‘Feeling fed up?’ her mother guessed shrewdly. ‘A bit tart, those plums, not quite ripe enough for me.’ But she took another one and began peeling that. She loved fruit, perhaps she was so healthy because she ate well, lots of fruit and salad and vegetables. She grew a good deal of what she ate, saving money, too. She had green fingers; she could persuade the most difficult plants to grow for her.
‘I don’t feel too good.’ Miranda admitted.
‘I don’t suppose you do.’ Dorothy eyed her thoughtfully. ‘You don’t look good, either. Are they looking after you well?’
‘The nurses are very kind.’
‘I hate hospitals, myself. If you’re ill, they make you worse. If you aren’t, you soon catch something with all these germs buzzing around. As soon as the doctors allow you to leave here you must come home with me. You need some fresh air and good country living.’
‘I’d like that, thanks, Mum,’ she said gratefully. It would be wonderful to get away from London. Especially at the moment.
Her mother finished her second plum and wiped her fingers on another paper hankerchief. ‘I suppose you’ve let your firm know you’re in hospital?’
‘I left there. I haven’t got another job yet.’ Miranda didn’t want to explain the whole story to her mother, she didn’t feel well enough to talk about Sean and the girl, and what she had heard and seen.
Dorothy Knox looked surprised. ‘I thought you liked working there.’
‘I did, once. It’s too complicated to explain, I’ll tell you all about it later. I’m not up to talking much just now.’
Her mother stayed another ten minutes, then, seeing Miranda’s eyes half-closed, her body limp, left, kissing her.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow. Anything I can bring you?’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks, Mum.’
‘Well, eat some fruit – it will do you more good than any of the medication they’re giving you in here. You’re so pale, I worry about you. You need lots of vitamins and anti-oxidants.’
When she had gone, Miranda slid into sleep and the old dream about Tom and the sea and the angel of death. She had endured it so often, yet it was always as frightening; her own emotions as powerful as the rush and violence of the dark green waters.
She woke up with a start to find the ward in silence. All the visitors had gone; the other women lay in their beds, staring at her in a strange way.
The woman next to her, Joan Patterson, leaned over and said, ‘Having a nightmare, weren’t you, dear?’ She had made up carefully before visiting time; the yellow foundation and bright red lipstick looked bizarre on a woman lying in bed, in a hospital-issue nightdress, made her clownish, ridiculous, but her face was serious and concerned.
‘What?’
‘You were making pretty scary noises. Sounded as if you were crying in your sleep.’
Desperately embarrassed, Miranda flushed, knowing all the other women were listening, but somehow forcing a smile. ‘I must have been dreaming about hospital food.’
Mrs Patterson laughed obligingly. ‘Ugh . . . don’t even talk about it! I hope to God we don’t have that stew again, it was disgusting. I’d swear it was dog meat.’
The others all joined in, then, with comments of their own about the food they were given, making it possible for Miranda to shut her eyes again. She would give anything to go home soon, she hated living in public, cheek by jowl with strangers, who could watch her when she was in pain or dreaming or even just thinking. There was no privacy in here. Even if you had treatment and the curtains were drawn the others could all hear what was going on.
Sergeant Neil Maddrell slowed down as he drove through the gates of Blue Gables, Terry Finnigan’s big house in Sussex, ten miles from Horsham.
He gave a low whistle. ‘Not bad! A bit flash for my taste, but spacious and the gardens are gorgeous.’
Detective Constable Haddon made a face. ‘Bet he had it built – it doesn’t look that old. It must have cost a fortune, too. He could have bought an Elizabethan mansion for what this must have cost him.’
‘Some people prefer new houses.’
‘Some people have no taste. If I was as rich as Finnigan I’d buy something old.’
They parked on the gravelled terrace outside the front door. A girl in a dark blue dress with white cuffs and collar opened the door and invited them inside.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘We rang to tell Mr Finnigan that we would be coming.’
‘Please wait here, I’ll tell him you’ve arrived.’
Jim Haddon walked around, inspecting the gilt-framed sporting prints hanging on the wall. ‘Bought down Hoxton Market,’ he muttered.
