Nothing to Lose

by Anna Legat

  It is a surreal sight – a collision involving at least four vehicles on a straight stretch of a quiet rural carriageway on a sunny Monday morning, near the sleepy town of Sexton’s Canning. The cordoned area is a scene of hellish carnage, yet only metres away the sun is shining on the rolling green fields. Even a tree stands nearby, tall and unscathed, leaves sprinkled with deep red. Berries? Though the first impression you get is of blood, you know it isn’t – ­ blood would have vaporised in the extremely high temperatures of burning petrol.

  Detective Superintendent Scarfe is the Senior Investigating Officer, the best man for the job in Gillian’s opinion. He is more than able – not to mention willing – to coordinate the multitude of agencies that will have to be involved, to deal with the media and to chair briefings. An officer from the Collision Investigation Unit is also on site, gathering intelligence about the incident. The more the merrier, Gillian concedes the point, and she doesn’t really mind the number of chiefs running this operation as long as at the end of the day she is left to her own devices to get to the bottom of this mystery. Something started this chain reaction – what was it?

  Establishing the identities of all involved and informing their families is the first priority, but the extent of destruction to the vehicles prevents simple number plate recognition apart from the owner of the white Vauxhall Combo van which ended up on its roof in the field: Giacomo Vitoli. Unfortunately, he is in hospital in a critical condition so won’t be shedding any light on the causes of the accident any time soon, if at all. The other potential witness is the man who abandoned his vehicle at the top of the road and proceeded on foot towards the scene. He was found unconscious on the road, only a hundred yards away from the blazing lorry. He was lucky that the fuel from the tank of the crushed passenger vehicle leaked down the hill before it exploded, in the direction opposite to where he came from. Lucky man ­ Trevor Larkin. Gillian may be able to speak to him later at the hospital – if they let her. Finally the man who reported the accident, Robert Cane – he arrived a minute or two after the fact, stopped at the top of the hill and, as he was calling 999, saw the distant figure of Trevor Larkin heading towards the scene, and witnessed the final explosion.

  Like a rag doll, Robert Cane marvelled, he was tossed in the air like a rag doll.

  And that is all that Gillian Marsh has to go on.

  *

  Scarface’s glamorous assistant, better known as Beatrice Pennyworth, Sexton’s Canning CID Public Relations officer, has just arrived on the scene and is tottering on her ten-inch stilettos towards Gillian. Her sharp knees in silk, skin-coloured stockings are slightly bent as she is balancing on the uneven surface of the road littered with debris and possibly body parts.

  ‘What the hell is she doing here?’ Gillian says to DC Webber. ‘Go see what she wants. Get her away from me.’

  Too late! ‘DI Marsh, over here!’ She waves to Gillian more or less in the style of a lady of the manor summoning her chambermaid.

  ‘We are really busy here-’

  ‘This incident is plastered all over the news. We can’t ignore the media. Where is the Super? We have to brief the media! This is a total shambles!’

  Her lips pursed, Gillian points to Scarface. Better him than her. Another precarious toddle towards the square figure of the superintendent. He is surrounded with people but as soon as his PR person makes her grand entrance, they all peel off him and vanish. Scarface doesn’t need much convincing. He likes the spotlight. Their exchange is short but impassioned going by the energised gesticulation and nodding. Soon Scarfe is being marched to the picket line of reporters. Gillian averts her gaze, trying to avoid eye contact. In vain. He has spotted her. Sends his poodle to fetch her.

  ‘DI Marsh, you’re needed! Media briefing.’

  *

  ‘Detective Superintendent Scarfe will make a short statement!’ Pennyworth lunges forward to face the press. ‘Can we have no interruptions, please... No questions!’ Once they’re settled, their mics bared like canines, this well-groomed poodle steps aside, revealing the square bulk of Scarface with his cleft upper lip. When she first met him he reminded Gillian of a Cubist painting: eyes, mouths and other body parts in all the wrong places. Now she is used to him.

  ‘The accident occurred at approximately 8:15am. There are, I’m afraid, casualties and two people have been taken to hospital, one in a critical condition.’

