Ward Zero: The dead ward

by Linda Huber

  Ward Zero

  … the dead ward

  by

  Linda Huber

  Ward Zero

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2016 Linda Huber

  The right of Linda Huber to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the author.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chosen Child Extract

  About the Author

  Linda Huber grew up in Glasgow, Scotland, where she trained as a physiotherapist. She spent ten years working with neurological patients, firstly in Glasgow and then in Switzerland. During this time she learned that different people have different ways of dealing with stress in their lives, and this knowledge still helps her today, in her writing.

  Linda now lives in Arbon, Switzerland, where she works as a language teacher on the banks of beautiful Lake Constance. Ward Zero is her fifth novel.

  Visit Linda at http://lindahuber.net/

  Follow her on Twitter @LindaHuber19

  Also by Linda Huber

  The Paradise Trees

  The Cold Cold Sea

  The Attic Room

  Chosen Child

  Acknowledgements

  Very special thanks once again to my editor Debi Alper. Her help and encouragement with this book were, as always, invaluable. Thanks also to Julia Gibbs and Yvonne Betancourt for their proofreading and formatting skills, and to Debbie Bright of The Cover Collection for the cover artwork.

  My sons Matthias and Pascal Huber have given me their time and also their patience as we worked through the production of this novel; I couldn’t have managed without them. More thanks go to my cousin Fiona Ewers and my nephew Calum Rodger, for information about the themes in Ward Zero – it turned into a real family affair!

  Bea Davenport and Debi Alper both helped me with the blurb – thanks, ladies, so much.

  And to the many, many people who have supported me in so many ways, in real life and on social media – I hope I’m as much help to you as you are to me!

  Dedication

  To my godmother, Doris

  Prologue

  Thursday, 20th July

  He stared across the table in the crowded restaurant and his mouth went dry. Sarah. She was so lovely, smiling at him with shiny blonde hair just tipping her shoulders, and her blouse an exact match for the blue of her eyes. And now he would have to kill her too. It was too much to bear.

  He reached for his glass, fighting to keep the ‘I’m having the greatest time ever’ expression fixed on his face. But her last remark had confirmed it – she knew way too much. And he, idiot that he was, had just made a monumental mistake. Sarah was busy with her fritters; she hadn’t realised the significance of what he’d said. But she would, and the first thing she’d do was tell that bloody policeman. It was a risk he couldn’t take. Time to switch his emotions off.

  He took a deep breath, forcing himself to smile back. All he had to do was keep her busy thinking about other things, and after dessert he would suggest a quick coffee at home. His home. Once he had her safely locked up he could organise her death in peace and quiet. It shouldn’t be too difficult – he’d already had a practice run.

  When Sarah was gone too, he’d be safe.

  If only he’d never gone to the hospital. He hadn’t wanted things to end like this, not for one minute.

  Chapter One

  Two weeks earlier: Tuesday, 4th July

  Sarah stepped into the arrivals hall at Manchester Airport. What a brilliant feeling – back on British soil for her first long break in two years. And she was ready for it. Teaching in Switzerland and travelling round Europe in the holidays had been exhausting, if exciting. And now – where was Mim?

  A glance round the waiting crowd failed to locate her foster mother’s strawberry-blonde head, and Sarah stood still. She hadn’t spoken to Mim since last week, but they’d texted yesterday. At least… Sarah frowned. She had texted her new flight time and Mim had replied with a smiley, which, when you thought about it, wasn’t typical. Mim had the gift of the gab even when she was texting.

  ‘There you are! Sorry I’m late – I had to park at the back of beyond.’

  Sarah spun round to see a short, very pregnant figure beaming up at her, dark curls damp on her brow. ‘Rita! You’re huge! Come here!’

  A lump came into her throat as she hugged the other woman, feeling the hardness of Rita’s bump against her own body. Lucky Rita.

  Rita hugged back. ‘That’s pregnancy for you. Come on, let’s get out of this rabble.’

  Sarah grabbed her case and turned towards the exit. ‘You’re on. But where’s Mim?’

  She couldn’t imagine what could have kept Mim away from the airport when the two of them were supposed to be setting off on their long-anticipated tour of Yorkshire that very afternoon.

  Rita took her free elbow. ‘Ah. Now don’t shoot the messenger, Sarah. It’s not my fault. My darling mother insisted you weren’t told until you’d arrived. Mim’s in hospital. She had an emergency knee operation on Saturday and she’s doing well.’

  Sarah stopped dead. ‘No! What happened?’

  Rita shot her a sideways glance, the ghost of a smile on her face. ‘She was biking home from the DIY store with a large tub of paint under one arm and didn’t quite manage the turn into Allington Road. She collided with the fish van and her right knee was damaged so much the docs had to replace it. And the fish van, her bike, and the road were all left with an interesting new yellow pattern.’

  Sarah closed her eyes in affectionate exasperation. It was such a Mim thing to do. ‘Oh no, Rita, poor Mim. So what’s the plan now?’

