Ward Zero: The dead ward

by Linda Huber

  ‘A thoroughly nice young man,’ said Ma.

  Netta yawned. ‘Isn’t he!’

  She crossed the road and walked along to her own block. East, west… there was never a truer word said.

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday, 15th July

  Sarah stretched luxuriously, then rolled on her side and stared at her mobile on the bedside table. Quarter to nine. For the first time in ages she had slept through the night, and she could only hope this meant Frankie had too. The girl had been quiet all evening yesterday after their return from the memorial, but she seemed content, doing a jigsaw with Mim. It was a start, although real closure wouldn’t happen until the police investigation was concluded and the killer locked away.

  Her phone was flashing when she came out of the shower, and Sarah saw she’d missed a call from Caitlyn. She pressed to connect. ‘Hi, Caitlyn.’

  ‘Fancy a coffee? There’s something I need to run by you.’

  ‘Coffee sounds good – I have news too. Harry West phoned last night. Shall I come now?’

  Ten minutes later she was pulling out a chair in the kitchen next door.

  Caitlyn opened a packet of ginger nuts. ‘So what’s the latest from the police?’

  ‘Harry said they’d been talking to Ralph Bailey about Wilma’s signature, and how it was still being investigated. That made me think there must be some kind of uncertainty about it. But surely, as an ill woman her signature might be different. I’m a bit worried the police are clutching at straws here.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Caitlyn. ‘And it needn’t be clutching at straws. It could be the police are wondering if Ralph forged the signature.’

  ‘I thought about that too, but I’m sure an expert would be able to take Wilma’s condition into account. And Caitlyn, he’s such a wimp. I can’t picture him battering someone to death.’

  ‘People are capable of more than you think. Ralph could have a dark side we know nothing about. But if they haven’t arrested him it must mean there’s no proof.’

  ‘Or he’s innocent,’ said Sarah darkly.

  Caitlyn leaned across the table. ‘We might be closer to finding that out. Big news. Sarah, we were right. It has happened before.’

  Sarah jerked upright. ‘You mean someone else had their money swindled away?’

  ‘Yes. I spent yesterday evening on the phone to various journalist contacts – and I struck lucky. A couple of months ago an elderly lady in Manchester lent her son-in-law three thousand. She was in a Manchester hospital recovering from a hip replacement at the time, and apparently the son-in-law phoned and said he needed cash to pay for a surprise holiday for her daughter. She had the money brought to the ward, he sent someone to collect it, and a day or two later she went away to one of those convalescent places. Then this week when her bank statement came she got onto the son-in-law about why he hadn’t paid her back yet, and he didn’t know the first thing about it. He informed the police straightaway but they couldn’t do anything.’

  Sarah sat straighter. ‘But why didn’t this woman realise it wasn’t her son-in-law on the phone?’

  ‘She said the voice sounded like her son-in-law. And he mentioned the daughter’s name, and a couple of other little details that were correct – she didn’t suspect a thing. And you know what phones can do to voices… It’s a clever scam, isn’t it?’

  ‘Cruel, too. What are the police doing about it?’

  ‘Investigating with no success, my friend said.’

  Sarah drummed her fingers on the table. ‘Caitlyn, do you think we could go and see this woman? She might be able to tell us something we don’t know.’

  ‘I hoped you’d say that – I’ve got her address. Are you doing anything this afternoon?’

  ‘Looks like I’m going to Manchester, doesn’t it? Give me a minute and I’ll see if Mim and Frankie want to come too, and visit Rita. I’ll call you.’

  She rushed off. Mim was all in favour of a trip to Rita’s, and Sarah pulled up Caitlyn’s number, excitement making her fingers slide on the screen.

  ‘Caitlyn? We’re all going. We can drop Mim and Frankie off, visit Mrs Brady, and collect them again at Rita’s. Is it okay if we leave at half one? Rita said we’re to be back at hers for cream tea at four-ish.’

  ‘Brilliant. I’ll drive again, shall I? My car’s more comfortable for Mim.’

  ‘Okay, but for heaven’s sake don’t say that to her. She’s so impatient to get back to normal. Thanks, Caitlyn.’

