Ward Zero: The dead ward

by Linda Huber

  Sarah launched into an account of Ralph Bailey’s phone call and the visit from the police. ‘They didn’t leave until after ten, and then we were up half the night. My energy levels are kind of depleted today,’ she finished.

  Caitlyn stirred her coffee and licked the spoon. ‘Poor all of you. But that’s a weird story, Sarah.’

  Sarah sipped her coffee, feeling her stamina return. God bless caffeine. ‘Wilma must have had someone helping her with the surprise. She wasn’t in a position to go to the jeweller’s or whatever. It’s so strange, her withdrawing all that money – it was two thousand pounds – while she was in hospital. At that point she was expecting to get home soon.’

  ‘And she was fully responsible at the time?’

  ‘Apparently she was mentally fine when she ordered it so there was no irregularity there, and she certainly signed for it. The off part is the bank clerk left it with her in the ward, but that might have been genuine stupidity.’

  ‘Or not.’

  Sarah stared. Or not. An old lady, and an envelope full of cash, which then disappears off the face of the earth… ‘Either someone took the money without Wilma knowing, or else she gave it to someone. The ward staff were there. Ralph Bailey was there. I wonder who visited her that day? It’d be difficult to find out – it’s very open and easy in the rehab unit.’

  ‘The money must have something to do with Petra’s murder, too.’

  Sarah massaged her temples. ‘I wish my brain wasn’t so woozy. And there’s something wrong with all that – let’s put it in the order it happened. Wilma ordered the cash, at the hospital. It was to be a surprise of some kind for Petra, so presumably Wilma was planning to give it to someone to pay for something, but we don’t know who or what. But – yes, that’s it – we can assume the correct person ended up with the money because Wilma was still compos mentis at that point. She’d have been quick enough to yell if the cash had been stolen.’

  Caitlyn looked impressed. ‘Golly, you’re good at this. You should have been a journalist. So what went wrong with the money plan?’

  Sarah leaned over the table and spoke in a low voice. ‘Wilma had another stroke a day or two later, and four or five days after that, Petra disappeared. And we don’t know if she’d seen something, or found out where the money went. That’s the mystery – what did Petra know? And I’m not sure how hard the police are trying to find that out.’

  ‘I suppose Wilma didn’t just give the money to Petra? Or maybe Petra took it, and made up the missing money story to cover her tracks. That way she’d end up with two grand plus another two compensation.’

  Sarah thought for a moment. It was possible, but… ‘I don’t think she had it. Petra, I mean.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The way she spoke about it. Problems paying Wilma’s bills, and so on. She seemed genuinely worried and puzzled about it all.’

  ‘And when she disappeared she was on her way to talk to the hospital administrator.’

  Sarah stared at Caitlyn. They had reached a dead end. ‘Visitors,’ she said. ‘I could try to find out if she had any visitors around then who were new, or unusual, one-off, whatever. I’ll ask at the ward next time we’re visiting Wilma. No, heck – she’s in a different ward now. But I could ask in therapy, and Frankie might know something.’

  ‘I could help. I’ve been in the hospital a few times for this article, and some of my contacts might know something useful. I’m driving Mim to physio again tomorrow so I’ll see what I can find out at the rehab unit, and you can do the same on Friday. We can ask in the cafeteria, nurses, therapists, anyone.’

  ‘I’ll ask Jack as well. You know, the guy I was having lunch with on Sunday? He’s working as a hospital porter this summer, and he’s often transported Wilma about the place.’

  ‘Good idea. And we should try to find out who was at the old ward the day the money arrived. And – the bank person –’

  ‘Ralph Bailey. I can’t believe he’d jeopardise his career by swiping customers’ cash… but I suppose we only have his word for it that Wilma signed voluntarily. And he was working in the hospital branch that day. He could have gone back for it later.’

  ‘You should definitely have been a journalist. Let’s meet tomorrow after I’ve asked around – coffee at my place about four? – and do some more brainstorming.’

  ‘Good idea. It’s amazing how much you come up with when there’s two of you, isn’t it?’

