Other Countries

by Jo Bannister

  ‘Done what?’

  If Ash had punched him, angry as he was, he could have broken Ford’s jaw. He could have broken Ford’s teeth and his own knuckles. He could conceivably have missed altogether – he had no experience of street-fighting, or any other kind of fighting – and put his fist through the kitchen window.

  Instead he slapped his face.

  Ford didn’t go down, or even sprawl across the sink; but both cheeks flooded with colour. Not only from the blow, but because it wasn’t the kind of blow that a man delivers to another man. The contempt in Ash’s eyes stung more than the slap. Oliver Ford was not much given to self-analysis: what he saw reflected in the pitiless mirror of Ash’s gaze startled and wounded him.

  Ash’s voice never rose from that low intensity which made every word totally believable. ‘If you go near her again, I will put you in your grave.’

  Ford found himself clutching his cheek like an affronted maiden aunt and dropped his hand quickly, as if hoping no one had noticed. There was nothing he could do about the fact that he was visibly shaking. Not with fear, though Ash in this mood was something to be feared, but with towering, incredulous fury.

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are, threatening me? Coming into my house and assaulting me? You’re nothing. You’re a charity case. You think Hazel cares about you? That she ever cared about you? The kindest thing that can be said is that you’re one of her good causes. Lame dogs, lost children and you. What else could it have been? You surely didn’t think you had anything to offer her?’

  Ash looked the trembling man up and down, noting the palm-print picked out in deeper red against the angry flush of Ford’s face. ‘You’re probably right. She was always generous to a fault. Although there are in fact two things I can offer her. Respect, and somewhere she will always be safe. You need to believe me, Mr Ford. If you touch her again, I will put an end to you.’

  There was nothing more he needed to say, and nothing he wanted to hear. He turned and left Ford standing shaking beside his kitchen sink, and picked up Hazel’s bag as he passed and went down to his car.

  There was no conversation as they drove back to Norbold. Ash didn’t ask what had passed between Hazel and Ford; Hazel didn’t ask what had passed between Ford and Ash. She sat slumped in the front passenger seat, Ash’s jacket still tugged around her, occasionally dabbing at her cheek with his handkerchief. It seemed Saturday had nothing to say either, except once when Ash took a wrong turning in the wood. Even Patience was keeping her thoughts to herself.

  Ash drove first to Railway Street, but only to let Saturday out. ‘I want to take Hazel down to A&E, see if that cut requires stitches.’

  ‘I don’t need any stitches,’ growled Hazel.

  ‘You don’t need any more scars, either. Let someone who knows what they’re talking about take a look at it.’

  She grumbled some more, but she made no attempt to get out of the car, so he drove on to Norbold General Infirmary out on the ring road.

  Then, and only then, did he remember that he should have collected his sons from soccer practice twenty minutes earlier. In a muck sweat of panic and abject guilt, he phoned Frankie, only to learn that their coach had brought them home when the only alternative would have been to lock up the changing rooms and leave them sitting disconsolately on the school-yard wall.

  ‘They’re fine,’ she assured their horrified parent. ‘It’s not just you – there’s always someone who forgets where he left his children.’

  ‘Anything could have happened,’ moaned Ash.

  ‘No, it couldn’t,’ said Frankie calmly. ‘They were never alone for a moment. And if they hadn’t got a lift home, Gilbert has my number – he’d have had someone call me.’

  But Ash still couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about his sons.

  It turned out that Hazel was right: she didn’t need stitches. The nurse in the treatment room zipped the edges of the cut together with tiny strips of elastic plaster. As she worked she said, ‘What happened to you this time, dear?’

  Hazel rolled her eyes. She didn’t even know the treatment room nurse. It seemed all Norbold was familiar with her propensity for getting into scrapes. ‘I head-butted a laptop.’

  ‘Ah.’ The nurse finished and packed her kit away. ‘You probably shouldn’t do that again.’

  Walking back to the car Ash said, ‘Don’t go home tonight. Stay at Highfield Road. You’ve had a shock. You shouldn’t be alone.’

  ‘I won’t be alone at Railway Street either.’ But there was a note in Hazel’s voice that suggested she wouldn’t take much persuading.

