Ward Zero: The dead ward

by Linda Huber

  Sighing, she trailed into another boutique, conscious that most people here were shopping in pairs. What was she going to do with her life? Her mobile buzzed in her pocket – a text from Caitlyn. Still on for 4pm? Cheered, Sarah replied CU then J and pulled a pair of black linen trousers from the rail. These looked great – and she did have friends here.

  It was exactly four o’clock when she rang Caitlyn’s doorbell.

  ‘Come in, it’s open!’

  Sarah went through to the kitchen. ‘How did you know it was me? You could have been inviting a double-glazing salesman, or some religious weirdo into your house. You should be more careful.’

  Caitlyn shrugged. ‘I knew you were coming, so it wasn’t likely someone else would ring the bell bang on four, is it?’

  Sarah lowered herself into a kitchen chair and propped her elbows on the table. ‘I suppose not. Sorry, Caitlyn – I’m jumpy about this business with Petra.’

  ‘Does Frankie know how she died yet?’ said Caitlyn.

  ‘Not really and it’s horrible – how do you break news like that to a child? Mim told her Petra died after a bang on the head but we’re not sure about the details. She reckons it’ll be time enough to say the word murder when the police find out more. Personally, I’d have told the kid her mum was killed. Frankie isn’t stupid.’

  Caitlyn put a coffee in front of Sarah and set the machine again for her own. ‘So how did you get on?’

  Sarah told her about interviewing Wilma’s visitors and Ralph Bailey. Caitlyn listened, frowning, and when the story was finished she pushed the biscuits across the table.

  ‘Have a biccy. I didn’t have much luck today either. I wandered about at the rehab unit while Mim was at physio, but no-one I spoke to saw anything. I asked in the cafeteria, and chatted to a couple of cleaners, and I went up to the old ward, too, and spoke to one of the nurses there. Dark-haired guy called Evan – that’s not the one who asked you out, is it? He was a bit short when I started about Wilma. He said the police had questioned all the staff, but still no joy.’

  ‘Evan always seems jumpy. And – Nick came to the new ward when I was there with Frankie,’ said Sarah. ‘I thought when he appeared it was a bit odd; I’d told him I was seeing someone and I doubt if he really was just visiting Wilma. But he was great with Frankie.’

  ‘He would be, if he wanted to put you off your guard. Be careful, Sarah. So we have two dodgy nurses in Ward Five. But there doesn’t seem to be anything to connect either of them to Wilma’s money.’

  ‘Another dead end,’ said Sarah, dunking her biscuit in her coffee and trying to get her head round one of the nurses being a swindler and a murderer. Surely not… But Nick had been as nervous as Ralph Bailey, what was that about?

  ‘Not necessarily. Let’s think. The money disappeared the same day Wilma got it. She’d have shouted the place down if it had been swiped, so… she must have given it to someone.’

  ‘Or she posted it to someone,’ said Sarah, and Caitlyn sat up straight.

  ‘That’s an idea. She’d need a padded bag or something, but it’s not impossible – there’s a post box at the entrance to the cafeteria.’ She stopped and thought. ‘But even if she did, it was still to someone who swindled her into it, so it wouldn’t change anything.’

  Sarah scowled into her mug. ‘Posting it’s a bit far-fetched. I think either she had a visitor we don’t know about, or –’

  ‘Or she gave it to a member of staff. We always come back to that, don’t we? And that could be Nick, or Evan the bad-tempered – or several hundred other people who could wander in and out.’

  Sarah bit into another biscuit. ‘Nick and Evan would’ve had most opportunity to take the money.’

  ‘Or our swindler could be someone from outside, pretending to be a junior doctor from another department, or a secretary clutching an armful of files.’

  ‘Heck. And I suppose it’s not impossible that Wilma gave it to another patient. So what do we do now?’

  Caitlyn sat up straight, her eyes shining. ‘Sarah, I’ve just had the best idea ever. I’ll get onto some of my journalist contacts, not to mention the hospital contacts I have now I’m in the middle of this wastage project, and we’ll try to find out if anything like this has happened before.’

