Ward Zero: The dead ward

by Linda Huber

  Sarah scribbled the names on the shopping pad. Two elderly ladies didn’t sound like candidates for kidnapping and murdering Petra, but they might know of other visitors she could ask. And she would go to the bank – without Frankie this time – and see Ralph Bailey. He hadn’t seemed like a swindler, but a real swindler wouldn’t. And a chat with someone in Wilma’s old ward would be good. Vicky, the ward sister, might be best, just to be sure she was given correct information. If they found out something new it might make the police more active with their investigation.

  Sarah stood up and put her mug into the dishwasher. ‘I’m going to the bank this morning, ladies. Can you two amuse yourselves till lunchtime?’

  ‘We certainly can,’ said Mim. ‘We have our meeting with the vicar. He’s coming at eleven. Oh, and Harry West phoned while you were out, Sarah. He’ll be here around five.’

  Good, thought Sarah. Maybe she’d be able to judge better how the police investigation was going. They had to get this cleared up, for Frankie.

  She drove the short distance to the High Street, parked as near to the bank as she could get and reached for her mobile. Here in the car she’d have peace and quiet to call Wilma’s elderly neighbours.

  The online phone book soon had her in possession of the relevant numbers. Now, if only the ladies were at home.

  There was no answer at Mrs Baker’s number, but Mrs Chisholm’s phone was lifted on the third ring. Sarah explained who she was, and asked which of Wilma’s friends were in the habit of visiting her, ‘so that she could tell them about Wilma’s new ward’.

  ‘Oh, that’s kind, lovey, and you’re right of course, it’s a real trek up to that rehab unit, and the medical wards are so much nearer the main gate, aren’t they? Let me see, there’s Ma Baker across the road –’ Sarah gave a little snort of laughter. ‘Yes, that’s what we all call her and it was our Wilma that started it, you know, quite a comedienne she is, lovey – and me, and Mr Paul the church minister but you don’t need to tell him because he gets a list every week from the hospital and Wilma’s new ward’ll be on it, and there’s Mrs Travers from the Woman’s Guild, and that’s about it as far as I know, lovey, apart from poor dear Petra and that little Frankie, bless her heart.’

  Sarah wrote the names down, thanked Mrs Chisholm, and rang off. Heavens, what a live wire the old lady was. But her information hadn’t exactly turned up dozens of prospective criminals. Surely Mr Paul and Mrs Travers could be scored off the list of suspects. But she would call them anyway; they might know of other visitors that Mrs Chisholm wasn’t aware of.

  It took nearly half an hour, but eventually Sarah had spoken to each of the people mentioned as Wilma’s visitors. Mrs Travers came across as very clued-up, and assured Sarah that Wilma was unlikely to have had any other visitors. Sarah was inclined to believe her. She came to the conclusion that none of these people would be any help in finding out about the missing money. Another dead end. All the more reason to go and see what Ralph Bailey had to say for himself.

  Ralph was busy with another customer, and Sarah sat in the waiting area, where two children were arguing in loud whispers over a jigsaw. She whiled away the time by making a list of the events running up to Petra’s death, but nothing new came to mind. They were missing something – but what?

  ‘Ms Martin? You can come over now.’ Ralph Bailey was standing beside her chair, and Sarah jumped in fright. What was the man doing, creeping about like that?

  She followed him into one of the advice booths and listened as he explained what he had set up with her accounts. The problem had been neatly sorted out, and Sarah signed release papers for her Zürich bank with the feeling that Ralph knew what he was doing job-wise, at least. Which might make it all the more likely that he had something to do with Wilma’s lost money.

  ‘I’m taking Frankie to see her great-gran this afternoon,’ she said conversationally, sliding the last paper back towards Ralph.

  His fingers twitched as he took it. ‘Oh? I hope she’s improving?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. When was it you last saw her?’ She noticed that once again, pearls of sweat were shining on his forehead.

  ‘A – a couple of weeks ago, when I took her the money. It would be the Wednesday. It’s my usual day at the hospital branch, and then I work late here most Thursdays and have time off another day.’

  Sarah narrowed her eyes. That was more info than she’d asked for. Was he trying to be super-cooperative in the light of his mistake, or was he trying to distract her from Wilma? Or was he just nervous? And if so, why?

