by Linda Huber
His face swam before her eyes, but she couldn’t see the person behind the features. No feelings, no emotions. A mask. Jack. But she’d known him since she was a child…
Fool that you are, she told herself. You don’t know him at all. You even noticed that he always talked about things, not feelings. His conversation last night had been a mixture of travel brochure, twenty questions, and a town and country planning lesson. He’d probably prepared it the night before… Sarah sobbed into the gag. Help me, Mim, Mama, help me, someone. It was Jack. And he was going to come back for her. She had to be ready.
He was half-asleep on the sofa when the police arrived, and the bing-bong of the bell followed by thumps on the door a few moments later dragged him back to full consciousness. He’d expected them to come, of course, but oh God, he was so tired.
Two officers came in and sat on his elegant sofa, a sergeant and a younger man. They were very polite, or at least one of them was. The younger one was silent, frowning at Jack, his mouth tight. Jack sighed. Good cop, bad cop, the oldest trick in the book.
‘We need to know exactly what happened when you left Miss Martin last night,’ said the older man.
Choking back sobs, Jack told them about the long-anticipated meal out, and the Tia Maria coffee he’d made afterwards. Then on the way back to Sarah’s they’d hit the traffic disruption…
Both officers nodded at this, and Jack blessed the burst water pipe and blocked streets. Sarah had insisted on getting the bus back – it was only a couple of stops – so he let her out in the High Street. The last he saw of her she was walking towards the bus stop.
‘You didn’t think to wait with her until the bus arrived?’ The sergeant raised his eyebrows.
Jack wrung his hands. ‘She’s independent like that. It was due any minute, and she insisted I went home – she knew I was on early duty in the morning.’
‘It’s a pity you didn’t insist too – on driving her home,’ said the man, and Jack winced at his tone.
‘Like I said – when she gets an idea in her head you can’t go against it,’ said Jack, allowing himself to sob. And it was a real sob and real anguish. He’d wanted none of this.
The cops asked a lot more questions – what had they talked about, how well had they known each other, who else was on the High Street, and on and on and on – Jack’s head was buzzing with all their stupid, stupid questions. But in the end the officers got up to leave.
‘There’ll be more questions later,’ said the older man. ‘You’ll need to come down to the station to make a statement, unless Miss Martin turns up very soon. We’ll let you know.’
Jack watched at the window as the panda car drove off, then he collapsed back on the sofa. Thank God, and actually, that had gone rather well. Mim Dunbar would confirm Sarah was independent, and he was pretty sure he’d been convincing about stopping in the High Street. Telling them about the bus stop with the people waiting and how one of them had been sick was a nice little touch. Something they could check out.
Bloody police.
Glynis Brady gazed at the list in front of her, her pen hovering in the air. She’d thought and thought while she was doing the housework this morning, but no-one that wasn’t on this first list was coming to mind. Days spent in a hospital tended to merge into each other. But thinking like that wouldn’t help Sarah Martin. This list had ended up much longer than she’d ever have thought possible, so maybe a new one would too. She’d do what Caitlyn Mackie suggested and make a separate page for every day she’d spent in hospital. She got up for more paper.
The day of the operation might be a good place to start. That was a Thursday. They’d taken her upstairs to the operating theatre at about ten; she was woozy already from the pre-med they’d given her. But she’d put everyone she talked to there on the first list… Oh no, she hadn’t – the anaesthetist, she’d forgotten all about him. Mind you, she’d only seen him twice and all they talked about was operations and medication. But it just went to show that it was worthwhile making this new list. Now, in the operating theatre she hadn’t been talking to anyone, and when it was over she’d been taken to the recovery room. She didn’t remember much about that because she’d still been pretty much out of it, but she’d have spoken to people there, and they weren’t on the first list either. She wrote ‘recovery room staff’ on the list under the anaesthetist and carried on. Back at the ward… everyone there was on the other list. Stuart and Ellen had visited that evening, but she’d been feeling pretty tired and sore.
