Ward Zero: The dead ward

by Linda Huber

  ‘Good idea. Give them a day or two to get her settled into the new ward, and then organise something there. It’s Tyne, that’s Ward Three in the medical block.’

  ‘Right. When’s she going?’

  ‘Any moment. So you won’t be back here visiting her. Um – how about that coffee we talked about?’

  Sarah closed her eyes. What was going on here? Just a coffee invitation, or something more sinister? By staying in contact with her, he’d also be in contact with the investigation, and if he had anything to do with the missing money that’s what he’d want. But surely he hadn’t… She would have to think of a way to find out his motives. ‘I’m sort of seeing someone,’ she said. ‘But maybe we can pop up sometime and say thanks and goodbye to you all. I’ll bring some chocs for the nurses.’

  His sigh echoed all the way down the phone. ‘Ah, well. Fair enough. All the best, Sarah.’

  The connection broke. Sarah turned back to the laptop, but her concentration was gone and she leaned her elbows on the table, massaging her head with both hands. She would worry about Nick later. What this mess on her laptop needed was a trip to the bank. Why was it so complicated? All she wanted was to transfer the bulk of her money from her Swiss account back to her English bank. The way things were developing it didn’t look as if she’d be going to work in Geneva, so she needed her main account to be in this country. A job was something else she’d need, of course, but she could worry about that another time too. She glanced at the clock on the microwave. Three o’clock, and as the bank might not appreciate her waltzing in ten minutes before closing time with something this complicated, she should get a move on. Was Mim awake yet?

  A peek into her foster mother’s room revealed Mim still fast asleep, and Sarah closed the door softly. Mim had been dead tired after her physio session that morning. Frankie had refused to go anywhere near the hospital, so Caitlyn had taken Mim while Sarah did her best to distract the child.

  Sarah hesitated in the hallway – no way was she going to wake Mim. Could she leave Frankie to her own devices for half an hour?

  The girl was huddled on the sofa, watching cartoons. She’d had a long cry that morning when Vicky phoned with the news of Wilma’s stroke, but now the Simpsons were bringing a smile to her sombre little face. Pity tugged at Sarah’s heart. Poor scrap. It seemed likely that Wilma and Petra would soon be in the same place. Another death in her family would be a lot for the child to cope with, and one day soon she’d have to be told that her mother had been murdered. And heaven forbid, but it was possible that Frankie knew the person who killed Petra. Sarah remembered the vicious expression on the little girl’s face on hearing about Petra’s death. Thank goodness social services were setting up counselling for Frankie; she was going to need help to get through this.

  She leaned over the back of the sofa. ‘Frankie? I have to go to the bank, will you be okay for half an hour or so? Mim’ll be awake soon.’

  Frankie switched the TV off, the smile gone. ‘Can I come with you?’

  Sarah thought for a moment. She didn’t want Frankie listening in on a conversation about her bank accounts, but the child was grieving for her mother, and Sarah of all people… She scribbled a note on the telephone pad. ‘Okay. I’ll leave this for Mim in case she wakes up before we’re back. Let’s go.’

  The bank was at the far end of the High Street, and Sarah parked in front of the dry cleaner’s. She put an arm round the girl’s shoulders as they walked to the bank. Hopefully there’d be a kids’ waiting area inside – but Frankie might consider herself too old for jigsaws and Lego.

  As Sarah feared, the children’s area was populated by four- and five-year-olds, but there was a small waiting section with magazines, and Frankie agreed to being parked there while Sarah approached the advice booth. She started to tell the clerk about her problem, and was about to access her Swiss account details on her iPad for him when a woman’s voice called out.

  ‘Steady, love – is it asthma? Who’s with this girl?’

  Sarah swung round to see Frankie bolt upright in her chair, clutching her chest and panting, her face shiny with sweat. A couple of people rushed to help, one of them a red-haired young woman wearing tight black trousers and a denim jacket. The superficial resemblance to Petra made Sarah wince, and she ran over to take Frankie’s hands. This was her fault; she should never have brought the child here.

  ‘She’s having a panic attack,’ said a tall man further down the queue. ‘Get her to breathe into a paper bag.’

