood that the danger had passed. Martin Wingrave was dead. There was a hole in the centre of his forehead and the back of his skull was gone. It was Wingrave's blood in Tyler's eyes, not his own. The momentum of his charge had carried him on to the chisel, but even then it was held in a dead hand.
âYou shot him,' he grunted, pain suddenly clamping up his chest.
âI did,' Liz agreed. She sat him down on the steps
and parted his clothes to find where the blade had cut him. An inch-wide wound pumped blood from his left side. Liz wadded a handkerchief against the injury and pressed his hand over it. âHold tight, help's on the way.'
and parted his clothes to find where the blade had cut him. An inch-wide wound pumped blood from his left side. Liz wadded a handkerchief against the injury and pressed his hand over it. âHold tight, help's on the way.'
âI didn't think you would.'
âI was always going to shoot him rather than let him inside. I didn't expect to have to get round you to do it'
âSorry,' he mumbled. The afternoon light was fading faster than it had any business doing.
âDon't worry about it. It's over. Everyone's safe now. Well, nearly everyone.'
Tyler looked at the man crumpled at the top of the steps. He was a long way away and receding by the moment.
Liz read the look, and the comment he lacked the strength to make. âI wasn't thinking of him. He's in the only place he'd ever be safe. No parole; no gullible psychiatrist thinking he's cured because he says so. I was thinking of Donovan.'
But Tyler wasn't listening. Liz sat on the step beside him to spare him the indignity of toppling over and propped him up until a siren heralded the ambulance.
On his own bike and on a level playing field â roads and tracks that he knew as well as those pursuing him â Donovan would have given anyone a run for his money. He'd ridden motorbikes, quite illegally, since he was twelve years old. The sense of proprioception which tells most people where the various bits of their bodies are and permits them to perform complex manoeuvres without conscious thought extended in Donovan's case to a pair of wheels. He could make a bike do things that the makers never thought of.
But not today. There were too many factors working against him. This wasn't his bike, or any bike: it was a hybrid whose dynamics and performance envelope were quite different. It wasn't a level playing field: the men behind him worked in these fields every day, they knew where the tracks ran, how wide and how rough they were. He had a passenger to look after. And the power of the engine throbbing between his knees could not totally compensate for his lack of physical strength. It was like coursing a three-legged hare: the poor little sod would give all it had but the outcome was a foregone conclusion.
The quad had seemed a good idea at the time.
Donovan knew now that he wasn't going to make his escape on it.
Donovan knew now that he wasn't going to make his escape on it.
In times of difficulty the psalmist lifted up his eyes unto the hills. In the same way Donovan looked for the canal. It drew him like home. Whatever hazards he faced, gut instinct always told him to put water at his back. It was his faithful friend and would not let him down.
But there were two fields and three fences still between him and the Thirty Foot Drain, and he couldn't stay ahead of the pursuit long enough to get there. Even if by some fluke he did â if two of the men behind him collided and the others turned back to render first aid â he wasn't sure it would do much good. There was no drawbridge he could cross and then pull up. There was no bridge at all, and no roads, no dwellings, no phones. The nearest sure help was at the Sinkhole engine house, five miles east, or the Posset Inn four and a half miles west. With or without Elphie to care for, he hadn't a hope in hell of reaching either of them.
When he first saw it he thought he was hallucinating. That his desperate need had conjured up a mirage. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes and looked again. But it was still there: a small narrowboat, black below and cornflower-blue above, chuntering along between the sedgy banks at a steady three knots.
It was October, well past the tourist season. A pleasant autumn might have tempted people out for a late holiday, but it had hardly stopped raining since August. Come September, even in a good year, the visitors thinned out and withdrew to the cosier core
of the inland waterways: the Grand Union, the Ashby & North Oxford, the Avon Ring and the Thames above Reading. The Castlemere Levels weren't picturesque in the same way, were a long haul from any of the pleasure-boating centres, and had a daunting, godforsaken look except at the height of summer. Mostly, only people like Donovan â boat owners, people who lived on the water or kept their boats out year-round â would be out here after mid-September. Which meant he should have recognized the little cornflower-blue narrowboat; but he didn't.
of the inland waterways: the Grand Union, the Ashby & North Oxford, the Avon Ring and the Thames above Reading. The Castlemere Levels weren't picturesque in the same way, were a long haul from any of the pleasure-boating centres, and had a daunting, godforsaken look except at the height of summer. Mostly, only people like Donovan â boat owners, people who lived on the water or kept their boats out year-round â would be out here after mid-September. Which meant he should have recognized the little cornflower-blue narrowboat; but he didn't.
It didn't matter. He wasn't going to get so many chances that he could afford to squander one. Whoever they were, they probably had a phone. Five minutes with a working phone and they were safe. There was nothing to be gained by hurting either him or Elphie once the police were on their way.
If he could reach the canal before the pursuit reached him. Which he couldn't just by opening the throttle. If he tried to go as fast as the men behind him, either he'd bounce Elphie clear off the quad or he'd turn the damned thing over.