Could someone have heard Stuart and Ellen talking, and got Ellen’s name from that? Or – wasn’t Ellen’s name in her hospital notes as next of kin? So anyone with access to the notes could have read that.
Glynis made a note on the new list to remind her to talk to Caitlyn Mackie about it, and paused. Right. That was the operation day. What had she done the day before, on the Wednesday? The operation was originally scheduled for Wednesday, but there’d been a problem with the operating table in one of the theatres and a couple of unlucky patients, including her, were changed to Thursday’s list. So on Wednesday she’d spent the morning in the ward, not eating or drinking and thinking she would have her operation in the afternoon. Then the operating table had broken, and they’d given her lunch at two o’clock, and she’d gone to sit in the day room. A couple of other patients were there with their visitors, and they’d all commiserated with Glynis. More new people for the list. This was an excellent idea. She couldn’t be sure she hadn’t talked about Stuart and Ellen to these people. And then – then they had left her alone in the room, or not quite alone, because two old ladies were watching television at the other end, repeats of Keeping Up Appearances. She’d sat there, half-watching and leafing through a magazine, and… A man had come in…
A cold shiver ran down Glynis’s back as she thought about the man. She hadn’t remembered anything about him when she’d made the other list. He was young, late twenties, early thirties at a guess. He came into the room and smiled at her.
‘I’m looking for my Aunt Violet,’ he’d said, attractive green eyes twinkling at Glynis. ‘Mrs Cameron. Do you know where she is?’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve only been here since yesterday.’
He perched on a nearby chair. ‘You look as if you could do with a visitor too.’
They’d chatted for a couple of minutes, the kind of friendly chat people have in hospitals, and… she’d told him her name and about the postponed operation, and – yes, about Stuart and Ellen who wouldn’t come in till the next evening now because it was a bit of a trail from their home in Elderlea Park… She had definitely talked about her family with this man. Could it be…
She would sit here for another few minutes and think some more, complete the list as well as she could. Maybe there were other people she’d talked to. In fact there were, other people’s visitors had chatted to her too. But not alone, like this man had. Dear Lord.
She sat thinking and writing until half past eleven, then considered her efforts. She had seven new people, plus the recovery room staff and other people’s visitors. She should phone Caitlyn Mackie. Except she seemed to have lost her phone number… but here was Sarah’s. It was a landline, but surely there would be someone there.
Ignoring her sticks, Glynis stood up and walked to the phone. Had she spoken to a murderer that day?
Chapter Eighteen
Friday, 21st July – afternoon
Jack paused in his pacing between the kitchen and living room, and dropped onto the sofa. It was no use. He couldn’t hang around waiting for the phone to ring. Mim Dunbar would hardly call to tell him that Sarah hadn’t been found. She must really resent him; she’d be thinking if he’d been a bit more careful, Sarah would still be fine – which was correct, but not in the way she’d mean it.
Sweat broke out on his forehead when he thought of Sarah in her cellar room. Were her bonds tight enough to keep her still? His imagination was running riot here… Sarah
, waiting to die. And Petra’s flat face, and Netta’s bloody one, and oh, if only he’d never started this. He was as trapped as Sarah was. Suppose she managed to attract attention? But that was idiotic – she was in one of the oldest buildings in the hospital, right up at the far end of the complex, and the cellar room was at the back of the building. She was behind two doors which he had locked personally, and nobody ever went down there. Nobody would hear her if she screamed, and anyway, she was gagged. But…
Jack thumped the arm of the sofa. It was no use. He’d have no peace of mind until he’d seen her again, dying comfortably on her mattress.
He drove the few miles to the hospital automatically. A curse on old Wilma and her wretched family; this was all their fault. The main hospital thoroughfare was busier than usual and he pondered where to park. He was supposed to be off duty and out of his mind with worry, but if anyone saw the car he could say he’d left his phone. There were spaces in the rehab car park, and he pulled up beside a black van and switched the engine off.