  The bank clerk, whose name badge identified him as Ralph Bailey, came round the front to help.

  ‘Is there anywhere we can take her?’ said Sarah urgently. This was too cruel; the red-haired woman was bending over Frankie.

  Ralph Bailey opened a door in the side wall, and Sarah saw it was a conference room, with a large wooden table and about ten chairs.

  She supported Frankie away from the crowd and helped her sit down. ‘Cup your hands over your mouth and breathe as normally as you can,’ she said firmly. This was horrible – why hadn’t she taken two seconds to think before rushing out to do business that could quite well have waited till the morning? She turned to Ralph Bailey. ‘Could you find a bag for her to breathe into?’

  He opened a cupboard door and produced a paper bag.

  Sarah helped Frankie hold it against her face. ‘Nice normal breaths, sweetie.’ She breathed along with Frankie for a moment, and the distress in the child’s eyes lessened. ‘Any better?’

  Frankie nodded and pushed the bag away. ‘I thought that woman was my mum.’ She burst into choking sobs.

  ‘Shall I call an ambulance?’ Ralph Bailey was hovering behind Frankie.

  Sarah rose and pulled him to one side. ‘No. Her mother was – found dead yesterday. I just want to get her home now,’ she said in a hushed voice, conscious of the man’s shocked expression. And he was right. Who needed a wicked stepmother when they had a foster sister like her?

  Sarah went back and hugged the child. ‘I’m so sorry, Frankie. We’ll go home straightaway.’ She glanced over Frankie’s head at the bank clerk. ‘I’ll come another time and get my accounts organised.’

  Frankie heaved a sigh and leaned back in the chair. Sarah was glad to see more colour come into her face. The girl was staring at Ralph Bailey. ‘I saw you at the hospital when I was visiting my gran.’

  Ralph Bailey stared back at her and Sarah noticed that he was paler than Frankie now.

  ‘Oh – um – I expect I was doing a shift at the hospital branch. I’m there a couple of times a week.’

  ‘My gran lost some money from the bank.’

  Frankie’s face crumpled and Sarah cuddled her, noticing that little beads of sweat had broken out on Ralph’s forehead. Why was he so ill at ease?

  ‘Do you know Wilma Murray in rehab Ward Five?’ she asked.

  His gaze shifted around the room. ‘Mrs Murray is one of our customers. I’ve met her on bank business. How – how is she?’ His hands were shaking.

  Sarah frowned. Something was wrong here, but this wasn’t the time to ask questions. She would find out about Ralph Bailey later. ‘She’s stable. Frankie, if you’re able to walk to the car we’ll head back home.’

  Frankie stood up, thrusting the bag into her pocket.

  Ralph Bailey accompanied them to the door and handed Sarah a business card. ‘Email me about your problem, and I’ll get onto it for you.’

  Sarah ushered Frankie back to the car. ‘Mim’ll tell me all about it for taking you out like that.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ said Frankie drearily. ‘Don’t tell Mim.’

  Sarah started the engine. ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Then wait till I’m not around. I don’t want a fuss.’

  Sarah nodded, relieved in spite of the guilt. Frankie was beginning to decide how she wanted to be treated, and that was good. People with some sort of control over their lives were less likely to fall into depression. The girl with her now was very different t
o the child Sarah remembered three years ago.

  A dark blue Ford Escort was sitting in the driveway when they arrived home. Sarah pulled up beside it. ‘Mrs Jameson’s here. Let’s go and see what she has to say.’

  Mim was sitting in the living room, looking much the better for her long sleep. ‘Sorry, Sarah, I didn’t mean to fall asleep for a hundred years,’ she said, holding out a hand to Frankie. ‘Okay, sweetheart?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ said Frankie, flopping into the corner of the sofa beside Mim and looking over at Mrs Jameson.

  ‘I was telling Mim we’ve got some information about your family, Frankie,’ said the social worker, leaning towards the girl. ‘As you said, your father’s in Boston, but he’s not able to help us at the moment, I’m afraid. But there’s also your mother’s mother, your grandmother. Her name is Alison Kerr, and she –’

  ‘She had Mum when she was eighteen and dumped her with Wilma. Then she left,’ said Frankie, her voice bored. ‘She probably doesn’t even know I exist.’