‘No, actually I got them from Sotheby’s, they’re the real thing,’ Terry Finnigan said behind him.
Jim Haddon went red, mumbling, ‘Oh . . . sorry . . . I’m no art expert.’
‘They’re boxing prints over here. Very early ones. Worth quite a bit.’
The three men solemnly inspected the four prints of naked-chested men squaring up to each other in pairs.
‘No gloves, notice,’ Terry said. ‘In the eighteenth century fighters didn’t wear them. They fought bare-knuckled, and there were often nasty injuries to the face, which was why boxing was banned at times.’
Neil pointedly glanced at his watch. ‘Sorry to hurry you, Mr Finnigan, but we have to get back to town by six. Can we talk somewhere private? Is your son here?’
Terry’s face stiffened. ‘Yes, come into my office. Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee, or something stronger?’
‘Tea would be nice, thank you.’
Sean was standing by the window in the square room they went into. He turned to nod coolly.
‘Sit down, officers,’ Terry said, gave his son a look. ‘And you, Sean.’ He picked up the phone. ‘Ellen? Tea for four, in my office.’
Sean sat down, but fidgeted restlessly. ‘I’ve a lot to do today. Can we get on? You keep asking stupid questions day after day.’ He gave Neil a sullen stare, his face mutinous. ‘I have better things to do with my time.’
‘Do you know a girl called Tracy Morgan?’
The question knocked Sean backwards. He opened and shut his mouth like a fish out of water, making wordless noises.
Terry froze in his chair, watching his son anxiously.
Sean swallowed, finally said hoarsely, ‘Tracy? Yes, I know her. I’ve met her, that is. I don’t know her well.’
‘I’ve been told you have been dating her for weeks.’
‘Who told you that? Miranda Grey, I suppose! They ought to move her into a psychiatric ward. They shouldn’t ever let her out.’
‘They will, she’s quite sane.’
‘They’re letting her go home? When?’
‘Never mind Miranda. It was not her who told me about you dating Tracy Morgan. That’s true, isn’t it? You have been seeing her quite often for several months.’
‘No! It’s a lie, a dirty lie.’ Sean was almost desperate with fury, his face darkly flushed, his eyes glittering.
He hesitated, muttered, ‘Well, maybe I took her out once or twice, that’s all. I don’t call that dating.’
‘You saw her more often than that, I think. And now she’s vanished. She went missing the day Mrs Grey says she witnessed a scene in the bathroom of your flat. A big coincidence, isn’t it?’
Sean blundered to his feet, glaring like an angry bull. ‘You can’t prove I did anything! You can’t prove she’s dead. Stop badgering me or I’ll get my solicitor to deal with you.’
‘I think you are going to need your solicitor, sir, when we find the body.’
‘Find it before you come here again, harassing me!’
Dorothy Knox stopped off en route to the flat to buy herself a few groceries. Heaven knew what sort of larder Miranda kept. Dorothy did not have a very high opinion of her daughter’s housekeeping. Oh, the flat would be tidy enough, no doubt, Miranda was fastidious about where she lived, but she wou
ld eat her lunch out every day when she was working, and probably ate a very small breakfast, some cereal, at most, and in the evenings would eat out of the fridge, snacking on microwave food the way young people did these days.
She did not look well, and that wasn’t simply because of her injuries. Dorothy had noticed a deep-seated malaise in her daughter’s eyes. But the misery had been there for a long time, ever since Tom died.
They had been so happy together. Dorothy had rarely seen a couple who were so perfectly suited. His death had blighted Miranda’s life. She had always been a very affectionate child. She was not one of those cool, self-contained people who do not appear to need people. Miranda was open and loving with her family and friends.
On her wedding day she had been a radiant bride; her happiness visible, even in the photos Dorothy kept on her mantelpiece at home. It had been a wonderful occasion; everyone who had been there had been uplifted by seeing such a joyful bride and groom.
The tragedy of losing Tom in such a terrifying way had shadowed the child’s life ever since, though. Dorothy sensed that her daughter had not recovered even now.
