by Hannah Howe
“Yeah,” I sighed. I closed my eyes and, with my mood uplifted, I drifted into a peaceful sleep.
Chapter Six
I woke up feeling melancholy. I was alive, relieved and grateful, yet troubled by the fact that someone had shot me. Who? Why? I struggled to find a reason. True, I had a habit of seeking the truth and, occasionally, the truth upset people, mainly people with something to hide. Some of these people had made threats against me, bullets had been fired at me, but I never imagined for one second that someone had a bullet with my name written on it.
I was taking solid food and, great relief, allowed to use the bathroom on my own. However, my head still hurt and I found the sling supporting my right arm awkward and uncomfortable. I am predominantly right-handed, so would have to adjust to using my left hand for the next month or so. I had stitches in my head and they itched. A small section of my hair had been removed to insert the stitches and I wondered, vaingloriously, if it would grow back properly. I’d taken a bullet to my right shoulder then damaged my head when falling to the ground. The doctors and nurses, who called on me regularly, seemed more concerned with my head injury than with the bullet wound, on account of Dan’s violence and the hurt he’d inflicted on me, when fracturing my skull. But I’d survived that and I could survive this. I just had to sit tight and be patient. I was lucky in many respects. Even so, in my loneliness and isolation, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for myself.
I dozed. Then my nose twitched at the scent of flowers. Roses. Red. A dozen of them, clutched in Alan’s large hand.
“For me?” I asked rather stupidly.
“Well, er, actually,” Alan hesitated, “since you’ve been in here I’ve met up with this very attractive blonde nurse. I was thinking...”
With my left hand, I picked up a magazine and threw it at him in playful fashion. With his left hand, he caught the magazine then laughed. He walked over to the bed, thought about kissing me on my forehead, noticed my wound, then kissed me on the lips instead. Then he placed the flowers in a vase and sat down beside me, close to the bed.
“How are you feeling?” Alan asked.
“Better. I’m on the mend.”
“The police want to interview you. Felicity keeps putting them off. She wants to make sure that you’re one hundred per cent ready.”
“I’m ready, though my mind is still lost in something of a fog.”
Alan reached across the blankets and took hold of my left hand. While holding hands we sat in silence for a while, lost in our own thoughts.
Glancing up at Alan, I broke the reverie and said, “Sorry.”
“Sorry?” he frowned. “Sorry for what? You didn’t walk into the bullet on purpose, did you?”
“Sorry for putting you through all this.”
Alan’s fingers tightened around my hand and I saw fury flash in his eyes. A calm, placid man, he was rarely moved to rage, yet I sensed a quiet anger bubbling inside him, an anger that could explode, should he encounter the gunman.
With his features set and his jaw firm, he said, “The bastard who pulled the trigger put us through all this, not you. When the police catch up with him...” He gave my fingers another squeeze, then noting the concerned look on my face he relaxed and offered a tentative smile. He asked, “Do you have any idea who shot you?”
“I suppose I could draw up a list of candidates, but no one springs readily to mind.”
Alan nodded. He released my hand and again we lapsed into silence.
Then I asked, “Who found me?”
“A neighbour, Julie Wilkins.”
I knew Julie. Estranged from her parents when she became pregnant at seventeen, she was a single mother with three children. In her mid-thirties, Julie worked as a shop assistant and, to pay the rent, she occasionally walked the streets at night. Julie was dyslexic, so struggled with official documents; often, she would call on me and together we would read her letters.
“I owe Julie my life.”
Alan nodded. “You can meet up with her and thank her, soon.”
Alan extended his legs. They were too long for the chair. He placed his hands behind his head and stretched his back. He looked tired, as though he hadn’t been sleeping.
Thinking of his daughter, I asked, “How’s Alis?”
“Okay.” He smiled briefly. “She sends her love.”
I nodded, then glanced at my left arm, visible from the elbow down, due to the short-sleeved nature of my nightshirt. I frowned. “Why is my skin yellow?”
“They gave you the wrong medication to start. You’re allergic to penicillin.”
