“What I’m saying is that we have no reason to care unless she is doing something illegal, which we don’t think she is. In fact I shouldn’t be telling you this at all because it isn’t really our business, but I just thought that in the light of what you’ve been through…”
Michael was on the point of telling Mallinson that only a few minutes ago he had been asked to think about who might want to cast suspicion on him for the Madman murders, and here they were having discovered that the person other than his grandmother who was closest to him was not who she said she was. In those few seconds, his mind raced over the way she had deceived him about her acquaintance with Joanna Potts, and the unexplained calls and text she had received when they were walking in Brighton. THERE’S NO POINT IN TRYING TO PROTECT HIM? Was that from Joanna? From someone else? And protect who from what? Michael had also been shocked to hear, less than an hour ago, of the discovery of a gray hoodie among the clothes at his apartment, when he knew for certain that he did not own one. Once again, his thoughts and feelings were equally divided between suspicion and trust, and he hated to feel that way. He breathed deeply and made a further effort to get ahold of himself. He knew that he needed to choose, because going on like this was no longer an option.
“Thank you for telling me that,” he said to Mallinson, “I don’t quite know what to make of the information, but I promise you that your confidence will be respected. I won’t tell anyone else what you’ve told me.”
“Well, we probably won’t meet again, Michael,” said Mallinson, “but perhaps you’ll just remember that we all wear the same uniform, but not all of us are exactly the same.”
Michael thanked him once again and turned towards the hospital, his thoughts speeding around his head at a hundred miles an hour.
SEVENTEEN
The steel crowd-control barriers were still in place on the pavement outside St. Thomas’ as part of the police attempt to corral journalists and sightseers, but where just a few hours ago there had been a vast melee of the curious, now only a handful of hapless-looking photographers had stayed the course, waiting for whatever happened next. Their patience was rewarded when one of them spotted Michael as he finished his phone call to the police and turned to enter the hospital. With his thoughts now deep in other matters, Michael had not noticed the flurry of activity and he looked up to find five photographers walking backwards as he advanced, and now the motorized camera shutters were for real. He tried to walk around them, and then through them, but they kept retreating in front and alongside him like iron filings backing away from a magnet. Michael found himself wondering whether any of these were the same photographers who had stuck their cameras against the tinted windows of the police van on the way to the court as the crowds bayed for his blood. He shuddered at the memory, so vivid and recent. The photographers knew better than to try to follow him into the hospital, and they stopped at the main entrance when he went in.
Michael felt a sense of relief to be rid of the crowd, which was further deepened when the receptionist did not seem to recognize him as she pointed out the way towards the intensive care unit. He got into the lift and pressed the button to the second floor, and he thought again about his grandma and what she had been through in the last twenty-four hours. All he knew were the barest facts about what had happened, but he could imagine the horror she would have felt when she saw the news that her grandson had been arrested as the Madman. She had always been his one firm anchor, and now she was lying prostrate in an intensive care ward because of the shame and shock he had unwillingly brought upon her.
He arrived at the ICU and paused for a moment to collect himself before pushing open the heavy double doors. Michael breathed deeply. He wondered what he would find and felt a sense that a page was turning and that another chapter of his life was beginning. He tried to resist the thought. The male nurse who was on duty seemed to be expecting him.
“Hi,” he said, “I think you’re here to see Rose Beaumont, aren’t you?” The young man extended his hand. “I’m Christopher, and I’m in charge of her care today.” Michael shook the nurse’s hand and was surprised to see a dense pattern of tattoos all up his forearm. The design seemed to involve a gathering of cherubs and angels, but the ink was indistinct. “The good news is that her condition is unchanged since she came in here yesterday; no better, but no worse either. She has been unconscious for most of the time, but her vital signs seem to be stable. I think she has come around a couple of times, but none of the staff was by her bedside at those moments.”
Michael nodded. “How do you know she regained consciousness if no one was with her?”
“I think she said a few words to one of her visitors. I’m not sure now which one it was.” Christopher looked down at his desk and moved some papers as he looked for the ones relating to Rose. “The woman from the care home”—he paused as he consulted his notes—“Esme, is it?”
“Oh, yes, of course I know Esme,” said Michael, “but did you say ‘one of her visitors’? I’m not sure who the other person could be. Rose and I don’t have any other relatives.”
Christopher frowned. “Oh, well, that’s a mystery then. I was here when Esme first arrived but not when the other woman got here. Esme seems to have vouched for her. I hope there’s no harm done. Actually I think they might not be far away. They may have just gone down to the canteen for some tea. Would you like to see your grandmother now?”
Michael said that he would and Christopher offered to lead the way. The two men walked slowly through the semidarkness towards a corner room, and Michael could make out the shape of a single bed surrounded by medical monitors, all of them bleeping and flashing. He felt a renewed wave of emotion welling up inside him as he realized once more how dependent he was on this frail and fragile old lady. She was entirely motionless and her skin looked pale and smooth. Instinctively he took her hand and immediately felt that it was cool to the touch. He looked at her face and was glad that she seemed to be in no pain or apparent distress. That at least was something. He could hear her shallow breathing, and now he saw the slight movement of the bedclothes. Her eyes flickered beneath her eyelids as though she was experiencing a vivid dream, and Michael wondered what thoughts might be filling his grandmother’s subconscious mind. He felt a sense of dread. If only she could be made aware that he was here alongside her and that what must have been the worst nightmare of her life was over.
