“Well I’m a bit busy at the moment but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Please yourself Peter, at least I’ve told you”.
*
Before he got to St Martins he stopped at a supermarket and got a bottle of mineral water, some sandwiches and the Daily Telegraph. He arrived at the hospice, parked in his usual spot under the chestnut tree and went in.
“Good afternoon Mr Joyce, go straight up.” said Eileen.
Mick followed the now familiar route to his father’s room along the corridor. He went straight in without knocking and went over to the bed where his father was lying on his back, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow.
He sat down in the armchair and took off his jacket and tie. As he picked up his paper he thought he saw his father open his eyes,
“Dad, it’s Michael, how do you feel?”
There was no response and his father looked exactly as he had done when Mick first entered the room. He opened his paper and read the items that caught his attention, particularly in the sports section. He completed the Sudoku puzzle in no time at all,
“It’s all a question of elimination,” he had explained to Sue who preferred the crossword.
*
About four o’clock the nurse came in and took Bernard Joyce’s pulse and checked the drips were all working properly.
“What do you think Nurse?”
“Think about what Mr Joyce?”
“About how long he has got.”
“It’s truly impossible to say. He might slip away in the next hour, it could be a week.” She then gave him an injection ‘to make sure he was as comfortable as possible.’
“Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“Yes please” said Mick “that would be nice.”
“She returned a couple of minutes later and handed him his tea, “drop of milk and one sugar if I remember rightly.”
“Thanks “said Mick taking the tea from her, “you’ve got a good memory.”
He ate the sandwiches he had bought and drank the tea. The afternoon turned into evening, the evening into night. The doctor came to see his father about eight checked his pulse and prised open his eyelids. Mick looked at the doctor but didn’t say anything.
“He doesn’t want to go does he?” said the doctor.
Mick didn’t answer. What sort of answer were you supposed to give to a question like that?
At a quarter past nine the door opened and Peter Joyce walked in. Peter was completely different in appearance to Mick, much shorter, somewhat overweight and nearly bald. He walked over to the bed, leaned over his father and said
“Hello dad, it’s Peter.”
“Peter,” said his father opening his eyes, a faint smile crossing his lips.
“How are you feeling dad?”
He closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.
Mick looked at Peter and said
“You made it then?”
“Of course I made it, I’m not that much of an arsehole.”
Mick didn’t reply at first but then said “Can you sit with him for a few minutes whilst I go out and make a phone call?”
“Sure,” came the reply. Mick went out into the car park, breathing in the night air. Looking up at the sky he thought the stars were shining particularly bright that night. He took his mobile out and rang Sue.
“How is he?” she asked.
“Sleeping,” he replied and after a pause added “the prodigal son’s turned up.”
“Well that’s something at least.”
“I suppose so “said Mick. “I’ll sleep here tonight, on the little guest bed. I’ll ring you if anything happens. Bye sweetheart, love you.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Peter left at ten thirty, saying he would try and get in the next night if he could. Mick watched him through the window as he drove off in his Transit van, wisps of smoke coming from the exhaust, just visible in the moonlight. He sat in the armchair until twelve and then lay on the guest bed in his boxer shorts with the duvet pulled up to his chin.
An hour later he was woken by his father coughing and he was out of bed in a flash.
“Dad, are you all right?” The coughing subsided and Mick put a glass of water to his lips. His father closed his eyes and lay there with the same shallow breathing.
Mick lay down on the bed but couldn’t sleep. He thought about when he and Peter were boys, how their father had taken them to Epping Forest whilst their mother was at work on Saturdays. His father worked at a small light engineering factory at Enfield near to where they lived and liked to spend as much time out in the fresh air as he could. He had seen service in the war with the Royal Artillery in Belgium, Holland and Germany but would never talk about his experiences. Mick had the feeling that his father had witnessed something pretty awful but had never pressed him on it.
After their mother died his father did his best to bring the boys up on his own but Mick felt they were never a proper family, not like his friends families, not like Ronnie Townley’s where he spent a lot of time. It was Ronnie’s dad that had taken the boys to see their first match at White Hart Lane. Ronnie’s mum took pity on him and used to bake them cakes and meat pies, the sort of things a mother would do.
His father used to go down the pub a lot when Mick was old enough to babysit Peter, not so much for the drink, but for the company, especially female company like Sandra Jennings. “I wonder what happened to her,” thought Mick. He vaguely remembered a big row, lots of shouting, something about her and her fancy man, and then she was gone.
He dozed off but was again woken by his father’s coughing. Then he opened his eyes and spoke the last words he would ever say, barely audible,
“They were all wearing filthy clothes, hundreds of them, just standing there, staring at us.”
Mick got up and looked at him, his skin appeared to be getting paler and even more drawn. He offered him a drink of water but his father just closed his eyes. The sound of his breathing had changed, not so shallow.
He pressed the red buzzer on the wall above the bed and very quickly the night duty nurse appeared.
“I think something’s happening,” said Mick describing the change in him over the last few minutes.
