Snatch Crop

by Gerald Hammond

  A bandaged figure was lying prone in the bed, attached by tubes and wires to all the paraphernalia made familiar by hospital epics on televison. Somebody was speaking huskily above the reassuring bleep of some kind of monitor and I recognised the voice of Bernard Thrower. Delia was sitting beside the bed, holding tight to his hand. Ian was standing at the foot of the bed and a constable squatting in a hand chair was trying to take shorthand on his knee.

  The scene, evoking pain and damaged bodies, made me shiver. I was about to turn away when Ian said, ‘Go on. When did you first realise that the rules were being broken?’

  This was interesting. I waited around the corner where I could hear without seeing or being seen. A soft-footed passer-by in a white coat with a lapel badge looked at me curiously but decided not to bother.

  ‘The purchases of shares came back to me for registration,’ Thrower said. His voice was weak but firm. ‘Several names cropped up about which I had my doubts. Not the directors themselves, but people I guessed to be connected with them.’

  ‘Can you give me any examples?’ Ian asked.

  Bernard Thrower’s laugh turned into a grunt of pain. ‘With no difficulty,’ he said. ‘For instance, the sales director’s a tough old boot named Mrs Jenson. I happened to know, because I had noticed it when registering her with BUPA, that her maiden name was McAllister; and no less than three McAllisters turned up among the purchasers. I spoke to Sir Humphrey, but he laughed it off. He said that you couldn’t expect somebody with that sort of information not to give a hint to an aunt or a cousin.

  ‘I wasn’t satisfied. It still smacked of insider trading to me, but he was the chairman.’

  ‘So you did nothing about it?’

  ‘Before—’ Thrower choked on the word. ‘Thirsty,’ he said in a whisper. There were sounds as somebody, probably Delia, gave him a drink. When he spoke again, his voice was stronger. ‘Thank you, my dear. Before I could make up my mind what if anything to do about it, something else happened. Sir Humphrey and I had been to a meeting in Edinburgh about the takeover and we decided to have lunch at the North British Hotel. I went to the toilet and as I came back into the room I saw Mr Farquharson stop and speak to Sir Humphrey.’

  I realised with a jump that another eavesdropper was standing beside me. Sir Peter Hay had arrived. He winked at me and put his finger to his lips.

  ‘You knew Nigel Farquharson?’ Ian asked.

  ‘By sight. My previous employer had done business with him, so when his name cropped up as a major purchaser of shares it caught my attention. I knew that his business had been badly hit by the slump in shipping and foreign competition, flags of convenience and so on; so he was hardly likely to have large sums of “risk money” available.’

  ‘When he spoke to Sir Humphrey,’ Ian said, ‘did they seem to know each other?’

  ‘There was no doubt in my mind at all. Mr Farquharson first looked around to be sure that nobody was watching and then patted Sir Humphrey on the shoulder. He was smiling.’ I heard a sigh. ‘It shook me up. Sir Humphrey had been very good to me. He gave me my job and nursed me through the early stages when I thought that I’d taken on more than I could handle. I looked up to him. But it was too much of a coincidence that the biggest purchaser of shares should turn out to be his friend. I. . . I couldn’t face him after that. I’d already made up my mind to leave home and go to Elaine Anderton. Do you mind very much?’

  The question did not make sense until I realised that he was speaking to Delia, who said, ‘No,’ in a small but firm voice.

  ‘That’s good. So I just walked out of the hotel and never even went back to the office. I didn’t think they’d seen me, but they must have done. I suppose that that put the wind up them.’

  ‘Probably not as much as did your sudden disappearance,’ Ian said. ‘The two taken together caused a real fluttering in the dovecot. Somebody weeded out the office files, making it very difficult for us to prove exactly when some directors came by the knowledge that they used so improperly and you were the one uninvolved person who could make sense of it for us. In the office, you might have been controlled, pressured by loyalties or the promise of promotion. On the loose, you were a threat.’

  ‘I never thought of it that way,’ Mr Thrower said. ‘It didn’t occur to me to look at my position from their point of view. If I had, I might have realised that I was putting Delia at risk. I’m sorry, Baby.’

  If Delia said anything, I missed hearing it because Ian spoke again. ‘Can you help us? And will you?’

  ‘Of course. After the way Delia was treated, I wish I could do more. I kept a working diary of the whole transaction. I suppose somebody shredded the hard copy, but the text will still be stored in the desktop computer in my room. I don’t expect that anybody thought to wipe it. You’ll need the security code, of course.’

  ‘And you can give it to me?’

  ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

  ‘You carry it in your head?’

  ‘Where else would it be safe?’

  Sir Peter touched my arm and led me away, round a turn of the corridor.

  ‘That tidies it up very nicely,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Now that the facts are in the open they’ll get the evidence. Well done, young lady! Now I can go on with finalising the takeover and then hand over and get back to sanity and the quiet life.’

  ‘You’ve enjoyed it,’ I said.