  Happier, Sarah left Caitlyn to finish her shopping. Maybe they would find out something that would help track down Petra’s killer. It couldn’t hurt to try, anyway. Petra’s killer… he must be the same person who took the money. Sarah’s steps slowed down on the way to the checkout. Supposing Nick was ‘the correct person’ who ended up with the money – or another member of the ward staff, or Ralph Bailey – that would mean the killer was very close. How unreal it seemed...

  The landline rang while she was transferring the shopping from car to kitchen, and Sarah dropped her bags to answer it. It was Jack.

  ‘Sarah – that was quick!’

  ‘I’m just this second home from the supermarket. I was right beside the phone when it rang.’

  ‘I won’t keep you, then. How’re things?’

  ‘Up and down, as you can imagine. You’ll have heard Wilma’s been transferred to the medical block?’

  ‘Yes, poor old soul. How is she?’

  ‘So-so, I think. We’re going up today. Jack, did Wilma ever mention any of her visitors while you were taking her to therapy?’

  There was a short pause before he spoke, and Sarah smiled to herself. He was taking the time to think about it.

  ‘No, but I saw a couple of old people with her a week or two ago. Women. And a bloke from the bank, too, a young chap. I’ve seen him in the ward a few times. That’s all, though.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s helpful. Is this a day off for you?’

  ‘That’s right. I was wondering if you’d like to come out for a meal this week – how about Thursday evening? There’s a new Italian on the High Street and it’s supposed to be fantastic.’

  ‘Sounds great. I’m a real pasta freak. But listen, this time it’s my treat.’

  ‘Well – okay. Thanks. I’ll pick you up at seven on Thursday, shall I?’

  Sarah put the phone down and hugged herself. At last, at last, something was going right.

  He put the kettle on for tea and stood flicking through the morning paper. This was one of the perks of weekend and evening work – days off during the week. He liked it. The problem was, it gave him time to think, and he didn’t need that this morning. The picture of Petra and the smashed face he’d never seen wheeled round his mind for the nth time that morning, and sweat broke out on his forehead. Shit. All he’d wanted was some extra cash to provide him with the happiness he’d never been allowed, and now the fear that everything was going to catch up with him was – dire. He closed his eyes in despair. This wasn’t his fault. He had to put it out of his mind; think about the job in hand.

  This morning he was planning a trip to the DIY store to look at bathroom fittings. A lemon yellow suite would be bright and fresh, unlike the dreadful avocado affair that was upstairs at the moment. He would choose new paint for the bedrooms too. There was 1950s wallpaper to come off, and he wouldn’t be a bit sorry to say goodbye to that. Faded roses in twee wicker baskets all over the bloody place. He would have the walls painted white, a Grecian look. Simple and elegant. Colour would come from the soft furnishings. It was going to be so great.

  And so expensive. Never mind, he still had a large chunk of old Wilma’s cash left. That was another advantage of working in a hospital – he met so many susceptible old women.

  He grimaced. Stupid Petra… lying there with a sack over her head… and the throaty little sound she’d made when he hit her with the shovel… and the way the blood had seeped through afterwards…

  No, no… Don’t think about it… The kettle’s shrill whistle was a welcom
e distraction, and he poured water over his teabag, sweat drying on his brow. It was over, and next time he’d be more careful choosing his victim. He could earn enough for a nice attic conversion. Then he’d need someone in to landscape the garden, and then – then his home would be finished. He could be his own person at last.

  He was hunting round for the car key when familiar voices outside interrupted him. Mrs Grant across the road and – his mother. He punched the wall so hard his fist stung. With the car beside the house he couldn’t pretend to be out, and anyway, if he did that Mum would only get her keys out and discover they didn’t fit the lock anymore. He fixed a happy smile on his face and opened the front door.

  ‘Hello, darling! I dropped your dad at the barber’s and I thought I’d come for a nice cuppa before collecting him again. We can all go for lunch somewhere since you’re off today. Oh – you’ve taken the carpets up. I don’t know, dear – a nice carpet will be so much softer to walk on than bare wood. I’ll help you choose one. What else have you done… oh, my…’

  ‘Modernisations, Mum. It’s not finished yet. Now, a quick cuppa’s fine but I’m going on another course this afternoon so I’m afraid I won’t manage lunch.’

