The Insect Farm (33 page)

Still Roger completely ignored us, and although he could often become totally immersed in his own world and
apparently oblivious to surrounding events, I thought it unusual that he did not respond. He was cleaning the glass on the inside of a tank and, to all intents and purposes, he may as well have been quite alone.

“Go ahead,” I said, and by now I could feel a cold and clammy wetness under my arms, and wondered if my anxiety would shortly be obvious. I wiped my face on my sleeve.

“Are you OK, Jonathan?” asked Pascoe.

“Sure,” I said. “We’ve just been working hard before you came. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

I watched as the two detectives shuffled slowly along the rows of tanks, Wallace walking on one side nearer to where Roger was working, Pascoe on the other side, closer to me. Both men progressed carefully, each of them stopping from time to time to take a closer look and to draw the attention of the other to what was going on in these strange worlds. Pascoe seemed especially fascinated by the ants, and several times he called Wallace across to point out some aspect of their activity. You could tell that Pascoe was more interested than was Wallace, whose comments were polite and peremptory.

All the time both of them were edging closer to the far end of the shed, so that in a few moments they would be standing within just a very few inches of the coffin-shaped box which was full of earth and covered with a fine-wire mesh and which contained the last mortal remains of Mrs Harriet Maguire.

I tried to look out of the window, willing my eyes not to fall onto the casket, and perhaps hoping to see something
which would justify me calling the two men over. I saw a robin land on the corner of an upturned bucket and was about to speak, but instantly thought that the diversion would be seen for what it was.

“What’s in here?”

I could feel the strong pulse of my heart beat vibrating through my body and into my brain. My ears were full of the huge swish-swish of rushing blood, and I thought that I would pass out. My breath caught in my throat and I turned my head in what seemed like slow motion. As I looked I saw that Wallace was standing above the wooden crate into which, just three months earlier, I had ladled handfuls of dark soil onto the smooth pink-and-white flesh of the woman I had loved so very much. He was even tapping the box with his right foot so that I could see tiny movements of vibration across the wire mesh which covered the layer of soil. I tried to speak, but the words would not come out. I have no idea what they would have been anyway.

“It’s a new wormery,” Roger spoke for the first time since the detectives had arrived, and now was walking a few paces across to where Wallace was standing. “It’s Jonathan’s, actually. Do you want to take a closer look?”

The sudden animation from Roger drew renewed attention from Wallace and Pascoe, and now both men stood alongside him and were bending down to crouch over the wooden crate. I swear to God that an image suddenly flashed into my mind from all those horror films in which a white and ghastly hand
appears out of the grave, reaching to grab someone by the throat. But it didn’t. What actually happened was that Roger was reaching for a pitchfork, and was getting ready to plunge it into the earth which scarcely concealed Harriet’s body.

“I don’t think they want to see that, Roger,” I said, and was about to move forward and take the fork from him.

“I am sure we do,” said Wallace. “Go on, Roger, we’d love to see what Jonathan has been up to.”

Was it a nightmare? Was this really happening? After so many weeks, my original pessimism about getting away with murder had gradually faded, and by now I had allowed myself to believe that the mystery of Harriet’s disappearance might never be solved. Just ten minutes ago my life and my future and that of Roger seemed to be straightforward and predictable. Now I was just moments away from a disaster which would turn our lives upside down. And then Roger was lifting the fork inches above the level of the soil, about to plunge the sharp tines deep into it, at just about the point where I calculated that Harriet’s neck would be.

“Stop,” I said. Such was the urgency and vehemence of my interruption that the three of them all looked at me at the same time, their faces full of enquiry. “I’ve only sorted that a few weeks ago,” I said. “The worms will just be getting settled. They won’t want a bloody great fork turning them over.” For just a split second I saw Wallace about to mouth something which might have been acquiescence. He could be content, it seemed, not to have the soil turned over after all,
but a moment later I saw Roger once again lifting the fork and prepare to plunge it downwards.