  He slowed to a halt. ‘It’s fun to have power for a while, but it’s very tiring. God must get fed up, sometimes. By the way, congratulations on your escape and the rescue of Delia. I understand that you laid about you to such effect that an ambulanceful of the ungodly were removed from the grounds of Boyes Castle.’

  I nearly asked him how he came to know about it so quickly, but there would have been no point. Sir Peter seems to be on intimate terms with absolutely everybody and he always knows everything long before anybody else. ‘Delia sloshed one of them,’ I said. ‘Two were mine and Ian arrested Mr Farquharson before I could lay a finger on him.’

  ‘A pity,’ said Sir Peter. ‘He deserved to have you let loose on him. But never mind. The law will descend on him from an even greater height. And on Humphrey Peace. I never could abide that man. Too full of himself to hold anything else.’ He beamed at me.

  ‘If it’s all over,’ I said, ‘perhaps I can go home for a meal, sleep and try to get the business back on the road.’

  He looked at me again with his shaggy eyebrows raised. ‘It’s not quite over,’ he said. ‘The solution to a crime never solves the human consequences. As soon as we got the news, I brought Elaine Anderton through.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Of course. She’s been staying with m’ladyship and me, the last few days. That husband of yours suggested it. Clever young chap! It seemed the best answer. When we heard that her – um – boyfriend was conscious, she was busting to come through and be a ministering angel or something.’

  ‘That seems to have all the makings of a happy ending.’

  His smile faded. ‘Not quite. Over the phone, I gathered that the news is not all up to its face value. Also, the official Mrs Thrower is around here somewhere, looking for a doctor to spill the beans. If and when those two meet the fur will fly, the cat will be among the pigeons and, to introduce yet another metaphor, we may see a mushroom cloud.’

  ‘I see,’ I said unhappily. And I did. If it came to a hair-pulling, face-scratching free-for-all – and restrained women like Mrs Thrower are often the first to lose all control – Sir Peter would be too gentlemanly to wrench them apart. As Ian says, it takes two to make a quarrel and two to break up a fight. I was not looking forward to the next few minutes. My aches and pains were catching up with me and I now knew what it would be like to feel very, very old. ‘Can’t we keep them apart?’ I suggested.

  ‘We could try.’

  ‘You could take Elaine away again.’

  ‘She wouldn’t go,’ he said simply.

  We found Miss Anderton
sitting nervously in an alcove that passed for a waiting-room. She jumped to her feet. ‘Can I see him now?’ she asked.

  Sir Peter patted her shoulder in his most fatherly manner. She seemed to take some comfort from the contact. ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘The police are taking his statement. And if you see a doctor first, you’ll have a better idea of what to say. And, of course, what not to say, which is usually much more important.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Mrs Thrower appeared a few seconds later, but we were spared the worst effects of the ‘critical mass’. Mrs Thrower called Elaine Anderton a promiscuous, predatory, knickerless slut and Miss Anderton called the older woman a frigid, heartless, uncaring old bitch in chainmail drawers but, perhaps because Sir Peter and I kept between them, there was no attempt at violence. Their voices rose. Remembering that it was night-time in a hospital I tried to hush them but I was ignored. The two ladies were now speaking simultaneously, each trying to shout the other down and drawing on a wealth of imaginative vituperation that I would have supposed to have been beyond them. Sir Peter seemed fascinated and I had the impression that he was enjoying the episode. I stored away as much of the dialogue as I could memorise, for repeating to Ian.

  The debate was cut short by the arrival of a doctor who cleared his throat loudly. It took some seconds for the abuse to cease as neither was prepared to suppress some choice epithet nor to fall silent and leave the initiative to the other. Their voices tailed away at last.

  ‘I understood that Mr Thrower’s relatives were here and wanted to be informed about his condition,’ the doctor said severely. ‘Perhaps I was misinformed.’

  ‘You were not,’ said Mrs Thrower. ‘I am his wife.’

  ‘His estranged wife,’ said Elaine Anderton firmly. ‘I’m his fiancée.’

  Explosion once again seemed imminent but the doctor, although he looked very young, seemed to have experienced such collisions in the past. ‘Before you come to any decisions about Mr Thrower’s future,’ he said, ‘perhaps you’d better hear what I have to say.’

  Mrs Thrower, who had been muttering darkly, broke off. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Your husband’s life is out of danger, but at that point the good news stops.’

  The two froze. I think that we all did. Elaine Anderton asked the doctor what he meant.

  The doctor looked down at his clipboard. He took a deep breath and then plunged ahead. ‘The spinal damage is severe. It seems unlikely that Mr Thrower will ever walk again. Of course, there is always hope. You were told that his prospect of survival was negligible, yet he survived. But miracles, like lightning, seldom strike twice in the same place. You can take it as a virtual certainty that he’ll be in hospital for some months and then tied to his bed or a wheelchair for the rest of his life.’ There was a long pause. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He looked up at the ceiling, making it clear that his words were addressed to neither woman in particular. ‘When you’ve come to terms with the basic facts, the consultant would like to see you; and before Mr Thrower eventually leaves hospital, the physiotherapists will be able to give you a great deal of useful advice.’ He wheeled about and hurried away. Relief at having delivered his news and made his escape was written all over his back.