“Hello, Grandma.” He put his lips close to the side of Rose’s head and whispered, “It’s me, Michael. I’m here beside you. We’ve all had a terrible time, but it’s over and I am back with you. It’s all been an awful mistake, but now it’s all cleared up and I am here.” Michael’s voice thickened, and he had to swallow hard. He closed his eyes and gave her hand a further small squeeze. She showed no sign of response or understanding, and he sat in silence for a few more moments.
“I’ll leave the two of you together.” Michael had forgotten that Christopher was behind him and now turned to acknowledge his presence. The nurse’s words were spoken softly and in a tone which offered instant comfort. “I’ll be at the reception desk if you need me. Don’t hesitate to ask for anything, and you can take as long as you like.”
Fifteen minutes went by, during which Michael spoke several more times to his grandmother, sometimes repeating his whispered reassurance and at other times relating more mundane news. “Don’t worry about anything, Grandma, I’ll let them know at Greenacres that you’re doing fine and hanging in there.” Eventually he wondered about Esme and the other woman, and whether they might return from the canteen. He guessed that the second visitor must be the person he had seen in Rose’s room and in the corridor at Greenacres and remembered once again that he had intended to make inquiries about her, but had been overtaken by events. Was it Rawlinson? Eileen Rawlinson, he thought Esme had said. Now, perhaps, he would find the answer to the mystery. He walked back to the reception desk and asked Christopher for directions.
The canteen was
situated in the basement and was shared by staff and visitors. Michael took the lift down, and as soon as the doors opened the unmistakable smell of hospital food filled the air. He could hear the clanking sound of plates and trays as he approached. He stood at the double doors and looked around; it was a large area and there were perhaps a hundred people at tables spread around the room. The strong fluorescent lighting caused Michael to squint as his eyes adjusted, and after a few seconds he saw that Esme was sitting in a booth next to a far wall. On the other side of the booth, with her back to the door, Michael could see the outline of another woman. The two were engaged in conversation, and neither looked up as he walked towards them. Only when he was a few steps away did the movement catch Esme’s eye. Her expression when she saw that it was Michael quickly went from joy to anxiety, but then a moment later was back to joy and relief. She got to her feet and threw her arms around him.
“Oh Michael, Michael, I am so glad to see you,” she said, and he felt a surge of happiness to see her smiling face. He hugged her in return. “We’ve all been so worried, but thank the Lord you are safe now.”
All the time Michael was aware of the other woman, who had remained seated. She had not moved nor spoken, and now he turned again towards Esme, as though expecting an introduction, and saw from her expression that she did not know quite how to proceed. After a few seconds Esme suggested that they should all sit down. She slid back into her side of the booth and gestured to the seat beside her. Michael sat, too, and was facing the other person, and in those few seconds he registered a face which was handsome but care-worn and more lined than merely her years would explain. She seemed to be about fifty, but wore no makeup, and dark shadows beneath her brown eyes hinted at a life lived hard. Only now was he able to be sure that he had seen her before—at Greenacres.
“I think it’s time that I should introduce myself,” said the woman, her voice carrying a tremor. She stretched out her right hand across the table and waited until Michael responded and held it in greeting. “My name,” she said slowly, “is Margaret. Margaret Beaumont.” There was a momentary pause before she spoke again, enough time for Michael’s expression to flinch, as if in anticipation of a blow. “I am your mother.”
* * *
Alison could not explain what had persuaded her to take her walk in Battersea Park. News that this was the location of the most recent incident involving the Madman meant that a large area next to the lake had been cordoned off, and in the distance she could see a line of about fifty uniformed officers standing side by side and walking forward slowly, examining the ground beneath their shuffling feet. No one had said anything on the news about the search for a weapon or for anything which might have been dropped during the incident, but Alison guessed that the police investigation was at a stage where they quite literally left no stone unturned. Neither of the children who had been attacked most recently had been seriously injured, and the news said they were expected to be released from hospital later that same day.
The radio and TV had also been playing and replaying the statement read out by Detective Superintendent Bailey from the steps of the police station indicating that Michael Beaumont was no longer a suspect and had been released from police custody. The TV people kept showing a picture of Michael which looked like a mug shot but which she recognized as his photo ID from the Hand-Cutz production house. Alison had never liked that picture of Michael when she had seen it on his identity card, and she liked it even less now that it was on the television. The only consolation, she thought, was that it looked so unlike him that he might soon be able to show his real face in public without fear of being recognized.
