Authors: Judith Cutler
‘I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen. I really am. But I really must ask you to show a little consideration! The two visitors per patient guideline isn’t there for nothing, you know! A big group like yours can disturb other patients. My friend, just there, is – is dying, you see… Thank you. Thank you very much. I hoped you’d understand…
‘So they’re decent people, Elise, despite their tracksuits and trainers and their cans of lager: no argument and they’re very much quieter, aren’t they? I was afraid there might be trouble – can you imagine my risking doing that in a public place? I’d have been lynched before I got to the end of my first sentence.
‘I lied, of course. You’re not really my friend, of course, are you? A friend is someone with whom you have some sort of meaningful interaction. You have none with me. A friend is someone with whom you share mutual tastes and interests, and I know nothing of yours.
‘I hope you were a literate lady – that you found time to read in whatever life you led. And to listen to music. Did you go to your local theatre and lament the passing of
decent weekly rep? I’d hate to think that the lottery was the highlight of your week, or that you shuffled off to Bingo every Thursday. If you had, though, surely your friends would have missed you when you never returned – they’d have reported it to the police. They’ve had enough time to do so: it’s nearly two years since the accident. And I’ve been to see you pretty well every week. Is it guilt for what I did? Some sort of atonement? Whatever it is, Elise, I wish you could discuss it with me.
‘Thank goodness there seems to be no residual bruising: I truly can’t believe I hit you. They might not have let me come again if they’d found out. Worse, they might have had me charged with assault.
‘Can you assault someone who is technically dead?’
‘Heavens: look at the time! I’m so sorry – I really must fly.’
In his spot in the still half-empty senior officers’ car park, Mark flicked the radio from a wonderfully acerbic John Humphrys interview on Today to an up-beat bit of Vivaldi on Classic FM. He buried his nose in a file, the top page of which he read six times and was still no clearer about, when at last Fran’s car came into sight: yes, it was definitely her Saab. He felt his shoulders unbrace, and buried his face in paperwork again: he didn’t want to seem to be doing anything as crass as waiting for her, in case she construed it as managerial checking up. In fact, checking up it was, but since it was born of anxiety for her safety, perhaps he could be excused. The number of miles she covered in the worst circumstances every weekend put her at risk, statistically, however good a driver she was, and however safe the car. He felt almost as anxious as when his sons had gone on their first long solo journeys – irritated by their need to prove themselves, furious he couldn’t protect them from life, and imagining, every second they passed their ETA, that any moment a
stern-faced
colleague would present himself on the doorstep
with the worst news. But the anxiety was different. He knew that. It masked or augmented, whichever way he looked at it, a dreadful fear that she would be taken from him before – but that part of his sentence he didn’t care yet to complete.
Their supper: had it been an old-fashioned first date? He’d felt as tongue-tied as when he’d first taken Tina out, thirty-odd years ago, when the fashion was for sex first and conversation, if necessary, later. But for some reason the young pair had done the best suit and nice frock thing, and had patronised the local Indian, thinking they were as trendy as tomorrow. Whereas his acne’d earlier self had stuttered and stumbled, his present incarnation had had reserves of experience of important meals to call on – even if they’d nearly failed him when it came to the matter of whether or not to wear a tie. Perhaps she’d seen his pantomime: there’d been laughter at the back of her eyes when she’d arrived beside his car punctual to the minute. Perhaps she’d also worried about her appearance. There were two distinct shades of lipstick visible, as if she couldn’t make up her mind. And although he couldn’t recall exactly what she’d worn, he knew she’d looked stunning. At least, he tried to correct himself, as stunning as an overworked, exhausted woman in her fifties could look.
What had they talked about, what had they eaten? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember: he’d been so worried since by her impending trip to Devon he’d lost the pleasures large and small he should have cherished.
Now she was here, safe and sound, he could recall a not unpleasant restaurant, with quite decent food. He could remember a lot of laughter. If, once or twice, he hadn’t caught her face in repose as weary as death, he’d have taken her home there and then, he knew that. And they wouldn’t have got much sleep. But to add to Fran’s sleep debt would have been the height of irresponsibility, and his job and his marriage had sapped his ability to throw his hat in the air, not caring where it fell.
There’d be other days, other nights: he was almost sure of it. Yes, there’d be something more than the friendly goodnight kiss, which she’d suddenly dabbed on his cheek and he’d chastely returned. And as he saw the inexpressibly weary lines of her face shift upwards into a grin of delight, he was sure. Quite sure. You couldn’t feign a smile like that. It warmed the chilly morning. And brought him out of his car in something approaching a leap.
