Hands of the Traitor

by Christopher Wright

  He unfolded the map he'd bought at the local presse, and tried unsuccessfully to find the exact place where the Dutchman had found the ring. Maybe he could go out and start looking for it. He'd rather be driving around than stuck indoors. When they went to see Sophie tomorrow morning he wanted to be familiar with the area.

  He'd bought a car magazine on the ferry, but Zoé had it in a bag in her room next door. It would make a good excuse for disturbing her. He not only felt restless, he felt hungry. They could go down the road and find a bar serving coffee and French pastries.

  Zoé's balcony door was open, but he couldn't see into her room without leaning out and risking his life. Anyway, he didn't want to be seen as a voyeur. He was about to call through the wooden dividing slats without looking, surely the act of a gentleman when a lady might still be taking a shower, when he heard Zoé speaking. She must be on the phone.

  "No, Florian. No, no, no." she said in French.

  Zoé went silent. Presumably Florian was managing to get a word in.

  "I hoped you would understand," she continued. "Can you not guess how I feel?"

  Matt moved back into his room. As a PI he'd listened in to many phone calls without the caller being aware of the intercept. But this was different. This was Zoé having a personal conversation.

  He was tempted. Surely no harm could come from listening. He might get a clue as to how she felt about Florian. No, it would be like cheating. Zoé had made it clear that she was helping on a temporary basis. If he wanted Zoé he had to win her in a straight fight, not by listening at windows.

  Can you not guess how I feel? He lay on the bed wondering what Zoé meant. Florian might be able to guess, but he couldn't.

  England, that evening

  "EXCUSE ME, Sister, I'm here to see one of your patients. I guess maybe you're in charge?"

  Marjorie Ewing stared at the large, elderly visitor who had turned up unexpectedly. One of the nurses had told her that an old American priest was in the hall.

  "Visiting hours are over, I'm afraid," she said curtly. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "Sure thing, ma'am." The man with a long drooping moustache smiled. "The Rider family has tracked me down. Well, to be accurate, ma'am, one of their friends did it on their behalf."

  "I'm not sure I..." Marjorie Ewing wasn't normally lost for words, but a deep scar on the man's chin distracted her. A very old scar that had healed badly. No one would be allowed home from hospital nowadays with a disfigurement like that.

  "So sorry, ma'am." The visitor held out a large hand. "I've not introduced myself. The name is Hawkins. The Reverend Fergus Hawkins. I'm Canadian. Sure, you will have guessed that from my accent."

  Marjorie Ewing smiled a professional smile. "You've come about a spiritual matter I expect."

  "Sure have, ma'am. Do you have a patient here called Mr. Alec Rider?"

  "But..."

  "Why, I knew you did. Do you think I could meet the old fellow?"

  She hesitated. "He may be asleep."

  "If I could just sit by his side."

  Sister Ewing collected her wits at last. It was not often that elderly Canadians turned up at the hospital at nine-thirty at night, demanding to see a patient. Hospital chaplains were normally more considerate. "My name is Marjorie Ewing. I'm the sister in charge. We have regular visiting hours. It's so much easier..."

  "Why, ma'am, you surely wouldn't deprive one of your patients of some spiritual nourishment."

  "I suppose not." She realized she was being taken off guard by a man with considerable skill in dealing with people. "However, the specialist..."

  "Of course you're right to be worried, ma'am. Especially if you're keeping the patient heavily sedated. I believe you do that in England. Perhaps I can make an appointment for tomorrow morning."

  Her professional principles were being threatened. "Mr. Rider has not been sedated. He's on prescribed drugs, and at the moment his mind is improving. You know him?"

  "A long time ago, ma'am. In the war. He confided in me after his..." The man hesitated. "I was his padre. Let me just say that he once had a problem and I helped him. Apparently he's been asking for me."

  She broke out into a broad smile. "How silly of me; you were his chaplain. Mr. Rider's grandson, Matt, has been trying to find out exactly what happened to his grandfather in France."

  "I heard something about that," replied the visitor coldly. Then he smiled. "A good grandson by the sound of it. Does the old fellow remember much about the war?"