  Sarah banged the table. ‘Yes! It could have happened before, couldn’t it? Stealing money from old ladies… it could be the kind of scam someone could milk for ages. I’ll see what Jack can contribute when we’re out tomorrow night. Oh, and we’re having a memorial service for Petra on Friday at two. Mim’s hoping it’ll help Frankie, and it could be ages before the body’s released for a proper funeral. We’re going to the Royal Hotel for afternoon tea afterwards. Can you come?’

  ‘Of course. Poor Frankie. I’ll drive you all, shall I? And Sarah, maybe Frankie would like to help again with my redecorating? She enjoyed it yesterday. That might help her too.’

  ‘Great. The more she has to think about, the better. Talk to Mim about it.’ Sarah stood to leave.

  Caitlyn winked. ‘Good luck with your research with Jack tomorrow.’

  Sarah grinned at her. ‘Oh, it won’t all be hard work.’

  Netta Chisholm closed the front door behind her and switched on the hall light. Brr, it was chilly in here. People were always going on about global warming, but it didn’t stop the weather turning cold when you least expected it.

  She slid out of the camel hair jacket she’d found in the Oxfam shop last week and went through to the old-fashioned kitchen at the back of the house. They’d had a good evening in the church hall. It was years since she’d played snakes and ladders; such a good idea, this twice monthly games evening.

  And it was something else that got her out of the house. She had the Woman’s Guild every Monday, and the games night every other Wednesday. And the Wednesdays in between she and Ma Baker and Wilma sometimes had TV nights, or tea and gossip, three old women together. Except it looked like it would only be her and Ma Baker from now on. Poor old Wilma.

  The kettle boiled, and Netta carried her tea through to the living room and sank into the sofa, looking at the armchair where Wilma always sat. Growing old was tough. You never knew when a stroke or a heart attack was going to pounce and rob you of everything you held dear. And poor Petra, what a terrible business. All they could hope was the police would catch the killer, but there had been nothing about it on the news today. An old woman robbed and her granddaughter killed, and it was newsworthy for five minutes. What a sick world they lived in.

  Tears rose in Netta’s eyes and she blinked them back. There was no point blubbing over what couldn’t be changed – and some folk did care; she shouldn’t paint the world blacker than it was. Look at that nice young woman where poor Frankie was staying, kind enough to phone and tell everyone about Wilma’s new ward.

  Netta reached for the remote and switched on the late night news, pressing the mute button when she saw the commercials were still running. She frowned. After that phone call she’d realised there was someone else she’d heard Wilma talk about. It was a week or two ago when Wilma was still doing well. But who had it been? Netta sighed. She hadn’t been listening, that was the trouble. They were in the cafeteria and she’d had such a good piece of Madeira cake, just like her granny used to make. She’d been enjoying the treat and remembering the old days instead of paying attention to her friend. It was someone Wilma’d been speaking to on the ward – or was it in physio or OT? A man, anyway, and Wilma’d been all giggly about him. But instead of asking more, Netta had changed the subject to grandmothers and cake. Ah well. Maybe it would come back to her.

  When the news ended she lifted the evening paper. What a load of junk they printed nowadays – who cared what politicians did in their free time? She turned to the page listing Hatches, Matches and Dispatches. Not that she knew many of the Hatches and Matches these days, but she had come to the age where people she knew appeared in the Dispatches with depressing regularity.

  More tea
rs came to her eyes when she saw the notice – a memorial service for Petra, on Friday afternoon. She would go, for Wilma’s sake. Ma Baker would come too. Netta raised a hand to her face, blinking hard to keep the tears in. Dear Lord. A memorial for Petra, and the way things were looking it would be Wilma’s turn next.

  ‘Come on, Netta love,’ she said aloud, taking her tea cup back to the kitchen. ‘One day at a time, that’s all you need to do.’

  Slowly, she went through to the bedroom and started to prepare for bed. Tomorrow she would tell Ma Baker about the memorial, and the others at church who’d visited Wilma, and…

  Who was the man Wilma’d been talking about?