The nurse checked his pulse and muttered to herself.
“What was that you said?” said Mick
“I’m just going to give him another injection to keep him comfortable until the doctor comes in at eight.”
Mick didn’t say anything, just thought about what the nurse had just said. “Keep him comfortable until the doctor comes in at eight.” Perhaps it messed up their budgets if he had to be called out at night, much better if the patient died on the day-shift. He immediately felt guilty about what he had just thought, the people at the hospice couldn’t have been more efficient and considerate.
*
At seven fifteen Mick woke from a troubled sleep and looked over to his father. His head was to one side, his mouth open, as were his eyes. Mick knew immediately that he was dead.
He pressed the red buzzer and again the nurse came immediately.
“I think he’s gone,” said Mick.
The nurse went to the bed and confirmed that he had indeed passed away. Mick sat down and looked at his father, what were his final thoughts, did he know what was happening, did he try and speak to Mick. A tear ran down his cheek which he quickly wiped away. Did Phillip Austen know that he was dying as his life blood drained away, did he cry out.
The Doctor came in just after eight examined the body and certified the death, looking at his watch, noted the time as eight ten am.
“I was asleep when he died,” said Mick “he probably died around seven.”
“That could well be the case but I certified the death at eight ten so that’s what we put on the certificate.”
*
Mick got dressed, went to the bathroom and left. He drove home deep in thought and pulled onto the drive behind Sue’s Mini. Before he had switched off the
engine she had the front door open. They went into the house and he put his arms around her. All he could manage to say was “he’s gone. “
“Go and sit down I’ll bring you a cup of tea.” said Sue.
Mick sipped his tea and reached for his phone and dialled a number.
“Peter, dad died about seven this morning.”
“OK Mick, thanks for letting me know.”
“I’m going round to his flat later, do you want to come?”
“Not really Mick, I’m happy to leave everything to you.”
“OK, I’ll let you know what’s happening, the funeral and all that.”
Mick told Sue what Peter had said.
“He’s not interested, looks like it’s all down to me.”
“You mean down to us Mick. I’ll do my bit, writing letters and suchlike. In fact I’ll go into work this morning and have the afternoon off and come to the flat with you. You have a few hours sleep and I’ll see you about one.”
Mick phoned Rachel and gave her the news, she was very sympathetic and told him not to even think about work for a few days.
“Thank you Ma’am, I’ll collect Andrew Jordan on Monday morning and introduce him to everybody and generally get him settled in and then I’ll need to have the odd couple of hours off to register the death and so on.”
He then phoned the hospice and spoke to Eileen. She offered her condolences and Mick thanked her and asked about the practicalities like collecting his personal possessions, arranging the funeral etc.
Eileen said if he could come in that afternoon, they would have everything waiting for him including the Doctors Certificate which he would need to register the death and the bereavement booklet which explains the formalities which have to be completed along with other useful information. His father had a funeral plan with a local undertaker and they could contact them when he came in.
“My wife and I are going to his flat after lunch for a couple of hours, we’ll come to you about four if that’s OK.”
“That’s fine Mr Joyce, see you then.”
Mick went to bed but only slept for a short while. He got up shaved, showered and dressed, smart but casual. Sue came in at one o’clock, they had a pot of tea and a sandwich and left to go his father’s flat in Enfield. They let themselves in and looked in each of the rooms, lounge, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom. The flat was basically clean but a musty smell hung in the air, probably due to the fact that it had been unoccupied for a few weeks.
“I’ll clear the kitchen cupboards out, you collect any documents, insurance policies, utility bills and the like,” said Sue.
*
There was a knock on the front door, Mick opened it to find the woman from next door.
“Hello Michael, I thought it was you, how’s your father?”
“I’m sorry Mrs Farrow, Dad passed away early this morning.”
“Oh I’m sorry Michael. Is there anything I can do?”
“No thanks, we’re just clearing out the food from the kitchen and collecting some documents.”
“I’ll leave you to it then, and I am sorry.”
Sue took the rubbish, including the contents of the kitchen food cupboard, fridge and freezer, out to the bins. Mick went through the cupboards and collected various papers, pausing now again to read something that caught his eye. He found a biscuit tin under the bed with just over eighteen hundred pounds in it. Sue read the gas and electric meters. They checked the flat was secure and left for the hospice.
As they drove there Sue asked what they should do about going to her mothers in Christchurch and the hotel in Winchester.
“I think it’s exactly what we need, a break for a couple of days will do us both good.”
*
They got to the hospice in Stevenage and pulled into the car-park but another car was parked under the chestnut tree. It somehow signalled the end of his visits, perhaps the car driver was visiting someone, perhaps in his father’s old room.
They walked into the reception but Eileen was not on duty, another women called Joanna said to wait a minute, someone was coming to see them. A young man of about twenty five came in and introduced himself.
“My name is Justin Davidson Mr and Mrs Joyce, if you’d like to follow me to my office.”