  ‘How many dead?’ shouts a reporter with a full mane of hair and tortoiseshell spectacles. Gillian recognises him from regional news.

  ‘No questions!’ Pennyworth bars the man from thrusting his mic in Scarfe’s face by thrusting her cleavage at him. ‘I said, no questions!’

  ‘I don’t have the exact figure,’ Scarfe answers the question despite Ms Pennyworth’s valiant efforts. ‘We are still trying to piece the events together and we are yet to establish the identity of the victims. I would like to appeal for information. If you have any information, call 101.­’

  ‘So you have no idea,’ a woman reporter butts in to Ms Pennyworth’s sheer horror. Her eyes bulge and her hair flaps behind her like a banner as she pounces on the poor female.

  ‘This is highly irregular! I said, no questions!’

  Scarface ignores her once again. ‘No, we don’t know how many passengers were in each involved vehicle. We’re asking for information... In any event, we’ll be contacting families first, before we release names into the public domain. That’s all I have to say at this stage.’

  *

  Trevor Larkin is tucked away in a hospital bed, his devoted wife by his side. Gillian has been told to keep the interview short and sweet. The man suffered severe concussion, not to mention the shock. When he came round he became so agitated that he had to be given a tranquiliser. They managed to bundle up the shaking, dribbling and incoherent man in bed. At this time, what Mr Larkin needs most is rest, a young male doctor, looking no more than thirteen, tells Gillian in a brusque manner that demands no opposition. She is finding it hard to take him seriously. A thought crosses her mind that it is the young doctor who needs bundling up in bed and plenty of sleep: his skin is pallid, his eyes encircled with dark crescents.

  Mrs Larkin does not look like someone who can sit still. She is busy tidying up the bedside table. ‘I’ve taken your wallet. You won’t need it here, and what could be easier than stealing a wallet from a bedridden man? Would you even notice if it was taken, in your state?’ she asks her husband. He fails to reply. ‘I brought you your book, put it in this drawer – it’s the only drawer you have. This one here,’ she opens and closes a drawer in the bedside table. ‘Your reading glasses are here, too. It’s nice they gave you your own room. Cosy. They might let you go home tomorrow. Let’s face it – they need beds. You’re in no condition to go home, but they’ll kick you out as soon as they can.’ She is tall, narrow-hipped and angular, wearing skinny jeans like a teenage girl, her elbows and ankles knobbly, her hair long and unnaturally dark. When she turns abruptly upon Gillian’s entrance, Gillian is confronted by a stern face with a prominent chin and eyes squared inside thick-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Mrs Larkin?’

  ‘Yes?’ Her answer sounds like a question.

  ‘I’m DI Marsh. May I have a word with Mr Larkin? It’s about the accident.’

  The square eyes blink rapidly, and with undisguised hostility. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit too early? He can hardly talk!’

  ‘People have died. Mr Larkin –’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ says a feeble voice from the bed.

  ‘He can’t remember, see?’ echoes Mrs Larkin.

  ‘I can’t remember ... much, but I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Be my guest!’ Mrs Larkin snorts, her mood still combative. She kisses her husband on his bandaged forehead. ‘I’ll be back later, darling. And please, Trevor, don’t let them bully you!’

  She teeters away, purposefully leaning forward, her long form folding inwards, a posture typical of overly tall people.r />
  Larkin looks relieved. He shuts his eyes and exhales. He is a man in his mid to late forties. His bruised, swollen face and the dome of his balding scalp rising above the bandage emphasise the onset of middle age. He is nowhere near as strong-boned as his wife. His features are oval, soft and sagging, and his chest and arms furry. He could pass for cuddly if it wasn’t for the scowl.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Gillian says. ‘I realise this isn’t the best time, but you are my only witness. Anything you saw, anything at all will be, well... invaluable.’

  ‘I can’t remember...’ He is making a huge effort just to speak. His speech is slurred and slow.

  ‘Let’s start from the beginning. Where were you going?’

  ‘Work? I think... I’m a teacher. I was on my way to school. And then it happened...’

  ‘What exactly? What did you see happen?’

  ‘I don’t know. Can’t remember...’

