by M. J. Trow
‘Dad!’ His youngest put his arms round him and he patted him on the back.
‘How is she?’ asked his brother, ashen-faced.
Hall shrugged his shoulders and set his mouth. ‘She’s in the fourth bed along,’ he said, gruffly. ‘I’m off to the station, boys. Ring if … if there’s any change.’
The boys, as the parents still called them, big as they were, stared at him, the younger in disbelief. So, he was off to the station, was he, while their mother lay in a coma. He pre-empted them.
‘It’s your mother lying there. My wife. And if I don’t go back to the station, it might be someone else’s. A woman is already dead. Jacquie Carpenter’s little boy had a close call this afternoon.’ God, was it only this afternoon, he thought to himself? ‘I want to stop it before the wards and morgues are full.’ He clapped them both on the shoulder and held them tightly. ‘Let me go, lads. You’ll rally her round if anyone can. I can catch the bastard who did this, if anyone can. And don’t eat anything, whoever offers it. Only drink from cans you buy and open yourselves. Trust me on this; I mean it.’
They nodded and turned silently towards where their mother lay. It was turning out to be a bit of a day. First, the shock news about their mother’s collapse, resulting in their desperate race to get back home. Then their father showing more emotion in one minute than they had ever seen before in their whole lives. They couldn’t decide on which event had surprised them more.
Hall reached the foyer of the hospital and drew a deep breath. He straightened his tie and peered round the door. The press and media had gone; his way to his car was free and clear. He stepped outside into the darkening evening and reached into his pocket for his mobile and switched it on. He would phone Jacquie first and then the nick. His phone was going through its interminable wheebling noises as it searched for a signal. He stepped further into the darkness of the car park, turning it this way and that, searching for a position, no matter how uncomfortable, that would give him more than the ‘emergency calls only’ message on the screen. If he had not been Henry Hall he would have thrown the thing into the bushes in frustration.
A car approaching from his left piqued his policeman’s instinct. This wasn’t a road, only a car park, and so the traffic was one-way; it should have been coming from his right. He turned and saw that, not only was the car coming from the wrong direction, but it had no lights on and the driver was either very small or was crouching down behind the wheel, in what looked like a deliberate attempt to avoid being recognised. In the seconds that he had he ticked things off on the checklist in his mind. The car was a mid-range saloon or hatchback, with the maker’s logo removed. It was dark, but whether blue or black or even a really dark green it was impossible to say. In the dark, it isn’t only all cats which are grey, but all cars as well. The number plate had been removed. There was a screech of tyres and the machine lurched forward, the single street light flashing just once in the windscreen reflection. Time up; he leapt backwards into what he soon discovered was an extremely thorny bush, his mobile flying into the air. The car swerved up the kerb but missed him by inches as he lay there with long thorns sticking in where no long thorn should ever go. As he lay there, trying to regain his feet without moving too much, a difficult task at the best of times, let alone in the dark, he heard a scream of brakes and the sound of metal on metal.
Excellent, he thought. The bastard’s hit something. Now I’ve got him. Spurred on, he struggled out of his bush with nothing like the aplomb of Br’er Rabbit and ran gingerly to the scene of the crash, trying to ignore the sudden pain in his ankle.
Another mid-range saloon was slewed up onto the kerb. It had a gash down one side and a large piece of bumper was trailing on the ground. Glass was glittering on the ground all around and there was a faint hiss as the punctured tyre on the front nearside let go of the last of its air. Of the other car, there was no sign.
The passenger door opened and an irate head emerged, a shock of wiry hair outlined against the light. ‘Bugger that, Jacquie. That had to be deliberate. See what I mean about someone with a grudge against me?’ The figure turned. ‘Oh, hello, Henry. What are you doing there? How’s Margaret?’
Henry straightened up as well as he was able. ‘Max. Jacquie. New car?’
Jacquie was out of her seat now and was looking ruefully at the damage. ‘Yes, it was. But sadly, not mine. It’s my mother’s. Did you get a number, Henry? It must have come straight past you. Oh, sorry, how’s Margaret?’