  ‘Did you notice much change in her condition, compared to the time before that?’ Sarah leaned over the table. She was getting good at this – putting questions in such a way as to get the information she wanted.

  Ralph shuffled in his chair, twiddling the pen he was holding. ‘I only saw her that one time. She was very bright, I must say. I – I’m sorry I bothered you on the phone like that.’

  He put the pen down then immediately lifted it again, turning it over in his fingers. Sarah could almost smell his nervousness. She should keep him talking; he might give something away.

  ‘That’s all right. I called the police to make sure they knew about it and they were very interested, so it was good you did tell me.’

  Disconsolate brown eyes met hers before sliding away. ‘I know. They were here this morning. The police. None of this is my fault, you know.’

  He sounded like a peeved child and Sarah was hard put not to laugh. She could well imagine Harry West cutting through Ralph’s dithering and extracting the right information. Which was – what?

  ‘Oh dear. Were you able to help them?’ She put all the sympathy she could muster into her voice, wondering if she was overdoing it. But Ralph was lapping it up. Leaning over the table, he told her about the interview.

  The questions had been easy enough at first. He hadn’t known if other people were involved in the surprise for Petra; Wilma had mentioned no-one else during his visit. The police were scathing about him leaving the money on the ward, and the fact that she’d signed for the cash had been given a grilling too.

  ‘They said I should have made her put it in the safe. But when I asked her about that she said no, she wanted it in her locker.’ He wiped his forehead, smiling at her, obviously thinking that she was on his side. The short dark hair on the side of his head was damp with sweat.

  ‘Mm,’ said Sarah. It didn’t seem likely that Ralph was their murderer. No matter what had happened to the money, she couldn’t imagine this nervous man attacking Petra so violently. ‘Did they ask anything else?’

  As soon as the words were out Sarah bit her lip. That was a bit direct; this was none of her business.

  But Ralph seemed eager to talk. ‘They asked about other people. I said the room was empty, but people were going up and down the corridor. That sergeant wasn’t happy that anyone could have passed by and seen Wilma with the money. I had to show them the document she signed, and a signature from before her illness, too.’

  ‘Well, now they have all the facts they’ll be able to investigate more fully,’ said Sarah, glancing at the clock on the wall. Time she wasn’t here. ‘I hope for Frankie’s sake it gets cleared up sooner rather than later.’

  She stood up, and he rushed to open the booth for her.

  ‘Thank you very much for fixing my accounts.’ She made her smile as sweet as she could and offered her hand. The hand shaking hers was limp and sweaty, and Sarah walked out of the bank wondering if she had heard the whole truth from Mr Ralph Bailey. Did his nervousness mean he was hiding something? It was impossible to tell.

  Frankie was leafing through a magazine in the living room, her feet on the coffee table. Sarah gave her a smile and went on through to the kitchen. If Petra hadn’t been in the hospital cafeteria last Tuesday, or if Mim hadn’t gone to watch the tennis that last afternoon, Frankie would have been placed in a different foster family. It was an odd thought.

  Mim appeared from
the study, using one crutch and with two empty mugs balanced on a plate in her other hand.

  Sarah rescued them. ‘Did you get fixed with the vicar? And for heaven’s sake tell me when you have stuff to carry about,’ she said, regretting the last sentence the moment it was out.

  Mim gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘The memorial will be on Friday. We had a good chat, didn’t we, lovey?’

  Frankie plodded in, her face tripping her. Sarah hugged the child, but the thin shoulders stayed hunched and stiff.

  Mim reached out and touched Frankie’s cheek. ‘Let’s see if Rita can come for lunch on Thursday, shall we?’ she said to Sarah. ‘Then Frankie can meet little Jamie. And next time we go Manchester you’ll be able to see all the things they have ready for the baby, Frankie.’

  The girl looked up, a spark of interest in her eyes. ‘I’ve never seen a tiny baby close up.’

  ‘They’re delicious,’ said Mim. ‘I expect Rita’ll need a lot of help at first. You and I can be chief babysitters.’

  Frankie smiled briefly. ‘S’pose. Will Mr West know more about my mum when he comes tonight?’