  He bundled her into the living room and almost shoved her down on the sofa, glorying at the surprise on her face. This was good. Dealing with Petra had helped him find some assertiveness. At last.

  She stood up again. ‘Darling, your manners! We’ll have to do something about that. I’ll have a quick peek into the kitchen, you said you were decorating it too… oh my goodness. That table will be dreadful to keep clean, dear. You should have asked me first. Never mind, I’ll help you plan the upstairs. You don’t want to spend too much money and often a good clean’s just as good as…’

  She fussed around behind him and he seethed inwardly. It was unbearable. Here she was, interfering and taking over his life like she always did.

  His stomach gave a sickening lurch as he realised he would never get away from her. Not while they were living in the same town.

  Glynis Brady peered at her bank statement and frowned. Stuart hadn’t paid the money back yet. How very odd.

  She bent to lift the paperknife which she’d dropped when she opened the statement, appreciating even in the midst of the worry that she was able to bend to the floor without that excruciating pain in her left hip. You’d never think the operation was only eight weeks ago – here she was, dancing about like a young thing already – well, not quite, but very nearly. After all those years of incapacity it was wonderful.

  But the money… Stuart had said it was for ‘a few days’. She remembered it perfectly. He’d phoned a couple of days before she left the hospital to go to York, to ask if he could borrow the money to book a holiday as a surprise for Ellen – he was worried she’d notice if he used one of their accounts. It was one of those last minute things, he said, so he had to pay cash. And there was no reason not to lend her own son-in-law some money, though she’d thought at the time it was a lot to spend on a holiday. But she organised the money and he sent his clerk to collect it… Not very polite under the circumstances, but that was none of her business. He was going to repay everything as soon as he’d told Ellen. Glynis rubbed her forehead. Three thousand pounds was a lot of money, and it should have been back in her account long ago.

  And – now she thought about it – Ellen hadn’t said anything about the holiday, either. Glynis bit her lip. Of course she hadn’t seen them recently and Ellen wasn’t one for phoning… What was going on?

  She perched on a dining chair, the bank statement flattering in her hand and a nasty churning feeling in her stomach. Something was wrong… Her savings… Think, think. When was the last time she’d spoken to Ellen and Stuart? In York, that was it – she’d spent two weeks in the convalescent place, because with George gone there was no-one to help out at home anymore. And Stuart and Ellen had only visited once because Ellen came down with that bug that turned out to be chicken pox. Of course. That would be it. They must have postponed the holiday because Ellen wasn’t well. But that was no reason for Stuart not to pay her back. And she hadn’t seen them since. Oh dear. She was getting worried now.

  She would phone Stuart right this minute. If nothing else, all these senior citizens’ classes she’d been going to since George died had given her more self-confidence dealing with people. She would call and ask Stuart politely but firmly when she was going to get her money back. He must have forgotten about it. There was nothing to worry about; she was being silly...

  A nice cup of tea settled her nerves, and she sat down at the old-fashioned phone table in the living room. At this time in the morning Stuart would be at work, but she had the number written in her little book. It was a pity she didn’t have his mobile number too – she could have texted him, what a shock he’d get! She was the best in the OAP mobile phone class at the community centre. And when her hip was a little better she was going to take up Nordic Walking as well.

  She punched out the number and listened as it connected. Deep breaths, and remember to sound firm. Pleasant, but firm.

  Her son-in-law’s voice was distant over the phone and Glynis had to make an effort not to stammer.

  ‘Hello, Stuart dear, it’s Glynis. How are you? ...Excellent, thank you. Stuart, I was wondering when you were going to pay my money back – there’s something I’m planning to buy soon.’

  There! That was tactful; no-one could take exception to that.

  Stuart was speaking, and what he said caused her to grip the phone tightly. Even in her own ears her voice sounded old and tremulous when she answered.