  Mrs Thrower pursed her thin lips. She was the first to break the silence. ‘I know my duty,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, poor Bernard!’ Elaine Anderton burst out. ‘How can you talk of duty?’

  ‘At least I can see where duty lies. Some people have a blind spot when duty conflicts with their personal lusts. He won’t have anything to interest you now that his sex-life is over. I think you’ll find that his days of adultery are done. But I shall forgive him.’

  Elaine Anderton opened her mouth, no doubt to say something cataclysmic, but Sir Peter turned his head towards her. I could not see what kind of look he directed at her, but it stopped her in mid-syllable.

  ‘I’m sure that you’ll manage very well,’ Sir Peter told Mrs Thrower. ‘You’re a fine, strong woman, well able to lift an invalid in and out of his bed or the bath. Of course, your husband won’t be capable of earning, but there are grants available from the local authorities.’

  A movement in the shadows of the corridor caught my eye. Delia, banished from her father’s side, was waiting to join us.

  ‘I know my duty,’ Mrs Thrower said again but with rather less certainty. I decided that she had been picturing a return to her old lifestyle, with occasional pauses to mop her husband’s brow and give orders to the nurse. A life of dedication, on handouts from what remains of the Welfare State, did not have the same appeal.

  Elaine Anderton had been standing with her mouth open. She closed it suddenly. ‘Do you really think that he’d want you to care for him as a duty?’ she asked. Her voice began to rise and she fumbled for words, but her sincerity was manifest. ‘You’re cold. You’d feel martyred and you’d let him know it. He’d need love and you’d expect gratitude. Well, that seems to me to be a poor bargain from his viewpoint. I love him,’ she said more gently, ‘and I’ll look after him for as long as he needs me, as an act of love. There won’t be any money, but we’ll manage somehow.’

  Mrs Thrower tossed her head. She made a small sound indicative of indignation and contempt, but I could detect signs of relief. She hesitated. She might not want to commit herself to a lifetime of nursing a crippled husband, but her self-image would not let her jump too eagerly into this escape route. ‘If that’s how you feel about it—’ she began.

  ‘It’s exactly how I feel about it,’ said Elaine.

  It was nothing to do with me, but I felt I had to stick my oar in. ‘What about Delia?’ I asked.

  ‘Delia will always have a home with me,’ said Mrs Thrower.

  ‘You make it sound like another duty,’ said Elaine. ‘I think that Delia should choose for herself.’

  Delia moved out of the shadows of the corridor where she had been standing, unseen by the others. She walked sedately and there was a new maturity about her. During our escape through the grounds of Boyes Castle, she had managed to take ruthless action on her own initiative. This, and exposure to some of the harsher realities of life, had helped her to grow up in a hurry. ‘Dad already told me,’ she said. ‘I want to be where he is. I’m quite strong. Perhaps I can help. He doesn’t want to be a burden if he’s not wanted, but I know that he’d rather be with Elaine. He said so.’ The effect of her words was spoiled by a huge yawn at the end. It was long past her bedtime. And mine.

  ‘So be it,’ said Mrs Thrower. ‘I shall go to my sister in Oban. I’ll leave your clothes and things with Mrs Calder.’ She looked once at each of us and she turned away. Delia watched her go. Then she moved towards her father’s lover and in a sudden rush of emotion they put their arms around each other. I looked away from a scene that seemed too personal to be watched.

  ‘Life may not be quite as difficult as you think,’ Sir Peter said gently. He offered them a large white handkerchief to share between them. ‘Bernard wrote to the firm, offering his resignation, but it was never accepted. It couldn’t be, without a return address. I think we can stretch a point and assume that the then chairman was responsible for his absence from duty. So his BUPA membership stands and he’ll have a pension coming.’

  When I got the old devil alone, I told him. ‘You were careful not to say anything about the money while Mrs Thrower was with us.’

  He had offered to run me back to where the jeep was waiting for me. We were walking across the empty hospital car park, looking for the police car so that I could collect Sam. Sir Peter’s face was in darkness, but when the light of one of the few lamps caught the highlights I thought that he was smiling to himself.

  ‘Of course I was,’ he said. ‘If I’d mentioned it any sooner, the wife might have put up more of a fight; and I wouldn’t wish that on the poor devil. That Miss Anderton’s a soft-hearted creature, for all that she’s got some backbone. Her love will thrive on his dependence. He’ll be much b
etter off with her.’

  ‘So will Delia,’ I said.

  Sam, when we found him, had been sharing bag after bag of potato crisps with the driver and was in no hurry to get out of the warm police car. I walked away a few yards and gave vent to my special whistle, which brought him out to me with a rush and probably woke up all the younger patients in the hospital. Sir Peter never blinked.

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