As for her, her movements were slow, and he thought he detected a grimace of pain. Where was the athletic young woman he’d once watched springing about the badminton court like one possessed? Her knees had turned pink with the effort. Soon, he’d ask her to play with him. It’d be good to turn them pink again.
‘How are you? How was Devon?’
He put out his hand, like a courtier, to steady her. In fact she rested her whole weight on it, so he steadied her with the other. She was lifting her face for a kiss, he was sure of it, the lips parted, the eyes guiding his, when
they heard footsteps and were recalled to the decencies incumbent on two senior officers. So, no long Hollywood embrace, certainly no tipping her elegantly back across the bonnet in an extravagant gesture. Not this time.
As she found her feet, she found her voice: ‘I’m fine. And I may have cracked it. The problem, I mean.’ She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘I never meant to call
them
a problem.’
‘But they are,’ he pointed out gently, releasing her slowly.
‘To my shame, that’s what they’ve become. The man and woman who begot me, stigmatised as a problem.’ She bit her lip on her anger, turning to zap the car. ‘What I meant was, I’ve cracked the problem of them being on their own. I’ve got someone to sleep in the bungalow during the week.’
‘Excellent. Just like that?’
‘Not exactly. You see, I don’t normally have time to give the place a thorough clean.’
‘You—?’
‘The poor care workers aren’t allowed to touch anywhere their clients don’t actually use, so the spare bedroom was pretty grotty.’
‘How grotty?’
‘Well, they never open windows. Never, ever. Any of them. Windows let in draughts, a bad thing, and let out heat, an even worse thing. So they have a condensation problem.’
‘I had an aunt like that. Mould and mildew. Scrubbing with bleach was the only thing to shift them. Not just the window frames, but the walls, too. Is that what you had to do?’ He hoped he sounded interested, not furious.
‘Well, I couldn’t have asked a stranger to sleep in those conditions.’
Which meant that she did.
‘And the bedclothes always used to smell musty,’ he prompted.
‘Tell me about it. I had to waste time washing and drying blankets: they’ve never believed in duvets, resolute in their belief that nine-tenths of European civilisation must be wrong. And I’m afraid the room still smelt musty, despite all the air spray I’ve used. Pot pourri too.’ She straightened her shoulders, as if to deny the effort. ‘But the good news is Marie! She works during the day as a care assistant so she knows the job. And she’s used to babysitting people who are old or infirm. She’s got excellent references and her police check is immaculate.’
‘Sounds too good to be true,’ he said, smiling. He looked over her shoulder. ‘Where’s your overnight bag?’
‘It stays in the car till I get home. Everything goes straight into the washing machine. There’s a complete change of clothes here in my locker.’
‘Have you had breakfast yet? If not, we could…’ He tailed off, suddenly awkward.
‘Do you have enough time for me to shower? I want to get rid of the old-people smell.’
There was a distinct mustiness about her, now he came to think about it. But her efficiency – bags for this, bags for that – amazed him afresh. They fell into step.
‘So a shower would be welcome,’ she prompted him.
‘Take as long as you need. My first meeting isn’t till nine-thirty. And you?’
‘Today I go back to first principles. I want a look at our crime scene—’
He stopped, half turning. ‘On your own?’ He regretted the words and, more particularly the tone, as they left his mouth.
‘On my own. I’ve asked one of the CID lads to check and double check on missing persons and so on. But I’ve always liked to check crime scenes like that alone. With an open mind. No helpful suggestions from other people. Above all, no phone calls.’
‘So you’ll be out of reach?’ He had to stuff a hand into a pocket to stop him reaching for her, she looked so vulnerable.
‘Only while I stand and think. Then I’ll switch on the mobile again.’
‘You will be careful, won’t you? It’s near a very dangerous corner. Accident black spot.’ For God’s sake, he knew she’d passed all the police driving courses going, apart from the one permitting her to drive endangered diplomats and politicians. What was he thinking of, appearing to question her competence? But
she hadn’t had to take the courses on top of a gruelling weekend’s cleaning. She’d probably toiled in the garden, too, and produced those reheatable meals she’d spoken of. She might even, on reflection, feel that being cared about made a nice change. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said swiftly, all the same, ‘I didn’t mean to sound…but you do look done in.’
For a moment he thought that if he held out his arms she’d fall into them.
But she smiled bravely. ‘All the more reason for a shower. The canteen at eight-fifteen?’