  ‘But you did, dear, a lot of money… When I was in hospital… No, you phoned and asked if I could lend you three thousand pounds in cash to take Ellen on holiday… Yes, of course I did, I called the bank and they brought me the money that very same day… No, your clerk collected it – you had an important meeting… Oh no – no. Oh dear Lord.’

  Glynis Brady dropped the phone and stumbled to her knees on the floor.

  Sarah put the last of the frozen food into the freezer and closed the door. That conversation with Caitlyn had been an eye-opener. She hadn’t thought the situation through like that before – logically. The missing money and Petra’s death – had Petra found out who the thief was? She must have.

  And how interesting it was to hear that Ralph Bailey was a regular visitor to Ward Five. Was there really so much bank business going on in a neuro rehab ward?

  Frankie came in as Sarah was piling yoghurts into the fridge. The child’s eyes were red-rimmed – did she remember last night’s bad dream? She hadn’t been properly awake, though she’d thrashed around for over an hour.

  Sarah shifted her bags from the table. ‘Hello, Frankie love. You had a long sleep today. Want some breakfast?’

  Frankie collected the cornflakes and a bowl and sat down with them. ‘Sarah – what’s happening about my mum’s funeral?’

  Sarah winced. The F word. The situation with Frankie and Petra was raking up her own bad memories and it wasn’t fun. The day of Gran’s funeral had been almost as bad as the day she’d died. The only thing that made it bearable was Mim, sticking to little Sarah like a limpet.

  She clicked the kettle on and made herself sound calm and reassuring. ‘I think that’s something Mrs Jameson could help us with. The police’ll have to – um, they have to say when, too.’

  Frankie sat picking at her nails. ‘When people die there’s a funeral. I want my mum to have things done properly.’

  Sarah rubbed the girl’s back. Poor scrap. Frankie’s world wasn’t a happy place. But a funeral would have to wait until after an inquest, and that could take time.

  ‘It might be a week or two before we can have a service, Frankie.’

  Frankie burst into tears and Mim came through from the living room, walking carefully with one crutch. Sarah explained and Mim nodded.

  ‘It’s true we can’t have the funeral until the police, um, say we can, F
rankie, but there’s nothing to stop us having a memorial service for your mum. Then we can have a quiet family funeral later. Would you like me to organise a memorial?’

  Frankie wiped her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Can we have flowers and everything?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll get onto Mrs J now, and then call the vicar.’

  Sarah nodded at Mim as she turned back to the hallway. A memorial was an excellent idea – it would give Frankie the beginnings of closure, and the chance to move forward into her new life.

  The little girl obviously had the same thing in mind. ‘Sarah, where will I be going to school after the holidays?’

  Sarah pushed yet more painful memories away. Twice she’d had to change schools because someone had died. Mind you, a fresh start was maybe a good thing in Frankie’s situation, and she’d get that. The authorities had excused her for the last couple of weeks of term, sparing her the trauma of going into her old class and facing the eyes of the other kids.

  Sarah took three mugs from the cupboard and turned back to Frankie. ‘I expect you’ll go to Brockburn High. Mrs J’ll have all that organised as well.’

  Mim appeared back in the doorway. ‘Mrs J thinks a memorial is an excellent idea, Frankie. And the sooner the better, so I made an appointment with the vicar before lunch. Is that coffee?’

  Sarah pulled out a chair and waved Mim onto it. ‘Coffee approaching at speed, and well done you. Let’s fix up when we’re going to visit Wilma. Does the new ward have open visiting too?’

  ‘No, it’s afternoons from three till four, and evenings from seven till eight,’ said Mim.

  ‘Let’s go this afternoon,’ said Sarah. ‘Wilma’s more likely to be awake then.’ She remembered her talk with Caitlyn. ‘Who else has visited Wilma, do you know? I was wondering if they might know something that would help find out about the money.’

  Mim stirred her coffee. ‘I saw her in the TV room a couple of times with an elderly lady. Electric blue hair.’

  ‘That would be Mrs Chisholm next door to Gran,’ said Frankie. ‘She visits sometimes, and so does Mrs Baker across the road. That’s all, I think.’