  Chapter Ten

  Thursday 13th July

  Rita’s car vanished round the corner, and Sarah fled upstairs. The visit had lasted longer than she’d expected – she’d have to hurry to be ready in time for her date. But how well Rita was looking – not a sign of the exhaustion you were supposed to have during the last weeks of pregnancy.

  The new silk tunic she’d bought in a summer sale shortly before leaving Zürich was hanging in her room, grey-toned blobs merging gradually into each other, and it was perfect with the new black linen trousers. Anticipation warmed its way through Sarah as she dressed. Her first date on British soil for years – how exciting was that?

  Mim and Frankie were poring over the menu from the Indian takeaway when Sarah went down to collect her phone, which was charging in the kitchen.

  ‘You look very nice,’ said Mim approvingly, and Sarah laughed.

  ‘Funny, isn’t it – at my age that’s a compliment, and at Frankie’s too, but in between there’s the age when your mum thinking you look ‘very nice’ is enough to have you change every garment you have on,’ she said, noticing how this remark touched Mim.

  It was true, though. She remembered almost nothing of her own parents, and Gran had been so much older – Mim was the mother figure in her life. It would be different for Frankie. At eleven, her memories of Petra were clear, good memories and bad ones too. Maybe they should talk about that sometime.

  The restaurant was in the town centre, not far from the canal. Sarah stepped inside, looking round curiously as Jack swung the door shut behind them. This place used to be a fish and chip shop, but you’d never know it now.

  ‘I wonder how long it took them to get the chip-fat smell out,’ she said, while they were waiting for the menus.

  For a moment Jack didn’t speak, an uncertain expression crossing his face. ‘Smells good enough now, doesn’t it?’ he said, sniffing as a waiter swept past with a basket of garlic bread.

  Jack was looking very smart, thought Sarah, in his dark grey suit and grey shirt and tie. They had co-ordinated their outfits rather well. The menus arrived, and she opened hers, aware of an awkward pause. Jack was different tonight. He was tugging at his collar, scanning the menu with a frown on his face. He looked nervous, which was rather sweet. Time for some serious confidence-boosting.

  ‘This is my kind of place, well done you for suggesting it!’ she said, smiling over the top of her menu. ‘I’m going to have the Mediterranean veggie anti-pasto, and Penne alla Milano for my main course. And a side salad.’

  Jack closed his menu, relief on his face. ‘That sounds perfect. I’ll have the same. I haven’t had much experience of Italian food, so I’m glad to have an expert to guide me.’

  Surprised and amused, Sarah picked up the wine list. It seemed unusual to not know much about Italian food. She ordered the meal, and a carafe of house red to go with it, and sat back.

  Jack seemed to be waiting for her to start the conversation, and Sarah cast round in her head for something to say. What had happened to the rapport they had before? Seeing him in the hospital in his role as porter had her heart beating faster every time. But now she couldn’t think what to say to the man, and he was obviously having problems too. And he’d grilled her so thoroughly about Switzerland at the farm, she could hardly start with that again. But this was bordering on embarrassing…

  ‘It’s Petra’s memorial tomorrow afternoon,’ she said wildly.

  It wasn’t a very cheerful topic for a dinner table, but Jack nodded. ‘Yes, I heard. Some of the nurses from Wilma’s rehab ward are going. I’m going too, if you don’t mind – for Wilma, really.’

  Sarah felt warmed. They were talking, and it wasn’t platitudes. ‘Thank you so much. It makes a difference to know that people care enough to come – for Frankie more than anything. Petra doesn’t seem to have had many real friends. Mim and I were worried we’d be the only ones there.’

  ‘Would you like a lift? I could pick you all up.’

  Sarah touched his hand quickly. ‘Thanks. A neighbour has already offered to drive us. I’ll see you there.’

  The starters arrived, and for the next few minutes the conversation was culinary. Sarah swallowed her last bite of aubergine and wiped her mouth. She caught Jack’s eye as he laid down his fork, and he smiled, but oh, Lord, there it was again, the awkward pause. Yet she fancied the pants off this guy – what on earth was wrong that they weren’t finding anything to say to each other?

  ‘Have you been to the new cinema complex yet?’ she said.