  ‘She does, you know,’ said Mrs Jameson mildly. ‘She lives in Australia now. There’s a big family out there, you’ve got aunts and uncles and cousins as well as your grandmother and step-grandfather. We’ll be in touch with them, but don’t worry, no-one’s going to rush you off to Australia.’

  Mim took Frankie’s hand in both her own. ‘You can stay here as long as you want, Frankie, be a long-term foster child, like Sarah was. But you should have some kind of contact with your Australian family. You might want to go and see them one day.’

  Frankie sniffed desolately. ‘I don’t care.’

  Mrs Jameson stood up. ‘Have a think about it. We’re setting up bereavement counselling for you too. You’ll be able to talk to someone who helps people sort out how they feel after a death in the family.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’ Frankie stared at the floor, kicking the leg of the coffee table.

  ‘We’ll talk about it in a day or two,’ said Mrs Jameson. ‘But I’ll contact your grandmother tomorrow and we’ll take it from there. Oh, have you heard Wilma’s been moved to a medical ward?’

  ‘They phoned this morning. Apparently she’s –’ Sarah hesitated, not wanting to use the word ‘unconscious’ in front of Frankie. ‘– a bit woozy today, so we thought we’d go and see her tomorrow when she might be feeling better.’

  She saw Mrs Jameson to the door, and returned to find Frankie in front of cartoons once again, and Mim in the kitchen shaking paprika over chicken legs.

  ‘We’ll leave her for a bit. She has a lot to think about,’ said Mim, jerking her head towards the living room. ‘Her father’s in prison, by the way, but we’re keeping that to ourselves for the moment. Well, Sarah love, this holiday’s not turning out quite how we planned it, is it?’

  Sarah grinned wryly. ‘You can say that again.’ She pulled out a stool and perched at the worktop beside Mim. Now seemed as good a time as any to tell her about Frankie’s panic attack. Mim wasn’t going to be pleased. She took a deep breath and began.

  After dinner Sarah went up to her room to email the details of her banking request to Ralph Bailey. The problem was explained in a few sentences and she pressed ‘send’ with a sigh of relief. He could sort things out first thing tomorrow, though she’d have to go to the bank again to make the final arrangements for the transfer. But next time, she’d go alone. Her mobile rang while she was still at the laptop, and Sarah picked it up. It wasn’t a number she recognised. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Ms Martin, it’s Ralph Bailey at the bank. Thank you for sending your details.’

  Sarah blinked. ‘Goodness – are banks open so late here now?’

  ‘Um… no, only on Thursdays. I saw your email, though. I’ll get onto your problem in the morning. Um – I was wondering about poor Mrs Murray. How is she?’

  Sarah searched for words. This seemed a very odd conversation to be having with her financial advisor. ‘She’s been moved to a medical ward. I’m not sure what to tell you – why are you asking?’

  ‘I – you may know she called the bank from the hospital, about two weeks ago. She wanted to withdraw money for a surprise of some kind for her granddaughter. It was a lot of money, from her savings account, and I told her about the hospital branch…’

  His voice trailed away and Sarah felt like shaking him. She made an encouraging sound without speaking.

  ‘Ah, so we organised that, and I was at the hospital branch the following day so I took her the cash and she signed for it and everything was fine, but, ah, she wouldn’t hear of putting the money in the ward safe. She insisted on having it in her bedside locker… I’ve been a bit worried about it.’

  Sarah could hardly believe her ears. It couldn’t be bank policy to leave large sums of money with frail elderly patients, could it? ‘Didn’t you tell anyone?’

  ‘Well, no… but later I wondered if I should have. And when you said about her granddaughter dying…’

  Sarah didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to fall out with the bank advisor, even if he was a complete prat. He should have insisted on leaving the money in a safe place, and now he was afraid Petra’s death would mean his lapse would be discovered… which was absolutely right because she would tell the police about it herself the minute he got off the phone. The money was almost certainly connected to Petra’s disappearance. Was Ralph mixed in there somewhere too? But if he was, they would hardly be having this conversation… unless he thought that by telling her, he would make it seem as if he had no connection to what happened to Petra. How complicated. Definitely something for the police.