They all sat down either side of a low table and the young man handed them a shrink wrapped bag containing Bernard Joyce’s clothes and a smaller bag with the rest of his personal possessions, his watch, a wallet and a photo which Mick recognised as his mother and father on their wedding day.
He then handed them an envelope which contained the Doctors certificate.
“You’ll need that to register the death,” he explained. He also produced a folder from the funeral company that his father had taken out a pre-paid plan with. “Assuming you are happy to use these undertakers I can ring them now for you if you wish?”
“Well if my father has already paid for his funeral there doesn’t seem any point going anywhere else does there.”
Justin Davidson rang the number and asked for Mr Mitchell who he obviously knew and gave him the details, including the plan number and arrangements were made for the undertakers to collect the deceased.
“You will need to contact them in a couple of days to arrange a date and discuss the actual funeral, whether you want a burial or cremation, do you want a church service and so on.”
They all shook hands and Mick and Sue left.
*
The next morning, Saturday, Mick and Sue drove down to Christchurch arriving at lunchtime. Her mother and father had retired to the bungalow when her father sold his plumbing supplies business, he had died four years ago and she visited her mother as often as possible.
After lunch Mick went for a walk whilst Sue and her mother chatted, they left Christchurch late afternoon and made their way to Winchester and the hotel. They enjoyed a quiet evening, a pre-dinner drink, or two, a nice meal and an early night.
*
Sunday morning they strolled around the town and the park near the Cathedral. They sat and talked about the last few days and the plans for the next few.
“I’ll go through all the paperwork and write to everybody we need to notify” said Sue. “If I find anything else where he has been making regular payments or receiving any income I’ll deal with those as well.”
“What about the funeral? Your dad wasn’t religious was he, did he ever say whether he wanted a burial or cremation?”
“I think a cremation would be best, and a non-religious service at the crematorium. I’ll go and see the undertaker next week and I will need to go in and register the death as well.”
They spent the rest of the day sightseeing. They had a drink on the terrace of the pub by the river and after sitting in the park for an hour chatting he took Sue to the Cathedral refectory, where he had been just recently on his way back from Fareham, for a cream tea. They had an uneventful journey home, Mick spent the time deep in thought about the week ahead. He was looking forward to meeting Andrew again, he thought he might invite him to have dinner with them one night.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
On Monday morning Mick drove to Luton Airport to collect Andrew. He parked in the short stay car-park and went into the terminal building to wait for him. It was a good forty five minutes after the plane landed before he appeared and Mick realised why when he was pushing a trolley with a suitcase and holdall on it, obviously he had been to the carousel to collect his luggage.
He shook Andrew’s hand and asked if he had had a good flight.
“Not bad,” replied Andrew. I would have preferred to fly from Dusseldorf rather than Dortmund but I couldn’t get a flight from there. Anyway, how are you?”
Mick told him about his father’s death, Andrew offered his condolences of course, they reached Mick’s car and left for Hatfield.
They parked and walked into the front office where Steve Milken was on duty. “This is Sergeant Milken Andrew, this is Lieutenant Andrew Jordan of the Ro
yal Military Police Steve.”
They shook hands and Mick asked Steve Milken to fix him up with a pass, give him the security codes for the car park gate, the door from the front office to the secure areas and finally the rear door from the car-park into the building.
“Anything interesting happen Steve whilst I was away on Friday?”
“Yeah sorry about your father Mick. Anyway we’ve had a result with a lad who lost control of a stolen Porsche and ran it off the road demolishing a wall, ripped out about twenty yards of yew hedge and knocked down a gate post with a stone eagle on top of it. Cheeky sod asked for nine other fences to be taken into account.”
Mick laughed even though he’d heard that joke a hundred times, Andrew smiled and followed Mick upstairs.
They walked into the incident room and Mick introduced him to Bob North and Emma Stavely. Mick showed him around on the first floor, introduced him to a few other officers, pointed out the gents and the small kitchen where they could warm up food in the microwave. They returned to the room and Mick showed him the desk he could use, explained the phone system and asked Emma to make sure his laptop was connected to the secure network they had set up in the Incident room.
Mick then rang Rachel Bond “Morning Ma’am I’ve got Lieutenant Jordan here, would you like to meet him?”
“Certainly Michael come up.”
“Andrew, this is Chief Superintendent Bond, Lieutenant Andrew Jordan Ma’am.” They shook hands and sat down. I’m quite excited about this collaboration Lieutenant Jordan, I’m sure that you and Inspector Joyce will work together to solve both the murder of Captain Austen and the smuggling, at least the European end of things”.
“Actually that raises an interesting point,” said Andrew. “Brigadier Fredericks has given me a contact name and number of a high ranking police officer in Bloemfontein, he wants me to speak to him and ‘suggest’ that the South African Police might want to do some investigating at their end. That’s where the criminal activity originated before the diamonds were smuggled into Germany and, we believe for an onward journey to either Amsterdam or London.”
The Paderborn Connection Page 10
