by Mike Ripley
I put a finger to my lips when Fenella saw me and shook my head slowly. She got the message and closed her door quietly. The two uniforms started downstairs, and as they drew level, I nodded them inside. They looked at each other before coming in, but then they did and they took off their hats as they came. A good sign – a British policeman never does anything unspeakable (or official) with his hat or his helmet off.
As I showed them into the living-room, Springsteen shot through my legs and into the bedroom. One thing was for sure, his conscience wasn’t clear. I wondered if I should offer our boys in blue a drink. But then, my conscience wasn’t crystal clear either.
‘Have you any idea where Mrs Asmoyah is, sir?’ asked the taller one.
‘Not exactly where, no,’ I said. ‘But I know she’s away for the weekend.’
‘And you are?’ The smaller one had his notebook out.
‘Angel. A,N,G,E,L.’
‘And your relationship to –’ he looked back a page – ‘Mrs Asmoyah?’
‘I’m her neighbour. N,E,I,G,H ...’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the taller one. ‘We had gathered that. Do you know where we can contact Mr Asmoyah?’
‘I think he’s in Edinburgh, but I don’t know exactly where. He’s there on ... well, something to do with his firm.’
I gave them the name of Frank’s law firm. The taller one seemed impressed.
‘What’s going on, officers? Come on, I’m practically family.’
Again they exchanged glances. Maybe the police college at Hendon was teaching telepathy these days.
‘Do you know a man called Alec Reynolds, sir?’
‘I know the name. He works with Mrs Asmoyah. Why?’
‘There’s been an accident, Mr Angel, down in Kent, around midnight. We don’t know the details, but it seems that Mrs Asmoyah and Mr Reynolds were involved in a road traffic accident.’
‘What kind of accident?’ I asked loudly.
‘Seems they ran out of road and drove off a hill near the M20. Pissed as rats, by the sound of things.’ This from the smaller one, who was not bucking for community policeman of the year.
‘No way. Don’t believe it,’ I snapped. ‘Salome drunk and anywhere near her VW? Not in the realms of possibility, man.’
‘We were informed that the car was a VW Golf, sir, registered to Mrs Asmoyah, and she was the driver,’ said the taller one. ‘But we don’t know anything about charges of drunken driving.’
He glared at his partner. Good. He didn’t like him either.
‘Is Sal okay?’
‘She’s in hospital in Maidstone, in a coma. I’m afraid her condition is serious.’
‘And Alec? You mentioned Alec Reynolds. Was he ...?’
‘Mr Reynolds was a passenger in the vehicle. He was dead on arrival at the hospital. This is a very serious business, sir.’
You’re telling me.
Chapter Six
As I didn’t know where Frank was and I couldn’t give them Alec Reynolds’ address, the Plod soon lost interest in me.
They did give me the name of the hospital Salome was in, and the taller one told me that the accident had happened ‘just off the M20 near Wrotham,’ but they had no more details, they were just running errands for the Kent police.
And no, I didn’t know why Salome was driving around Kent at midnight on a Saturday. As soon as they’d gone, I got on the phone to Directory Enquiries and asked for the number of the Maidstone hospital. I was dialling it when I heard the door of Flat 2 open, and I glanced over my shoulder to see Fenella, who had added pyjama trousers to her stripey shirt, and Lisabeth, in an ankle-length woollen dressing-gown, creeping down the stairs like they were doing a commercial for a new edition of A A Milne books.
I covered the mouthpiece and said: ‘Salome’s been involved in a car accident. I’m ringing the hospital.’
Lisabeth’s mouth dropped open and she swooned slightly against Fenella, who cunningly stepped forward out of the way so Lisabeth had to right herself.
‘Is she all right?’ Fenella whispered.
I shrugged my shoulders, and then the hospital came on the line.
They told me Mrs Asmoyah was ‘critical’ – hospitals are only generous with the truth when it’s bad – and if I was her husband, father, mother or sole blood relative, I could visit her any time, but preferably after 7.00 am. Ask for Ward 4 – Intensive. Have a good night and try not to worry.
