As her eyes adjusted she realised, looking around, that what must at one time have been a Christian place of worship had been converted into a simple multi-faith room of prayer.
No crosses, statues, stained glass. Just white walls, simple chairs, pictures of trees and flowers.
Like being in one of those airport prayer rooms, she thought.
She spotted Reg, sitting on a chair in a dark corner, his fluffy slippers out of place in this austere setting.
She went over and sat next to him. At first, he didn’t react to her presence — but then he slowly turned and stared straight at her, his eyes seeming to search her face for clues.
“Did we have dinner?” he said. “Is it bedtime?” He didn’t seem to recognise her from the previous day.
“No, Reg. It’s not bedtime, not yet,” said Sarah.
She smiled at him and he nodded; his face serious.
Did he understand? His face, his eyes, seemed alert even if his words didn’t make much sense.
“I’m not hungry anyway,” he said. “Padre will be here soon.”
“That’s good, Reg. Do you like it in here?”
“You pays your money, you takes your choice,” he said.
Sarah realised she didn’t have the skills or experience to deal with someone in Reg’s condition. But she desperately wanted to find out if he knew anything, even the slightest detail about what had happened on the night Archy had died.
“Reg — can you remember what happened to Archy?”
She saw Reg’s eyes light up.
“Archy’s my mate.”
“I know.”
She watched as Reg’s sombre face suddenly broke into a cheeky grin.
“He’s a proper ladies’ man, Archy is. Wanna watch yourself with him, sweetheart!”
“I will,” she said, smiling at Reg. “Reg — do you remember going in the snow with Archy?”
“Bloody cold that was,” said Reg. “Caught my death.”
“Why did you go out in the snow?”
“Saw the chance — took it!”
“What happened out in the woods — do you remember?”
“Guards caught us, brought us back. Next time, eh?”
He leaned across and put his mouth close to her ear. Sarah could smell his breath, stale, and — incongruously — a pungent odour of cheap aftershave: “Word is — there’s a tunnel on the go.”
He tapped his nose — Sarah nodded back to him as if she knew it must be kept secret.
“So, were you trying to escape, Reg?”
“Been here bleedin years, got to get out.”
“Don’t you like it here?”
The old man suddenly grabbed her arm, his hand tight.
“Can you get me out? Can you? I’ll pay you! I’ve got millions! I have!”
“I’m sorry Reg, I can’t really do anything …” said Sarah, feeling totally powerless. “Maybe if you—”
But Reg got up suddenly and pushed his chair back. Without another glance at her, he stepped over her legs and headed for the door.
She watched, bemused, as he pulled open the door. Then he turned and clapped his hands together, the sound echoing in the little chapel.
“Come on! Chop chop! Mess dinner tonight!”
She watched him scan the room.
“No takers? Your loss mateys, your loss!”
And then he was gone.
Sarah wasn’t sure she’d learned anything new. But she knew one thing — she and Jack had been right to use the word ‘escape’. Archy and Reg had certainly been escaping — but from what?
Jack peered at the grainy CCTV footage and used the remote to fast-forward. The screen, split in four, showed different angles of the exterior of Broadmead Grange.
Four different shots of snow falling, thought Jack. Some hope …
“You’re lucky we’ve still got that, you know,” said Shirley, placing a chipped mug of tea on the office table next to him. “If it hadn’t been for the power cut, it would have been recorded over by now.”
Jack didn’t take his eyes off the monitor, but he was aware that the sister had taken her seat at the other side of the desk and was watching over his shoulder.
“Appreciate you letting me see it,” he said.
“Like I told you — we don’t have anything to hide,” said Shirley.
“Right. And I just want to be sure in my own mind that none of your staff is responsible for the death of that old man.”
“Judge and jury, are you?”
“We have a friend here in the home — just looking after her interests.”
“Don’t think I don’t know who you and your friend are, Mr. Brennan. Cherringham’s own private detectives. I just wonder who’s paying you. And whether I should tell my boss what you’re up to.”
“Tell who you like,” said Jack. “Nice tea, by the way — thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jack looked at the time code in the top corner of the screen. Still only five p.m. on the evening Archy and Reg fled into the snow.
On the screen he saw the front door to the home suddenly open — he paused the tape and hit the play button.
In the grainy playback, he could see a stream of people in coats and hats emerging from the Home — some on their own, some in small groups. With their heads down against the blizzard, they headed out of frame.
“Lot of people leaving,” said Jack.
“Five p.m. shift finishing. That’s them heading up to catch the twenty past train,” said Shirley.
“Very noble of them to leave just as the blizzard was coming in,” said Jack, speeding up the tape and watching the figures scuttle away from the building.
“How noble would you be on minimum wage, Mr. Brennan, with your family at home waiting for you?”
“Touché,” said Jack.
“Besides — the night shift were due in on the next train.”
“Except they never turned up, did they? So where’s your emergency cover huh?”
“We didn’t expect to be snowed in, so we didn’t hire any.”