  "I think so, sir." Marjorie Ewing decided that a man of the cloth deserved some respect, especially if he'd come all the way from Canada. "There was a young woman he met in France in the war. He thinks he ... well, he thinks he hurt her."

  "Very tragic, ma'am. Has Alec Rider talked a lot since he came here?"

  "I can't rightly think..."

  "Has he said anything about German rockets?"

  "German rockets? Why German rockets?"

  "It was all part of his past. All part of his problem." The Canadian visitor knew how to turn on the charm. "I realize it's late, Sister, but if there's any chance of me looking in on the patient I would treat it as a great honor. The man was a war hero, you know."

  "So his grandson says, sir. I'll take you up to his room, but we really shouldn't disturb him."

  The door to the room was secured from the outside. All the patients had to be out of harm's way at night. She opened the door cautiously to reveal a steel-framed hospital bed. Alec Rider lay there awake. She knew from the excited look in the patient's eyes that the latest memory-assisting drug had caused this hyperactive state.

  "I think I'll get a little something to help him sleep," she said, going to a locked cupboard on the wall.

  "Not just now, ma'am. I'd love a few words with my old friend first." The man motioned towards the door as though he wished to be left alone.

  But Marjorie Ewing was not going to concede too much ground. "Don't worry, Padre, it will take twenty or thirty minutes to make him drowsy. You'll not be wanting to stay too late I'm sure. Not with all the other visitors long gone."

  "Quite right, ma'am. I only need a few minutes alone."

  "I'm sorry, the hospital rules say I have to stay."

  "Oh, ma'am, I'm sure you can make an exception this time. I promise to call for help if there's a problem." He pointed to the red emergency button. "I do a lot of hospital visiting."

  "Perhaps ... yes, I think I can trust you both to behave yourselves." She forced a laugh and pulled Alec Rider forward to slip an extra pillow behind his back. Then she watched while he put the small white tablet in his mouth and drank the water. Satisfied that her patient was being properly cared for, she left the room.

  "Alec Rider, I wonder if you remember me. I'm your padre. I want to talk about your accident in France."

  The old man in the bed nodded. "Padre? I can't see you properly against the light. There's a chair over there. Bring it to the bed."

  "I won't stay long. Sister will be back soon. Damn!"

  The chair slid from his hand and tipped noisily onto its side on the polished floor. He looked round anxiously but the Sister had gone.

  "It's this wretched right arm of mine," he explained. "A wartime injury, just like yours." He bent down and picked up the plastic stacking chair, then dragged it close to the bed.

  The old soldier showed a faint sign of recognition on his face. "Are you really Fergus Hawkins?" he asked in a voice that seemed to hold fear. He reached out for the red bell push.

  The visitor caught his arm in a powerful left hand grip. "My, that's a mighty interesting looking gold ring you have there, my friend. Too tight to get off, so I read in the paper. No, don't try to get up. Do you remember me, Captain Rider? We met a long time ago. In France. On a Nazi missile site."

  Chapter 14

  "I'LL BE OFF now, Sister. It's nearly ten o'clock and the old soldier has fallen asleep." The large man smiled reassuringly. "I've locked the door to his r
oom."

  "Thank you, Padre." Marjorie Ewing returned the smile but felt distrustful. "I'll just pop back upstairs and check he's all right."

  "Oh, he's all right, ma'am. Sleeping like a baby. So glad of the opportunity to look him up again."

  "Come up with me, Padre. I insist. There's something in Mr. Rider's room you should see."

  "It's kinda late now, Sister ma'am. Perhaps it will keep until I come back another time?"

  "I want you to come now." Marjorie Ewing was insistent. Insistence was part of her training; almost a qualification for the post. "You'll be glad you spared the time."

  "Sure thing, ma'am. I just didn't want to disturb the old fellow again, that's all. But you lead right on."

  The door was secured on the outside, just as the visitor had said. She opened it to reveal Alec Rider lying in bed, his mouth open, his eyes staring at the ceiling.

  "It's Sister Ewing and your old padre." She made her voice sound reassuring, although the patient remained silent. She beckoned to her visitor. "This is what I wanted you to see. It's a photograph of you and Mr. Rider, taken in the war."