  ‘Saturday is a fine young man in many ways,’ agreed Ash stoutly. ‘Well – some ways. But when it comes to being looked after, I’ll see your Saturday and raise you my Frankie. You’ve got your bag with you – come and stay with us for a few days. Just till you get your breath back. I’ll let Saturday know.’

  If it had been his decision, Ash would have tucked her up in bed in the newly decorated guest room with an extra quilt, and brought her soft-boiled eggs and jelly, and hot sweet tea, and kept everyone away from her; and Hazel would have gone quietly mad. Happily, Frankie took control. She tutted sympathetically over Hazel’s cut, stretched lunch to serve five, and shoo’ed Guy away when he bombarded her with questions that Gilbert wanted the answers to.

  After they’d eaten, she had the boys help her load the dishwasher. ‘You eat the food, you deal with the dishes,’ she explained briskly, and Hazel and Ash were left alone.

  ‘She’s a treasure!’ whispered Hazel. ‘Where did you find her?’

  He was glad she approved; although in truth, it was hard to imagine who wouldn’t. Even the notoriously picky Gilbert had decided Frankie was his new best friend. ‘An agency sent her. I can’t think, now, how I managed without her.

  ‘It wasn’t that I didn’t like the nanny you recommended,’ he added earnestly. ‘I couldn’t seem to track her down. Lots of people seemed to have heard of her, but nobody knew where she was working or when she’d be available.’

  Hazel’s frown was puzzled. ‘I didn’t recommend …’ But then an echo of the conversation drifted back to her, and a slow smile spread over her battered face. ‘Ah yes. Nanny McPhee. So you called round some agencies asking for her?’

  ‘I did,’ nodded Ash. ‘No one was able to help. But then one of them sent me Frankie, and she’s exactly what I need. I just didn’t want you to think I hadn’t liked your friend.’

  ‘That’s fine, Gabriel,’ said Hazel generously, ‘I’m sure she’s fully employed. She’s a resourceful woman. Maybe you’ll come across her some day.’

  There was a hiatus then when neither of them spoke. It wasn’t strained, exactly, because they were good enough friends that they didn’t need to fill every moment with chatter. At the same time, both were aware that, sooner or later, they’d have to talk about what had happened.

  Hazel began. ‘How did you know I needed you?’

  ‘I didn’t. It was just getting to be a long time since I’d seen you, I couldn’t get you on the phone and I wanted to be sure you were all right.’

  ‘Your timing was spot on.’ Hazel frowned. ‘When did I give you the address?’

  ‘You didn’t. Saturday found it. Some time when we’re both feeling stronger, I’ll tell you how.’

  She flickered a smile, but it didn’t last. ‘I’m not sure what happened. Where it went wrong. We were talking about – at least, I think we were talking about – marriage.’

  ‘Well, let’s thank every god in the pantheon that talking is all you did. It’s a lot easier to pack a bag than to unpick a marriage.’

  Hazel didn’t argue. Ash was speaking from experience.

  He looked at her carefully. ‘Did he hit you?’

  She looked away. ‘I told you, it was an accident.’

  Ash went on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Because, if he did, it isn’t too late to go to the police. You might have to take a bit of rough-housing in the course of your
job, but nobody has to take it in the place where they live. If he hit you, you should report it.’

  Hazel cast him a furtive look. ‘And be the groupie who brought Oliver Ford up before the magistrates? I’d rather have the black eye. Besides, who’d believe me? He’s a famous man – a celebrity. Millions watch his programmes. Who’s going to believe that, at home, he behaves like a spoilt child?’

  ‘Hazel – everyone who knows you will believe everything you tell them. DI Gorman will, Superintendent Maybourne will. And being a celebrity doesn’t give Ford the right to knock people about. The size of his fan club is irrelevant. If that’s how he reacts when things don’t go his way, he needs to be put on notice. Not for your sake – he’s not going to bother you again. But for the sake of the next woman he takes a fancy to. You got a cut on your cheek, and that’ll heal. What if he’d damaged your eye? What if he’d done worse than that? If he gets away with it this time, maybe next time he will.’