“You don’t say? Nobody listens to the weather forecasts huh? Or did Mr. Leacock refuse to pay for extra help?”
Jack waited for the sister to respond, but her silence gave him the answer anyway.
“I’m looking forward to meeting Mr. Leacock, by the way,” he said.
Again, no answer. He watched the time code whizz onwards, now six p.m. … now seven p.m. …
“I hear the home got into trouble with the authorities last year. Guess you were in charge then?”
“The problem was just in the kitchens,” said Shirley. “I’m only responsible for patient care.”
“Not responsible? Where did I ever hear that line before?”
“My staff do a difficult job for very little money and even less thanks, Mr. Brennan — I don’t care for your moralising.”
“Just calling it as I see it,” said Jack, still not taking his eyes off the screen.
Time to change tack, he thought.
“What’s the security routine at night?”
“After supper, residents get a hot drink and the nurses administer whatever routine medication is prescribed where appropriate. Then lights out—”
“Doors locked?”
“Of course — the building is secured and the night staff monitor until morning.”
“No CCTV inside the building?”
“Regular room visits from the care assistants has always been adequate. If a patient presses the help button we respond.”
“But if a patient got up and left the building you’d be none the wiser.”
“We’d see them on the security monitor, here in the office.”
“But you didn’t, did you?”
“Because — instead of having six staff — that night we only had three,” said Shirley.
Clearly not happy with these questions.
“You, Ania — and the charming Craig — that right?”
Jack turned back to the monitors and saw a blur of movement in the shot of the back door and courtyard.
“Speak of the devil,” he said. “Isn’t that Craig there?”
He rewound the tape and played it back slowly. The time-code read nine p.m. He leaned forward and concentrated on the quarter image on the screen. The top-down view made it hard to see faces clearly and the lens was already partly covered in snow.
But Jack was sure that the figure was Craig.
The care assistant had pushed open the exterior door and stood in the shelter of the porch smoking a cigarette.
Then Jack saw him turn and talk to someone in the doorway.
“You got no other angle on this?” he said to the sister. “Who’s he talking to?”
“This is all there is,” said Shirley. “It must be Ania, the nurse.”
“Could be you,” said Jack.
Jack peered at the screen. Craig reached into his pocket and handed the mysterious figure a cigarette, then appeared to light it for them.
“I don’t smoke, Mr. Brennan,” said Shirley.
So maybe it is the young nurse, thought Jack.
But his instincts said the other smoker was a male — something about the way they stood, moved …
Jack watched for ten minutes, but not once did the mystery figure emerge clearly. All he could see was a shape in the doorway. Finally Craig flicked his butt-end away and the two smokers slipped back into the building.
“See the door?” said Jack. “He didn’t shut it properly. Archy and Reg could have easily slipped out that way.”
“People aren’t perfect,” said Shirley. “Anyone can make a mistake.”
“Even a fatal mistake?” said Jack.
He fast forwarded again — and sure enough, just twenty minutes later into the tape, the door swung open and he saw a man in a robe and pyjamas walk out into the billowing snow.
“That’s Archy,” said Shirley, over his shoulder.
Jack heard a slight tremble in her voice. Maybe the sister wasn’t quite as tough as she made out?
It was chilling to see the old man, in just slippers and a flimsy robe standing in the blizzard.
Jack watched carefully, straining to interpret what he was seeing in the grainy, snow-blown images. There had to be clues in here. Had to be …
Archy shifted right and left, looking lost and confused in the courtyard. He then turned back to the door as if he might go in again.
But then he started talking — Jack could just see his mouth moving rapidly.
Who was he talking to?
Jack watched the tape: another resident now stepped out of the doorway into the courtyard. The camera now gave a full view of both men.
“Reg,” he said.
He saw Reg catch up with Archy and talk briefly.
Then the two old men just walked off together, disappearing from the frame.
Jack looked at the time on the clock — nine-thirty. He’d had his accident at around ten p.m. Just time for them to walk through the snow into the village. It all made sense.
He turned away from the monitor — he knew the two residents wouldn’t be coming back into shot.
Ever.
He looked at Shirley. She was still staring at the monitor.
“Where were you at nine-thirty that night Shirley?” said Jack.
“I, er—” She hesitated. Seeing the escape had obviously rattled her. “Um, up on the top floor, looking after a ninety-eight-year-old lady who was having a panic attack,” she said. “S-so don’t tell me I should have been here looking at these damned screens. Don’t you tell me I’m responsible for Archy’s death.”
Jack could see that in spite of her protest, Shirley Woods did feel responsible for Archy’s death.
But he also felt that she shouldn’t. Tough she might be — but from what he’d seen, maybe this woman was the only thing holding the whole place together.
And the real guilt lay elsewhere.
He got up.
“I get that, Shirley. Lot of people here needing help that night.”
“Yes.”
“Least now we know … how they got out.” Jack stood up. “Thanks for the tea,” he said. “I know it hasn’t been easy, but you’ve been helpful.”