  "Why, bless me, ma'am." The visitor held it to the light. "Well, it sure is some padre or other, but it's not me. The hair is quite different. And he's certainly not as tall as me." He laughed loudly.

  "I'm sure I don't know." The negative response surprised her. "He said it was his old army chaplain. I think he's still awake. Let's ask him about it."

  The big man shook his head. "Seems a shame to disturb him now."

  Alec Rider half raised his head and murmured something indistinct about Fergus Hawkins. The words sounded slurred and were impossible to understand. The tablet had already taken effect.

  "Perhaps in the morning, ma'am?"

  She nodded. "Yes, of course. I'll hang it back on the wall. I wonder who it is."

  "He moved about a lot in the army," said the visitor with a smile. "That will be one of his other padres."

  "I expect you're right."

  Marjorie Ewing locked the door as they went out.

  *

  NURSE OGDEN knew she'd be in trouble. She was late for work again, and fussy Sister Ewing was on night duty -- probably standing in the entrance hall with a watch in her hand. Rosie Ogden knew she should have been ready for duty at ten, on the dot, and it was now just after midnight. Sister Ewing was very particular about her night staff being punctual. Stupid old bat. That woman didn't have two teenage sons to tend to, and she didn't have to make mortgage payments on the house that often exceeded the family income.

  Rosie paused at the gates to the hospital grounds. With a bit of luck she could slip through the side door by the car park and pretend she'd been in the hospital for the past two hours. It was worth a try.

  Her foot caught something soft, and images of a rat or some other hairy creature made her gasp. Human wounds and human blood were one thing; her spell in the theatre at the General had helped her to cope with human blood. Furry creatures were something else. Whatever this was, it was clearly dead. Warily she kicked the object into the glare from the car park security lights.

  "Oh my God!"

  The human hand had been neatly severed at the wrist, and the middle finger was missing. An object like this on the operating table was bearable -- lying out here on the damp tarmac the hand looked repulsive. She gave a startled scream, though no one came running.

  The darkness seemed to close in. The grounds fell silent. Had someone dropped the hand after an operation? No, that would be impossible: the South Memorial Hospital hadn't done surgery since the local health authority turned it into a secure unit.

  In her mind she had a sudden vision of the Black Puma roaming the countryside at night, making small furry creatures irrelevant. Her scream this time was longer and louder. Sister Ewing came running, and so did the other nurses.

  *

  "IT'S FROM someone old." Sister Ewing held the hand under the security light. "We'd better go in." She spoke to the nurse hovering anxiously by her side. "Nurse Alison, get the police. It looks as though one of our..."

  "Yes, Sister?"

  "He's been out of his room!"

  "Who has, Sister?"

  "Mr. Rider did this." It was obvious what had happened. "I never checked him again after the chaplain left. I expect he just acted drowsy. Probably never even took the tablet; just kept it under his tongue. That man is dangerous. Have any of you been into Mr. Rider's room in the past two hours?"

  No one admitted to the offence.

  "You do realize, don't you, that the man is a potential killer? My God, he got hold of a knife at Saint Monica's. Which one of you went to his room after the chaplain left?"

  The staff stayed quiet. Rosie Ogden felt some relief that she'd come on duty late. "I've only just got here, Sister," she piped up.

  "Well, don't just stand there, Nurse Rosie. Go up and see if Mr. Rider is back in his room."

  "I'd like someone to come with me please, Sister."

  The thought of the man wandering through the hospital with a knife struck fear into the small team of nurses.

  Marjorie Ewing tried not to be drawn into the developing hysteria. "Have you contacted the police yet, Nurse Alison?"

  The nurse nodded.

  "Find Paul Jenkins for me, Nurse Rosie, and stop making those silly noises. The rest of you stay here."

  At least one male nurse had to be on duty at all times. It was a requirement of the local health authority. There was no need to look for Paul Jenkins: the excitable voices in the reception area must have disturbed his extended break. The laundry room was normally a quiet area.

  "Something the matter, Sister?"