She needed to spend some time somewhere very quiet and peaceful, especially now, after this accident. Dorothy was determined to take her back to the country; force-feed her, if necessary, see that she went to bed early, make her take walks in God’s good air, spend time in the garden, let nature work its miracle. She believed in nature’s power to heal.
In her capacious shopping bag, Dorthy had packed some of her own produce; a box of freshly laid eggs, a bag of mixed, washed vegetables; tomatoes, courgettes, onions, cauliflower, potatoes. Another bag of fruit; gooseberries, raspberries. But she would need other items; staples like rice, spaghetti, salt and pepper, flour and olive oil.
She was heavily laden by the time she put the key into the front door of Miranda’s flat. Putting down her bags she pushed the door shut behind her then groped for the light switch.
Stupid woman, you should have put that on first, she thought. Now, where is it? While she was feeling along the wall with one hand, she was taken aback by a sound, and then the faint rustle of a movement.
She realised with a gulp of shock that there was somebody else in here, in the dark, with her. Somebody trying to breathe quietly.
‘Who’s that?’ she cried, trying to see in the shadows, but only glimpsing a solid bulk in front of her.
It ran at her a second later. Dorothy shrank back with a gasp, but could not get out of the way. Blows began to shower on to her head.
Chapter Four
Miranda was sipping milky coffee during the mid-morning break next day when Sergeant Maddrell arrived, marching without hesitation along the ward under the close scrutiny of the other women, who stirred and began to whisper, recognising him from yesterday.
‘Your young man’s back,’ Joan Patterson whispered to her. ‘He looks like a policeman – is he?’
Was she a witch, wondered Miranda, or had she asked Nurse Embry? Gossip went round the ward like wildfire; everyone seemed to know what was wrong with everyone else, all about their marital status and relationships, their jobs and personal problems.
‘Good morning, Miranda,’ Neil said, apparently oblivious to the stares and murmurs, drawing the curtains round her bed before he pulled out her chair and sat down. ‘How are you today?’
‘Fine,’ she said, although she was in some discomfort all the time, with her arm and her leg, not to mention the dull ache in her head. There was no real pain involved, but at the same time she never felt really well and the drugs she was being given to keep her pain under control made her feel vaguely depressed and lethargic.
He hesitated, studying her, and she tensed, watching his face, certain suddenly that he was going to give her bad news.
‘What is it? Something’s wrong, I can feel it. What’s happened?’
‘Now, don’t get upset, this isn’t anything terrible,’ he quickly said. ‘Be calm, please.’
‘Tell me, just tell me!’ Easy for him to ask her to be calm, when his very expression made her heart beat fiercely, and made it hard to breathe.
‘Your mother . . .’ he began and she gave a sharp cry, her eyes wide.
‘Mum! Oh, God, what’s happened to her?’
‘She’s OK, I promise you,’ he soothed, taking her hand and patting it as if she were a child. ‘But she won’t be visiting you today because she’s in here, herself . . .’
‘She was run down by a car, too!’ Guilt and worry made her voice high and shaky. Neil patted her hand again, stroked it softly, watching her with concerned eyes.
‘No, no, it wasn’t that.’ He paused, said in a careful voice, ‘She was going to be staying in your flat last night, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes, I didn’t want her having to pay for a hotel.’ Miranda’s mind raced with alarm, trying to guess what had happened. ‘Get on with it, tell me what’s happened to her. Are you trying to frighten the life out of me? Just tell me.’
‘She walked in on what was probably a burglary,’ he said flatly.
‘Oh, God.’ Miranda’s lip trembled and she bit down on it. ‘They attacked her? Was she badly hurt?’
‘No, no. He knocked her out, but as I said it isn’t serious. They’re only keeping her in here for a night to make sure she hasn’t got concussion. And because there would be nobody to look after her if she was sent home while she was a little groggy.’
‘Have you seen her?’
‘Yes, and I promise you, she is OK. She talked to me quite rationally. All that was wrong with her were some bruises and a headache. Maybe the nurse will arrange for you to visit her in her ward, so you can see for yourself. They could take you along in a wheelchair.’
