‘She rang in the morning, about ten thirty.’ Ainsley smiled, quietly pleased that he could bring about this consternation, even under such unhappy circumstances. He was only human. ‘I was to cancel the loan and she would be returning the cash that very afternoon. Oh.’
Oh indeed, thought Barnaby, watching the shock hit home.
‘Did the person who attacked her . . .?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said the chief inspector. ‘When she said “all”, did you understand this to mean all she had borrowed or just the five thousand?’
‘Deary me. What a situation. We’ll never get it back. What will head office say?’
‘Mr Ainsley?’
‘Mm?’
‘Five or six?’
‘I don’t know. Oh, this is terrible. Terrible.’
Being economical with the truth had been an integral part of Louise’s life for so long it had been years since the fact had even registered. A huge proportion of her working day was spent lying. Not that she thought of it like that. After all, who in the financial world wasn’t doing it? Brokers, analysts, financial advisers - all prepared to conceal or misrepresent what they believed to be the true state of affairs while struggling to penetrate the false representations of others. So this latest small untruth, spoken earlier over the telephone to the reception desk at Stoke Mandeville, had caused her no trouble at all. Now she approached the reception area and gave her name.
‘Mrs Forbes?’
‘That’s right. I rang earlier.’
‘Ah, yes. Your sister’s on the third floor. Take the lift and I’ll let them know you’re coming.’ The receptionist, a pretty Asian woman, added, ‘I’m so sorry. Such a terrible thing to happen.’
‘Thank you.’
A staff nurse met Louise, said pretty much the same thing and led her along a long, silent corridor, her shoes squeaking on the rubbery surface. She opened a door at the very end and they went in.
Louise stopped in her tracks. Her heart gave a jerk then suddenly started to beat with furious speed. For no reason, she felt suddenly frightened. Ann lay quite motionless in a narrow iron bed. Precisely in the centre of the bed, Louise noticed. The same amount of space each side of her thin shoulders. You could do that, of course, when a person was deeply unconscious. Satisfy the human passion for order and balance.
The room was full of blue light. Machinery hummed, quite noisily. There were several computer screens, one of which had the shimmering green line, constantly peaking and subsiding, so familiar to viewers of hospital dramas.
There was a single bedside chair, rather office-like with a tweed seat and tubular chrome arms, but Louise did not sit down. She stood at the foot of the bed, staring. There were no what she would call signs of life. Louise had never seen a dead person but surely this was what they looked like. There was not the slightest trace of colour in Ann’s skin, what one could see of it. And no rise and fall of her breast. The taut, hospital-cornered sheet did not move. A needle in her arm led to a bottle suspended on a frame. A tube disappeared into her mouth and another depended from her nostrils.
In alarm, Louise turned to the nurse. ‘She’s not breathing.’
‘The ventilator does that for her. Have you spoken to Dr Miller?’
‘No.’ Louise felt her heart turn over. ‘Should I have?’
‘The brain scan showed a clot, I’m afraid. We’ll be operating later today.’
‘What chance is there—’
‘The very best chance. Mrs Lawrence is in good hands.’
Louise looked anxiously around the room. ‘Shouldn’t someone be here all the time?’
‘Someone is - almost all. And don’t worry, she’s monitored. The slightest change in breathing, heartbeat, pulse or blood pressure and the alarm goes off.’
Louise had brought some flowers from the Rectory garden. She had not asked permission, simply gone in with her secateurs and cut an armful of the things that Ann loved best. Hollyhocks, apricot and cream foxgloves, the last of some floppy pink roses with a powerful, musky scent. She did not as much as glance towards the house and no one came out to stop her.
When she had rung up to see how Ann was, Louise was told that only close relatives were allowed to visit. That meant Lionel, a man who lived in a self-centred world of his own and had probably never thought to take a flower at all, let alone his wife’s favourites.
Now, looking down at her friend, Louise saw how absurd and foolish her impulse had been. She had not fully understood how dangerously ill Ann was. Had imagined her coming round, maybe during her own visit, and, seeing the flowers, suddenly turning the corner. Or, unconscious, still being able to sense and recognise the heady fragrance of the roses she so lovingly cared for.