I passed this on to the assembled crowd – Lisabeth in her dressing-gown constituted a crowd by herself – and held up my hands to silence the chorus of ‘What’ll-we-do-now?’
‘We go to the hospital and stay with her. I’ve told the police the name of Frank’s firm, and they’ll trace him. Don’t worry, the police are good at getting solicitors out of bed on Sundays. But there’s no way Frank can be back before tomorrow night, I reckon.’
Lisabeth nodded her agreement and said firmly: ‘Quite right. I’ll get dressed.’
‘Not now,’ I said patiently. ‘First thing in the morning. We’ll leave at nine.’
Fenella’s eyebrows shot up.
‘Okay, eight,’ I conceded. ‘But one of you’ll have to stay here in case Frank calls.’
‘Can I help?’ said a voice behind us, almost scaring me to death.
It was the reclusive Mr Goodson from the ground-floor flat, who was something in local government, though nobody knew quite what, and who was never, ever seen at the weekend. He was standing with his flat door open about four inches to preserve his hundred percent record of letting no-one, except presumably Mr Nassim, see inside. From what I could see of him – mostly his spectacles and his left arm around the door jamb – he appeared to be wearing a red silk kimono. I bet myself it had a dragon on the back.
‘Are you doing anything tomorrow?’ Lisabeth asked, and for a moment I thought he was going to slam the door on us.
I explained quickly about Sal’s hospitalisation and how we wanted someone to keep an eye, or an ear, open for Frank. He said of course he’d do it if I gave him the phone number of the hospital.
I said I’d leave it pinned to the noticeboard above the communal phone, and he said that was probably best and good night.
We all said good night and Fenella added, ‘Oh, and thank you,’ and ignored Lisabeth’s warning glare against fraternising with the enemy.
I pointed up the stairs. ‘C’mon. Up the little wooden hill to Bedfordshire.’
Fenella giggled. Lisabeth kept up a barrage of whispered questions. What was Sal doing in Kent? How did the accident happen? Was anyone else involved?
I parried most of them until we got to their door, then I put a finger to my lips and shushed them.
‘Tomorrow. I need my beauty sleep, even if you don’t. Eight o’clock, on the dot.’
Fenella put a hand on Lisabeth’s arm. ‘I’ll set the alarm for seven,’ she said sensibly.
‘I’ll set mine for five-to. Night-night.’
‘Don’t let the bedbugs bite,’ whispered Fenella as she closed the door.
This was followed by a ‘What did you say?’ in what, for Lisabeth, passed as a whisper, but probably registered on a seismograph somewhere in California.
Actually, I set my alarm for 7.00 as well, and by quarter past I was standing outside Frank’s and Sal’s flat with my trusty nail-file doing the business on their Yale lock. It’s one of the old-fashioned files with a curly bit on the end for doing your cuticles, and I’ve always had better results from it than bending any amount of credit cards.
I wasn’t too sure what I was looking for, so I wasn’t disappointed at not finding anything obvious. The bedroom showed all the signs of Salome throwing some things into a bag in a hurry. The bed was covered in odd stockings, T-shirts and stuff not wanted on voyage, so to speak.
A wardrobe door was jammed
open by the sleeve of a dress, as if Sal had kicked it shut on her way out. I opened it out of curiosity more than anything and there, in between the high-heeled shoes, was Sal’s executive briefcase. It was a real leather one, the clasps held by two sets of combination tumblers each with three digits.
A real thief would have taken a screwdriver and levered off the clasps. I didn’t want to do anything so drastic, so I flipped the combination until it read Salome’s birthdate. (Rule of Life No 8: Never disregard the obvious.) Then I slid the catches sideways and – nothing happened. (Rule of Life No 9: No Rule of Life is inviolate.)
Most people would have keyed in their birthday as one of the few six-digit numbers – if you put a zero in front of single figures and for the months up to October and just the last two digits of the year – they can remember apart from their telephone number. I’d ruled that out, because London numbers are seven-digit and Sal’s and Frank’s private radio phone had something like 27. So if it wasn’t Sal’s birthdate, how about Frank’s?