  ‘Back to mine for coffee, then I guess you’ll want to get down to Brockburn to see her.’

  Sarah nodded, acknowledging the unease niggling in her gut. Her own experience of Brockburn General hadn’t been the best. It was horrible to think of warm, energetic Mim stuck in a hospital bed.

  ‘Love to Mim! And call me tonight!’

  ‘Will do. Thanks for the loan of your car.’ Sarah waved as she drove off. Rain was streaming down the windscreen as she turned Rita’s Opel towards the Manchester ring road, but by the time she reached Brockburn the sun had struggled through. For a moment her spirits lifted. It wasn’t the prettiest town on earth, but even red brick looked better in sunshine. She took the short cut round the park then turned towards the east side of town, where Brockburn General had stood for a hundred years at least, and oh, Lord – was Mim okay?

  The hospital was a sprawling collection of buildings flung up in different decades, most of them in depressing shades of grey. ‘Colditz’ was a good word to describe th
e place, and Sarah’s mood plummeted, taking her back to the day of her grandmother’s death. Black Tuesday. Blue-lighting up this road, sirens wailing, a paramedic pounding on Gran’s chest and fourteen-year-old Sarah having hysterics on the seat beside him. Thinking about it still made the sweat break out.

  Forcing down panic, Sarah flipped on the indicator. Nothing like that was happening today. She and Mim were going to turn Colditz into The Great Escape, weren’t they?

  The rehabilitation unit was a four-storey block at the back of the compound, beside maternity and opposite geriatrics, and Sarah parked as close to the main door as she could. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed her make-up was still in place and her hair no more chaotic than usual. She tucked her handbag under one arm and hurried across the car park. Two minutes more and she’d see with her own eyes how Mim was. She was being silly, worrying like this.

  Glass doors slid open at her approach, and Sarah strode in before slowing down. The entrance area was busy and noisy, the cafeteria on the right providing an interesting olfactory challenge to the usual hospital smell, and the sounds of Wimbledon coming from a darkened TV room straight ahead. Sarah hurried towards the lifts. The wards here were named after rivers, but they had numbers too. Mim was in Clyde, aka Ward Seven, on the fourth floor. Sarah pressed the button. Going up…

  The lift doors opened at the orthopaedic rehab floor and Sarah stepped out. A porter was waiting with an empty trolley, and she squeezed past with a muttered, ‘Excuse me.’

  He swung round and caught her elbow. ‘Sarah? Sarah Martin? It is, isn’t it?’

  Sarah gaped at him. Tall, dark hair, thin face – handsome thin face, actually… Jack Morrison from Montgomery Road, way back when she’d lived with Gran, and golly, he’d changed since the days of teeth braces and school sweatshirts. ‘Jack – goodness, it’s been years! So you work here?’

  He smiled, showing white, even teeth. ‘I’m between proper jobs at the moment so I’m being a porter for the summer. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Visiting my foster mum.’ Sarah glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. She didn’t have time for a long what-have-you-been-up-to conversation, even if he was the best-looking bloke she’d spoken to all year.

  His face creased sympathetically. ‘You had a hard time back then, didn’t you?’

  Sarah was touched. ‘It was awful. But my foster family were – are – great. I’m fine. Are your parents still in Brockburn?’

  ‘They’ve moved to a retirement complex down near the town centre. Unwillingly, I might add, but Dad’s health… I’ve started doing up their old place. Not so easy – memories in every room.’ His eyes were suddenly bleak.

  Sarah bit her lip. Sensitive as well as good-looking, and he seemed to be having a hard time. Poor Jack. He was an only child, she remembered that, but oh, Mim was waiting…

  His bleep saved the day. ‘Sarah, I have to go, but why don’t we have coffee sometime, catch up a bit?’

  Relieved, she moved away. ‘Great idea. Phone me at Mim’s, huh? Miriam Dunbar, Allington Road.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ He touched one finger to his head and pushed his trolley into the lift. Sarah heard him whistle The Song of the Clyde as the lift started back down.

  A young nurse directed her to room 145, and she opened the door with her heart in her mouth.

  ‘Sarah, love! Come in and let me look at you!’

  Mim was sitting beside a bed at the window, both legs resting on a footstool, and Sarah ran over to hug her. There was a long scrape on Mim’s forehead and she was paler than usual, but her hair was shining and her lippie was on. She was wearing a tracksuit in her favourite turquoise, and the eyes fixed on Sarah were bright.

  Sarah heaved a sigh. It was going to be all right. ‘You bad woman, keeping all this from me. Now tell me how you are.’

  Mim grimaced. ‘Mediocre would be the best word, but it could have been a whole lot worse. As soon as I can bend my knee ninety degrees and straighten it enough to stand on safely, I can go home.’ She dropped her voice. ‘Which is more than can be said for some of the poor souls here. Rehab or not, it feels like an old folks’ home, and I’m not ready for that.’

  ‘Can you walk? Are you in pain?’ Sarah settled down on the chair beside Mim’s.