‘I’ll ask Nurse Embry.’ Miranda was thinking hard, her brow furrowed. ‘Do you think the burglary was mere coincidence? Or is it part and parcel of what’s been happening? The murder, the hit and run driver . . . is it all connected? It must be, mustn’t it?’
‘We aren’t sure, but it could be. He certainly ransacked your flat, I’m afraid. We won’t know if anything was taken until you’ve been able to check the flat yourself, but we have a feeling nothing at all is missing. The obvious things are all still there – the television, the microwave, the musical equipment. Burglars usually take stuff like that. Easy to carry, and then to sell.’
‘Did Mum see him?’
‘Apparently not. She opened the front door but before she could switch on the light somebody started hitting her on the head.’
‘Oh, poor Mum! She must have been terrified. I shouldn’t have suggested she should go to my flat. That was stupid of me, but I didn’t think . . . it never entered my head that she could be in danger.’
‘Obviously, why should it? But she was lucky – he left the front door open and one of your neighbours walked past and saw her, and called the emergency service. A Miss Neville?’
‘Oh, Janet, yes,’ Miranda said absently. ‘We aren’t friends, but we do say hello, and talk about the weather, now and then.’
‘Well, your mother may owe a big debt to Miss Neville. Had she lain there all night she might have developed hypothermia. Older people do, even in warm weather, especially with a head wound. Miss Neville didn’t recognise her, and, knowing you were in hospital she had no idea what your mother was doing in your flat, so as well as asking for an ambulance she talked to us, and since I’m dealing with your case the word reached me. I didn’t want to disturb your sleep in the middle of the night, which is why I’m here now.’
‘You’ve seen my mother?’
‘I’ve just come from seeing her. And she seems fine to me. But I don’t think she should return to your flat. I’ve advised her to go home, to Dorset, in fact. That would be wisest.’
Miranda took a sharp breath. ‘You think she might be attacked again?’
‘Highly unlikely, but it is better to be safe than sorry.’
Closing her eyes, she asked, ‘Have you found . . . anything, yet?
’
‘In your flat? I told you, it had been thoroughly searched – he had been through all the drawers and cupboards and thrown stuff about, I’m afraid, all over the floor. Deliberate destruction, I’d say, there’s no reason to make such a mess, but he might be trying to scare you off, warn you against talking to us.’
‘I didn’t mean my flat – I meant have you found . . . her, yet?’
He grimaced. ‘Not yet, but then – where do we look? She could be buried anywhere. We’re still searching his father’s place, but we haven’t found anything, and it’s my opinion that that’s the last place he would put her, knowing you witnessed what happened.’
She nodded. ‘I see what you mean. Yes. And it would mean that Terry knew, was involved – which I can’t believe. You don’t know him, but he’s really a very nice man, I simply can’t imagine him getting mixed up with murder and . . .’ Her voice trailed away.
They stared at each other. Neil nodded slowly. ‘And these attacks on you and your mother? You don’t believe Terry Finnigan would do anything like that?’
‘No. Do you?’
He didn’t answer. ‘I must go. I’ll keep in touch. Oh, and I’ll ask the ward sister if you can visit your mother this morning.’ Drawing back the curtains he walked away. She saw him go into the ward sister’s glass-walled office at the far end of the ward, watched them talking, saw the sister nodding.
Half an hour later Nurse Embry came along with a wheelchair and helped her climb out of bed.
‘Going for an x-ray?’ Joan Patterson asked, eyes glinting with curiosity.
‘No,’ the nurse said, amused, deftly enfolding Miranda into a dressing gown before putting a much-washed hospital rug over her knees.
‘She isn’t going home, is she?’
‘No.’ Nurse Embry began wheeling Miranda towards the swing doors, leaving Joan Patterson seething with frustration.
‘What ward is my mother on?’ Miranda asked as they turned into the corridor.
‘Mary Leeman. It’s an observation ward, mostly head injuries; patients don’t stay long, they’re only in for a night or two but they need to be watched carefully so there are always plenty of nurses on the ward. I worked on it myself last winter. I didn’t like it much. You don’t get to know the patients – they come in and go out like on a conveyor belt.’
Angel of Death Page 7