“Nonsense,” he said, “worms and beetles enjoy a little earthquake,” and with that I saw the fork go down, sharp blades entering the soil, and I closed my eyes tight shut and brought up my hands to cover my ears, entirely expecting to hear the crunch of bone as the fork juddered to a halt.

But it did not. The message of my senses stood in complete contrast to the confident expectations of my mind, and I watched in total amazement as Roger pushed the fork downwards so that it scraped off the bottom of the casket, and then bent it towards himself so as to be able to gather up a complete clod of the earth. As he did so he turned the fork over to reveal twenty or so fat worms, each of them wriggling and writhing as if in protest at the disruption, and all mixed together in the soil with a concentration of beetles of a type I had never seen before.

“See?” said Roger. “Happy worms and happy beetles, driven into action by visiting catastrophe” – and as I stood gazing transfixed at Roger’s face while he was speaking, I saw for the first time since then that same look that I had seen in the garden at David Frost’s party. He was partially in a trance, speaking as though someone or something else was speaking through him. The two detectives noticed it too, I think, because both seemed to be momentarily transfixed, and now Roger was turning, and looked straight at me as though we two were alone.

“We move,” he said softly, “in mysterious ways.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It strikes me that I have not recorded much about my life at the library and, truthfully, that’s because there is very little about it which is memorable or worth telling. Like most petty bureaucracies, it was overrun with tiny politics about who was in line for promotion and who had incurred the displeasure of the branch librarian. One thing that the big experiences of my life has taught me has been not to sweat the small stuff, so I more or less irritated all of my colleagues by basically not giving a damn about all the things which preoccupied most of them.

I did not care much, for example, about who was in and who was out of favour. I did not get over-anxious to extract a huge fine if a kid or a pensioner brought a book back late. And I didn’t risk evacuating my bowels if a reader or “client”, as we were required to call them, threatened to complain that the service I provided was less than totally grovelling.

I only mention the library now because it was the day after the police had visited us at the allotments, and I was sitting in the staff room taking my morning tea break, when the deputy librarian, a spotty youth just a bit older than me called Nigel Hollingsworth, came in and told me that I was wanted on the telephone. It was someone calling from Roger’s day centre.

While it’s true that not much got me terribly anxious, this kind of news was guaranteed to do so, and so I leapt to my feet and more or less ran down the corridor to the Chief Librarian’s office. I knew that the day centre would only ever call in an emergency, and they had never done so in all the time I had been Roger’s main carer. The office was empty and the receiver was lying next to the phone. I grabbed it and spoke.

“Hello? It’s Jonathan Maguire. Who is this please?”

“Oh, Jonathan.” Immediately I recognized the voice of Mrs Flaherty, who was the head teacher at the day centre. She sounded terribly anxious. “I am so pleased they have found you. Something has happened.”

“Yes, I assumed so. What is it? Is he OK? Has he been hurt?” There was a pause, as though she didn’t know quite how to put what was coming next. My breaths came in short, sharp bursts. “Mrs Flaherty? What is it? What has happened?”

“Well, I’m afraid that I think that Roger has been arrested.”

“What?” Of all the things I might have expected her to say to me – maybe an accident or a fight or a sudden illness, this was not up there among them. “He’s been what? Arrested? By whom? What for? When?”

I realized that my barrage wasn’t helping, but I could not stop myself. My mind was a cloud of confusion, tempered with an instant burst of indignation that the police would do something like this without first informing me.

“Yes, two detectives came this morning and asked to see him. I told them that I wanted to inform you, but they
insisted and said that they had a warrant and that I had to get him immediately. They spoke to him for a few minutes in my office and then they took him out. I’m afraid that he was in handcuffs.”

“What?” I could feel my temper rising up inside me uncontrollably. “Mrs Flaherty? They did what? You allowed the police to speak to Roger? What were they asking him about?”

“I don’t know, Jonathan,” she said. “They wouldn’t let me stay in the room while they spoke to him.”

