Be Careful What You Wish For: The Clifton Chronicles 4 (2 page)

As Marsden drove through unfamiliar towns, Chippenham, Newbury, Slough, Don Pedro Martinez interrupted Emma’s thoughts more than once. Was it possible that he could have been seeking
revenge for what had taken place in Southampton just a few weeks ago? But if the other person in the car was Martinez’s son Bruno, that didn’t make any sense. Emma’s thoughts
returned to Sebastian as Marsden left the Great West Road and turned north in the direction of the A1; the road Sebastian had been travelling on only hours before. Emma had once read that in times
of personal tragedy, all anyone wanted to do was turn the clock back. She was no different.

The journey passed quickly, as Sebastian was rarely out of her mind. She recalled his birth, when Harry was in prison on the other side of the world, his first steps at the age of eight months
and four days, his first word, ‘More’, and his first day at school, when he jumped out of the car even before Harry had had time to put on the brakes, then later at Beechcroft Abbey,
when the headmaster had wanted to expel him but granted Seb a reprieve when he won a scholarship to Cambridge. So much to look forward to, so much to achieve, all made history in a moment. And
finally, her dreadful mistake when she’d allowed the cabinet secretary to persuade her that Seb should become involved with the government’s plans to bring Don Pedro Martinez to
justice. If she’d refused Sir Alan Redmayne’s request, her only son would still be alive. If, if . . .

As they reached the outskirts of Harlow, Emma glanced out of the side window to see a signpost directing them to the Princess Alexandra Hospital. She tried to concentrate on what would be
expected of her. A few minutes later Marsden drove through a set of wrought-iron gates that never closed, before drawing up outside the main entrance of the hospital. Emma got out of the car and
began walking towards the front door while Marsden went in search of a parking space.

She gave the young receptionist her name, and the cheerful smile on the girl’s face was replaced with a look of pity. ‘Would you be kind enough to wait for a moment, Mrs
Clifton,’ she said as she picked up a phone. ‘I’ll let Mr Owen know you’re here.’

‘Mr Owen?’

‘He was the consultant on duty when your son was admitted this morning.’

Emma nodded and began pacing restlessly up and down the corridor, jumbled thoughts replacing jumbled memories.
Who, why, when . . .
She only stopped pacing when a starched-collared,
smartly dressed nurse enquired, ‘Are you Mrs Clifton?’ Emma nodded. ‘Please come with me.’

The nurse led Emma along a green-walled corridor. No words were spoken. But then, what could either of them say? They came to a halt outside a door which displayed the name ‘Mr William
Owen FRCS’. The nurse knocked, opened the door and stood aside to allow Emma to enter.

A tall, thin, balding man with an undertaker’s doleful visage rose from behind his desk. Emma wondered if that face ever smiled. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Clifton,’ he said, before
ushering her into the only comfortable chair in the room. ‘I’m so sorry we have to meet in such sad circumstances,’ he added.

Emma felt sorry for the poor man. How many times a day did he have to deliver those same words? From the look on his face, it didn’t get any easier.

‘I’m afraid there’s rather a lot of paperwork to be completed, but I fear the coroner will require a formal identification before we can think about that.’

Emma bowed her head and burst into tears, wishing, as Harry had suggested, that she’d allowed him to carry out the unbearable task. Mr Owen leapt up from behind his desk, crouched down
beside her and said, ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Clifton.’

Harold Guinzburg couldn’t have been more considerate and helpful.

Harry’s publisher had booked him on to the first available flight to London, first class. At least he would be comfortable, Harold thought, although he didn’t imagine the poor man would be
able to sleep. He decided this was not the time to tell him the good news, but simply asked Harry to pass on his heartfelt condolences to Emma.

When Harry checked out of the Pierre Hotel forty minutes later, he found Harold’s chauffeur standing on the sidewalk waiting to drive him to Idlewild airport. Harry climbed into the back of the
limousine, as he had no desire to speak to anyone. Instinctively, his thoughts turned to Emma, and what she must be going through. He didn’t like the idea of her having to identify their
son’s body. Perhaps the hospital staff would suggest she waited until he returned.

Harry didn’t give a thought to the fact he would be among the first passengers to cross the Atlantic non-stop, as he could only think about his son, and how much he’d been looking
forward to going up to Cambridge to begin his first year at university. And after that . . . he’d assumed that with Seb’s natural gift for languages, he’d want to join the Foreign
Office, or become a translator, or possibly even teach, or . . .

After the Comet had taken off, Harry rejected the glass of champagne offered by a smiling air hostess, but then how could she know he had nothing to smile about? He didn’t explain why he
wouldn’t be eating or sleeping. During the war, when he was behind enemy lines, Harry had trained himself to stay awake for thirty-six hours, only surviving on the adrenalin of fear. He knew
he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he’d seen his son for the last time, and he suspected not for some considerable time after that: the adrenalin of despair.