This was actually a pretty good time to come and be unnoticed. Patients’ lunches were served about half past eleven so the nurses were busy helping people eat, and the rest of the staff would be having lunch too or doing paperwork. No-one would be watching who was going in and out of the psycho-geriatric building.
Jack pulled his jacket round him, stepped confidently through the psycho-geri front doorway, hurried round the far corner to the stairs and ran down. There! No-one had seen him; no-one had heard him. He was safe in the dark.
He pulled out his chain with master keys for the entire hospital – one of the boons of being a porter, though of course he was supposed to hang it in the office safe when he wasn’t working – and unlocked the first cellar door.
In you go, Jack, close the door behind you; it’s a nice soundproof one. This building had been built to withstand air raids and act as a bomb shelter. Had they really brought the patients down here during the war? Jack shivered. Imagine being stuck in a dark cellar for hours on end with a crowd of mad geriatrics, listening to bombs going off.
He opened the second door and stepped into Sarah’s room, pulling the torch from his pocket, swinging it over the pile of mattresses, and hell… His heart thundered into his throat as something hard struck him on the side of his head. He swirled round, arms up to defend himself. Sarah was standing just out of reach, a long metal pole in her hands, staring at him with an indescribable expression on her face. She was nowhere near dying.
He leapt forwards and grabbed the pole, twisting it while she fought against him, kicking out as well as shoving with the pole. But he was stronger and her wrists were still bound. It only took a moment to wrest the pole from her grasp and fling it to the side. The clang of metal on metal rang round the cellar room as the pole slithered over a bed frame. Jack seized Sarah’s wrists with one hand and squeezed, and her legs buckled. He had won. He yanked her back to the pile of mattresses and shoved her down again. Her eyes, he had to cover her eyes, they were looking at him so terribly. How had she managed to free herself?
Fear and fury alike gripped him. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Where’s the sack?’ he hissed, and saw her flinch. Aha, she thought he was going to kill her right here and now. Well, she was lucky he wasn’t. He pushed her flat and she struggled anew, but he won in moments.
‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you?’ He spat the words out, he was so angry. Holding her head down on the mattress he played the torch round the room while she tried to kick towards him. That window – hadn’t it been blocked up before? The beam of light revealed the cords on the floor by the window and oh, clever Sarah, she’d made a flag and pushed it outside. Bloody poles… He seized her shoulders and shook, and she moaned, jerking away from him. Beside himself, he slapped her cheek as hard as he could then strode to the window.
‘Aha. What a good idea,’ he sneered, sliding the flag back inside and detaching the sack. ‘But you’re not so clever really, are you? You had no idea about anything, the whole time. You didn’t even notice at the restaurant when I talked about Glynis. So you can lie back down and do as you’re told.’
Despite his anger it hurt, speaking to Sarah like that. Ignoring the guilt, Jack strode back to where she was struggling into an upright position, and hauled the sack back over her head, avoiding her feet as she kicked out again. He sat on her legs while he retied her feet, as tightly as he could this time. When he had finished she was still, and he could tell by her breathing she was terrified. He hesitated. Could he kill her now? He was angry enough; he was furious that everything was going so bloody wrong and it wasn’t his fault. A few good swipes with that pole would end it all for Sarah.
But no, he couldn’t do it. Not Mrs Jack Morrison. He would have to leave her here to die when she was good and ready.
He should restrain her a little better, though, just in case. Jack pulled a mattress from the stack in the corner and dumped it on top of her body, hearing her breath catch as it landed on her chest. They were dusty old things, these mattresses. He stared – he couldn’t see her at all now. She wouldn’t get up again, but to be safe he added a further mattress.
Right. Everything would be okay. Jack went back to the window and replaced the boxes she’d managed to push down.
