Money Never Sleeps (18 page)

But she had patience and perseverance. She found the end eventually and peeled off several strips. The stickiness was not good – too ancient – but she wound it round and round her foot, pressing it down, hoping some of it would stick.

Then she did the same for the other foot, wedge of paper, plastic bag and Sellotape. She had shoes.

‘Not exactly Jimmy Choo,’ she said to her feet. ‘But he would be proud of me.’

Her toes began to thaw inside the plastic bags. She got up and searched round the car park. She found another abandoned plastic bag, shook out the food container debris and wrapped her frozen hand in the bag. Not a perfect glove, but warm enough. She began changing hands with the plastic bag, to get warmth back into both of them. Plastic bags had a hundred uses. She would write a book on a hundred and one uses for plastic bags.

There was nothing else in the car park. No abandoned picnic basket with the remains of a game pie and an opened bottle of champagne. Only crumpled crisp packets and sweet wrappers. She found some broken crisps left in a bag and ate them, licked out the salt granules. The salt was euphoric.

It took determination to start walking again. She could have easily curled up in the car park and waited for dawn, for the first visitor to arrive with a car. That was if she survived the plunging temperature of the night, frozen and wet as she was.

It was straightforward to find the gate out of the car park and the walkers’ path that led down to some small dale village. There
was even a sign which kindly said
Footpath
. The narrow,
gravel-shod
path had to lead downwards.

Somewhere in the vast distance below she could see tiny,
twinkling
lights, mere blinks in the blanket of darkness. They spelled civilization, houses, roads, street lighting, water and pints and pints of hot coffee.

‘T
wenty paces, now rest for twenty.’

Fancy continued the same pattern, battling against a high wind that flattened her wet clothes. The Japanese platform shoes needed some getting used to. It was like walking on stilts but they protected her torn feet to some extent. The trusty stick took on magical properties. Harry Potter would have been proud of her.

She began to feel the shapes of other hillsides closing in and woodland looming, dry stone walls. It was not the desolate Mam Tor any more. She had left behind the hill fortress and was descending into husbandry, the farms and peasants. She wondered how many other wanderers had sought sanctuary in the village, stumbled into some rural cottage, exhausted and thirsty.

Fancy could feel the steep slope as she walked. She needed her trusty stick or she would have fallen. Clouds scudded across the flawed moon. The going down was endless, relentless, jolting. She lost all sense of time. How many hours? Two, three, four? The path began to flatten out, become wider, meander, not straight.

She was not aware that she had reached the end of the path, or had gone through the signed opening, or felt the tarmac under her feet. She had been walking in a daze, on autopilot. There were lights ahead but she hardly saw them.

For a moment, she staggered about, hardly registering that it was no longer a path but a road. This was a flat surface. She could hardly believe it.

There was a bus stop. But she was not going to wait for a bus. No buses at this time of night.

The road into the village was up a slight incline, but she could manage that, though it was an effort. The village was almost dark, house lights were out, people had gone to bed. Hardly anyone was still awake. It must be very late.

But Fancy caught sight of some lights. It was a pub. Seventeenth century by the looks of it, very old timbers. She couldn’t see the name. Cheese or something on the swinging sign but she could hardly read it. She moved herself towards the pub, praying that the lights would not go out before she got there.

She pushed open the door with the last of her strength. The warmth hit her like an oven. It was like an unexpected blanket that enveloped her frozen body. She staggered, almost fell into the foyer. It was a cosy barroom, a fire dying down, heavy beams encompassing the heat. No jukeboxes, no gaming tables, no drinkers. They were about to close. If they weren’t closed already.

She collapsed onto the floor, unable to move, breathing in the heat, feeling the smoothness of the timbered floor. She heard footsteps hurrying over the wood-boarded floor but could not open her eyes.

‘Good heavens. Fred. Fred. Come here. Look at this poor woman.’

‘Lord above. Is she dead?’

‘No, she’s breathing. But she’s covered in blood and muck.’

‘Don’t move her, but get a rug or something. Cover her up. I’ll ring for an ambulance. She’s been in some sort of accident.’

Fancy heard the voices above her. They sounded kind,
concerned
. She felt the blanket being thrown over her and tucked in.

‘Look at her poor feet. She must have walked miles.’

‘See if she’d like a drink.’

‘Brandy?’

‘No, just plain water at first. Then perhaps some tea.’

The woman was peering over her. Fancy opened her eyes, saw nothing but dazzling light. ‘Would you like a drink?’

Fancy nodded.

Then water arrived but Fancy could hardly drink it. Half of it went down her front. Still, it was something. Fresh water. She nodded her thanks. She was thankful just to be lying somewhere in the warm where no one was trying to kill her.

The woman came back with a cup of tea. ‘Not too hot,’ she said. ‘And a bendy straw. I saw how difficult it was for you to drink. Let me prop you up. I don’t think your back is injured. Say if it hurts too much to move, though. Now, is that better?’

