Wrong Place

by Michelle Davies

  ‘Volunteering,’ said Bea excitedly. ‘I want to know about becoming a volunteer.’

  The woman, who was older than Bea’s mum, raised her head to look at her, then swivelled her chair round on its casters to see what she was pointing at. When she wheeled round again her expression was curiously triumphant.

  ‘You can’t do that. You’re too young,’ she said.

  ‘Is there an age limit?’

  ‘Yep. Seventeen. Can’t have anyone younger. Rules and regulations.’ The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why aren’t you at school?’

  To Bea’s relief, the middle-aged man also behind the desk butted in. He gave Bea a little wink and a smile, the latter of which she returned.

  ‘Come on, Pamela, let’s not put her off from helping out. It’s not often we get young ones coming forward. Yes, there is an age limit,’ he said to Bea, ‘but if you’re sixteen you can get your parents to give written permission for you to volunteer.’

  ‘You’ll still need ID though,’ his colleague chipped in.

  ‘Pamela, why don’t you see to this gentleman,’ said the man. His voice was calm but it did nothing to pacify Pamela, who tut-tutted as she snapped her attention to the person in the queue behind Bea.

  ‘The volunteer scheme is run by a service called PALS. Their office is on the second floor,’ the man told Bea. ‘I can give you directions, if you’re sure you want to sign up?’

  He gave Bea such an intense stare that she almost took a step back. Why would he doubt her?

  ‘I am sure,’ she said, nodding.

  ‘Well, good for you. If only more young people were as community-minded,’ he said, smiling. ‘Here, this is the way.’

  Using a bit of space on a leaflet offering advice on depression, he drew Bea a rough map.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bea, taking it from him.

  ‘I hope we see you here again,’ he said with a smile.

  Pamela looked less convinced.

  The woman manning the PALS office was as nice as the man on the information desk and apologized to Bea when she said they couldn’t lower the age limit under any circumstances.

  ‘If you were sixteen your parents could vouch for you,’ she explained, ‘but I’m guessing you’re a bit younger than that?’

  For a moment Bea considered lying. She did have some fake ID that one of Sean’s mates had procured for her so she could go to the pub with them. But using it might be more trouble than it was worth. What if she got found out and it led the authorities back to Sean?

  ‘I’m fourteen,’ she admitted.

  The lady gave her a sympathetic look. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid you’ll have to come back in a couple of years if you want to volunteer. But you could help us through fundraising until then.’

  Bea brightened. ‘Would that get me onto the wards?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said the woman with a laugh. ‘I meant by doing a sponsored silence or a cake sale.’

  Dejected, Bea thanked the woman for her help then left the office and meandered her way back down the long corridors towards the lifts. She was almost there when a man in an orderly’s uniform stopped her and asked if she was lost. He was quite elderly and his eyes appeared unfocused. Bea wasn’t sure if he was even looking at her.

  ‘I can help you if you want,’ said the man. He spoke slowly and over-enunciated his words.

  ‘That’s kind of you, but I’m okay,’ she said.

  ‘Visiting someone, are you?’

  Bea was suddenly inspired.

  ‘Actually, I am a bit lost. I’m looking for my, um, nan’s friend. She came to hospital yesterday and her name is Sadie. My nan is called, um . . .’ she groped for the name her mum had mentioned over breakfast. ‘Sheila, that’s my nan’s name. Her sister, Audrey, lives next door to Sadie . . .’

  ‘So Audrey’s your great-aunt?’

  Bea paused for a moment. The man wasn’t as slow as he appeared.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. My great-aunt’s neighbour is a woman called Sadie and she got burgled and was badly hurt. She came in yesterday and I thought I’d pop in to see her but I’m not sure where she is.’

  ‘If it’s serious, she’ll be round the corner, in the High Dependency Unit.’

  ‘I think that’s where she’ll be,’ said Bea, feeling wretched. The Echo report had made it sound like Sadie was in a very serious condition.

  ‘Right. Follow me, young lady.’