  ‘It was just before the Poulston turn-off. A petrol tanker, a van – white van, two other cars –’

  ‘There was a man. I saw a man – a very old-looking man, frail-looking. He was trying to climb out through a window... It was a blue car. What happened to him?’

  ‘A man?’

  ‘I can’t remember –’

  Trevor Larkin closes his eyes. His scowl softens and his breathing becomes calm and steady. He is asleep. The tranquilisers have overcome him.

  *

  Giacomo Vitoli is not available for a brief chat. He is in the operating theatre, having splinters of his ribs pulled out of his lungs. Then there is some cross-stitching to be done on his internal organs. They are in tatters. Fact is, the doctors aren’t placing any bets on the poor man’s chances of pulling through.

  Alone in an empty corridor adjacent to the operating theatre where Vitoli is fighting for his life, Gillian wonders where his family are. Are they in Italy? It can’t be much fun dying alone. ‘Does he have any relatives in the UK?’ she asks Webber on the phone. He is back at the station, holding the fort, putting together the confetti of information the voluble public throw at him.

  ‘Yes, he does, as it happens.’ Webber does not have to double-check that. ‘A wife. Megan Vitoli. I’ve been trying to contact her, but no luck. She must be out, or not answering the phone.’

  ‘Give me the home and her work address.’

  ‘Home. She doesn’t work. 44 Arcadia Close –’

  ‘I know where it is.’ Gillian is familiar with the estate, a fairly respectable new housing development on the southernmost outskirts of town. Three and four-bedroom houses, kids’ playground, a couple of Affordable Homes and a treeless, concrete landscape – the whole package smelling brand new and clinically clean.

  *

  Someone must be in. A soft thumping noise comes from behind the closed door. There is no doorbell and knocking brings no results. Gillian looks helplessly about her. The front garden reveals the Mediterranean touch of its Italian owner: a couple of terracotta pots with tufts of dark-green, spongy rubber plants sprouting out of them, pebbled floor, a stone fountain crowned with a figure of a naked cupid pointing his bow and arrow into the sky.

  A narrow side path takes Gillian to the back of the property. A flimsy wooden gate isn’t bolted. She pushes it open. The garden is small but well maintained, again distinctly Mediterranean.

  ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

  She can hear music pumping from the lounge. She peeps through a gap in the curtains. The sun is reflecting in the window pane, dazzling her. She can just make out a figure of a man with a naked torso slouched on a couch, a beer can propped on his navel. Perhaps the torso isn’t the only part of him that isn’t fully dressed, but Gillian can’t swear to that. The sun and her imagination may be playing tricks on her eyes.

  Gillian knocks on the glass door. ‘Hello? I’m looking for Mrs Vitoli.’

  The figure rises rather rapidly and, tripping over something on the floor, limps hurriedly away, taking with it the beer can.

  Gillian steps in. The music is irritating; a blunt thumping accompanied by a rhyming speech with attitude, lyrics indistinguishable. Items of clothing are strewn on the floor, a few – distinctly empty – beer cans on a table. The smell is stale.

  ‘Hello?’

  The music is coming from the TV. On screen, two men are squatting, trousers down – or so it seems to Gillian – and are delivering their duet-speech, fingers wagging, guns blazing. A bronzed female in the middle is desperately trying to shake off her sizeable bottom, which stays put despite her efforts. Above the TV a wedding photo-painting is suspended. It features a dark and handsome man slightly past his prime and a beaming young blonde corseted into a white wedding dress, her bare arms and full bosom soft and ample like rising dough.

  ‘Who are you?’ At last a living human being materialises in front of Gillian. It’s a woman: young, pretty and – not to put too fine a point on it – fat. She is the larger version of the corseted bride from the picture.

  ‘Mrs Vitoli?’

  ‘That’s me. Who are you?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Marsh, Sexton’s Canning CID.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ the woman gasps and swoons on to the couch. ‘What happened? Where is Giacomo?’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident –’

  ‘Is he dead?!’