I knew the day and the month and made a stab at the year. The catches snapped open, and I was left feeling annoyed that Frank really was that much younger than me.
The case contained one office file and a brochure. The file was a standard office file with a Prior, Keen, Baldwin label stuck in the top right corner. Written on the label in felt tip was: ‘CAWTHORNE – CONFIDENTIAL.’ The brochure, a coloured affair of four A4 pages, looked at first like a holiday advertisement. But I knew there was something unusual about it. The cover photograph was of three guys in full army kit – camouflage dress, boots, black berets, black make-up and all waving rifles – jumping off a wooden bridge that appeared to be under shellfire.
The brochure had a splash title: ‘THE EXHILARATOR – TRY IT.’ Club 18-30 it was not.
I stuffed it inside the file, closed the briefcase and put that back in the wardrobe. There wasn’t time to read anything then, so I nipped back to my flat and found a Virgin Records plastic bag to hide them in. Then I told Springsteen not to invite any strangers in, or any of his friends for a party, put my flying jacket on and jogged downstairs to wind up Armstrong.
Fenella must have heard me, as she appeared at her door as I reached the first landing.
‘We’ll be with you in one minute precisely,’ she said precisely.
‘Holy God, you mean the Kraken is awake?’
I don’t know if Fenella knew what the Kraken was, but she knew who I meant.
‘Up and dressed. She’s just cutting some flowers from the window-box in the kitchen – to take to Salome.’
I had a sudden pang of conscience that I really ought to tell them that the funny-looking herb on the left of their kitchen garden was not really an obscure form of ivy and on no account must they attempt to smoke its leaves. But that could wait.
Armstrong started up first go and I dialled around the local radio stations to try and catch if anyone was doing anything stupid on the roads. There were no warnings of fun runs, protest marches, street carnivals or charity pram races, so it seemed safe to cut through the City and head for Kent direct, rather than heading east and using the Dartford Tunnel.
Lisabeth agreed with my navigating for once, but then she and Fenella were sat in the back like royalty, ready to wave to the crowds, the deserted Houses of Parliament and so on. But as it was Sunday morning, there were few admiring fans about.
I slipped an old Eurythmics tape into the cassette deck I have installed where Armstrong’s meter used to be and adjusted the speakers so the full effect came in the front rather than the back. I spent most of the journey wondering why Annie Lennox could make ‘girl’ rhyme with ‘thrill’ but nobody else could. The last thing I wanted to do was debate the horrific possibilities of Salome’s condition with Les Girls.
It was only as we came into Maidstone and I started looking for hospital signs that I began to suffer the nervous whirling pits way down in my stomach.
The hospital had a flower shop inside its main entrance and I subbed Fenella a tenner to get a decent bunch of flowers (I knew I should have told them about their pot plant) while I tried to chat up the nurse on reception.
Normally, I’m pretty good with nurses, although that’s a terribly chauvinist thing to say. It’s not meant that way. All I mean is you have to accept that they really have heard it all before – the jokes about taking samples, wearing black stockings, so forth, so fifth. (Though I do have a friend – Bunny – who always insists on a female doctor or nurse if he has anything wrong of a private nature. But then Bunny’s idea of a subtle chat-up is a sock full of sand.) In my experience, most female nurses’ idea of an erotic evening is sitting in front of the TV with their shoes off and an endless supply of cups of tea. So I try not to try it on, even though I could get mileage out of being an Angel myself.
‘Good morning, Sister,’ I said. Well, it never hurts to promote people.
‘Staff Nurse,’ she said, without looking up from the notes she was writing.
‘I’m so sorry. We’d like to see Mrs Asmoyah if that’s possible.’
She looked up and smiled. She reached for a pair of glasses, but I didn’t think it was because she was dazzled by my teeth.
‘Are you her husband?’ she asked, consulting a clip-board.
‘No, just a friend,’ I said too quickly, before I realised that she had almost certainly not been on duty when Sal was brought in.
‘Then I’m afraid you can’t see her. She’s in Intensive Care.’
Just then, Lisabeth and Fenella appeared, looking suitably subdued and carrying a huge bouquet.