Half an hour later they were in the canteen. It was good job there wasn’t some sort of test on this conversation either. There hadn’t been many silences, and certainly no awkward pauses. Words had drifted backwards and forwards, punctuated by smiles that were more openly shifting from comradely to affectionate. He’d found himself watching the way she spooned her muesli, liking the shape of her hands, even the way she held the spoon. At one point he absently stretched a finger to catch a trickle down her cheek from her shower-wet hair. In a lowlier officer that would have made him the
laughing-stock
of the canteen, subject to sniggers behind cupped hands. At least they were spared overt teasing: chief superintendents were almost certainly above coarse ribbing; ACCs definitely were. Unless the Chief chose to exert a little camaraderie.
Fran must concentrate. She must. Otherwise she’d go into a daydream about Mark and crash or simply go into a dream and crash. So she kept the heater off and the window down.
As minor roads went, the B2067 wasn’t inspiring, although it went through lush and well-wooded farming land. Technically it was the most direct route from Tenterden to Hythe, but, snaking round as if made by the proverbial English drunkard, it was much slower than the longer route using the M20 and the A28. Assuming that Tenterden was where you were heading, of course. Or, conversely, Hythe. There was no indication, on file at least, that Elise had business in either. Nor was there any evidence that she had been driving along the road where she’d been assaulted. So had she been attacked elsewhere and dropped where her assailant hoped no one would find her? If so, why hadn’t he carried her further from the road? Even from where Fran stood, she could see thickets and overgrown hedges: this was one corner of Kent where they hadn’t been obsessed by efficiency and mega-fields.
Turning her back to the wind, she leafed through the notes she’d made on the information in the original file. There were the tracks of a large vehicle parked a hundred yards further down the road towards Hythe, but the driver had never come forward, and there’d been no reason to link Elise with a lorry. If Fran couldn’t imagine herself hitching a lift in an HGV, there was no reason to assume a woman of the same generation
would, even if her car had thoroughly broken down. She’d stay with her car and use her mobile to call the AA or whatever: other middle-aged women tended to rely on motoring organisations to solve even basic problems like flat tyres.
What if – like so many rural parts of the county – this was a mobile black spot? That was easily tested. No, she had no problem dialling her own home number.
What if Elise hadn’t had a mobile?
Come on: this was the twenty-first century. But you couldn’t check all the records of all the mobile phone companies, not until you had a full name to go on.
What if you assumed – just for a moment – that she didn’t have one, what would she do? Surely, if a kindly – or otherwise – driver stopped, she’d lock herself in her car and simply ask them to phone for help. Wouldn’t she?
All the same, Fran wrote,
LORRY
???
She knew that her predecessors on the case had checked and double-checked all the women called Elise on the Hythe area’s electoral roll. There were very few, and all were present and correct. The same applied to Tenterden and even – yes, her colleagues had done their best – to Folkestone, New Romney and Ashford.
The wind brought a sudden burst of rain. Poor Elise: this was a lonely enough spot to have lain dying, until some kind stranger had come along to try and save you. Alan Pitt. And all he’d done, according to the notes, was postpone the event. Had he even done that? Had she
not died as he’d pumped her chest and breathed air from his own lungs into her? The kiss of life. Or, in this poor woman’s case, the kiss of an unconscious life.
Fran huddled back into her car. No bolts from the blue to report to Mark. Should she call with a nil return? It was tempting, just to hear his voice. No. He was an ACC, for God’s sake, with a caseload to match his rank. All the same, she checked she’d left her mobile on before she retraced her steps to the A2070, and turned towards Ashford and the William Harvey Hospital.
As she tapped her registration number into the pay and display machine, she recalled all the times she’d dramatically slewed a police vehicle into a reserved parking slot and dashed into an A and E to gather what she could from a victim of some sort of violence or another. RTAs; binge drinking; domestic abuse: whatever the event, they’d resulted in trauma not just for the person on the stretcher but for the officers dealing with the incident. She’d lost count of the times that in her early career she’d lobbied management at national level for emotional support for them. Now counselling was as routine as debriefing. Yes,
crime-solving
apart, she’d achieved something in her years in the service.
The modern entrance, with its little shops, was nothing like the forbidding echoing entrances she recalled, and she missed the old-fashioned smell of disinfectant, reassuring patients and visitors alike that
the fight against infection was being waged with all matron’s might.
Fran knew better than to expect long regimented rows of hospital-cornered beds, either, though she was obscurely surprised that Elise should be cared for on an ordinary ward. Wouldn’t you expect privacy for her? If not for the dying woman herself, for the sake of those still hoping to recover? Flashing her ID, she introduced herself to the little gaggle at the nurses’ station – the new uniforms no longer clearly marked out sisters or staff nurses.
‘I’m looking for Elise, your PVS patient,’ she said.