Authors: Angie Smith
“I’ll get his details.” Pauline went to the bureau
and brought Bedford’s business card over.
“Before I go I’d like to ask about the time Gerrard
was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Were you with him?”
“Yes I was. It was all a bit surreal. Dr Webster,
the Oncologist, walked into the treatment room in her white coat and told him
the tests had shown the disease was well advanced and he only had a short time
left. I was stunned; the news was like an unexpected punch in the abdomen. I
asked about possible treatments, but she said they would only prolong the agony;
there was no cure. I couldn’t believe it. Gerrard accepted it; he was so matter-of-fact
about it, and asked how long he had left. Dr Webster said between twelve and
twenty-four months. And that was it. I tried to get him to look at alternative
treatments, you know, those still in development, or to go for a second
opinion, but he wasn’t interested in other treatments and assured me Dr Webster
was the best there was.”
“How was Gerrard once the news had sunk in?”
“There was no anger, no remorse, no regrets, just
acceptance, and then, as I’ve said, he became withdrawn and focused on sorting
things out before he died.”
Barnes sat deep in thought, twiddling the pen
between her fingers.
“What is it, Maria?” Pauline asked.
“I’m trying to understand what made Gerrard change.”
There was a prolonged sigh. “Gerrard was my calming
influence. Years ago I was the hot-headed and revengeful one, and he would
always tell me to let things go and move on in life, and to remember that
usually people got their comeuppance. Apart from the time he roughed up
Mateland, I can’t remember him treating anyone with anything other than
respect, and good intentions, even Bulmer who he blamed for the death of our
unborn child.”
Barnes sat in silence, mulling over the words. “I
don’t get it,” she said eventually. “No anger, no bitterness, no ill feelings
and yet a decision to have the people murdered who caused you and him the most
distress. Where did that come from?”
Pauline’s lips knitted together; Barnes could sense
she was fighting back the emotions. “How do you think I feel, Maria? I’ve got
people telling me I’m in danger, and need protection, yet the reason for this
is my late husband’s resentment of something I doubt he knew anything about. It
doesn’t make rhyme or reason.”
Barnes gave a hint of a smile. “I think we’re
missing something that’s probably so obvious it’s staring us in the face. We
need to stand back and relook.”
Pauline appeared lost in her thoughts.
“Right, thank you. I’m going to visit Mr Bedford and
see what light, if any, he can throw on things.” Barnes got up and Pauline went
with her to the door.
“Please keep me informed, Maria, and give my regards
to Superintendent Woods. I hope he’ll be feeling better soon.”
As Barnes made her way over to the car, she turned
around and smiled. “What would Gerrard have made of all this?” she shouted
back, pointing at the protection officers patrolling the grounds.
“That I’m overreacting.”
Is that all part of the plan?
Barnes thought, getting in the
car and switching on the sat-nav. She entered Barrow-in-Furness and then drove
towards the slowly opening entrance gates. “Bye,” she shouted, waving at the
smartly dressed man standing guard outside on the lane.
It was just before lunchtime when
Barnes arrived at Blueberry Woods. The relatively new, futuristic looking
building was situated on the edge of woodland, the setting both peaceful and
tranquil. She pulled up in the car park, sitting for several minutes studying
the building and its grounds. She stepped out and walked over and through the
main entrance, arriving at the reception desk. She looked up and on the wall
noticed Gerrard Crean’s portrait hanging above a plaque commemorating the grand
opening of the building in 2004. The receptionist was a middle-aged, plump
friendly woman wearing a pure white uniform with Blueberry Woods finely
inscribed on the lapel in striking turquoise.
Barnes introduced herself, showed her ID, and asked
if it would be possible to speak with the manager. The receptionist made a
quick call and two minutes later Dr Jake Hamel arrived in reception.
Barnes smiled politely, and looked up at the
portrait of Crean. “I understood Gerrard preferred not to publicise his charity
donations.”
“You’re right,” Hamel replied laughing. “He would
never have approved of that; it was one of our Trustees who commissioned it
after Gerrard died. She thought it would be a nice gesture to hang his portrait
in the main entrance, as a reminder of all the good work he did here.”
Barnes nodded in agreement, suppressing a response.
“What can I do for you, Miss Barnes?” Hamel asked,
guiding her through to his office.
“I understand that Gerrard Crean was one of your
major patrons, and I wondered if you would mind showing me around and
explaining a little about the services you provide here.”
Hamel said he would be delighted and reinforced how
proud the Centre had been to have such a generous benefactor. “Gerrard set up a
trust-fund and bequeathed several million pounds to us. What they are saying in
the papers is utter rubbish; they should come here and take a look at all the
good he did.” He put on his jacket and opened the door. “I’ll give you a
flavour of what we do,” he said, heading down the corridor.
Barnes was taken round the facilities and introduced
to a number of the in-patients and their families. When they reached the Day
Room she noticed how bright and welcoming the atmosphere appeared, and was
overwhelmed with emotion at the realisation of how much positivity there was in
all the staff, family members and, most noticeably, the individuals with brain
injuries.
“This is John,” Hamel said smiling.
Barnes bent down and took hold of John’s hand.
“Hello John,” she said.
There was no response.
“John has locked-in syndrome; he can only move
certain facial and eye muscles. He’s one of our longest standing residents.”
Barnes’ eyes moistened.
“He was beaten and left for dead in the street one
night. Someone got him to A&E just in time. He didn’t have any ID on him,
and we’ve never been able to communicate with him or trace his family.”
“How sad,” Barnes said, attempting to age him.
“Come over here and let me introduce you to Sam,”
Hamel said.