  ‘I imagine so, but Frankie, I’m going to ask you to let Sarah and me talk to him by ourselves first. If there’s anything that’s going to be upsetting for you, I want to know about it first, because then I can help you better. Will that be all right?’

  Frankie stood tearing little strips from a supermarket receipt that had been on the table. ‘S’pose.’

  Frankie’s mouth was drooping as they walked towards Ward Three, and Sarah could see why. This was the oldest part of the hospital, and there was no natural light along the corridor. Colditz Castle again...

  ‘The décor’s not important, Frankie,’ she said firmly, hoping to avert tears. ‘It’s the care that matters.’

  Wilma was in a four-bedded room with three other old, old ladies, one of whom was unconscious and breathing loudly and gutturally, and two others who were confused and noisy. None of them had visitors. Frankie took one wide-eyed look round the room and squeezed up close to Sarah, her chin wobbling, but apart from keeping an arm round the girl there was little Sarah could do. Rita had phoned for a chat just before they left, so Mim stayed at home, and Sarah wished with all her heart there was another adult here to talk to. The non-silence was too much for her to fill alone.

  Wilma was drifting in and out of consciousness. Once she appeared to recognise Frankie and stretched a shaking hand towards her, but a few minutes later she glared at the child and roared something unintelligible, making Frankie shrink even closer to Sarah.

  ‘Time to go,’ said Sarah. ‘She doesn’t know what she’s doing, Frankie love. Maybe things’ll be better tomorrow.’

  She was gathering her jacket and handbag when Nick’s face looked round the door.

  ‘Hello, you two. I had to bring a patient to a clinic here – thought I’d look in on Wilma.’

  He stood for a moment beside the bed, but Wilma kept her eyes closed. It was impossible to know what Nick was thinking behind his neutral nurse-expression.

  ‘Why did she get worse?’ Frankie sounded very young and very unhappy.

  Nick turned away from the bed. ‘She had another big stroke. A bleed into her brain. It happens sometimes with very old people, Frankie, and unfortunately there’s not much we can do.’

  Frankie nodded, and Nick glanced at Sarah. ‘There’s a Red Cross tea bar further along here. Coffee and gingerbread?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Frankie, before Sarah could speak. ‘Why do old people’s brains bleed?’

  Nick led the way along the dingy corridor, telling Frankie about weakened blood vessels and clots, and Sarah saw how the girl was lapping it up. This was good – something that could be explained, even though it was something bad.

  The tea bar ladies evidently knew Nick, and supplied them with large chunks of gingerbread. Sarah accepted hers, feeling uncomfortable. Had Nick really brought a patient to a clinic this afternoon? Or had he come to see her, knowing she’d most likely bring Frankie to afternoon visiting? If he had anything to do with Wilma’s money and Petra’s death, he’d want to know what was going on with the police investigation, wouldn’t he? And behind the reassuring nurse-chat to Frankie, Nick was on edge – his brow was shiny and his feet were tapping up and down under the table.

  ‘Will Gran be going back to your ward?’ said Frankie, licking her fingers.

  Nick shook his head. ‘Probably not. We’ll miss her. Evan and Vicky and I were saying this morning what a cheerful lady she was.’

  Frankie sniffed. ‘Evan’s always cross.’

  Nick stirred in his chair, grimacing at Sarah, who had no idea what to reply. ‘Evan’s had problems with his parents. He’s not really cross, and he’s a good nurse.’

  Sarah looked at her watch. ‘We should go, the police are coming soon. Thank you for helping Frankie.’ She added the last sentence in a low voice as the girl was taking their tray to the bar.

  Nick stared for a moment, then smiled. ‘Pleasure. I hope I’ll see you again soon.’

  He clapped her shoulder and Sarah shivered. She took Frankie’s hand on the way back to the car. At least Nick had given the girl a good explanation of what was happening to Wilma, but oh, God – the sooner Petra’s killer was found, the better she’d feel.

  By half past four Sarah was back in the kitchen, preparing a tea tray for the police visit. She glanced outside and saw Caitlyn coming out of her garden shed with a tin of paint. An idea struck Sarah and she beckoned the other woman over, grinning when Caitlyn vaulted neatly over the fence and strode towards the back door, still clutching her paint.