He dealt with the most important question first. ‘Still unconscious, but the boys are there and they’ll let me know if there’s any change. Oh, damn.’ The curse sounded odd in Henry’s mouth, but they understood. ‘My phone went flying. They won’t be able to reach me.’ He started to hunt around aimlessly, hobbling over the tarmac. ‘It went over here somewhere.’
Jacquie looked closer. ‘Guv, you’re bleeding. Did it hit you, the car?’
‘No, though not for want of trying. I jumped into that bush over there. It’s got really sharp thorns.’
Maxwell went over to the hedge and peered into its branches. ‘Pyracantha,’ he announced.
‘Ouch,’ Jacquie said. ‘Those thorns are nasty, Henry. The tips break off and can set up an infection. And you’re not walking any too chipperly. Come on, you couldn’t be any closer to A&E than this. You need to be checked over, at the least.’
‘I must find my phone, first,’ the DCI said. The pain was taking over from the shock now and he knew, from careful testing, that a lot of the thorns were either still in his clothing or, rather more importantly, actually in him.
‘I’ll phone you, guv,’ Jacquie said. ‘Then we can track it down.’
‘I’ll phone,’ said Maxwell. ‘You move the car.’
‘You? Phone?’ Jacquie and Hall chorused, although it was more plausible than Maxwell moving the car.
‘No need for sarcasm,’ Maxwell said, taking Jacquie’s proffered mobile. ‘I can. I just don’t.’ He gave them a withering look. ‘I usually have people.’ He turned the phone to the light and then reached into his jacket pocket and took out his reading glasses. The phone in his hand made small beeping noises and he occasionally made small tutting noises. But, eventually, over in an adjacent hedge, came the sound of Henry’s phone ringing. Not for Henry Hall the ‘Ride of the Valkyrie’, the ‘William Tell Overture’ or even ‘What’s New Pussycat?’ No, Henry Hall’s phone rang. Brinng brinng, Brinng, brinng. Like the man himself, boring, predictable, doing exactly what it said on the tin. Hall and Maxwell triangulated on the noise until they ran it to earth, cushioned in the topmost branches of a mercifully thorn-free shrub. Hall grabbed it, refused the call and put it in his pocket.
While some of the men in her life played hunt the mobile, Jacquie reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the can of instant puncture repair and inflator that her aunt had bought everyone in the family for Christmas. Having an unimaginative aunt was sometimes very helpful; Jacquie knew it would be there and she wasn’t disappointed. It worked, as well, which was a bit more of a surprise. She got into the battered vehicle and gingerly turned over the engine.
Hall watched and listened carefully to make sure everything was working and then turned back to Maxwell. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘While Jacquie moves the car, I will very, very slowly and even more carefully, make my way to A&E. No need for you to come. I’m sure you have places to be. But, hold on, why are you here at all?’
‘We came to see you, Henry,’ Maxwell told him. ‘I think the poisoner is after me. We wanted to see what you thought of that theory and also, of course, to find out how Margaret is doing.’
Hall turned to his man, but rather more slowly than he would have liked, due to a particularly sharp thorn which seemed to have lodged itself where the sun don’t shine. And the ache was starting to climb all the way up his leg. ‘Mr Maxwell, if I may be formal for a moment. I admit that Nolan had an unpleasant experience this afternoon. But if you don’t mind my saying
so, my wife is on drips and various medical interventions in the hospital over there. I was almost mown down by a murderous car and even as we speak am in agony from thorns stuck in places only my flannel knows as a rule. And for some reason, you think the poisoner is after you. Why is this, if you don’t mind telling me?’
Maxwell had the grace to look sheepish, but quickly rallied. ‘I can see that you’ve had a bad run, but the car could be an accident, surely? He certainly didn’t seem to be much of a driver, the way he ploughed into Jacquie.’
‘I expect you are already aware of my views on coincidence?’
Maxwell nodded.
‘Then you will realise what I have assumed from the following: logo removed from front of car; number plate, ditto, and finally, driver crouching down so as not to be seen clearly. Oh, and I forgot, going the wrong way round a car park and with his lights off. And, yes, add this in, he mounted the pavement to have a proper go at me.’