“I know that.”
Alan smiled, ruefully. “So do they, now.”
Medicines. As I said, they do not agree with me. I thought of the doctors and nurses and the care they had lavished on me. I would be eternally grateful to them. One doctor in particular sprang to mind and I asked, “Who’s Felicity?”
“Dr Barr...” Alan shrugged. “A friend.”
“An old friend?”
“We were quite close,” Alan admitted, “until you came along.”
“Then you ditched her?”
“I explained that we were not compatible. And I admitted that I’d fallen in love with you.”
“How did she take it?” I asked.
Alan pursed his lips. He stretched his back again, then sighed, “She was annoyed at first, but after an outburst she apologised and we’ve been good friends ever since. I do have a soft spot for Felicity. She’s had a tough life...in her thirties she had a series of miscarriages, then her husband divorced her and she had a breakdown. Obviously, she’s recovered from all that trauma and she’s been very helpful while you’ve been in here, keeping me updated.”
“That’s good of her,” I acknowledged. “I must thank her too.” With the aid of my left hand, I sat up straight and looked Alan in the eye. I gave him my doe-eyed, manipulative look. “Alan, I want to go home.”
“In a day or two.”
“I’m miserable here.”
“When Dr Warburton gives the okay you can stay with me and Alis. We’ll look after you.”
I frowned, concerned. “What about your work?”
“I’ve made some arrangements, rejigged a few things, called in a few favours...none of my clients will suffer. Besides, I’m not at my best at the moment; I could do with a break.”
My manipulative look turned to one of guilt. “My fault.”
“His fault.” The stern look returned to Alan’s face, a look that would brook no argument. “You’ve taken a pounding, Sam; don’t beat yourself up as well.”
Accepting defeat, I allowed myself to fall back on to my pillows. Sensing my disappointment, Alan leaned forward and kissed me. I closed my eyes and Alan returned to his chair.
“Alis is looking forward to seeing you. It will be good practice for her, good practice at nursing the patient from hell.”
“Hey.” My eyes flicked open. I scowled. “Who says I’m the patient from hell?”
“I know you, Samantha,” Alan grinned. “Will you listen to a word we say?”
I shrugged my left shoulder, then turned away, feigning indifference. “Probably not.”
Alan laughed, “There we are then.”
I turned back to face him, trying to look hurt, but unable to keep a straight face. “As you’ve pointed out, I’m not well. You should only say nice things to me and about me.”
“How about if I say that you’re the most beautiful, most wonderful woman in the world.”
I felt the colour rise on my cheeks and a warm glow as it permeated my body. I smiled. “I’m feeling better already.”
Alan stood. He kissed me again, then said, “I’d better let the police have a word. Better not tire you out. We’ll stay at my place, okay, then move on to the cottage for Christmas. You’ll be as right as rain by the New Year.”
That was a thought to sustain me until Alan’s next visit. At the door, he paused and I said, “I love you.”
He nodded, smiled and said, “I love you more.”
Chapter Seven
I’d given a garbled statement to a detective sergeant as soon as I was stable, but now the police were rolling out the big guns in the shape of Detective Inspector Carolyn Tyler.
I’d encountered Detective Inspector Tyler through the course of my work and, for some reason she’d taken a dislike to me. From what I could gather, she was in her mid-forties, enjoyed jogging, bowling and playing women’s cricket. She had a reputation for being aloof, arrogant and ambitious. We are who we are and I could have no problem with that but, as I said, she did have a problem with me.
Detective Inspector Tyler sat in the chair recently occupied by Alan. Above medium height, she had a shapely figure and fine, shoulder length hair. She’d pulled her hair back from her face and held it in place with a tortoiseshell clip at the nape of her neck. Dyed a rich auburn, Tyler’s hair was a shade darker than her natural colour. Her eyes were blue and stern while a slightly upturned nose and a strong jaw dominated her fresh, unblemished face. She was smartly dressed in a navy blue trouser suit and a cream crew-neck sweater. Although married, with two children, she wore no jewellery whatsoever.