Stupid, stupid! Louise chided herself as she sat by the bed. She reached out, took Ann’s hand and almost dropped it. So cold and lifeless. And yet Ann was still there. Whatever it was that vanishes when a person dies, the essence of themselves, their ‘Ann-ness’ if you will, was still there.
Louise felt she should speak. For who was to say that Ann would not hear? She tried out various sentences in her mind but they all sounded pathetic. Death a whisper away and all she could think of were banal simplicities you could hear any day of the week on a television soap. ‘I’m here, Ann, it’s Louise. Can you hear me? We’re all thinking about you. Everyone is so sorry. They send their love. You’ll be all right.’ (This last surely the acme of wildly unrealistic optimism.)
In the end Louise said nothing. Just kissed Ann’s cheek, gently squeezed her hand and tried not to picture what lay under the tightly wound bandages.
Jax had done this. Fact. She had seen him running away. Well, racing away. But Val had said it wasn’t possible. That he had actually been with Jax when the crime occurred. It couldn’t be true. Yet surely he would not lie to cover for the man - not over something as terrible as this?
Was it possible she had been mistaken? Louise closed her eyes, re-imagined the moment when she had been about to open her car door, saw again the dark figure zooming up and flashing by. It had been very quick, a lightning flash. Yet she had been so sure.
Perhaps she had been thinking of Jax at the time. That was likely. These days she seemed to think of little else. Could she have superimposed his face on the speeding cyclist. The mind plays tricks, deluding and deceiving. We all believe what we want to believe.
A soft swish as the air-locked door was pushed open. A staff nurse smiled apologetically, explaining they needed to attend to Mrs Lawrence.
Louise moved away, indicating her flowers. ‘Please, could someone . . .’
‘They’ll be put into water, don’t worry.’ Then, rather awkwardly, ‘We have notified Mr Lawrence of his wife’s condition. I wondered perhaps if there was some domestic . . . well . . . upset?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Louise’s expression was one of blank bewilderment.
‘Some reason why he hasn’t called to see her. Or even telephoned.’
Driving once more through Causton on her way to Ferne Basset, Louise realised she could not go home. She just couldn’t face Val so soon after seeing Ann. Couldn’t put on her false face and express concern over the future of that creature who was ruining both their lives. And she doubted if she could successfully conceal her anger at Ann’s neglect by her husband.
As it was now one o’clock, she decided to stay in town for lunch. Instinctively avoiding the multi-storey, Louise left her bright yellow Seicento tucked away in a tiny back street, risking a parking fine.
There were only two cafes in Causton. One, Minnie’s Pantry, was unbearably mimsy. The Soft Shoe was a greasy spoon. Louise decided on the Spread Eagle which was in the Good Pub Guide and had quite decent food. The lounge, it not being market day, was only half occupied.
There were newspapers on sticks and she tried to read the arts pages of the Guardian while drinking Guinness and waiting for an individual steak and kidney pudding, braised cabbage and potato croquettes. It was hard to keep he
r mind on the music and theatre reviews. That world, which had so recently been very much a part of her life, now seemed as remote as Mars.
A Sony portable was suspended over the far side of the bar, the volume low. When the local news came on, Louise put down her paper and took her drink across to listen. A woman in civilian clothes, referred to as a police spokesman, was voicing an appeal for information following an incident in Causton the previous day. A Peugeot bicycle had been stolen at around 3 p.m. from Denton Street. The cyclist was thought to have made off in the direction of Great Missenden. It was possible the theft could be linked with a more serious incident. A telephone number was given. Louise wrote it down.
The response to the television news appeal was surprisingly swift and several calls had been received by two thirty when Barnaby and Sergeant Troy returned to the incident room from the canteen. Still swamped in blissful recall of his highly calorific outing the previous night, the DCI had eaten very lightly and, consequently, remained clear-headed and full of energy.