There had been a few recent days with unseasonably cold winds. Today was one of them, and Alison pulled up the collar of her jacket and continued to walk as close to the perimeter of the park as access permitted. Usually she loved the sunshine, but today she liked the fact that she could turn up her lapels and tuck her chin down into a turtleneck shirt. She was keen to be as inconspicuous as possible.
After completing a full circuit of the park, Alison eventually sat on a bench which had a vantage point over the water and dug her hands deep into her side pockets. She had been crying for most of the previous twenty hours, and now her eyes felt so dry that she wondered if she would ever be able to cry again. In the distance, walking along a path bordered with pink and yellow flowers and shrubs, she could see a mother and three small children toddling along around her. The woman also had a Labrador on a lead, and one of the children seemed to be issuing detailed instructions to the dog, which in turn was plodding on exactly as though nothing was being said or done to him. Alison felt a moment of envy and then even of anger, until she remembered that these people’s lives were entirely average and normal, and it was hers which had been so far from average and so very far from normal.
Now she took out the photograph which she had been carrying with her since she had found it in the pocket of Michael’s jacket the previous day. She looked again at the four silhouettes in the shot, and tried to remember the time it had been taken. She could not, but guessed it must have been around 1997 when she was eight and the two boys were aged just three and two. The baby must have been just a few months old, and only weeks away from the tragedy which would affect all of their lives forever.
* * *
Michael was running. He ran and he ran at the limit of his speed and ability, and he ran until the pain in his chest made him feel that it would explode. He stopped and bent double at the side of the pavement, and now he was gasping for breath and retching, in imminent danger of throwing up in the gutter.
The scale of the revelation on its own was so immense that even against the background of a normal day it would have been difficult to take in. Coming as it had, hard on the heels of his arrest and then sudden and unexpected release, the turn of events propelled an already extreme situation into a level of trauma which was difficult to absorb. He would never be able to explain how he managed to retain his sanity.
It had not been his intention to leap to his feet and dash out of the hospital canteen. Nor did he have a moment to think about the need to get out of the hospital building, into the air, and to fill his lungs. He made no conscious decision to turn on his heels and sprint along the pavement, and he was scarcely aware of the screech of brakes and the shouting from a cabdriver who had to swerve hard to avoid him as he raced across the south side of Westminster Bridge.
His involuntary reaction had hardly given Michael time to take in the expressions on the faces of the two women left sitting at the table in the hospital canteen, nor did either have time to react to his sudden movement. Nothing he did in those few minutes was the product of logic or process; he simply knew that he had to get out of there or lose whatever mental stability he was still clinging to.
After standing for a full minute on the edge of the pavement, Michael became aware of the looks of concern on the faces of passersby, and now he thought that two younger men who had been walking along the other side of the road had worked out who he was. Out of the corner of his eye Michael could see that one of them was punching numbers into his phone, and it occurred to him that in a moment he would be surrounded by journalists. The thought was quickly reinforced as he saw that the other man was using his phone to take pictures of him. Michael forced himself to stand straight, and he turned his back on the two men and walked away as briskly as his legs would oblige, back in the direction of the hospital.
There was no sign of Esme when he reentered the hospital canteen, but Margaret Beaumont was still there. For a minute Michael stood silently and looked at the woman who had walked out of his life eighteen years earlier and never, to his knowledge, tried to see him since. She still had her back to the main door and remained unaware that he had returned. Michael wondered what she must be thinking, and immediately he realized that he could have absolutely no idea about anything she was thinking: she was his mother, but he knew almost nothing about her. Among his surprises was th
at she had introduced herself by the name which was unfamiliar to him. If he knew this woman in any way at all, it was as Eileen Rawlinson, the mystery woman who had visited his grandmother in Greenacres.
Michael felt angry, but his anger was mixed with a deep sadness. Right at this moment, though, all of his other emotions felt secondary to an irresistible curiosity. Within a few minutes he was back inside the hospital canteen, and the woman who had walked out of his life eighteen years ago was turning to greet him.
* * *
“I’ve spent hundreds of hours wondering how I’d start this conversation if ever the time came when I could have it.” Michael and his mother had moved to a booth in a far corner of the canteen. They had paused long enough to buy fresh tea and to try to steady their nerves, and now they were once again sitting, each trying to find a way to cope with the overwhelming intensity of their feelings. “I don’t think I ever found an answer, so all I can do is to start at the beginning. But before I do, I just need to say that you will find what I have to tell you very painful and difficult to deal with. My only wish is that when you are eventually able to think about it, you might come to understand why your grandmother and I did what we did—which was to make it our number one priority in life to shield you from the memory of it all.”
* * *
There had been nothing unusual about the courtship and early relationship between Henry Bannerman and Margaret Williams which might give an indication of the tragedies which would eventually befall them. The couple met when he was twenty-three and she was nineteen and had fallen in love. Henry had gotten along well enough with Margaret’s parents. He was a mechanic in a local light-engineering works which made parts for the motor industry, and Margaret’s father, George, was a school inspector but loved to tinker with classic cars in the garage at the side of their house in Hove. Margaret’s mother, Rose, also liked Henry from quite early on.
The Bridge Page 17