Which left dirty tricks. If he could lock the gate ⦠Oddly enough he wasn't carrying a padlock today, but maybe he could find something that would serve. Barbed wire? You're never far from a loose bit of barbed wire in the country, and this field was no exception. A coil of the stuff, left from last time the fence was mended in anticipation of it needing mending again, had been thrust into the hedge beside the gate. Donovan hauled it out, found the end and began weaving. He took no care over it, ignoring the
pain of his torn palms. Thirty seconds from now when the men got here the wire would have ravelled up tighter still, the in-built tension of the coil twisting it like a spring until the barbs meshed together. It would take longer to undo than it had taken him to do it; and because he was running for his life and they weren't the prospect of injury would worry them more. They'd waste a minute trying to find a way round; when there wasn't one they'd waste another minute deciding who should tackle the job and a third looking for gloves.
pain of his torn palms. Thirty seconds from now when the men got here the wire would have ravelled up tighter still, the in-built tension of the coil twisting it like a spring until the barbs meshed together. It would take longer to undo than it had taken him to do it; and because he was running for his life and they weren't the prospect of injury would worry them more. They'd waste a minute trying to find a way round; when there wasn't one they'd waste another minute deciding who should tackle the job and a third looking for gloves.
It might be enough. If he could turn a minute's lead into three it just might be enough. As the quads raced down the slope he dropped the wire and ran, blood on his hands, and chased the machine up through the gears as fast as he could.
As they fled Elphie looked back over Donovan's hunched shoulders and waved. âThat's Uncle Jim! Uncle Jim, Uncle Jim â it's me!'
Donovan couldn't think of a single comment he could make in front of an eight-year-old so he just gritted his teeth and drove.
Â
Â
Periwinkle
wasn't a hire boat but nor was she in the hands of experts. In an unguarded moment her owner had promised to lend her to his two nieces as long as they avoided the busy tourist season. They'd been out for three days now, had got the hang of stopping, starting and steering, were less familiar with the map.
wasn't a hire boat but nor was she in the hands of experts. In an unguarded moment her owner had promised to lend her to his two nieces as long as they avoided the busy tourist season. They'd been out for three days now, had got the hang of stopping, starting and steering, were less familiar with the map.
âThis is the Thirty Foot Drain,' said Stella Merrick
with laboured patience. âNot the Sixteen Foot Drain. Look at it: it's thirty feet wide!'
with laboured patience. âNot the Sixteen Foot Drain. Look at it: it's thirty feet wide!'
âNot all the way,' said Sylvia; which was perfectly true. When the canals stopped carrying commercial traffic there was little incentive to maintain the banks. Consequently, the width of the Thirty Foot Drain varied between ten metres and about six. Interestingly enough, the Sixteen Foot Drain wasn't five metres wide all the way either. Sometimes it was wider.
âLook,' said Stella, shaking out the map on the coach-house roof. Then she turned it round. âLook. We came through Sinkhole, and we followed the right-hand bank. If we'd followed the left-hand bank we'd have gone down the Sixteen Foot Drain. This is the Thirty Foot Drain.'
âThen why haven't we come to Posset yet?'
âBecause we haven't gone far enough!'
âWe came through Sinkhole yesterday afternoon! Four hours max should have got us into Posset.'
âYou can't count the time we were tied up last night,' Stella said reasonably. âOr the hour we spent with our nose stuck in the bank this morning. And untangling the mooring rope from the propeller must have taken another hour.'
âIn that case,' snapped her sister, âmaybe you should be more careful!'
âAnd maybe you should do a bit of the work around here instead of posing at the tiller in the hope of impressing muscle-bound farmhands!'
âWhat was that splash?' asked Sylvia.
Quarrel forgotten, Stella went to
Periwinkle's
side and peered over. âAn otter?'
Periwinkle's
side and peered over. âAn otter?'
Even a small narrowboat like
Periwinkle
is ten metres long, it doesn't move much with the weight of the people on board. So the first warning the sisters got that they were no longer alone was when something as wet as an otter and the same streamlined shape but bigger and with an Irish accent levered itself out of the dark water and slumped on the forepeak, shivering and coughing like a sixty-a-day smoker.
Periwinkle
is ten metres long, it doesn't move much with the weight of the people on board. So the first warning the sisters got that they were no longer alone was when something as wet as an otter and the same streamlined shape but bigger and with an Irish accent levered itself out of the dark water and slumped on the forepeak, shivering and coughing like a sixty-a-day smoker.
âSorry to disturb you,' spluttered Donovan, his teeth chattering with cold and exhaustion, âbut I need your help.'
Â
Â
With the gate finally behind them, the men on the quads didn't see Donovan dive from the bank and swim to the little blue narrowboat or drag himself on board, or the boat move over to the near bank so that a small figure in a bright red coat could spring sure-footedly into the well. But it was a reasonable assumption that that or something very like it had happened. âGod damn it!'