Barnaby sat at his desk in excellent spirits, in part conjured by the confirmation (at least as he saw it) that Ann Lawrence had definitely been the person blackmailed and that she had been prepared to pay up at least once and possibly twice, for had she not drawn out more money, presumably to cover a second demand?
Barnaby recalled his brief telephone conversation with her on Monday. She had seemed very calm, even cheerful. Said she was looking forward to talking to him. This, linked with the intention to return the money, implied that she had come to the decision not to pay. Also that she planned to tell the police exactly what had been going on.
Barnaby murmured again to himself at the vagaries of fate while watching Sergeant Troy, with a mass of paper in his fist, making his way down the incident room. His expression was somewhat cautious.
‘What d’you want, sir? The good news or the bad news?’
‘What I don’t want,’ snapped Barnaby, ‘are stupid games. Or tired old maxims I’ve heard a thousand times before and never reckoned the first time.’
‘Right. The good—’ He was interrupted by an intemperate growling. ‘Sorry. We’ve had nine calls. All genuine, I’d say, as the descriptions of the cyclist hardly vary. We’ve even got him on film—’
‘Got him on film?’ In his excitement Barnaby banged his fist down on the desk top. ‘Then got him is right!’
‘Top Gear, men’s fashion next to the Soft Shoe Cafe, has a couple of mobile security cameras. One covers the shop interior, the other the door and a small area of the pavement. Our man’s caught on it actually pushing the bike into the road and riding off.’ Troy turned his final page and put the papers down on the desk. ‘Someone’s bringing the film over.’
‘With news as good as this, what could be bad?’ asked Barnaby.
‘The man carried a small rucksack and was in black from head to foot. Gloves, knitted hat, leggings, everything.’ Troy watched the chief take this in. Sit back in his chair, winded. Who wouldn’t be?
‘So the stuff Jackson took out of his washing machine—’
‘That forensics,’ Barnaby reached for the telephone and savagely punched at the dial, ‘have already spent the best part of twenty-four hours working on.’
‘Was completely irrelevant.’ Troy watched his chief with some sympathy. ‘Why did he choose the Hotpoint, d’you think? Why not just take something out of the wardrobe?’
‘His idea of fun. Hoping we’d think, hey, these’ve been washed pretty quickly. They must be guilty jeans. And a guilty T-shirt.’
Which we did, recalled Sergeant Troy. Silently. ‘He’s a clever bastard.’
‘Jackson is not clever.’ It was almost a shout. Heads turned, keyboards ceased to clatter, telephone calls were put on hold. There was a gathering of attention which Barnaby irritably dispersed with a vigorous swishing at the air with his hand. ‘He is devious,’ said the chief inspector more quietly. ‘He is vicious and twisted and cruel. But he is not clever.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘No man who has spent twelve of his twenty-six years in and out of juvenile courts, remand homes, Borstal and prison is clever. Hold on to that.’
‘Right,’ said Troy again, this time with more conviction.
‘Hello, Jim?’ said Barnaby as the receiver squawked at him. ‘Look, I’m sorry about this but that material on the Leathers case we sent down yesterday . . .’
By mid-afternoon on the day after Ann Lawrence was attacked, Ferne Basset was in a ferment of agitation. There was a good reason for this. A stranger in a dark blue Escort had arrived at dusk the previous evening, parked on the edge of the Green and sat in his car reading a paper. Highly suspicious, to say the least. He was still there when night fell.
In the morning, relief and, it must be said, a certain amount of disappointment were experienced when the car appeared to have vanished. Then it was spotted some distance away, nearer to the church. This time the occupant was drinking from a Thermos flask and smoking. Later he got out and had a walk around, neither greeting anyone nor responding to friendly civilities on the village’s part with anything other than a curt nod.
The words Neighbourhood Watch could have been invented to describe Ferne Basset and it did not take long before it was generally agreed, round the counter at Brian’s Emporium, that the newcomer was casing the joint. Local burglaries, in spite of endlessly inventive and costly precautions, were common and commonly successful. Straightaway the decision was taken to ring the local bobby.