Fancy sipped the warm, sweet tea. It was nectar. She could feel the strong support of the woman holding her up. The pub lady was a buxom woman with plump arms, a halo of grey curls. The liquid slid down Fancy’s throat. It was sweet and invigorating. The best cup of tea in her entire life.

‘Wonderful,’ said Fancy, sucking up the last drop. ‘Tea.’

‘Are you feeling better?’

‘A little, thank you.’

‘Can you tell us what happened?’

Fancy thought about it. It was a long and complicated story. ‘Someone tried to kill me, that’s all you need to know. But please could you phone Jed Edwards, Derby CID. DSI Jed Edwards. Make sure you get through to him personally or ask for his mobile number. Can you do that for me? It’s important.’

The woman scrambled to her feet. ‘I’ll do that straight away. My husband has phoned for an ambulance, but they’ll take ages getting here. I think they have to come from Sheffield. Quite a way. Don’t worry. We’ll look after you.’

Fancy sank back, not caring too much any more.

By the time the ambulance arrived, Fancy was sitting in an armchair by the dying fire, still wrapped in a blanket. Her torn feet were in a bowl of warm salty water, being carefully washed by the landlord’s wife, Betty.

‘This young lady came into the bar in a really bad way,’ said Betty as two yellow-coated paramedics arrived with their green bags. ‘Lying on the floor, she was. She was covered in blood and could hardly move. Cold as stone.’

‘So, miss? Can you tell me your name?’

‘Francine Jones.’

‘Where does it hurt?’

‘Everywhere.’

‘Can you move your fingers, toes … follow my finger?’

Fancy complied with the various tests. She knew nothing was broken. She could hardly have walked down from Mam Tor with a broken leg.

‘How did this happen?’

‘An accident.’

‘Car accident? Was anyone else involved?’

He was looking at the blood on her front, the soaked and caked condition of her trousers, the torn feet in the bowl of water.

‘I think you ought to come into Derby Hospital for a complete examination and get fixed up.’

‘I’d like to wait for DSI Edwards from Derby CID first. He’s on his way,’ said Fancy, without much conviction. She was not sure if he was on his way.

‘That’s not sensible. Your feet need treatment. DSI Edwards can take a statement from you in hospital.’

Fancy didn’t like the way he said that. She looked closely at his face. She didn’t like the expression she saw. The woman medic had gone out to the ambulance to fetch a stretcher or a
wheelchair
, her face hidden. Fancy panicked. She was not going anywhere with these two strangers. They might strap her to the stretcher, wheel her away to anywhere, dump her in the River Derwent.

‘No, I’m waiting for DSI Edwards,’ said Fancy firmly. ‘I’m not moving. Some painkillers would help.’

‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ said Betty, hiding a yawn. She had been up all day, working all evening in the pub. It was late. And she still had to lock up. ‘They’ll look after you in hospital.’

‘I’m sure they will,’ said Fancy, hugging the blanket closer. ‘If I ever get there. Please believe me, there is more to this than me being a lost walker.’

‘It wouldn’t hurt to wait until the police arrive,’ said Betty to her husband. ‘This young lady seems to know what she’s talking
about. And that long, jolting ambulance ride wouldn’t do her any good.’

‘Are you refusing treatment?’ the paramedic asked. He got out a pad of forms and started filling it in: time, date, location,
condition
of patient. ‘You’ll have to sign here.’ Fancy scrawled
Jones
.

‘Why don’t you wait as well until the police arrive?’ said Betty. ‘It can’t be long now. I’ll make us all a nice cup of tea and some corned beef sandwiches.’

‘Very kind,’ said the medic, ‘but we’ve got another call.’ He began repacking his bag. The woman had already gone, reloading the stretcher.

The ambulance started up and drove off, slowly at first, and then with more speed. It seemed to go faster than it came. Perhaps it did have another more urgent call.

Fancy was glad to hear them go. It might be irrational but she did not trust anyone.

‘You’re very kind,’ said Fancy. ‘And I know I’m putting you to a lot of trouble, when I can see you are both dead tired. Why don’t you leave me here, in front of the fire? I’ll be perfectly all right. I’m so comfortable and cosy. Just make sure that you lock up everywhere, please.’

‘We always do. With this stock of alcohol around.’

‘What about this detective you’re expecting?’

‘Leave some lights on. He’ll knock. I’ll open the door to him. I can still walk a few steps.’

‘You should really get into some dry clothes and have a good night’s sleep,’ Betty said, bustling about. ‘We’ve got a spare room upstairs. It’s all clean and ready. Only take a moment to heat the bed. There’s an electric blanket.’