âDon't panic,' warned Jim Vickery. âWe don't know who that is. They may not be able to help them; they may not be willing to.'
âHow well do you have to know somebody to let them use your phone? And he is a police officer.'
âWe know that, but they don't and he can't prove it. The doctor has his wallet. As for the phone, those things are about as reliable as your missus's drop scones. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don't. This isn't over yet. Damn it, lads, we've nothing to lose!'
âI wish the doc was here,' whined Alan Hunsecker. âHe'd know what to do.'
âI know what to do,' growled Vickery. âCome on â back to Cowslip Bend. We'll stop them there.'
Tyros on the Castlemere Ring always planned to picnic at Cowslip Bend. It sounded so charming, they imagined a watermeadow decked with wild flowers, the air full of the hum of bees and the occasional whistle and plop of a kingfisher.
Invariably they were disappointed and mostly they kept motoring. Cowslip Bend wasn't a good place to stop. It was a tight turn complicated by dense willow scrub on both banks, and it was named not for the meadow flower but for an ammunition barge which failed to make the turn back in the 1880s and blew up. Some of the debris landed in East Beckham a mile away.
Even without a hold full of nitroglycerine it was necessary to slow down to manoeuvre a narrowboat round Cowslip Bend. Even little
Periwinkle
would have to inch her way round, and as she did it her prow and stern would come within a few feet of the bank.
Periwinkle
would have to inch her way round, and as she did it her prow and stern would come within a few feet of the bank.
Even on straight stretches narrowboats travel at only walking speed. The quads had no difficulty in reaching Cowslip Bend first.
âLeave the talking to me,' said Jim Vickery. âWe don't know what he's told them. He may not have told them anything; or they may not have believed him. We may be able to get them on our side.'
âI wish the doc was here,' whined Hunsecker.
Â
Â
Sylvia was at the tiller. The elder at nineteen, the boat's safety had been entrusted to her, and even without being quite sure where she was she could tell that the dark bend coming up was going to be tricky. She throttled the engine back to a notch above idle, and as the way came off the snub-nosed little vessel she steered towards the outside of the bend. When she was almost on the bank she put the tiller full over so that the bows swung across the turn. It was not an easy manoeuvre, particularly the first time of trying, but she judged both speed and angle accurately and
Periwinkle
made the awkward turn as if under the guidance of an expert.
Periwinkle
made the awkward turn as if under the guidance of an expert.
It was not a misjudgement that made her brush against the willows on the northern bank, it was appropriate use of the space available. But it was what, cloaked by the canal-side vegetation, the men were waiting for. Hunsecker stepped calmly aboard at the bows, Vickery â tipping an imaginary cap to the astonished girls â at the stern. Within seconds they'd thrown the mooring warps to those waiting on the bank.
Vickery reached down and stopped
Periwinkle's
engine. âDon't be alarmed, girls,' he said in his most unthreatening voice. âThere's been some trouble but it's nothing to do with you. We're looking for a man with a child. A tall man, dark; a little girl wearing a red coat. He's abducted her. They were on the towpath five minutes since. Did you stop for them?'
Periwinkle's
engine. âDon't be alarmed, girls,' he said in his most unthreatening voice. âThere's been some trouble but it's nothing to do with you. We're looking for a man with a child. A tall man, dark; a little girl wearing a red coat. He's abducted her. They were on the towpath five minutes since. Did you stop for them?'
Sylvia's jaw dropped and she turned horrified eyes on her sister. âI
said
there was something strange about him! He abducted the little girl? My God!'
said
there was something strange about him! He abducted the little girl? My God!'
âYou saw them then?'
âMore than that. He was on board â he asked for help. He wanted us to hide them. He wouldn't explain why, or what from, just kept muttering about the police. I didn't trust him an inch.'
âYou were dead right,' said Vickery with feeling. âTell me â have you got a phone on board.'
Stella shook her head. âWe brought one, but somebody' â she looked daggers at Sylvia â âdidn't check the battery. It's dead.'
Vickery tried to hide his satisfaction. âSo where are they now? Below?'
âYou think I let someone like that on my uncle's boat?' Sylvia raised a blonde eyebrow. âI sent him packing. Last seen heading up the bank that way.' Her arm indicated the direction of Sinkhole.
They were two slender teenage girls. Donovan had been sick but he was still a six-foot police officer.
âHow?'
âHow?'
âI asked him to leave, politely.' Sylvia gave a sly grin. âThen I turned the fire extinguisher on him.'
If it was true it was probably all to the good. At least they wouldn't have to drag Donovan kicking and screaming off the boat and then decide what to do about the witnesses. On the other hand, it sounded a mite convenient. Vickery let his gaze fall. There were dribbles of foam on the deck. Maybe it was true.
He cleared his throat. âListen, girls, it's not that I don't believe you. It's just that a kid's safety is at stake, and ruthless people can make other people lie for them. Can I look round the boat?'
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