  Sarah decided to end the conversation. ‘As far as I know Wilma Murray was quite with-it up until very recently,’ she said briskly. ‘But in view of what’s happened I’ll have to tell the police about this.’

  She rang off, Ralph Bailey’s wails of dismay in her ear. What an idiot the man was. He was afraid he’d lose his job, and it would be no more than he deserved. And now she’d better call Harry West.

  ‘We’ll be round as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘We need to speak to Frankie about this surprise for Petra.’

  Fifteen minutes later a car arrived with both Harry West and DI Summers. Frankie’s eyes widened when she heard about the money. ‘Gran was going to spend all her savings on a surprise for Mum? She hardly ever bought anything expensive! Although…’

  DI Summers leaned forward. ‘What? Anything you can tell us about this might be very important, Frankie.’

  Frankie shrugged. ‘Gran said once that money in the bank was no use and you couldn’t take it with you when you died. But she didn’t say anything about a surprise.’

  ‘And was she at home or in the hospital when she said that?’

  Frankie sat straighter. ‘In the hospital. I remember now, it was a day or two after she went into Ward Five. We thought she was getting better.’ She slumped back into the sofa, and Sarah took her hand. Up and down, that was how Frankie’s life was going. And there were more downs than ups.

  DI Summers almost smiled. ‘Excellent. So what we have to do is work out what kind of surprise this might have been, and who could have been involved in planning it.’

  It sounded as if it should have been easy, but over an hour later they were no further forward and Frankie was wilting. She had dredged up details of Petra’s friends and the things they used to do together, and remembered places Petra had wanted to visit, but the biggest surprise the girl remembered Wilma planning for Petra was knickerbocker glories at Blackpool, and she had no idea who might have been helping Wilma plan an expensive surprise.

  ‘She must have had something concrete in mind or she wouldn’t have had the money brought to Ward Five,’ said Harry West eventually.

  The DI nodded. ‘One of the nurses saw the money in an envelope, but Wilma told her it was only for a few hours – and a few hours later the money had in fact vanished. Maybe Wilma’ll be able to tell us more, sometime.’

  He didn’t sound hopeful, and Sarah flinched.


  Harry West and DI Summers left, and Sarah, Frankie and Mim sat looking at each other.

  ‘Hot chocolate,’ said Mim. ‘Come on, Frankie, we can make it while Sarah puts the cat out.’

  Frankie brushed past. ‘I’ll go out with Thomas.’

  Sarah stood at the stove, stirring the chocolate and staring out to the darkness of the garden. Frankie was probably crying out there. Who could blame her?

  Chapter Eight

  Tuesday, 11th July

  Sarah pulled into a space as close to the supermarket entrance as she could get and slumped for a moment, blinking gritty eyes. It had been another long night with Frankie – this must be how mothers of babies felt. But as sitting in the car would get her nowhere, she’d better start the round of the aisles. She dragged herself to the entrance, wrested a trolley from the trolley-park and pushed it towards the dairy produce section.

  She was wandering round choosing an assortment of foodstuffs when she spied Caitlyn coming towards her, a basket slung over one elbow and a list clutched in her hand. Sarah tossed a packet of pasta into the trolley and set off to meet her.

  ‘Sarah! Hi – you look terrible! What’s up?’ Caitlyn’s pleased expression changed to a frown, and tears rushed into Sarah’s eyes. It was good to have someone concerned about her.

  She tried to smile. ‘Well, you know how to make a girl feel good. I’m not sleeping much, that’s all. Poor Frankie – she has sleeping pills but we still have three a.m. crying jags nearly every night. And the bank’s really bugging me.’

  ‘You’re doing too much,’ said Caitlyn firmly. ‘Come on. Auntie Caitlyn is taking you for a coffee at the De Luxe coffee bar at the back of this very establishment. Bring your trolley.’

  Sarah didn’t need to be asked twice. A few minutes later they were sitting on stools at a high bistro table, cappuccinos and warm croissants in front of them.

  ‘Tell me all about it,’ said Caitlyn.