  Bea followed the man until they reached a set of double doors. He keyed a code into the panel on the wall and the doors scraped against the linoleum floor as they opened.

  ‘Through here,’ he said.

  The orderly marched Bea up the corridor to a desk behind which sat two nurses. Both smiled as they approached.

  ‘Hello, Trevor,’ said one of them.

  ‘This young lady wants to visit someone.’

  The nurse who’d said hello glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘There’s still five minutes until morning visiting begins. Who are you here to see?’

  Bea’s throat constricted and she couldn’t speak.

  ‘The woman brought in after the burglary yesterday, Sadie,’ Trevor said for her.

  ‘You’ll need to sign in,’ said the nurse, pushing a visitors’ book across the top of the desk towards Bea. ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘She knows her very well. Her nan Sheila is best friends with the patient.’

  Bea couldn’t bring herself to correct Trevor’s inaccuracy. She was in far too deep to start telling the truth now.

  ‘She’s still unconscious,’ said the nurse. ‘But she’s doing better. She’s in the fourth room down on the left.’

  Bea nodded as she signed the visitors’ book, deliberately scrawling her name so it was virtually indecipherable.

  ‘Mrs Cardle’s granddaughter should be here soon as well.’

  Bea was seized by panic. It hadn’t occurred to her that the woman might have other visitors, ones who would undoubtedly ask questions about why she was there.

  ‘I won’t stay long,’ she mumbled. ‘Got to get to school.’

  Trevor gave a little bow. ‘If that’s all, I best be getting on.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bea. She tried to smile but her fear made it appear more like a grimace.

  ‘If you come back for elevenses, Trevor, we’ll let you have the first Hobnob,’ said the nurse.

  He beamed, did another little bow, then left.

  ‘So it’s fourth room down?’ Bea confirmed.

  ‘Yes, on the left. Come and see us if you need anything.’

  Bea’s legs turned to jelly as she made her way down the corridor. There was a voice in her head screaming at her to turn round and run as fast as she could out of the hospital but she kept going, mindful that the nurses at the desk might be watching her and wondering why she didn’t get a move on.

  At the entrance to Sadie’s room she faltered. What would Sean say if he could see her now, see what she was about to do? She was about to risk them being caught and all because she felt the need to say sorry to a woman she didn’t even know. But it was a need she couldn’t ignore. It was their fault that poor woman was lying there because someone had copied them.

  She inched slowly into the room, terrified of what state she might find Sadie in. But to her relief there were no injuries to the woman’s face and if it hadn’t been for the bandage round her head, Bea would’ve assumed she was simply asleep.

  She forced herself to move closer to the bed. She had to be quick.

  ‘Hello. I’m . . . well, it doesn’t really matter what my name is. You don’t know me. We’ve never met until now.’

  Bea stopped for a second. In the deathly quiet room, her voice sounded alien to her, as though someone else was speaking. She swallowed hard.

  ‘I wanted to say I’m sorry you’re in here. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen and, well, I hope you get better soon.’

  A tear slid down her cheek. What a lame apology, she scolded herself. As if that could m
ake up for what had happened.

  ‘I wish I could find out who did this to you,’ she said mournfully. ‘Then you’d know it wasn’t us—’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said a voice behind her. ‘It’s you.’

  23

  Closing the front door behind Alex, Della made a mental note to ask the police how long she had to leave it before she could clean the house. The officer in charge of the case, DS Renshaw, hadn’t answered her call that morning but she was hoping she might see her at the hospital when she visited Sadie and could ask her then. Morning visiting hours started at ten so Della placed a call to a local cab firm to collect her at 9.40 a.m. to take her there.

  She went into the small dining room, which could only be accessed through the kitchen. Here, the evidence of the police investigation was less pronounced: nothing had been disturbed during the break-in and it looked as though the intruders hadn’t ventured into the room at all, so the fingerprint powder residue was minimal.