  Early afternoon saw them unloading Mim and Frankie outside Rita’s suburban semi. Sarah moved into the front passenger seat and watched as Caitlyn set the satnav.

  ‘Does this lady know we’re coming? What’s her name, anyway?’

  ‘Glynis Brady. No, I thought we could take the chance. My journalist friend said she was very upset and angry about it all – I was afraid she might refuse to speak to us if I phoned and asked first.’

  Mrs Brady lived in a small terraced house west of the city centre. Caitlyn backed into a space twenty metres up the road, and Sarah undid her seat belt, frowning.

  ‘How shall we do this? You’ve got more experience interviewing people – do you want to take the lead?’

  ‘I think you should do that – you’re more involved than I am. Cross your fingers she’s at home.’

  Traffic buzzed along the busy road as they walked to Mrs Brady’s door and rang the bell. For a long moment there was nothing, and Sarah had begun to think they’d had a wasted journey when shuffling footsteps approached the door and it opened ten centimetres on a chain. Two chains, actually.

  Sarah launched into her speech. ‘Mrs Brady? I’m Sarah Martin and this is Caitlyn Mackie, and we’re wondering if you could help us. An elderly friend of ours was swindled out of a lot of money in hospital recently and I know you had a similar experience. Can we talk?’

  The woman behind the door stared at them without speaking. She could have been anywhere between seventy and eighty, and her eyes were sharp in a thin, lined face that looked as if it had forgotten how to smile.

  Sarah’s heart sank. ‘Please,’ she said quietly. ‘All we want is to find whoever tricked our friend.’

  Mrs Brady sighed, but she clicked the chains down and opened the door. Sarah smiled warmly as they entered, but the older woman’s face remained sombre. Walking with two sticks, Mrs Brady led the way into the living room. It was clean, and painfully neat, but the furnishings were old and the carpet was thin and worn.

  ‘How’s your hip?’ said Sarah, sitting on one end of the sofa while Caitlyn went to an armchair beside a dark, polished Welsh dresser.

  Mrs Brady lowered herself into the other end of the sofa. ‘The hip’s fine, but when I heard the news about my money I fell and twisted my ankle. What happened to your friend?’ The flatness in her voice made Sarah wince. Poor soul, the loss of her money must have been a huge blow.

  Sarah injected as much warmth and compassion as she could into her voice, and gave a brief account of Wilma’s money disappearing in the hospital. They had agreed not to mention Petra’s murder – that would be terrifying to a woman who was old and infirm and had already been robbed.

  Mrs Brady listened without interrupting, her face pale. ‘I don’t see how I can help. I want to forget it ever happened. It’s made me afraid to open the door in my own home in case he’s come back for more. I don’t have more.’

  Sarah didn’t know what to say. There was no reason Mrs Brady should cooperate with them; they’d have to earn her trust. Maybe some personal details would help. ‘Wilma’s only relative is an eleven-year-old girl, Frankie, and she’s been placed in foster care in my – family. Mrs Brady, do you have any idea who could have done this to you?’

  The older woman shook her head. ‘None at all. I told the police that. You don’t know it was the same person both times, do you?’

  ‘No, but I feel it must be.’ Sarah reached out and touched Mrs Brady’s arm. ‘Could you maybe think back again to when you we
re in hospital, think of all the people you met there, people who were strangers before. Who did you talk to about your family? Who could have learned your daughter’s name?’

  ‘I’m sure no-one did.’ Mrs Brady picked at her cardigan sleeve. She clearly wasn’t enjoying the conversation, and Sarah’s heart sank.

  ‘They wouldn’t have asked directly. It would be in the course of general chit-chat.’

  Mrs Brady shook her head. ‘I really can’t say. There were so many people. Nurses, doctors, medical students, physiotherapists, cleaners, lab people – I could go on and on. And you know how you do chat in hospitals…’

  Sarah exchanged a glance with Caitlyn. It was true. And they were talking about a bigger hospital than Brockburn General, with many more members of staff and patients. Sarah inched towards Mrs Brady. ‘Are you all right? It must have been a terrible shock. Is your family nearby?’