Maxwell looked into the air and mulled. ‘I assume that you assume that the car driver was after you.’ He knew all about ‘asses’ and ‘you’ and ‘me’, but this was not the time to resurrect great team-building nonsenses of our time.
‘Correct. Go to the top of the class.’
Jacquie, approaching from where she had parked her mother’s damaged car, heard a chill in the air. ‘Is everything all right, guv? Max?’
The silence was the silence of the playground; neither one would give an inch and it was pointless waiting for a reply.
‘Right then,’ she said, brightly. ‘Let’s get you off to A&E, guv. Darling,’ she looked over her shoulder at Maxwell, ‘while we do this, why don’t you pop on to the ward and visit your colleagues and colleague-to-be? You’ve probably got a few minutes of visiting time left, and if not, I rely on you to get yourself in some other way. See you in …’ she glanced at her watch, ‘… shall we say an hour?’
Hall, standing there in agony, thought that that wouldn’t be half long enough. ‘Can you pop in on Margaret, please?’ he asked. ‘Tell the boys where I am. I’m going to have to switch my mobile off while I’m having treatment.’
‘Will do,’ said Maxwell, trotting off towards the main entrance. He was trying to decide whether to go for the Prince of Wales or the David Beckham approach when doing his round. This was serious stuff, but where Legs Diamond was concerned, it was hard to stop oneself having just a bit of fun.
Jacquie felt for a thorn-free area of Henry Hall to hold on to and finally found his elbow. They eased themselves slowly towards the double doors of A&E, with frequent pauses to allow Henry to adjust his clothing and manage his limp. Before they went in, Jacquie stopped.
‘I’ll just switch my phone off, guv. I read the other day that they don’t make a ha’p’orth of difference to machines, but most places prefer to be safe than sorry.’ She reached into her bag and brought out her phone. ‘Look at that,’ she said. ‘How typical. Max has left it on the menu screen. He’s really got no idea about phones.’ She looked closer. ‘Wait a minute. That’s odd.’
‘What is?’ grimaced her boss. He was beginning to think he even had thorns in his teeth; everything hurt.
‘Well, your number is shown as engaged. When Max rang you, it didn’t go through.’
‘Of course it did. It rang and we found it in the bush.’
‘It may well have done. But it wasn’t Max ringing you. Check.’
‘Oh, God. It might have been one of the boys.’ The punctured policeman tried his best to reach into his jacket, but had to admit defeat. Jacquie reached carefully inside and pulled the phone out. He inclined his head to her, asking mutely that she check. He just couldn’t move fast enough, and he really had to know. Now.
She flicked it open and chose ‘missed calls’. Her own number was there, but several down the list and not in the last ten minutes. The number at the top of the list was not one she knew and, like Hall, she was afraid it was one of his sons’ mobiles. She read it out to him.
He shook his head. ‘Say it again. No, not all of it. I recognise the last three digits of numbers; otherwise it takes too long.’
‘Nine one seven.’
‘No, that’s not one of ours. Is it someone from the nick?’
‘Not that I can think of. Anyway, wouldn’t it come up as a name?’
‘That’s true. Yes, it would. Look, Jacquie, I’ll be all right in here on my own. Anyway, it won’t do much for our working relationship if you find out exactly where I’ve got these thorns sticking in me.’
She grinned, knowing that he wouldn’t.
‘Get off to the nick, or use your mobile from your car. Take mine as well. Find out who that phone belongs to and get a half a dozen squad cars round to his house. Take the ram. Beat the bastard’s door down. Just don’t kill him. I want to do that.’
‘Guv!’ She was genuinely shocked. He was usually so by the book.
‘Sorry, Jacquie, to spoil your image of me. But I’ve never had thorns up my arse before, if I may be blunt, and I’m not feeling quite myself.’ He turned slowly and waited for the automatic door to creak open, before allowing himself to be swallowed by the murk of the energy-saving bulbs of A&E. Fifties lighting at Two Thousand’s prices.
Jacquie turned away and heard Maxwell’s voice in her head. ‘Never had thorns up his arse before, perhaps. That’s because it’s where he keeps his head.’ She smiled a small smile and made her way to the car. She had a lot of phoning to do, while Maxwell enjoyed himself taking off the Prince of Wales around the sickbeds of Leighford General.