  ‘Your husband is in a critical condition in the Western National Hospital. We tried to contact –’

  Mrs Vitoli starts sobbing. Her big, gelatinous body is quivering. It reminds Gillian of strawberry jelly – it’s so fluid and pink. Perfectly pink. Bizarrely for this time of day, she isn’t dressed. She is wearing a pink and silky dressing gown and a pair of equally pink slippers. They are tiny – her shoe size must be small despite her body mass – and, inadvertently, remind Gillian of pig’s trotters. Come to think about it, Mrs Vitoli reminds Gillian of a piglet. She is twice the size she was on her wedding day. An uncharitable thought crosses Gillian’s mind – could it be that Giacomo has been fattening his gorgeous pink wife for dinner?

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Vitoli?’

  ‘How can I be all right? My husband’s just died!’

  ‘He hasn’t,’ Gillian contradicts her. She wants to add: not yet, but that would be cruel. ‘I told you, he’s in hospital. Alive.’

  ‘He is? Ah...’ Mrs Vitoli’s sobs come to an abrupt end. ‘That’s good news then?’ She sounds disappointed. She picks up the TV remote and freezes the screen. The dreadful thumping and preaching stops – temporarily.

  ‘Well...’

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea, or something?’

  It surprises Gillian the woman isn’t yet running out of the door to be by her – almost dying – husband’s side. ‘He is in the Western National Hospital. Do you have a car? Would you like me to take you there?’

  ‘No, no... I don’t get out much. I don’t like the outdoors. Giacomo says I have a phobia. You know, phobia? Like with spiders. Only mine is with the outdoors. I’ll wait here.’

  ‘I see... I would like to ask you a few questions.’

  Mrs Vitoli rises abruptly from the couch. ‘Do you want that tea, or not?’ This sounds more like a threat than an offer.

  Gillian succumbs. ‘Yes, that’d be nice, thank you.’

  ‘That’s right. Wait here,’ Miss Piggy trots out of the room. There is a distant clinking of mugs and banging of cupboard doors.

  ‘This morning, did your husband leave for work? Do you know where he was going?’ Gillian strains her voice over the kitchen rumpus.

  A kettle whistles in reply.

  Mrs Vitoli is back with a steaming mug of tea in hand. ‘I put in two sugars. Is that right?’

  ‘Perfect!’ Gillian takes her mug. It’s a pretty – if oversized - thing, like Mrs Vitoli. It’s painted with pink roses. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s no problem. Biscuits?’ Mrs Vitoli appears composed. Her breath smells of alcohol – perhaps something she has helped herself to in the kitchen to calm her nerves. Wh
o can blame her? It’s not every day you’re told your husband is about to die.

  ‘Tea will be just fine.’

  ‘So, is that it? Anything else?’

  Without a doubt, Mrs Vitoli is a very strange woman. She has just collapsed onto the couch, her generous pinkness spilling over it.

  ‘I was just asking you about your husband’s movements this morning?’

  ‘Movements? What movements?’

  ‘Was he on his way to work? Is that where he was going?’

  ‘Oh, that! Yes, I’d think he was. I was asleep. I was in bed, asleep.’

  ‘Where does he work?’

  ‘He’s a plumber. Do you want another tea?’ She points to Gillian’s empty mug, looking rather hopeful.

  ‘No, I’ve had more than enough. Thank you. So, your husband –’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know!’ Mrs Vitoli is verging on tears. ‘What do I know? It was a job he was going to, right? Private job... Am I right?’ she looks up, seemingly directing her question to the ceiling.

  ‘A job? Is Mr Vitoli self-employed?’

  ‘Why you asking me all those questions! I haven’t done nothing!’ The pretty pink face flushes deep red and contorts in unspeakable confusion.

  A man walks in. He could be the owner of the naked upper body, which is now however modestly covered with a red T-shirt bearing a white slogan which says KEEP CALM AND GET ON WITH IT.

  ‘Is she bothering you, Megan?’ he asks Mrs Vitoli, glaring sternly at Gillian.

  ‘No, Ryan,’ instantly, she becomes calmer. ‘She’s police. She’s just asking questions about Giacomo, and I just... I don’t know what to say!’

  ‘Can I help?’ He stands next to the couch, his arms folded over the white slogan, the only letters unobscured by his arms: M AN.