He watched as she put his mug in a small sink, then went to the door and opened it wide for him to leave.
“That may be. But I’d rather you didn’t waste any more of my time — or that of my staff — Mr. Brennan,” she said. “I’ve still only got half my rota back on duty and whatever you may think, I do care about the residents here.”
Jack nodded as he left, and said nothing.
But as walked down the long dark corridor towards the front door, the image of Archy standing bewildered in the thick snow of the courtyard wouldn’t go away.
Whoever was responsible for his death wasn’t going to get away with it …
Sarah stood in the hallway, putting on her coat and watched Jack walking grimly down the long corridor towards her. She’d spent the last half hour talking to some of the other patients. Residents? Was that the word she should use?
Or prisoners?
And now she wanted out. The whole building felt too grim and soulless to bear any longer. And now they’d got full power back on, the neon lights in the high ceilings just served to show how Spartan the whole place was.
She handed Jack his coat and hat as he reached her.
“You find Reg?” he said.
She nodded.
“No use, huh?”
“He remembers he was trying to escape — and that’s about it,” she said. “How about you?”
Before he could answer, Ania and Craig emerged through a door at the side, pushing a small trolley. Sarah realised that she and Jack were in their way, and moved to one side — but she saw Jack not budging.
Something’s happened, she thought …
“Well,” said Jack. “If it isn’t my favourite Healthcare Assistant. That’s what you are, Craig, isn’t it?”
“Please, we have to make the drugs round,” said Ania, looking frightened by the situation.
“I’ve just been watching you on TV, Craig,” said Jack.
Sarah could see Craig’s eyes flicking from her to Jack to Ania. He’s nervous, she thought.
Craig licked his lips.
“Oh yeah?” said Craig. “Can’t have been me. No bloody way!”
“Oh, it was,” said Jack. “CCTV footage from the other night.”
Sarah watched Jack, confident, knowing — and then looked at Craig, thirty years his junior probably, but clearly scared. Even in the cold hallway, she could see beads of sweat forming under his lank hair.
He looks guilty as hell, she thought. But guilty of what?
“You just let us through now,” said Craig with an artificial grin that nearly made Sarah laugh out loud. “You see, we … we, er — got patients to look after.”
“Really?” said Jack. “I’ve seen the way you look after patients, Craig. Give them cigarettes—”
“That’s not a crime — letting ’em have a fag now and then.”
“Maybe not. But — selling them cigarettes, that’s gotta be, no?”
“No way, and look, they can smoke outside if they want; it’s not a prison—”
“Outside, sure. But in a freezing blizzard?” said Jack. “Interesting take on the notion of ‘care’ there, Craig. And leaving doors open so the residents can just walk out and die in the snow — that part of your job description too?”
Sarah watched Craig’s eyes go wide — like he was trapped. For a second she thought he was going to throw a punch at Jack.
That would have been interesting to see.
Jack would see it coming from a mile away.
But Craig obviously thought better of the idea and transferred his energy
to the drugs trolley, pushing it hard towards Jack’s legs to get by.
“Just get the hell out the way, will you?” said Craig, as he shot off down the corridor. Then he called over his shoulder: “Ania, get your arse down here, I can’t do this on my own.”
Sarah gently reached out a hand towards Ania, but the young nurse pulled back, offered a muttered “sorry” and then caught up to Craig.
“Poor girl,” said Sarah, watching Ania disappear. She turned to Jack: “What was that all about, Jack?”
“I have an idea. Tell you in the car,” said Jack, putting on his coat. “You know, the only thing that surprises me about this place is that it survived its last inspection. House of horrors. Come on, let’s go. I can’t stand another minute here.”
“Me either,” said Sarah.
She pulled open the front door and they went out into the never-ending blizzard; into the clean, white, snowy landscape.
12. Tea for Two
A guy could get used to this, thought Jack, settling back into the deep sofa and stretching his legs closer to the open fire.
Richard Leacock’s house had been hard to find — especially in the snow — but Jack had finally pulled up in front of the eighteenth-century mansion in his little Sprite and he had to admire Leacock’s taste.
What would the Cherringham real estate experts call the house, with its tall curved ground-floor windows, wisteria growing around the front door, fountains, weeping willows?
Charming, discreet, refined, elegant …
Hey, the guy even has a butler.
Now that I gotta write home about, thought Jack.
Not in a coat and tails, but nevertheless — a real live butler.
He poured himself another coffee from the little cafetiere on the table by the sofa and popped another almond biscuit into his mouth.
Very comfortable.
And all of it created out of the exploitation of vulnerable old folk and hard-pressed carers and nurses …
He checked his watch — he’d been here twenty minutes and still no sign of the man himself, apart from an apology from the butler and an instruction to make himself comfortable.
As if on cue, the door opened and Jack readied himself to meet the mysterious owner of Broadmead Grange.
“Mr. Brennan, I am so sorry to have kept you.”
Cherringham--Snowblind Page 6