  ‘Mim’s living for the day when she’s fit enough to do things like that again,’ said Sarah, and Caitlyn pulled a face.

  ‘I bet. Mim’ll get there, don’t worry. I’m taking her to physio again tomorrow, did she say? I’ve got some things to research at the hospital.’

  ‘She told me,’ said Sarah. ‘I wanted to ask if you could entertain Frankie for a while. The police are coming at five and it would be better if she was out the house for the first fifteen minutes at least.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Caitlyn. ‘She can come and help me paint upstairs. Call me when you want her back.’

  To Sarah’s relief, Frankie was enthusiastic about the idea. The front door banged behind her and Caitlyn, and Sarah went back to her tea tray.

  Harry West and DI Summers drove up at five past five. Sarah opened the front door and stood back as the two police officers went through to the living room.

  ‘Mrs Dunbar. I hope you’re recovering well?’ DI Summers sat down heavily in what had been Pop’s chair and accepted a mug of tea.

  ‘No complaints so far,’ said Mim, and Sarah gave her a quick hug.

  ‘Right,’ said Harry. ‘We’ve had the initial post mortem results. The cause of death was a blow to the forehead. There were at least two blows but the first was almost certainly fatal. She was killed at some time late Saturday morning, and as far as we can tell she wasn’t raped or otherwise assaulted. The body was put in the canal some hours after death occurred. We still have no information as to where she was between leaving the rehab unit and being found in the canal, and I’m afraid there were no clues about her killer on her body.’

  Aghast, Sarah’s eyes met Mim’s. It didn’t sound as if there would ever be any definite answers. Were the police really doing enough? There was nobody left who cared about Petra, apart from Frankie.

  ‘So what happens now?’ said Sarah. ‘This is going to be dreadful for Frankie. She doesn’t know her mother was murdered yet. When we tell her I think it’s important we give her some kind of hope that Petra’s killer will be found.’

  The sergeant’s next words would have been more encouraging if he hadn’t sounded so downcast. ‘We’ll get a break sometime. The killer will make a mistake, or someone will remember something. The majority of killers are caught and brought to justice. Tell her that.’

  ‘Frankie’s next doo
r. Do you want to see her?’

  ‘Not unless she wants to ask something. We’ll be back later in the week, and hopefully the investigation will have moved forward by that time.’

  Sarah swallowed miserably. If Petra was here she’d be pushing and chivvying the police to find out about the missing money. ‘He killed her because of the money, didn’t he?’ She blurted it out before thinking about it, and both officers stared. ‘I mean – she must have known something, right? And the killer couldn’t risk her telling anyone about it.’

  DI Summers leaned forward with his forearms on his knees. ‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘It could be that she was killed to stop her finding something out.’

  ‘Do you think it could be someone who visited her? Or a member of staff? Maybe even someone Frankie and Wilma know?’

  ‘At the moment anything’s possible, but believe me, we’re working to solve this case and I think we will.’ He stood up.

  Sarah accompanied the two officers to the door. That was it, then. There were no clues as to who had murdered Petra; he – or she – was still out there somewhere. What a truly horrible thought.

  Chapter Nine

  Wednesday, 12th July

  Sarah crossed the High Street and turned into Warren Road, where Señorita, her favourite boutique was. This was the pedestrian area of the town centre, and even on Wednesday afternoon it was busy with a good mixture of shoppers, though the majority were women, many pushing baby buggies. Sarah paused outside the bookshop, watching the crowds. It was good to be back. And yet loneliness surged through her, surprising her with its intensity.

  She wasn’t really ‘back’ in the same place, was she? Most of her old friends had relocated now, and Brockburn town centre hadn’t been standing still either. There were new shops here and there, and the big Deli had closed, and oh, heck – so had Señorita. It was called Bubble now and was full of the trendy, inexpensive clothes youngsters liked. Sarah grimaced. Where else could she go for some new stuff? She was okay for tomorrow’s date with Jack, thanks to an early summer sale in Zürich, but if they went out again she’d be stuck. She’d expected to spend this holiday tramping round Yorkshire with Mim, not going out to elegant restaurants with handsome men. Not to mention memorial services.