“How are you, Ms Smith?” Tyler asked while flicking an imaginary speck from her right thigh.
I waited for her to glance up, then replied, “I’m okay. Feeling better.”
“What happened?”
“I can’t remember. My mind is a blank.”
“Think back,” Tyler cajoled. “Tell me what you can remember.”
“I was in my office. I’d just fed Marlowe...”
“Marlowe?” she frowned.
“My cat. Then someone entered the office. I thought, maybe a client.” I paused while the gears whirled in my mind and the mental image started to clear. “Wait, before that I took delivery of a new computer...”
“The computer is still in your office, which suggests that the gunman wasn’t after swag. Though, of course, someone could have disturbed him. We’ve checked out the delivery driver. His records place him ten miles away at the time of the shooting, so he’s in the clear.”
I nodded. It was a reflex gesture and although the pain was easing, my neck and head still hurt. I continued, “I glanced up...that’s right, Marlowe had knocked a plastic ribbon from the parcel on to the floor...then, bang, the gun went off; he fired the one shot, is that correct?”
“Correct. Did you catch sight of the gunman? Any details whatsoever...his height, build, complexion...”
I shrugged my good shoulder. “Nothing, sorry.”
“His clothing?”
I puckered my lips and pulled a face. “Nothing.”
“Any idea who would want you dead?” Tyler’s ominous look suggested that a queue was forming as we were speaking, that I was public enemy number one; it was a look that did little for my confidence. She continued, “I mean, you do have a habit of annoying people, don’t you, Ms Smith?”
“I annoy you, you mean.”
She scowled and, not for the first time, I reflected that I’d do better to hold my tongue. “My feelings or opinion of you have nothing to do with this case,” Tyler stated with pained sincerity.
“Why do I annoy you?” I asked. As you might have gathered, I’m good at giving myself advice, but not so good at taking it.
“You meddle in police business. You use the factory as some people use their local library. You see us as a source of information. And, quite frankly, a woman like you does not belong in the private eye profession.”
A woman like me...what did she mean by that?
Riled, I said, “You think I should be home by the sink washing my husband’s dishes.”
Tyler gave me a tolerant smile. She examined her fingernails, which were short and unvarnished. “You’re not married, are you, Ms Smith.”
“You know what I mean,” I ground out through clenched teeth.
She looked up sharply and glared at me with icicles in her cold blue eyes. “And I think you know what I mean.”
I didn’t, but I let it pass. I could only surmise that Carolyn Tyler’s dislike of me stemmed from the Beatrice Black case. Five years ago, Tyler had been in charge of that case, leading the investigation into Beatrice’s murder. A prostitute, Beatrice had many friends on the street and when the police investigation drew a blank, those friends hired me to look into the case. With a bit of luck and a lot of endeavour, I helped to secure a conviction. My first high-profile case, the Beatrice Black murder offered a glimpse of the limelight, which I hated. I won plaudits from my peers while the conviction knocked Carolyn Tyler’s nose out of joint.
The detective inspector stood, straightened her jacket then walked towards the door. At the door, she paused and said, “If anything springs to mind...”
“I’ll contact you.”
“We’re working on the theory that the gunman is someone you’ve annoyed. A list might be handy, even if it’s a long one. Alternatively, a neighbour might have fancied his chances of stealing your new computer. After all, your office is hardly in one of Cardiff’s more salubrious streets.”
“I’ve had no problems with my neighbours in the past,” I replied truthfully.
Tyler ignored me. She placed her hand on the door handle, then hesitated, as though reluctant to leave. Looking to rub more salt into my wound? Or maybe I was being ungracious. “By the way...you were shot by a .38...does that mean anything to you?”
“Nothing,” I conceded. Then a question sprang to my lips, a question that had been troubling me since I’d regained consciousness. “Why didn’t he stay and finish me?”
