China Roses

by Jo Bannister

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Jo Bannister

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Also by Jo Bannister

  The Gabriel Ash and Hazel Best mysteries

  DEADLY VIRTUES

  PERFECT SINS

  DESPERATE MEASURES

  OTHER COUNTRIES *

  KINDRED SPIRITS *

  SILENT FOOTSTEPS *

  DANGEROUS PURSUITS *

  The Brodie Farrell mysteries

  REQUIEM FOR A DEALER

  FLAWED

  CLOSER STILL

  LIARS ALL

  * available from Severn House

  CHINA ROSES

  Jo Bannister

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2021

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,

  14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.

  Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  This eBook edition first published in 2021 by Severn House,

  an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  severnhouse.com

  Copyright © Jo Bannister, 2021

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Jo Bannister to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-5065-2 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-804-7 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0542-1 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  Gabriel Ash waited, and no one came. No good news; no bad. He walked to the window, saw nothing but the grey November sky, returned to his seat. Got up again, fed coins into the coffee machine, added milk and sugar – though he didn’t take sugar – and put the cardboard cup on the low table to go cold with the rest. Waited some more.

  Finally – finally – footsteps in the corridor and, drying his hands on a paper towel, a man pushed through the swing doors. He was a young man, powerfully built, dark-skinned, with a broad face designed for good cheer. But not today.

  Ash knew what he was going to say before he said it. His heart turned over and fell, bleeding as it went.

  ‘I’m sorry. We did everything we could. The odds were always against us. There was just too much internal damage.’

  ‘But …’ Pain made Ash unreasonable. ‘I thought you people were the experts.’

  ‘We’re good at what we do,’ the young man assured him sombrely. ‘We’re not miracle-workers. Sometimes, in spite of our best efforts, we’re beaten. This was one of those times.’

  ‘But … she wasn’t even all that old!’

  The young man, whose name was Diego, kept a diplomatic silence. He had long since learned there was no point arguing with the bereaved. No point observing that all things are comparative, and anyway it’s not the years that count so much as the miles on the clock.

  ‘How am I going to manage without her?’ wondered Ash. ‘She’s always been there for me – reliable, uncomplaining. I need her!’

  Diego gave a sympathetic shrug. ‘You will miss her. But then’ – brightening – ‘I don’t suppose she was your first and she won’t be your last. You’ll find another that you like just as much. I can help you look, if you like. Showroom condition or been-round-the-block?’

  The waiting-room door opened again and a woman came in, stamping liquid mud off her boots. She was wrapped from thigh to chin in a thick padded jacket, slick with rain, and from the eyebrows upwards in a woolly hat with an enormous pompom, currently saturated and drooping over her left ear. The gap between the hat and the collar of her coat was filled with a mass of fair curls, roughly tamed by an elastic band in the nape of her neck.

  She took in Ash’s expression in a moment and knew that his worst fears had been confirmed. Though she was in general a kind woman, she hadn’t a lot of patience with sentimentality. ‘I take it she’s off to the scrap-heap?’

  Ash turned on her with a distress that was absolutely genuine. ‘Hazel! Don’t be so cruel. I loved that car. She’s been part of my family for nearly twenty years.’

  ‘Which makes it time and past time you bought a new one,’ said Hazel Best briskly. ‘Gabriel, it’s been a heap of junk for as long as I’ve known you. Your mother drove it for fourteen years, it was mothballed after she died, and you’ve got another two years out of it. It’s done. It has gone to that great car-port in the sky. You need a new one.’

  Diego the mechanic hid a grin.

  Ash sniffed, hurt by his friend’s levity. ‘She should have gone on for years yet,’ he muttered rebelliously. Then he gave Hazel a puzzled look. ‘Anyway, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Diego called me. He said you were going to need a lift home. And a shoulder to cry on.’

  They were halfway to Highfield Road, to the stone house which Ash also inherited from his mother, when Hazel’s phone rang. She pulled over dutifully before answering it. ‘Dave Gorman,’ she mouthed at Ash as she listened. They were good friends, these three, on first-name terms among themselves, but now Hazel worked for Detective Chief Inspector Gorman she called him Chief in the CID offices at Meadowvale Police Station, and sir in public.

  This was business. Ash saw the fractional change in her expression that was his friend Hazel retuning to Detective Constable Best. There was still a part of him that regretted the change, that recalled with nostalgia those simpler days when as a uniformed officer she began and mostly ended shifts at regular hours, could spend time with him and not have her phone constantly interrupting.

  She ended the call, rejoined the traffic. ‘I’ll drop you off. I have to go to the hospital. They’ve got a John Doe.’