  The bureau where Sadie kept her personal papers was still locked and Della was cross with herself for entertaining the thought that Helen might’ve come back for its contents. In the cold light of day she knew her mother turning up was the last thing she needed when she already had so much to deal with; she’d managed this long without Helen and had no use for her now.

  She was about to shut the dining-room door when a piece of paper sticking out from beneath the bureau caught her eye. She stooped down to pick it up and was surprised to see it was an old Kodak photograph she’d seen many times before, of Sadie and Eric on their honeymoon in Jersey. The last time she’d seen the picture was when she’d been flicking through one of Sadie’s photo albums; the white cardboard triangles that had anchored it to the page still covered the corners now, like they’d been ripped off when it was removed.

  Della went to leave the photo on the table to put away later when she remembered she needed to find a photograph of Sadie wearing her wedding and engagement rings to give to Maggie for the purposes of identification. The honeymoon picture wouldn’t do: Sadie’s hands were hidden from view in it.

  Sadie kept her photo albums – six altogether – on a shelf within the tall Ercol cabinet set against the far wall of the dining room. The albums were kept in date order but as Della reached for the one the honeymoon picture was usually kept in, she saw they were muddled up. She pulled out the first album in the row then gave a start as dozens of loose photographs fluttered from between its pages to the floor – some with the triangle corners intact, some without. She flipped through the album to discover every picture had been pulled out of position. It was the same for the next album, and the next.

  As she reached the last one and slowly opened the pages expecting more loose pictures to tumble out, her puzzlement turned to shock. There were no photos inside at all, not even unsecured ones. She leafed through the stiff cardboard pages from beginning to end and back again but there wasn’t a single image trapped within them.

  She checked the inside flap and saw Sadie’s handwriting: ‘Della, b. December 11, 1995’. She gasped. This was her album, the one in which her grandmother had captured her every milestone from babyhood to teens.

  Every picture was missing.

  24

  ‘What now, sir?’ asked Maggie. They were back on the ground floor, Umpire nursing a second cup of coffee. Sitting side by side on plastic chairs screwed into the concrete floor in the quietest part of the reception area, she’d spent the last ten minutes repeating Eleanor’s statement in full.

  Her question went unanswered as Umpire stared at her intently. Yet she knew he wasn’t looking at her: it was what he did when he was thinking. Once, over dinner, she’d teased him that when he went into staring mode it was like he was a cyborg in a Terminator film with a computer screen on the inside of his eyeballs to call up data, and he’d laughed and said he would love someone to invent contact lenses that could do that, because it would make his job easier. They’d then spent the rest of the evening coming up with madcap inventions that could help policing, each one sillier than the last.

  The memory of that night stung now. They’d dined at Durazzo, an Italian restaurant in Mansell that served calzone the size of pillows and the best tiramisu Maggie had ever tasted. It was where they had been due to eat at again that evening.

  Umpire suddenly snapped to attention.

  ‘You need to write the statement up. If the husband regains consciousness, he’ll be looking at an attempted murder charge. If he doesn’t survive, the investigation closes but there will be an inquest into his death, so you won’t be excused as Mrs Bramwell’s FLO until after then.’ He took a final swig of coffee. ‘Right, I’m off.’ He got to his feet and started looking around for a bin in which to deposit his empty take-out cup.

  The abruptness of his farewell floored her. Was that it? She almost grabbed his arm to stop him but instead spoke forcefully.

  ‘We still have things to discuss . . . sir.’

  He appraised her coolly.

  ‘Such as?’

  She almost said us, but common sense and self-preservation prevailed.

  ‘Mrs Bramwell wants some of her own things from her house. Who do I speak to about getting them sent down? Unless . . .’ she hesitated, ‘you want me to get them personally?’

  ‘You don’t need to travel up to Trenton.’

  There was a firmness to his voice that indicated his decree was non-negotiable and made Maggie flinch. He was right, of course: at this stage, with Eleanor in hospital, there was no need for Maggie to attend the crime scene. But surely he must be aware that she could take his comment another way – that there was no need for her to go to Trenton because it was where he lived and whatever it was that existed between them no longer did? Had her drunken rant in the pub really been that bad?