  Hazel didn’t want to take the matter any further – she didn’t want to have to admit publicly that she’d made a fool of herself with the man – but she might have accepted the necessity but for one thing. ‘I couldn’t say, hand on heart, that it wasn’t an accident. We were arguing, but it was only verbal, and I was making my point pretty forcefully too. We were never going to agree – whatever we’d once had, it had come to an end. I’d packed my bag and I was on my way out.’

  She chewed her lip reflectively. There was something like a smile in her eyes at the memory. ‘Then I poured coffee all over his laptop, and he snatched it away and flailed round with it, trying to get the coffee out before all his files dissolved. The corner of it hit me under the eye. Gabriel, it’s possible he meant to do it. But it’s equally possible that he didn’t. And it certainly wouldn’t have happened if I’d just taken my bag and left. I couldn’t swear that it was assault. Even if it was, I think maybe I had it coming.’

  There was no question about it: she was definitely smiling now. ‘Do you know something? It was worth it for the look on his face.’

  Ash smiled too, happy to see her on the way back. The dyed hair and the high heels and the sophisticated clothes had hidden his friend for a while. But that grin and the ripening eye were quintessential Hazel, and he was more glad than he could have said to have her back. He let the subject drop. If the victim of an assault wasn’t sure it was an assault, there was no point pursuing it.

  But he asked himself, then and again later, what would have happened if he and Saturday hadn’t arrived at Purley Grange at the critical moment. If Hazel had gone back into the house alone.

  It was one in the morning when the phone went. Still mostly asleep, Ash fumbled for it in the dark before it should wake the house. ‘Wadayawant? It’s late – or early.’

  The very first words he heard snapped him awake. ‘Gabriel, I need your help. I need you to come down here, now, and I need you not to ask why.’

  ‘Saturday?’ He’d found the bedside light by now, but looking at the phone didn’t tell him anything extra. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Please. Come now.’

  There was never any question of him refusing. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  He pulled on his clothes, and he and Patience sneaked out of the house without a sound. He drove away as quietly as he could. But once he was out onto Highfield Road, he hit the gas.

  Saturday must have been watching for him, because Ash had hardly pulled into the kerb in Railway Street before the boy had the door open and was waiting on the step, shifting edgily from one bare foot to the other. The light was on in the hall behind him: only as they met in the doorway did Ash get a proper look at him. What he saw shocked him to the core. The T-shirt Saturday slept in was torn and spattered with blood, and his hands were bloody to the wrists. There was blood on his face, too, though the delicate trickle from his left nostril seemed unlikely to have produced the volume evident about his person. There was a graze on his cheek and his knuckles were torn.

  ‘God in heaven, Saturday – what have you been up to?’

  Saturday swallowed. ‘You should see the other guy.’

  Ash gave a gruff chuckle. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘No, really. You need to come inside and see the other guy.’

  Ash followed him down the narrow hall. The other guy was at the foot of the stairs, sprawled motionless on the threadbare carpet, his head resting just inside the kitchen door, one foot on the bottom step, one gloved hand twisted behind him. Blood – much more blood than there was on Saturday – pooled under his face, and there was a cricket bat on the floor beside him.

  It was Oliver Ford, and Ash thought he was dead.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘Where is he?’

  Detective Inspector Gorman didn’t mean to be difficult: he genuinely didn’t know who Hazel wanted to know about first. ‘Ford is in Norbold General, although they’re transferring him to the head injuries unit in Birmingham. Desmond is being processed downstairs.’

  Hazel blinked. She heard Saturday’s proper name so seldom it didn’t sound like someone she knew. ‘You know he’s a juvenile?’

  Gorman nodded. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll organise an appropriate adult before I interview him.’

  ‘He has no family,’ said Hazel. ‘At least, none he’s seen for years. He lodges with me, so I’m probably the next best thing.’

  The DI raised one shaggy eyebrow until it merged with his hairline. ‘You’re too involved, Hazel. It wouldn’t be – well, appropriate.’

  ‘How about me?’ asked Ash.

  ‘You’re a witness.’

  ‘I wasn’t there when … whatever happened, happened.’

  Now the shaggy eyebrow dropped censoriously. ‘Don’t get coy with me, Gabriel, we all know what happened. Ford didn’t beat himself unconscious with a cricket bat.’