  That put Ash’s automotive issues in perspective.
After a hot, dry summer, the winter had hit hard, steamrollering autumn into the sodden ground; even before Christmas, people without warm homes to go to were paying the price. Norbold Infirmary would have more hypothermic vagrants to thaw out before spring came round, and for some of them the warm bed would come too late. ‘Will he be all right?’

  ‘They don’t know. He’s in Intensive Care. Concussion.’

  Ash frowned. ‘How do you get concussion from sleeping out in the rain?’

  ‘You don’t,’ said Hazel tersely. ‘You get it from having your head kicked in by someone who wants your coat more than you do.’

  PC Budgen met her with a cheery smile in the corridor outside ICU. ‘I’m gagging for my breakfast,’ he said.

  ‘Where’s our John Doe?’

  Budgen jerked his head. ‘Next to the end, on the right.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve done all the usuals – checked his clothes for any kind of ID?’

  Budgen nodded. ‘Nothing. But then, not that much in the way of clothes either, considering the weather we’ve been having. Shirt and sweater, cords – nothing helpful in the pockets, just a hanky and a bit of small change. No coat or hat. If he had a wallet it must have been in his coat pocket. Unless whoever duffed him over rummaged his poke as well.’

  Hazel wasn’t sure where Wayne Budgen hailed from – there was a hint of Birmingham in his accent, and a broader hint of somewhere more rural – but his conversation was littered with expressions she needed the context to translate. She concluded that PC Budgen was wondering if the assailant who’d put the unidentified man in ICU had not only taken his coat but raided his trouser pockets as well.

  ‘What’s the story?’

  The constable gave a glum sniff. ‘Thought I was being clever, didn’t I? Last patrol of the night, thought I’d head back to Meadowvale the quiet way. Well, nobody wants to stumble on the Great Train Robbery just as he’s coming off shift, does he? So I cut back through Siding Street. Well for him that I did. If I hadn’t found him, he’d have drowned in the gutter.’

  ‘He was beaten up?’

  ‘Either that, or a herd of buffalo ran over the top of him. And that hasn’t happened in Norbold for, ooh, months now.’

  She looked at him. He looked back.

  ‘What’s the damage?’

  ‘Broken wrist, cracked ribs, heavy bruising pretty well all over, and the concussion. None of the rest of it is life threatening. They’re waiting for him to wake up before they commit themselves on the head injury.’

  ‘Where’s his stuff?’

  ‘In the locker by his bed. Here, I’ll show you.’ Budgen led the way. ‘You’ll need to put them on a radiator for a couple of hours before you bag them up, else they’ll go all mouldy.’

  If the medical staff were waiting for the unknown man to wake up, Hazel hoped they’d brought sandwiches. He didn’t look anywhere close to regaining consciousness. There was no restiveness of his body, no vague movements of hands or head, no fluttering of eyelids. More than that, there was a flatness under the sheet that you don’t get with essentially healthy people who’ve broken a leg. It looked as if the hospital bed was only half-occupied already.

  She took out her notebook, made some objective assessments. Height a little less than medium – perhaps an inch shorter than her, around five foot seven; build hard to judge in his current position, but not heavy; age, mid-thirties; hair dark, eyes shut, face black and blue …

  … And familiar. The wild improbability of it startled a gasp out of her, and Hazel moved to the other side of the bed for a better look, to make sure. ‘Wayne, I know him.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Budgen, disappointingly blasé. ‘That’ll simplify matters. Who is he, one of your lame dogs?’ Hazel had a reputation for collecting waifs and strays.

  ‘No. He’s not from round here at all. I can’t imagine what he’s doing in Norbold, let alone what he’s doing getting mugged in Norbold. He’s …’

  How to explain so convoluted a family history before PC Budgen lost interest and wandered off in search of his overdue breakfast? Either a very few words or a whole book. She opted for the former. ‘He’s an archaeologist. His family owns the big house in Cambridgeshire where my dad’s the handyman. His name’s David Sperrin.’

  Budgen frowned. ‘I thought that family were called Byrfield.’

  ‘David’s the old earl’s by-blow.’ Even as she said it, she knew Sperrin himself would have scorned the euphemism, happily admitted to being a bastard. But anything was better than describing a man in his thirties as a love-child.

  ‘Well, what’s he doing here then?’

  ‘I can’t imagine.’

  ‘Looking for you?’

  ‘If he wanted me, he’d phone. If he hasn’t got my number, his brother certainly has. I can’t think of any reason for him to come looking for me without calling first. Actually, I can’t think of any reason for him to contact me at all.’

  Wayne Budgen gave an amiable leer. ‘A secret admirer?’

  Hazel shook her head. ‘I’m too young for him. Two thousand years too young.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘What about his car?’