  ‘No… no, not yet.’ He was pulling at his collar again, and Sarah despaired. The hospital and the horror of Petra’s family seemed to be the only point of contact tonight. Oh, well, she’d wanted to ask him about Wilma anyway. But it wasn’t very romantic that it was their sole topic of conversation, was it?

  ‘We visited Wilma on Tuesday but she was pretty out of it. When did her confusion start, do you know?’

  Jack looked taken aback and Sarah cringed. Another horrible topic for the table, and he was obviously wondering how to answer her.

  ‘A couple of weeks ago, I think. She would get mixed up about whether it was morning or afternoon, and who had been to see her. That kind of thing.’ Jack took a sip of water. ‘Did you go to Italy while you lived in Zürich?’

  They were back in Central Europe. Jack would soon be able to write a book about her two years in Zürich. But at least they were talking about something interesting again. Sarah told him about trips to Tuscany and Rome, then asked about his favourite city.

  ‘Oh – um – the best holiday I ever had was in Edinburgh when I was a lad. You know, the castle – and we went to the Tattoo as well – and there are some very pretty villages round the coast not far away.’ He ducked back into his penne.

  Sarah stabbed at her own pasta, squinting across the table. Jack’s hands were shaking, and Sarah was suddenly touched. This was all nerves. He was such a private person, and this date with her was obviously important to him. She should make more effort here, after all, he was kind as well as good-looking, and they had the connection of a shared past, too – but with his shyness it was going to be down to her to make sure they got to know each other well enough to make this work. And she wanted it to work.

  She poured them both more wine and started to talk about Mim and Pop. The subject of growing up kept the conversation going for the rest of the meal, what with school and teenage years and career choices. But it was all so one-sided. No matter how she tried, Sarah couldn’t get Jack to open up, and she finished her coffee still not knowing what made him tick. This was harder than she’d thought; the man was cripplingly shy. Either that or he’d decided that going out with her was the worst idea he’d had all year.

  He ran her home, and she was glad to have the excuse of Petra’s memorial the next day not to ask him in for coffee.

  Mim was still up, watching a travel documentary which she switched off when Sarah came in. ‘Well?’ she demanded, and Sarah sank down beside her.

  ‘Oh, Mim, he’s a lovely bloke, but getting him to talk about himself is like pulling teeth. I don’t know if this is going anywhere. But he’s coming to the memorial tomorrow so you’ll be able to judge for yourself. And some nurses from Wilma’s old ward are coming too.’

  Mim heaved a sigh. ‘I’m glad f
or Frankie’s sake that people are making the effort to go.’

  Sarah went up to her room, wondering if, after tomorrow, she should go out with Jack again. He ticked a lot of boxes but they had to be able to talk to each other about more than Swiss cheese and James Bond. Maybe she should end it sooner rather than later.

  No, she thought, smoothing cream over her face and neck. She would give him another chance – they could do something next time – go to an exhibition, or walk round the botanic gardens, something that would provide an automatic topic of conversation. Jack might open up more easily when they weren’t staring at each other over the dinner table. It had to be worth a try. But it was time to get some sleep.

  Tomorrow wouldn’t be an easy day.

  He pressed the car key to activate the central lock, and turned to open his front door. For once the sight of the freshly-painted hallway didn’t warm his heart as he stepped inside. He tossed his jacket over the bannister and slouched into the living room. Home. He was safe here, but was he safe in the outside world too? Wilma wouldn’t say anything now because she couldn’t. Neither could Petra. Was there anyone else? The other old dears? Surely not.

  Sarah. How he wanted to sweep her into his arms and hold her close – it was the way she cared about people. Seeing her with her foster mother, and Petra’s daughter… it was an almost-painful pleasure. Mim Dunbar was crazy about Sarah; you could tell by the expression on her face. Humorous. Loving. So obviously happy just to be with Sarah. His mother had never looked at him like that. All her gaze did was suck the life from him; anything he did was only good if she could feel better about herself because of it. My son passed his exams, see what a good mother I am. Sarah didn’t have to cope with that; she could be her own sweet self with family. And the way she walked close to the girl, shoulders touching, ready to give out a hug… Lucky Frankie, being hugged by Sarah.