  "I want everyone to stay here until the police arrive." Marjorie Ewing fought the terror threatening to inundate her. "Except for you, Nurse Jenkins. Go upstairs with Rosie Ogden and see if Mr. Rider is back in his room."

  "Why me, Sister?"

  "Why you, Nurse Ogden? I'll tell you why. Because you came to work late. Don't argue."

  "Pig!" Rosie Ogden said the words too quietly for Sister to hear. She turned to Paul Jenkins as they climbed the stairs. "I wish he'd started by chopping up Sister Ewing."

  "You'd better keep close or you'll end up the same way." Paul's advice was chilling.

  "Go on then, Paul, try the door."

  The male nurse pressed down the door lever and pushed gently. The door was secure. "It's definitely locked, Sister!" His voice calling down the stairs broke the spell.

  "Then open it and see if Mr. Rider is still in there, Nurse."

  Paul Jenkins turned on the main light. He stared, but said nothing. Rosie Ogden peeped over his shoulder and shrieked.

  Sister Ewing ran heavily up the stairs, followed closely by the small group of panicky nurses.

  There was certainly someone in the bed. The heavily bloodstained bedclothes all but covered the occupant. Sister Ewing pulled the bedding back with a practiced skill, revealing the body in a sea of clotting blood. The right arm caught the edge of the sheet and jerked upwards. It fell back, hanging over the edge of the mattress, blood dripping from the stump below the wrist where the hand had been severed. Enough of the mutilated face remained to enable recognition.

  Sister Ewing turned away and stared at the empty picture hook on the wall. It was of no consequence, but it needed saying. "Would you believe it; that old army photograph has gone."

  France, the next morning

  MATT WOKE early and decided to let Zoé stay asleep in her room on this their first full day. He went to the Mini before it was properly light, to drive around the area and absorb the atmosphere, trying to imagine what it would be like if his grandfather had been well enough to come on the trip and point out places first hand.

  The countryside around here was more hilly than he remembered northern France being. The drive down towards Paris always seemed interminably level and boring. Up here there were undulating fields dotted with areas of woodland, as well as the expected areas of flat lan
d. Maize seemed to be the main produce, with vast areas of the waving brown stems. Sweetcorn, his mother would call it.

  He drove towards the coast, towards Strouanne between Wissant and Cap Blanc-Nez where his grandfather had made his wartime escape by MTB. Low clouds blew in from the sea, the wind whipping the tops off the gray waves as they raced up the long stretch of sand. He didn't bother to get out of the car; just sat and looked at the horizon.

  Zoé was waiting in the reception area when he got back to the hotel just after nine. She broke the news of his grandfather's death gently.

  Matt looked at his watch. Within a couple of hours they would have been talking to Sophie. So close to setting the record straight -- and now the shattering news from England that made their journey pointless.

  He went to his room to phone his father. He missed his mobile phone at times like this. His father said the funeral couldn't take place for a week at least, according to the police. The CID at Trinity Green thought a fellow patient was to blame. There were some potentially violent cases at the South Memorial, but the hospital maintained they were all locked in their rooms when the police arrived.

  A killer padre was a less likely theory the police were following up. An elderly army chaplain who'd visited earlier in the evening could have returned unseen. That was what Sister Ewing believed. Matt felt there might be some sense in that one, although chaplains weren't normally renowned for killing their flock. Granddad had often mentioned Fergus Hawkins, and the hospital visitor used the same name. The description was good. A tall man in his late seventies, with a large drooping moustache and an old scar on his chin. No one in the hospital had seen him before.

  Matt said he'd come straight back but his father didn't seem bothered whether he did or not. Matt replaced the phone and went with Zoé to the dining room. She fetched him a warm croissant and a dark coffee from the serving table, and they sat together while he picked at his food, trying to come to terms with what had happened.

  He sighed as he gave Zoé a hug. He needed to draw on her strength. She put her arms around him and they sat side by side at the table holding each other tightly. A brutal killing in a psychiatric hospital. It would be big news in England.

  Through the dining room window Matt noticed a man sitting in a white Citroen on the opposite side of the street. The man was tall, but certainly not in his seventies. He checked himself. If he wasn't careful he'd be seeing bogey men everywhere.