The consultant led Emma silently down a bleak corridor until they came to a halt outside a hermetically sealed door, with the single word,
Mortuary
, displayed in
appropriately black letters on its pebbled glass pane. Mr Owen pushed open the door and stood aside to allow Emma to enter. The door closed behind her with a squelch. The sudden change in
temperature made her shiver, and then her eyes settled on a trolley standing in the middle of the room. The faint outline of her son’s body was visible under the sheet.

A white-coated assistant stood at the head of the trolley, but didn’t speak.

‘Are you ready, Mrs Clifton?’ asked Mr Owen gently.

‘Yes,’ said Emma firmly, her fingernails cutting into the palms of her hands.

Owen nodded, and the mortician pulled back the sheet to reveal a scarred and battered face that Emma recognized immediately. She screamed, collapsed on to her knees, and began to sob
uncontrollably.

Mr Owen and the mortician were not surprised by this predictable reaction of a mother at the first sight of her dead son, but they were shocked when she said quietly, ‘That’s not
Sebastian.’

A
S THE TAXI
drew up outside the hospital, Harry was surprised to see Emma standing by the entrance, clearly waiting for him. He was even more surprised
when she ran towards him, relief etched on her face.

‘Seb’s alive,’ she shouted long before she’d reached him.

‘But you told me—’ he began as she threw her arms around him.

‘The police made a mistake. They assumed it was the owner of the car who was driving, and that therefore Seb must have been in the passenger seat.’

‘Then Bruno was the passenger?’ said Harry quietly.

‘Yes,’ said Emma, feeling a little guilty.

‘You realize what that means?’ said Harry, releasing her.

‘No. What are you getting at?’

‘The police must have told Martinez that
his
son had survived, only for him to discover later that it was Bruno who’d been killed, not Sebastian.’

Emma bowed her head. ‘Poor man,’ she said as they entered the hospital.

‘Unless . . .’ said Harry, not finishing the sentence. ‘So how’s Seb?’ he asked quietly. ‘What state is he in?’

‘Pretty bad, I’m afraid. Mr Owen told me there weren’t many bones left in his body to break. It seems he’ll be in hospital for several months, and may end up spending the
rest of his life in a wheelchair.’

‘Just be thankful he’s alive,’ said Harry, placing an arm around his wife’s shoulder. ‘Will they let me see him?’

‘Yes, but only for a few minutes. And be warned, darling, he’s covered in plaster and bandages, so you might not even recognize him.’ Emma took his hand and led him up to the
first floor, where they came across a woman dressed in a dark blue uniform who was bustling around, keeping a close eye on the patients while giving the occasional order to her staff.

‘I’m Miss Puddicombe,’ she announced, thrusting out her hand.

‘Matron to you,’ whispered Emma. Harry shook her hand and said, ‘Good day, Matron.’

Without another word, the diminutive figure led them through to the Bevan Ward to find two neat rows of beds, every one of them occupied. Miss Puddicombe sailed on until she reached a patient at
the far end of the room. She drew a curtain around Sebastian Arthur Clifton, and then withdrew. Harry stared down at his son. His left leg was held up by a pulley, while the other one, also encased
in plaster, lay flat on the bed. His head was swathed in bandages, leaving one eye to focus on his parents, but his lips didn’t move.

As Harry bent down to kiss him on the forehead, the first words Sebastian uttered were, ‘How’s Bruno?’

‘I’m sorry to have to question you both after all you’ve been through,’ said Chief Inspector Miles. ‘I wouldn’t unless it was absolutely
necessary.’

‘And why is it necessary?’ asked Harry, who was no stranger to detectives or their methods of extracting information.

‘I’m yet to be convinced that what happened on the A1 was an accident.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Harry, looking directly at the detective.

‘I’m not suggesting anything, sir, but our back-room johnnies have carried out a thorough inspection of the vehicle, and they think one or two things just don’t add
up.’

‘Like what?’ asked Emma.

‘For a start, Mrs Clifton,’ said Miles, ‘we can’t work out why your son crossed the central reservation when he so obviously risked being hit by an oncoming
vehicle.’

‘Perhaps the car had a mechanical fault?’ suggested Harry.

‘That was our first thought,’ replied Miles. ‘But although the car was badly damaged, none of the tyres had burst, and the steering-wheel shaft was intact, which is almost
unknown in an accident of this kind.’

‘That’s hardly proof of a crime being committed,’ said Harry.

‘No, sir,’ said Miles, ‘and on its own, it wouldn’t have been enough for me to ask the coroner to refer the case to the DPP. But a witness has come forward with some
rather disturbing evidence.’

‘What did he have to say?’

‘She,’ said Miles, referring to his notebook. ‘A Mrs Challis told us she was overtaken by an open-top MG which was just about to pass three lorries that were in convoy on the
inside lane, when the front lorry moved into the outside lane, although there was no other vehicle in front of him. This meant that the driver of the MG had to brake suddenly. The third lorry then
also moved across into the outside lane, again for no apparent reason, while the middle lorry maintained its speed, leaving the MG with no way to overtake or move to the safety of the inside lane.
Mrs Challis went on to say that the three lorries kept the MG boxed in this position for some considerable time,’ continued the detective, ‘until its driver, without rhyme or reason,
careered across the central reservation straight into the face of the oncoming traffic.’