  ‘Elderlea Park near Birmingham. I don’t see them often. I’m fine here, there’s lots of things for me to do. Clubs and the like. Except now I’ve lost my savings.’

  A lump rose in Sarah’s throat, and she rummaged in her bag for pen and paper. This poor old thing. It didn’t sound as if whatever family she had were much support to her. ‘Mrs Brady, we’re going to do our best to find this person. If you think of anything that might help us, here’s my phone number. And if you’d like to phone to see how we’re getting on and have a chat about it, that’s fine too.’

  Mrs Brady took the note and placed it on the coffee table. ‘He had a deep voice on the phone,’ she said. ‘The same as Stuart. You know how some men sound deeper on the phone than they are.’

  Sarah stood up. ‘That could be very useful. Thank you so much for talking to us, Mrs Brady, and if you remember anything else, all you need to do is lift the phone. It’ll be no trouble to come back, will it, Caitlyn?’

  Tears welled up in the old woman’s eyes. ‘Thank you,’ was all she said, and two minutes later Sarah and Caitlyn were back in the car.

  Caitlyn fumbled the key into the ignition. ‘Oh, Sarah, that poor old thing. You were great with her. I think I’ll visit the police station, see if I can have a word with Harry West – as a journalist. And I’ll see what some of my other colleagues in the media are saying about this, too. You can try to find out how long all the nursey people have been working at Brockburn General.’

  Sarah nodded, staring back at the house. There was no sign of Mrs Brady. ‘Good idea. Drive on, Caitlyn. If she’s looking out we don’t want her to think we’re sitting here talking about her.’

  Caitlyn pulled the car into a U-turn and they drove back past Mrs Brady’s house, Sarah waving in case the old lady was watching. But as far as finding new information was concerned, the visit had been a dead loss.

  He leaned over his kitchen table, head clutched in both hands. This was dire. The pits. He’d hardly slept all night, and then he’d been rushed off his feet at work because two people were off sick. And all he’d been able to think about was Wilma. Terrible old woman, clacking away about Nurse this and Doctor that, all the stupid, stupid gossip – had any of it been about him?

  The answer was probably yes – the old girls were always so flattered when he stopped for a chat. He’d remind them of their youth, of course, flirting with the boys – and let’s face it, no-one else would be chatting them up nowadays. But the big question was, did Netta Chisholm know about the money? If Netta heard about the police looking for someone who’d been asking about Wilma’s family, well, there was nothing to stop her putting two and two together and coming up with a completely correct four. And even if she didn’t know about the money yet, the investigation was still ongoing. She would find out one of these days.

  It was a risk he couldn’t take. Stupid old woman or not, she was dangerous.

  The good thing was, now he knew about it, he could take action. But oh, Christ – he’d have to shut her up too – and he couldn’t do it again, he couldn’t. Batter the life out of someone.

  But if he didn’t…

  It was no use. He had to get rid of her, because if he didn’t he’d have no peace of mind. Why was this happening to him? All he’d wanted was a bit of extra cash. And a proper home. And to be safe. All he wanted was justice.

  Tears trickled down his cheeks, and he sniffed loudly and rubbed his sleeve over his face. If Netta was dangerous, other people could be too. Netta’s friends, for instance, the other oldies who visited Wilma.

  And – Sarah. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Sarah would know about Wilma’s missing money; of course she did. She was in the middle of it, wasn’t she, with the girl living in the same house and them all going to visit Wilma. But… there was no reason for Sarah to be suspicious of him, was there? As far as she was concerned, all he needed to do was sit tight.

  As for Netta Chisholm…

  He pushed his chair back and went out to the garden shed. Here was the packet of surgical gloves he’d swiped from the hospital. They were good for many things, only one of which was gardening. An old lady wouldn’t put up much of a fight, and of course she wouldn’t think twice about letting him into her house. He would wait for dark; it wouldn’t do for anyone to see him on the way over there.

  Adrenalin was fizzing through him; his tiredness was gone. He paced up and down between the kitchen and living room – impossible to sit still. He was going to kill Netta Chisholm. Stun her and batter her. He was a murderer.