Instinctively I knew it was a mistake to alienate Mrs Flaherty, but at that moment my frustration and sense of impotence overflowed. I felt so protective about Roger, so responsible for him, that the idea of him being confused or upset by things he would never understand, without me or someone else he knew and trusted being present, sent me into orbit. I asked if the officers had left their names.

“Yes,” she said, “I’ve written them down somewhere. If you just hang on a minute I can find them.”

“Never mind,” I said. “Was it Wallace and Pascoe?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, “that’s it. I’ve found my note. DS Wallace and DC Pascoe. They’re at King’s Cross. They left a number if you want it?”

“I know exactly where they are.” By now my surprise had transformed completely into anger. “Thank you, Mrs Flaherty. I know what I need to do.”

I considered calling the police station, but knew that I would not be able to remain patient enough to wait until
Wallace and Pascoe were found, and that in any event whatever they said would involve me getting down there as quickly as possible. Without hesitating further or telling anyone, I walked straight out of the library and directly into the street to try to find a taxi. Five minutes later I was in the back of a black cab on my way to King’s Cross.

As we edged through the busy streets of south London, I had time to try to calm myself just a little and to process the unexpected turn of events. It had all been too easy at the insect farm. One moment I had felt myself to be seconds away from the discovery of Harriet, and a minute later I was astounded at the realization that somehow, at some time, Roger must have discovered and dealt with the disposal of her body. How had he done it? When had he done it? I had no idea.

I had not even begun to be able to consider the implications arising from the revelation that Roger must have known about Harriet’s death. Needless to say, I had taken the first opportunity after the policemen had gone on the previous evening to broach the subject with him. I knew from experience that it could be counterproductive to ask him directly, but my anxiety and impatience had got the better of me, and all my questions were met with a blank stare. Several times I tried allowing a little time to pass and then creeping up on the subject by asking about projects and reorganization at the insect farm. I fared no better. This was one of those occasions when none of my usual strategies got me anywhere at all. Just as when I had questioned him about what happened at David Frost’s garden
party, Roger’s response to any enquiry about Harriet was met either with a facial expression which was impervious to interpretation, or by a complete change of subject. Eventually I had no choice but to give up and wait for another opportunity.

Now, however, I could scarcely believe my own stupidity in allowing myself to believe that he could have discovered and moved Harriet without anyone seeing or suspecting. That must be what had happened. Maybe the detectives had started asking questions in the vicinity of the insect farm after their unexpected visit, and someone had told them they had seen Roger acting suspiciously.

I was less than halfway to King’s Cross when I knew exactly what I had to do, and that I had to do it instantly. The idea of Roger being interrogated about Harriet’s murder was too horrible for me to contemplate, and I had no choice but to end it as soon as I possibly could. I would find the two police officers and tell them what had happened – then straight away I would call a solicitor and make a formal complaint about the police arresting a mentally handicapped person and interviewing him without a responsible adult being present. I had only a sketchy idea of the law, but I felt entirely certain that this must be illegal. Anything he might have confessed would doubtless be inadmissible.

I paid off the cab – a sum equal to what I earned at the library in a day – and burst through the doors, ignoring the usual collection of prostitutes and tramps in the waiting area, and went directly to the counter.

“I need to see Detective Sergeant Wallace and Detective Constable Pascoe. Straight away please.”

The constable on duty looked about the same age as me, and was conspicuously unimpressed by my need for urgency.

“Will they know what it’s about?” he asked.

“Yes, they will. Tell them it’s Jonathan Maguire. They have arrested my brother, Roger. I want to see him and them immediately.”

Making no apparent effort to respond to my peremptory tone, the constable picked up the phone and dialled. I began pacing, unable in my still-growing anger to remain in one place. Within two minutes the side door opened and DC Pascoe beckoned to me.

“What the hell is going on?” I said instantly. “You’ve arrested my brother. What the fuck do you think you are doing?”

I knew that this was not the recommended way to speak to police officers, but I was so close to being out of control that I knew no better. And by now I felt that I had nothing to lose anyway.