The Acting Headmaster made his way through the maze of ill-lit and worse-signposted corridors to the General High Dependency Medical Non-Emergencies Mixed Gender Bed Unit, formerly known as Tottingleigh Ward. Visiting hours were well and truly past but, as he might have expected, the Senior Night Nurse was an old Leighford Highena and so his passage was smooth.
‘Hello, Louise,’ he said, in that strange half-whisper that hospital visitors adopt, opening his mouth very wide and enunciating the husked vowels very clearly. ‘I’ve come to visit Mr Diamond and the rest of the staff you have in here. Also, I have a message for Mrs Hall’s visitors.’
‘Well,’ she replied in stentorian tones which made him wince, ‘Mrs Hall is down on the left, with the curtains round. The others,’ she made a sweeping gesture with her left hand, ‘are spread around. Help yourself.’ He turned towards Margaret Hall’s shrouded bed. ‘But, Mr Maxwell?’
‘Yes?’ he mouthed.
‘You will be quiet, won’t you?’
He nodded, stunned at the injustice of the reminder. Louise, it had to be said, looked different in a different uniform. But the level of inanity hadn’t changed.
‘You still up at the school?’ she bellowed.
He grinned like a death’s head – his usual rejoinder to that question.
He popped his head round the curtains and gestured one of Hall’s boys to join him on the outside. In sotto voce, he sketched out the policeman’s dilemma, and somehow the surroundings made it easy not to laugh. Hall Jnr – for the life of him, Maxwell couldn’t remember the lad’s name – nodded and slipped back behind the curtains, to keep up the droning duologue with which he and his brother were trying to rouse their mother.
Further down the ward, but on the same side, were the beds containing the job hopefuls, ranged one after the other as if laid out for the choice to be made. Miss Mackenzie was first, lying back on her raised pillows in a pink nightie of such outstanding femininity that Maxwell felt it needed some kind of warning label. She was reading a book, with unlikely dark-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looked good enough to eat and Maxwell stood at the foot of her bed, enjoying the view with one half of his brain and sending telepathic messages of apology to Jacquie with the other half.
Sensing him standing there, she looked up, over the top of her specs. ‘Hello?’ she said, doubtfully.
He moved round the bed and sat down on her chair, bona fide visitors for the
use of. It was suitably tatty, plastic and just a soupçon Third World. ‘You probably don’t remember me,’ he said. ‘We met on Thursday at the school.’
She gave him a wan smile. ‘It seems very long ago,’ she said. ‘But I do remember you. That boy knocked me over and you …’
He grinned. ‘Yes, that was me. Maxwell. Call me Max.’
‘Thank you, Max, I will. But I doubt we will be meeting again, unless your other job is as hospital visitor.’
‘Now, now,’ he said, patting her hand. ‘The interviews still have to be held, don’t forget. It’s not over till the fat lady sings … and,’ he nodded behind him to where Mrs Bevell lay, a huge mound under the bedclothes, ‘she seems quite quiet tonight.’
‘Max, you’re very naughty,’ she said, smiling. ‘But, no, I don’t think I will be continuing with my career under Leighford’s roof. I have found all this to be very unsettling.’ Her eyes opened even wider than usual. ‘Even if I wasn’t the target, someone had a go at killing me, Max. Is that normal at an interview?’
‘I’ve never come across it before,’ Maxwell said, ‘I have to admit. He sighed. ‘Still, it’s not the profession I came into, in so many ways. The police are working on the case, of course, and they now think that the poisonings are random.’
‘Random?’ she said. ‘Poisonings? Do you mean there have been more? At other schools, you mean? What do you mean?’ Annette Mackenzie was sinking further into la-la-land with every part of the conversation. Surely, she’d wake up soon.
Maxwell looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m guessing that you haven’t been watching the news,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘We don’t have televisions in here, too much electronic gear around. Why?’
‘There have been … a number of other episodes, yes,’ he said, sounding horribly like Henry Hall.
‘Well,’ she said, throwing her hands in the air and letting them fall into her lap. ‘In my opinion all the more reason not to come to live in Leighford. Everyone is clearly nuts.’