He didn’t speak on his way out, but he looked back from the doorway, then clicked his torch off. Everything was dark again, pitch black and quiet for Sarah’s death. Sarah… but don’t think about it anymore. She would die quietly, peacefully. It might be years before they found her.
Relief washed through Jack as he locked the doors behind him and ran back upstairs towards the main door – but shit, no – here was Evan from Wilma’s rehab ward, and there was no place to hide.
‘Hey, Jack. I’m being porter today,’ said Evan, slowing down as they approached each other. He was carrying a small cardboard box.
‘Oh?’ managed Jack, aware that his voice was higher than usual. Evan couldn’t have heard that Sarah was missing, so if he kept things brief and normal there would be no reason for the nurse to wonder about meeting him.
‘Mrs Munro was transferred here this morning and I forgot to pack the stuff in her locker drawer,’ said Evan, stamping on towards the lift. ‘So I’m playing delivery man in my damned lunch hour. See you.’
Back in his car, Jack took a moment to recover. That had very nearly been disastrous. If Evan had been five seconds earlier, he’d have seen Jack coming up from the cellar, and that might have been unusual enough to stick in the nurse’s mind.
Fortunately, it had all ended well. But visiting Sarah was too dangerous. Tears burned in his eyes. He would never see her again.
‘Yes, she’s here… It’s Mrs Brady.’
Mim held out the phone and Caitlyn took it, her hand shaking. Mrs Brady wouldn’t call unless she’d found something.
‘Have you remembered anything?’ Her voice came out a breathless whisper. It was unendurable, watching time tick by, knowing that at the very best Sarah was in terrible danger, and at worst already dead.
Mrs Brady sounded breathless too. ‘I think I have. There are a couple of hospital people I’d forgotten about, and some visitors, and there was one man in particular who spoke to me when I was alone. He said he was looking for his aunt and we spoke for a few minutes. He definitely asked me about my family and I told him about Stuart and Ellen.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘He did say but I can’t remember. Steve, I think, or John. An ordinary name. Should I call the police?’
‘Let me tell our Sergeant West, and we’ll leave him to organise things. I’ll call you later.’ Caitlyn ended the call and turned to Mim and Frankie.
‘She’s remembered talking to a man.’ At last, at last, it was something positive. Caitlyn punched out Harry West’s number.
‘Glynis Brady in Manchester called. She remembers talking about her family to a strange man while she was in hospital,’ she said baldly, and heard Harry inhale
sharply.
‘I’ll get my colleagues there to help her make an e-fit image of him. Bring Frankie to the station here in half an hour, and we’ll see if she can identify it.’
Caitlyn relayed this to Mim, and saw hope replace the calm despair on the older woman’s face.
Frankie pulled at Mim’s arm. ‘Is this the man who killed my mum?’
‘I don’t know, but Frankie, we’ll manage this,’ said Mim, stroking the child’s hair. ‘Oh Caitlyn, if only it isn’t a false alarm. If we know who’s taken Sarah, that’s a big step towards getting her back, isn’t it?’
All Caitlyn could do was nod dumbly. Who was she to destroy what might be the last hope of getting Sarah back? But even if Frankie did recognise the picture, even if she took one look and said, ‘That’s John X,’ – there was still no guarantee they would find Sarah, or that she was still alive.
‘I’ll lock up next door,’ she said, and escaped the unbearable brightness in Mim’s eyes.
E-fit pictures weren’t always accurate, she knew that from her work. Would they be able to take one look at this one and know who it was?
A pain flashed through her head then vanished, leaving light in its place.
John X. No. Jack. It was Jack. It couldn’t be, yet it must be. It all fitted. Jack had access to Wilma in the hospital. Jack the porter could easily have offered Petra a lift to the admin building, and she wouldn’t have thought twice about accepting. Jack had spoken to Netta at the funeral… and he’d been the last person to see Sarah. Hands trembling, Caitlyn lifted her phone.