  But no, don’t think like that. He was doing it to save his new life. There was no other way forward, but… maybe there was a better way to kill an old woman. His steps slowed as the idea formed in his mind. Yes, of course. He’d seen it in a film a few years ago. No need for a spade to beat Netta’s face in – this would look like an accident; the kind of accident an old lady might easily have at home.

  At nine o’clock he switched on the TV and watched the news. He had a big, modern, flat-screen TV now. It was nothing like Mum and Dad’s pathetic little affair, but he couldn’t enjoy his new possession tonight. He was going to kill again. Tears burned behind his eyelids. He’d only wanted happiness. And justice. He deserved to be happy.

  At quarter to ten he stood up. His dark raincoat would be best, and it might be an idea to take the Taser too. Car key… He was ready. His stomach cramped as he locked the front door behind him, but he ignored it. He only had to do the job, and get back home, and then everything would be all right again.

  It was dusk, and the rainclouds gathering to the north were on his side. His knuckles white on the steering wheel, he drove towards the town centre. A nervous pain began to squeeze relentlessly at his gut. It had been the same with Petra.

  This time it would be easier, though. He wouldn’t even have to dump the body.

  He retched as the memory of dead Petra flashed into his head. That lifeless head, flat as a bloody pancake, in a blood-soaked sack, lolling on his shoulder. The car veered towards the middle of the road, and a horn blared. Don’t think about it…

  Burnside Road. At last. It was busy, cars parked bumper to bumper along both sides of the street. He drove past Netta’s place and found a space opposite a restaurant further along. It looked as if a party was in progress there, with people coming and going and standing around the front door for a smoke. Dismay chilled through him before he realised he’d be able to hide in the crowd. He pulled on the surgical gloves, snapping the fingers to get them fitting right, then thrusting his hands into his pockets as soon as he left the car. On you go, quick, get this done. He wandered along the uneven pavement and ducked into Netta’s doorway.

  She was home; he could see a TV screen flickering through the crack in the curtains. It was pretty much of a dump, like Mum and Dad’s place had been. He pressed the doorbell firmly, his heart crashing beneath his ribs.

  A light went on in the hallway, then Netta Chisholm was standing there. ‘Well, hello, dearie. What a surprise. Come on in.’

  ‘I saw your light when I was driving past. Thought I’d ring the bell
and say hello.’

  ‘And very welcome you are too.’ Her stupid, smiling face danced in front of his eyes. ‘Let’s go and put the kettle on. Though you should be going out with your friends on a Saturday night, not drinking tea with an old woman.’

  She was walking in front of him, along the passageway, good, good, into the kitchen, yes, she was almost at the sink – now! He lunged forwards, bringing her down in a rugby tackle, using his body weight to smash her head into the cupboard door. A horrible, rattling breath rasped from her mouth and she was still.

  He scrambled to his feet and stared. She’d hit her head on the metal door handle, slid down the door and was lying in a crumpled heap, her head twisted to one side. Her forehead was a bloody gash; one eye was ripped open, the other dull and empty. Blood was seeping along the powdered old-woman wrinkles, criss-crossing in a terrible red and beige pattern. And the big hole where her eye should be... Oh God, oh Christ, that face. But she was dead. He didn’t even have to smother her. Had Petra’s flat dead face looked anything at all like this?

  For a moment he fought to control his gut. He had to finish this and get away, away as fast as he could from dead Netta Chisholm. How pathetic she was, lying there with her skirt hiked up over her knees. Old arthritic knees, like Mum’s.

  Deep breaths, come on. Now for the clever bit. He opened a couple of cupboards before he found what he was looking for. Here it was, beside the tea bags. Sugar. He tipped a small quantity into his left hand. All he had to do was scatter it round Netta’s feet and the scene was set. He worked quickly, rubbing the last pinch into the soles of her slippers. Sugar on a linoleum floor was slippery as ice, he knew that. He left the bowl out beside the kettle. Whoever found her would assume that Netta had spilled some sugar earlier on, then slipped on it. A tragic accident.

  He left the house and ran across the road before walking back in the direction of his car. From the outside the house looked no different. Netta’s lights were still on and the television was still flickering through the window.