  ‘What does he drive?’

  ‘A beat-up old Land Rover. The agricultural version, not the Chelsea tractor. Largely green, although when bits fall off he replaces them with whatever he can find at a scrapyard. Last time I saw it, the driver’s door was orange.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t in Siding Street. I couldn’t have missed that. I’ll tell Sergeant Murchison – the area car can look out for it. It can’t be far away. He hasn’t staggered far in that condition.’

  ‘No.’ Hazel was still looking at the unconscious man, taking in the damage he’d sustained. Whoever had done that to him hadn’t meant him to get up afterwards. Not immediately; possibly not at all. Hazel was surprised to feel her stomach twist in a way that it didn’t every time she was tasked with cleaning up human wreckage.

  There was nothing, nor had there ever been, between her and David Sperrin. Growing up near the village where his mother lived, she’d been dimly aware of him – no more than that. He had left for university before her idea of masculine perfection stopped involving a flowing mane and twinkling hooves; and anyway, David Sperrin had never been anyone’s idea of masculine perfection. He was short, spiky and graceless, often muddy, sardonic by default and widely considered too clever by half. She knew he’d had his eye blackened by a farmer’s son who didn’t know what Crypto Hominid meant but knew it wasn’t a compliment.

  She’d got to know him better two years ago, when he had dug behind the big house and unearthed not the expected cist but a family tragedy. She would have counted him a friend, more or less; at least, more than an acquaintance. She wasn’t sure Sperrin could have picked her out of an ID parade.

  She leaned closer, said his name. There was no response that she could see. ‘What happened to you, David?’ she asked softly. ‘What are you doing here? Who did this to you?’

  ‘So what’s he doing in Norbold?’ demanded Detective Chief Inspector Gorman. ‘And who the hell ran over him in a tank?’

  ‘Muggers?’ suggested Hazel weakly. ‘His coat, his wallet and his phone are missing, and we can’t find his car.’

  Gorman was looking at the photographs. It wasn’t a pleasant thing, to photograph the injuries of an unconscious man, but it was a necessary part of a criminal investigation. ‘That wasn’t a mugging. That was punishment.’

  ‘How do you know?’ She wasn’t arguing, she was trying to learn. Hazel was still a beginner in criminal detection, at least officially.

  ‘There’s too much damage,’ said Gorman. ‘A mugger isn’t interested in hurting his victim, only in robbing him. He’ll do enough to incapacitate him, then scarper with his valuables before there’s any risk of being caught. If he can achieve the same end with a good shove and the element of surprise, so much the better.

  ‘A good shove didn’t do all this, neither did a fist. He hit Sperrin round the head with
something hard and heavy, then he went on hitting him; and even after that it looks as if he put the boot in. You don’t need to do half of that to snatch somebody’s wallet. You’re just wasting time that you need for your getaway. He wanted to hurt Sperrin more than he wanted to rob him.’

  ‘What did he want with his coat?’ asked Hazel, perplexed. ‘Because in this weather he must have had one.’

  ‘Maybe it’s in his car. He might not have had it on, if he was driving.’

  ‘He’d have needed a warmer coat to drive that particular car than if he’d been on foot.’

  Gorman gave a shrug. ‘So maybe it seemed easier to take his coat than to get his wallet, his phone and his car keys out of the pockets. We’ll probably find it in a rubbish skip somewhere – have the foot patrols check. And can we for pity’s sake find his car? It sounds pretty distinctive, and it’s got to be somewhere. Professional car thieves with mobile spray-painting rigs don’t steal old Land Rovers. If the muggers – I don’t know what else to call them for now – took it, it was to do a runner. They’ll have dumped it before we knew to start looking. If it isn’t on the street somewhere, it’s in a vacant lot or round the back of an empty shop or something. It hasn’t just vanished into thin air. We need to find it.’

  ‘You think it’ll tell us something about what happened?’

  ‘I won’t know that it won’t until we find it.’

  ‘If it really wasn’t a mugging,’ Hazel said slowly, ‘what was it? He’s an archaeologist. How does an archaeologist make the kind of enemies that want to put him in ICU?’

  Somebody had to say it, and Detective Sergeant Presley was in the next room. So Gorman sighed and said, ‘Maybe he’s been playing around with somebody’s mummy.’

  Hazel eyed him reproachfully. ‘This isn’t funny, Chief. David’s badly hurt. Until he wakes up, we’re not going to know how badly.’

  ‘I suppose I’d better inform the family. Do you have a number for them?’

  ‘Yes. But I think I should call them. It might be easier for his brother, coming from someone he knows. If I talk to Pete, he can drive into Burford and tell David’s mother.’