‘But these are her sisters,’ I said, thinking on my feet.
Lisabeth and Fenella did a double take between themselves, but fortunately kept quiet.
‘Well, I suppose you can wait in the IC reception area,’ she said doubtfully.
I jerked my head towards the stairs, having already clocked the sign saying ‘Intensive Care 4th Floor,’ and Les Girls followed me without breaking step.
‘You’ll have to check in with the policeman,’ the Staff Nurse yelled after us.
I held the staircase door open for Lisabeth and said: ‘You first.’
Lisabeth held back and then handed the bouquet to Fenella. ‘After you, Binky.’ Then, aside to me, she said: ‘She’s got a way with policemen,’ as if confiding some dark secret.
We tramped up the stairs and enjoyed a mutual moan about why hospitals always put the sickest people in the most inaccessible places. On the fourth floor, we opened the fire doors and let Fenella go into the corridor first.
There were more double doors at the end, and in front of them on a tubular chair sat a uniformed constable reading the Sunday Express. Under the chair, between his legs, were his helmet and an empty cup and saucer. He folded the paper away as we approached, but he didn’t stand up.
‘We’d like to see Salome, please,’ said Fenella with a smile.
‘Mrs Asmoyah,’ added Lisabeth politely, and she pointed to the flowers as if they explained everything.
‘Sorry, my love,’ said the PC, in a soft Kentish drawl. ‘No visitors.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Fenella, ‘and we’ve come such a long way.’
‘Out of my hands, my dear. Doctor’s orders.’
Fenella pouted. She does it rather well.
‘You can have a look, though, but you can’t go in. Okay?’
All three of us nodded in unison and we stood in line as he pushed open the double doors for us. I felt as if I was back at school, not that even my school had pupils like F and L.
Another set of swing doors greeted us. These had a big sign saying ‘NO UNAUTHORISED ENTRY’ and various instructions about hospital waste disposal, from which I averted my sensitive gaze.
The doors also had two round glass windows in them, and our neighbourhood policeman stood aside to let us press our noses agai
nst them. Lisabeth and Fenella took the left one (‘Fenella, you’re steaming up the glass!’) and I took the right.
Salome was in a metal frame bed with about half a ton of bits and pieces surrounding it so it didn’t escape. There was some sort of monitor with dials that I couldn’t make head nor tail of, two drip stands with tubes – one lot going up her nose, the other into her arm – and her right leg was coated in plaster and suspended in mid air by a pulley contraption on which the Spanish Inquisition probably held the patent. I made a mental note to myself that if the doctor on her case set that beautiful leg anything other than back the way it should be, then he had better start looking for a good dentist.
Lisabeth and Fenella were coo-ing sympathetic noises and tut-tutting a lot and were riveted to the porthole window like two old men sharing a What the Butler Saw machine. I took the opportunity to have a word with the Kentish Constabulary’s finest.
‘I hear the passenger with her is a goner,’ I said knowledgeably.
‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘But she don’t know that yet, of course.’
Of course she doesn’t; she’s unconscious, you chucklehead. But I didn’t say it. Still, at least he’d confirmed Salome was driving.
‘I can’t believe she’d been drinking. It’s not like her at all,’ I said quietly.
‘Well, they’ve taken a blood sample, so I understand, on account of her not being able to give a breath specimen, but I’ve not heard one way or the other. You a relative?’
I think I flinched at that. Well, I mean, you just can’t trust policemen, can you? One minute nice as pie and the next – asking questions.
‘Business colleague. She’s quite something in the City, you know.’ Then I felt I’d better add: ‘The Stock Exchange.’
I wondered if I should add ‘in London,’ but I didn’t want appear too pushy.
‘Where did it happen?’ I asked casually.
‘‘Bout eight or nine miles from here off the A227. Place called Blackberry Hill. Bloody dangerous piece of road, between you and me,’ he confided. ‘We get a lot of day trippers motoring around the Downs, and they see the signs for Brands Hatch and they automatically put their foot down thinking they’re bleedin’ Formula One drivers.’