Barnes went across and noticed staff coming into the
room and going to certain residents. “Ah, it’s lunchtime,” Hamel said. “They’re
taking patients into the dining hall. Would you care to stay for lunch?”
She did not answer. She was concentrating on John who
was being pushed through the outside door. “I thought the dining hall was that
way,” she said, looking in the opposite direction.
Hamel smiled. “It is, but John gets agitated if he’s
taken through reception. We think he dislikes the décor in there, so to avoid
upsetting him we take him round the outside of the building and bring him in
via the side entrance.”
Barnes’ radar went to high-alert. She sprinted out
of the room and into reception. “I’m just borrowing this for a sec,” she said,
removing Crean’s portrait from the wall; she ran into the dining hall with a
very puzzled Dr Hamel following her. The two members of staff bringing John in
through the side door stopped as she approached.
“John, Rozpoznajesz tego mężczyznę?”
She held up the portrait.
John’s face became contorted and his eyes blinked
wildly.
“What exactly are you doing?” Hamel asked.
“Be quiet,” Barnes snapped, and then, turning to
John, said, “Jesteś Victor Zielinski!!!”
His face became more contorted and, as he blinked,
tears rolled down his face.
She turned to Hamel. “This is Victor Zielinski. He’s
a Polish national who was living and working in Hawes in 2001. We’ve been
trying to locate his whereabouts.”
“W… what did you say to him?” Hamel asked.
“I asked if he recognised Crean and then after his
reaction I confirmed who I thought he was. He hasn’t been getting upset because
of the décor in reception; it’s this,” she said, looking at Crean’s portrait in
her hand.
“Why would that cause him distress?”
She placed the portrait face down on the nearby
table. “Crean orchestrated his brain injury. She turned back to Zielinski, bent
down and spoke in Polish. “I’m a police officer.” She held out her ID. “I’m
looking into the activities of Gerrard Crean. I understand you looked after his
mother at Lakeside Residential Home.”
Zielinski contorted his face several times.
She rounded on Hamel. “I’ll need to make some phone
calls and organise protection for him; can I use your office?”
A rather befuddled looking Dr Hamel agreed and took
her back into his room where she quickly telephoned Foster who said he would
organise for the local police to come and relieve her.
Twenty minutes later she headed away from Blueberry
Woods towards Manchester and Albion Bedford’s office.
Foster stepped out into the
Incident Room, his demeanour depicting his annoyance. He walked straight over
to Dudley who was sitting at his desk looking through some paperwork.
“How’s the search for Zielinski going?” he asked.
“I’m struggling.”
“You’re struggling are you? Well, you’ll be pleased
to know that Maria has just found him, alive and living in Barrow-in-Furness.
Not only that, she’s now heading to Manchester chasing up a really good lead on
Ramírez. I wouldn’t be surprised if by the end of the day she’s located both of
them.” He turned to Jacobs. “How’s the search for Ramírez going?”
“Does she need any help?” Jacobs offered.
“What, from two detective inspectors? I shouldn’t
think so. Greg was right, she’s bloody brilliant.” Foster walked back to his
room, slamming the door shut behind him.
Dudley snatched up his phone and tried calling
Barnes. “Why isn’t she answering?” he shouted across to Jacobs.
As Barnes was driving she noticed
her mobile phone screen flashing with the word Dudley; she pressed the reject
call button and switched the device off.
I know what you want. Well you’ll
have to wait. Neither you nor Faulkner-Brown will be able to trace where I’m
going,
she thought, adopting a pleasing smile. She glanced at the sat-nav; it
was indicating the estimated time of arrival at Albion Bedford’s offices as
3.30 p.m. It would take her another hour, and, as she desperately needed to
eat, she decided to call for a snack at the motorway services where she could
gather her thoughts and prepare for the meeting.
It was therefore nearly 4.30 p.m. when she knocked
on the large oak-panelled door with the brass nameplate depicting Bedford
Logistics Ltd.
How sweet
she thought,
Logistics: the planning and
implementation of complex tasks
. The door opened and a large well-built
man, in his late forties appeared. He was as broad as an ox, pock marked and
broken toothed.
Barnes held up her ID, introduced herself and said
she wanted to speak with Albion Bedford.
“That’s me,” the man said, holding out a gigantic
hand.
“Hello,” Barnes replied, as her petite hand was
engulfed by Bedford’s paw. “You’re exactly how I imagined you to be,” she said
as they went inside. “I bet you were a boxer, or a street fighter, or a rugby player.”
“I was a wrestler, actually.”
“WWE?”
He laughed out loud. “No, I was based in the UK and
it was a long, long time ago.”
He beckoned for her to be seated while he settled
into the large director’s style leather chair behind his impressive dark oak desk.
“Now I’m sure you haven’t come all this way to discuss my former occupations,
so what can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’ve just been to Blueberry Woods to see Victor
Zielinski.” She paused analysing his reaction. “I’d say he sends his regards,
but of course you’ll know he can’t speak.”
Bedford shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. “I… I
don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Okay,” Barnes said, getting up. “Sorry to have
troubled you.” She walked towards the door and then turned. “I’m sure you’ll be
more cooperative with the Secret Service Agents who’ll be here within ten
minutes of me switching on my phone.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“I don’t need to bluff, Mr Bedford. They know I’m
heading to Manchester and I purposefully switched off my phone because I wanted
to speak to you first. They’ll already be in the area searching for me. Now I’ve
parked my car out of sight a mile or so away, but the second this phone is back
on the network they’ll be heading here.”
Bedford looked annoyed as Barnes held her phone up
with her finger wavering over the on/off button. “Last chance, talk to me or
Faulkner-Brown.”