PC Colin Perrot’s beat covered four villages. He got more hassle from this one than all the others put together and always from what Colin had designated the ‘upper strata’. This lot weren’t prepared to accept the slightest deviation from what they regarded as the socially acceptable norm. He had been called out once late at night following a complaint about someone holding a rock concert. Had driven nine miles in the pouring rain to find music coming from one of the council houses that was half the level he could hear any night of the week through his own lounge walls.
‘They don’t know they’re born,’ muttered Colin to himself, putt-putting to a halt then heaving his BMW onto its stand. He went into the shop, listened, came out and made his way towards the stationary car. All the customers and staff came out and watched from the forecourt as PC Perrot rapped on the window which was promptly wound down.
‘What seems to be the situation?’ asked Brigadier Dampier-Jeans, a leading local worthy and chairman of the parish council, when the policeman returned.
‘Ordinance survey,’ replied Perrot. ‘Something to do with land measurement.’
‘A likely story,’ said the brigadier. ‘Saw his papers, did you?’
‘Of course,’ replied Perrot, somewhat huffily. He did not like to be told his job. ‘He has government authority.’
‘Why doesn’t the fellow get out and survey then, ’stead of sitting in his motor like a stuffed bison.’
‘There has to be two of them,’ explained PC Perrot. ‘The other chap’s been delayed.’
While talking, he had been setting the bike straight and climbing on. Now he kicked the pedal and roared away before they could all start jawing at him again. Speeding along, Perrot wondered if the copper in the Escort would get lucky and the bloke in the big house would make a run for it. At the same time he thanked his lucky rabbit’s foot it wasn’t him stuck out there on the greensward till the cows came home.
Later that afternoon, Hetty visited Mulberry Cottage, only briefly for she had left Candy fast asleep in her basket. Now, sipping a cup of strange tea which was the colour of pale straw, though not unpleasant, she accepted a second piece of iced gingerbread.
‘I heard,’ said Hetty, ‘that he was something to do with agriculture.’
‘I don’t think so, dear. My information was map measurement. Ground contours, that sort of thing.’
And that was saturation point as far as the man in the car was concerned. Now they reverted to the subject they had star
ted with. Much more interesting than the stranger’s occupation and certainly more worrying. What was going on at the Old Rectory?
‘I couldn’t believe my eyes,’ said Hetty. She had said it before but so extraordinary was the scene her eyes could not believe that Evadne did not doubt her for a minute. ‘Feet up on the kitchen table. And poor Mrs Lawrence, who’d never even have him in the house, lying at death’s door.’
‘Incredible,’ said Evadne, who was really distressed. ‘What can Lionel be thinking of?’
‘Something’s gone wrong between them,’ said Hetty. ‘She didn’t take his lunch in for him before she went to Causton. That’s never happened before. He was shut in his study. She drove off and left him to it.’
‘They must have had a quarrel.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Hetty!’
‘About time Mrs Lawrence stood up for herself. He’s been ruling the roost for years. What’s more - and I wouldn’t want this to go any further - it’s all her money. He’s nothing more than a leech.’
Evadne nodded. The whole of Ferne Basset knew it was Ann’s money.
‘And when I left he was going at the papers in her desk like a madman. Ripping them up, flinging them about. His face was as red as a turkey cock’s. Mark my words, that man’s heading for a stroke.’
Which reminded Evadne to ask if she had rung the hospital that day.
‘This morning. They said “no change” but if you’re not a close relative they won’t always tell you. I said to them, “I’m as close to her as anyone else in the world.” But it didn’t do any good.’ Hetty’s mouth slipped and trembled. ‘She used to come into the kitchen when she was little: I taught her to make pastry. She’d never use the cutters. Always wanted to design her own shapes. Flowers, cats, even little houses. I used to think she’d be an artist when she grew up.’
Evadne crossed over to her friend and put an arm round her shaking shoulders.
Hetty cried out, ‘How could anyone be so cruel?’
A Place Of Safety Page 25