  ‘Send the list to Trenton CID to sort out,’ he added. ‘I want Mrs Bramwell’s statement to me by mid-afternoon.’

  Maggie swallowed her dismay and got to her feet. Although above average height at five feet eight, she still felt dwarfed by Umpire, who was seven inches taller. Standing close to him made her uncomfortable and she took a step back.

  He turned as if to go, but something drew him back and he rubbed his chin roughly, something else he did when he was ruminating. Maggie hated that she knew his habits and tics so well now.

  ‘Look, the point you raised about him suddenly stopping when he was breaking down the bathroom door is a good one and I think you’re right to have doubts about Eleanor’s account,’ he said, his voice softer than it had been at any point during their conversations that morning. ‘While you were interviewing her, I had a chat with her consultant and he remarked how lucky she was that her wounds are relatively shallow. A couple of them barely punctured her skin. But if her husband attacked her as frenziedly as she says he did, why aren’t they much deeper?’

  ‘She said he stabbed her through their duvet when the attack started and apparently it’s very thick. Maybe that’s why.’

  ‘Perhaps. The knife that went into her shoulder was up to the hilt, but then again the blade was only four centimetres long. Must be the smallest type of paring knife you can buy for a kitchen. Why not use a carving knife for maximum injury?’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe because he could hide it better?’

  ‘But he burst into the bedroom. There was no ambush that would have required him to conceal it.’

  ‘I’ll bring it up with Mrs Bramwell again and let you know what she says.’

  ‘Fine.’

  They stood facing each other for a moment and Maggie was heartened to see he appeared as hesitant to leave as she did. He made a show of checking his watch then muttered something about having to get back, but didn’t shift from the spot.

  ‘I’m really sorry for what I said on Monday night Will,’ she said quietly.

  He stared at her for a moment then shook his head. His voice became brittle again.

  ‘Someone will be in touch with any updates, DC Neville.�
��

  It wasn’t the worse brush-off Maggie had ever experienced but it was up there on the scale of most painful. If she couldn’t say what was really on her mind, she could at least have the last unspoken word.

  With a curt nod, she walked away first.

  25

  The voice made Bea jump. She spun round to see a woman in a hospital gown standing in the doorway, her hand clutching a stand from which hung a plastic bag half filled with clear liquid. The patient’s skin was pale, her hair limp around her face. She stared at Bea for a second then smiled.

  ‘Silly me, I thought you were her granddaughter.’ The woman’s eyes flickered towards Sadie on the bed. ‘Della was here all day yesterday, didn’t leave her bedside.’ She turned back to Bea. ‘It’s uncanny how alike you are. You could be sisters.’

  Bea was unsettled by the way the woman peered at her and her heart pounded with fear.

  ‘Do you know the family?’ asked the woman, moving slowly into the ward. Her knuckles were white where she grasped the stand, her only means of support. A tube twisted and looped from the bag into the crook of her elbow.

  Bea panicked. She had to get out of there, fast. How long would it be before Sadie’s granddaughter turned up and started asking questions too?

  She leapt from her chair and shoved past the woman, who yelped in protest, and scurried to the exit. As she flew past the nurses’ station, one of them yelled after her, ‘Hey, you’re supposed to sign out!’

  Trembling from head to foot, Bea prayed the lift would hurry up and arrive. She kept shooting glances at the doors into HDU, fearful a nurse was going to suddenly appear and drag her back inside to explain herself. When the lift arrived she shot inside before the doors had fully opened and squeezed into the far corner, her back against the wall. An elderly couple shuffled in after her but Bea kept her head down, unable to bring herself to look at them.

  It was warm inside the lift and Bea clawed at the scarf round her neck, the sensation that it was choking her growing by the second. By the time she reached the ground floor, she was gasping for air and half ran, half staggered to the main door, ignoring the quizzical stares of people watching her leave.