  ‘I have elbow crutches, and I swallow every painkiller they bring me, but it is getting better. Now tell me about you. What’s happening about the job?’

  Sarah relaxed. Mim really did seem herself. ‘The Zürich one is finished, but there’s a vacancy for a primary teacher in the international school in Geneva this October, and I can have it if I want it. And oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Geneva’s in the French part of Switzerland and my French isn’t wonderful. And… you know. Andreas. I’ll need to have a good hard think. I’ve to let them know by the end of this month.’

  She glanced round the room as she spoke. It was pleasant enough for a hospital, with green-tinted blinds keeping the sun out, and a couple of flower prints on the opposite wall. The occupants of the other three beds were all elderly, and busy with visitors too.

  A nurse appeared and parked a trolley beside Mim’s bed. ‘Mr Lawrence is coming to inspect your knee. Let’s get that dressing off.’ She nodded to Sarah. ‘You can stay if you want to.’

  Sarah shook her head. She’d never been good with blood. ‘I’ll wait outside. I don’t want to go all weak and wobbly on you.’

  Mim stood up on her good leg and hopped over to the bed. ‘Go and have a coffee, Sarah love. I’ll try to persuade Mr Lawrence to let me home this week, now you’re here to keep an eye on me. Wish me luck!’

  ‘The very best. Tell him I’ll do all I can,’ said Sarah, kissing Mim warmly.

  Petra Walker lifted the pile of post from the floor and closed the flat door behind her, her nose wrinkling. Pooh – Wilma’d been in hospital less than two weeks but the place smelled like a museum already. And it was only going to get worse. The new stroke on Saturday had knocked her poor grandmother for six all over again; she’d been semi-conscious or asleep most of the time ever since. Tears stung in Petra’s eyes.

  She leafed through the post – a letter from the bank, and a postcard of Malaga from Mrs Baker across the road’s son Ray, that was nice of him. The rest was junk mail. Petra tossed it into the bin and slit the bank letter open with the bread knife, still on the worktop where Wilma’d last used it. God, how pathetic an old person’s abandoned flat was.

  And what the… Petra felt her eyes widen as she stared at the bank statement. This was a mistake, a joke – Wilma hadn’t emptied her account last week, no way… But according to this there was exactly seventeen pounds and forty-seven pence left. Petra flung the letter on the table and scrabbled in her bag for her mobile. Bloody banks. Someone’s head would roll for this. What had they done with Wilma’s cash?

  The voice on the phone was female and sounded about sixteen. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Walker, I can’t give you that information.’

  Petra’s head reeled. They would have to get something sorted, power of attorney or whatever. How was she supposed to deal with this if they wouldn’t talk to her?

  ‘Please check the account. My grandmother’s been in hospital for two weeks – she can’t possibly have gone to the bank.’

  Fingers clicked on a keyboard. ‘The information you have on the statement appears to be correct. If –’

  Petra broke the connection and stuffed the letter back into its envelope. She would go to the hospital right now. With any luck someone there’d be able to confirm that Wilma hadn’t been to the bank. Although… there was a bank in the hospital now, and last week Wilma’d been able to get about and do things. Petra’s heart sank. Surely Wilma didn’t have all that money in her locker? The only way to find out was to ask, and maybe someone would be able to advise her what to do next about the stupid bank. Frustration fizzed up inside her.

  The rehab unit was busy as usual, and Petra ran upstairs to
Ward Five.

  Nick the staff nurse was behind the computer at the nurses’ station. ‘All right, Mrs Walker?’

  Petra slowed down. ‘Is Wilma up to talking today?’

  He shrugged. ‘She was at lunchtime, but the physio tired her out. Have a look, though, she might be awake again.’

  The door of Wilma’s four-bed room was propped open. Petra approached the nearest bed, where her grandmother was leaning back on pillows, her mouth slack and eyes half-closed. Petra wiped away tears – the poor old thing looked like a real geriatric now.

  ‘Gran! Wake up. Wilma!’ Petra shook the floppy arm on the covers. There was no response. ‘Gran – did you go to the bank? What happened to the money?’

  ‘Wha…’ Wilma’s eyes rolled and she turned her head away.

  ‘Tell me if you went to the bank! There’s nothing left in your account – I need to know what to do about your rent. Wilma! Wake up, for God’s sake, you have to –’ Petra’s voice echoed round the room. The other patients were staring now, and so were a couple of people in the corridor.

  ‘Mrs Walker, stop. She can’t talk when she’s half-asleep. Come and tell me what’s wrong.’

  Trembling, Petra allowed the ward sister to lead her from the room.

  He stood in the corridor, the hairs on his arms rising as he watched Vicky usher Mrs Walker into the visitors’ room. No. How could she have found out already? A sickening wave of apprehension swept through him as realisation dawned. She’d have access to Wilma’s post. He’d never have targeted the old witch if he’d known she was going to deteriorate like this. He needed his victims dopey enough to believe his story, but Wilma wasn’t in charge of her life anymore. That was dangerous.