  ‘And Saturday didn’t walk out to Purley Woods and break into Oliver’s house in the middle of the night,’ said Hazel sharply. ‘Until we know who did what, we really don’t know who’s to blame.’

  ‘Ford didn’t break into your house either. He had a key.’ He could tell from her expression that it was news to Hazel. ‘You didn’t give him a key?’

  ‘No. There was no occasion to. When I offered to put him up while he was house-hunting, he thought I was joking.’

  ‘Do you have your keys?’

  She couldn’t find them. ‘I went home with Gabriel so I didn’t need them.’

  Gorman put a set on his desk. Hazel went to reach for them, but stopped herself in time. Anyway, she didn’t need to handle them to be sure. The fob was a small pewter dragon she’d bought in a craft shop in Llangollen: there would be others, elsewhere in the country, but it was stretching credulity to think this might be one of them. ‘Those are mine.’

  ‘Did you give them to Ford?’

  ‘I didn’t give them to him.’ She screwed up her eyes in the effort to remember. ‘I suppose, in the … excitement … of leaving, I may have left them behind.’

  Gorman sucked at his front teeth. ‘So if Ford says he found them, he thought he ought to return them, but it was late so rather than wake you he let himself in to leave them on the kitchen table, that’s entirely plausible?’

  Hazel couldn’t deny it. ‘Is that what he’s saying?’

  ‘Right now he isn’t saying anything. He’s in a drug-induced coma while the doctors assess his injuries. But I imagine that’s how he’d explain his presence at Railway Street.’ Gorman changed tack. ‘Where did the cricket bat come from?’

  ‘It’s mine,’ admitted Hazel.

  ‘You play cricket?’

  ‘A boyfriend left it behind, years ago. I held onto it because it’s useful to keep something hefty by the front door when you’re living alone and you’re not always sure of the neighbours.’

  Gorman raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve had trouble with the neighbours?’

  ‘Not at Railway Street. Some of the police station houses I’ve stayed in, I�
�ve been glad of it.’

  ‘And you keep it by the front door.’

  She frowned, trying to remember. ‘I used to. I haven’t seen it recently.’

  ‘So if Desmond says it was under his bed when he was woken by the sound of an intruder, that could be true?’

  ‘Certainly it could. I don’t go into Saturday’s room if I can avoid it. If it was under his bed, I wouldn’t have seen it.’

  The DI was nodding slowly. ‘Have you ever heard Desmond threaten Mr Ford?’

  ‘Saturday?’ Hazel was astonished. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Why would Saturday threaten Oliver?’

  Gorman swivelled his chair in Ash’s direction. ‘Can you think of a reason?’

  Ash would have done a lot to keep Saturday out of trouble, but he wouldn’t lie to the police for him. ‘I know that they argued, and Ford hit him. But Saturday was in no position to retaliate, and he shrugged it off. The only person that I know threatened Ford was me.’

  Hazel couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She didn’t know which part of that to query first. ‘Oliver hit Saturday? When? And why? And why did you threaten him?’

  ‘Ford hit Saturday because he blamed him for spoiling his big day at the museum. The second time, the time you were there as his … companion.’ The hesitation was fractional. But Hazel noticed it, and felt herself reddening. ‘And I threatened him yesterday morning, because he hit you. I told him that if he came near you again, I would plant him. And I meant,’ Ash added seriously, ‘every word of it.’

  Gorman sucked his lip reflectively. ‘And Ford went to Hazel’s house, and ended up in Intensive Care. Gabriel – should I be asking where you were last night?’

  ‘I was in my bed until Saturday called. But I can’t prove it. If you want to treat me as a suspect, feel free.’

  Hazel hadn’t finished with Ash. ‘I told you that was an accident.’

  ‘I know what you told me.’

  It was tempting, but in fact Gorman had no doubt who had put Oliver Ford in the hospital. The issue was not who but why. If the boy, alone in the house late at night, had been disturbed by the sound of an intruder and snatched up the cricket bat to protect himself, even if the force used was excessive, that was a valid defence. But if Saturday, stinging after an earlier encounter, saw an opportunity for revenge, and if instead of asking him to leave he’d waited for Ford to turn his back before setting about him with a blunt implement, that was attempted murder.