Tyler shrugged. She glanced down to her highly polished shoes. She reflected, as though disturbed by my question, as though wrestling with her thoughts. Eventually, she looked up and said, “Maybe he was a burglar and someone disturbed him. Maybe he was out to get you, fired, then panicked and fled. You may not feel it at the moment, Ms Smith, but you’re a very lucky woman.”
And if he was out to get me and I was still on his hit list...sweet dreams, Samantha, you’re not out of the woods yet.
Chapter Eight
It was the 23rd of December and Dr Warburton said that I could leave the hospital. I offered the doctor and his staff my heartfelt thanks, then with Alan at my side, we walked to his car, a red Jaguar XJ6. The weather was cold and grey with snowflakes in the air. Unaccustomed to the chilly conditions, I offered an involuntary shiver. Then I slipped into the car, sighed, and enjoyed the ride to Alan’s home at St Fagans.
A leading member of his profession, Alan was handsomely rewarded. Indeed, in our private moments, he confessed that he was overpaid. However, he was modest with his money, not flash or showy or ostentatious in any way. He put his wealth to good use, and his beautifully restored sixteenth century manor house served as an excellent example.
Alan parked his car in the drive and we walked to the front door. The door was white with nine small panes of frosted glass in the upper panel. An old beer barrel, painted white, stood beside the door as a decorative feature. Brackets also lined the front wall, ready for the spring and the fragrance of colourful hanging baskets.
We walked into the house, into the living room where we found Alis sprawled on a luxurious rug, writing Christmas cards. Sixteen and very beautiful, Alis was the image of her late mother. She had long, brown, naturally wavy hair, dark brown intelligent eyes and a willowy figure. Like her mother, Elin, Alis had ambitions to become a doctor, though if she tried to practice on me she might wish for an easier profession.
Alis glanced up, smiled at me then, nimbly, jumped to her feet. “How are you?” she asked.
“I’m okay. Feeling much better. My shoulder hurts if I try to move it and the tablets make me feel yuck, but all tablets do that to me; I don’t get on with them at all. But I’m fine, really.” I returned Alis’ smile and she nodded. Then I asked, “How’s school?”
“We’re on Christmas break,” she explained.
“Uh-huh.
Of course.”
Alis held up a Christmas card, a snow scene of a Dutch town by an artist I couldn’t put a name to. “Are you excited about Christmas?” she asked, her words bubbling with enthusiasm.
In truth, Christmas had slipped my mind. However, the idea of spending the festive season with Alan and Alis did warm my soul. “Yeah,” I admitted, “I’m looking forward to it now.”
“We’re going to the cottage tomorrow. It’ll be great to have you there. It’ll be like being a family again.” Alis stared at me through big brown eyes. She bit her bottom lip as her eyes glazed over. No doubt she was recalling Christmases past with her mum. The emotion welled up in her eyes and, mindful of my sling and damaged shoulder, she placed her arms around me and gave me a big hug. “Oh, Sam,” she sighed, “we were so worried about you.”
With my good hand, I patted Alis on the back and tried not to cry. Her affection for me was so touching, particularly as our friendship had developed after an uncertain start. Naturally, Alis had been suspicious of me, wary of the woman who’d invaded her life. I was twice Alis’ age, thirty-two to sixteen, old enough to be her mother, yet young enough to be her sister, though aware that I was not her kith or kin. Over recent weeks, we’d come to regard each other as friends, and good friends at that.
“I’m okay, Alis, I’m okay,” I said, breaking our embrace. “Honestly, I’m fine.”
Alis nodded. Surreptitiously, she dabbed her eyes, then she returned to her cards.
As Alis offered Season’s Greetings to her family and friends, Alan walked into the living room and announced, “I know it’s out of season, but I thought I’d prepare a salad for this evening, a ploughman’s lunch.”
“I’m not hungry,” I said, smoothing the back of my skirt with my left hand, then easing myself into a leather armchair.
“You need food, Sam, to balance out the medication.”
“Okay,” I conceded, “a small plate.” I was taking painkillers for my shoulder and for recurring headaches due to the concussion. Also, I was on antibiotics because of an infection, post op.