‘Oh, that would be lovely,’ said Fancy, longing to lay down and sleep, to stretch out in warm clean sheets. She was sure they would smell of lavender. It would be bliss. ‘But I’ve got to see the inspector first.’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a sandwich?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘I’ll leave you my mobile phone,’ said Betty, pulling up a small
table. She put her phone on it, with a bottle of orange juice and nuts and crisps from the bar. ‘Help yourself.’ She took away the bowl of bloodied water, returned with a towel to dry Fancy’s feet. She left them wrapped in the towel.

‘There, that’s better.’ She seemed reluctant to leave Fancy. ‘This seems all wrong, leaving you here, after whatever you must have been through.’

‘Please, you are both so tired. You can’t stay up any longer. Your husband’s almost asleep on his feet.’

‘Running a pub is hard work,’ said Betty.

‘Her idea,’ said Fred. ‘It was Betty’s idea.’

‘Get some sleep, please. I shall be all right.’

Betty hovered in the doorway to the back kitchen. Fancy smiled at her. The cosy pub was a million miles away from the mine tunnel and the dark, dank canal. It could be another heaven. Nothing could happen to her here. She was safe and she knew it.

Betty and Fred would lock up. They were only upstairs. No one could get in. A pub would have a state of the art alarm system.

At that moment, the decision was made for them. There was a knock on the door; a tall figure stood outside. The porch light caught his dark and silvery hair. Fancy could not turn in the armchair, but she knew it was him.

‘That’s him,’ she said. ‘DSI Jed Edwards. Ask him to show you his warrant card.’

‘Thank goodness,’ said Betty, hurrying to the door. ‘Is that you, Inspector Edwards? Warrant card, please.’

He was already holding his warrant card face against the glass pane. ‘DSI Edwards. You phoned me. I came as fast as I could. Is Miss Jones all right?’

Betty unlocked the door, drawing back heavy bolts. They had not put on the alarm system yet. Jed stepped into the bar, his coat collar fastened, returning his warrant to his pocket. His face was drawn.

‘How is she?’ he repeated.

‘A lot better,’ said Betty. ‘But she was in a pretty poor way when she stumbled into our bar and collapsed. Frozen stiff, covered in muck and blood, her feet tied up in bits of plastic and Sellotape.’

‘Sounds like Fancy,’ said Jed. ‘She always goes for the dramatic.’

He hurried over to the armchair, momentarily taken aback by the figure swathed in blanket and towels. But her face was rosy from the heat of the fire, now stoked up, and her smile was radiant. Jed was the only person she wanted to see in the whole wide world.

‘Jed. Oh, Jed. I’m so glad to see you.’

He pulled a chair up and found her hand. He saw its state, beautiful nails broken, cuts and scratches. ‘They told me you’d gone home. I thought you’d left without saying goodbye to me.’

Betty heard the stifled, growling emotion in his voice and hurried Fred out to the kitchen. She did not return until she had made a pot of coffee and a plate of the promised corned beef sandwiches.

By then Fancy had told Jed all he needed to know. Shock never showed on his face. He had seen too many horrors in his time on the force. But this cold-blooded attempt at killing still shocked him. Fancy would have died, alone, in a cold black tunnel. Like being buried alive. Bound up, a prisoner.

Betty put the tray down on the table. ‘Thought you might like a coffee, Inspector, and a bite. We’re off to bed now, if you don’t mind. Busy day tomorrow. Early beer delivery.’

‘Thank you very much. You have both been very kind,’ said Jed.

‘And there’s still that offer of a bed upstairs,’ said Betty to Fancy. ‘Don’t worry about the alarm. We can reset it from upstairs.’

Jed poured himself a coffee and milk and a dash for Fancy. She took it gratefully. And managed a few bites of sandwich.

‘I still think you should go to hospital to be checked over,’ he said.

‘I’m not moving,’ she said. ‘I feel safe here. And I feel doubly safe now that you’re here. Remember, whoever put me down the mine thinks I’m still down there. They don’t know that I got out, unless that paramedic tells them. I didn’t trust him.’

‘I can’t see how the medics could be involved. Maybe they get a handout from some accident insurance broker, and you were slipping out of their hands. Don’t worry about them, but I will check.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that. I’m getting paranoid.’

‘They would have suggested you signed something on the way to the hospital, when you were at your most vulnerable. We have a lot to talk about, Fancy. I’ve been busy, found out a few interesting things. But this is not the time to tell you. You need a good night’s sleep. Have you got any painkillers?’

‘There’s that bed upstairs,’ suggested Fancy. ‘Clean sheets, warm room, lavender-scented. Betty gave me two paracetamols.’

‘Good, take them. Then I’ll help you up. Can you walk?’

‘I walked all the way down from Mam Tor. I think I could manage a few more steps. But where am I, Jed? It seems a lovely place.’

‘This is Castleton, in the Hope Valley. A beautiful little village that keeps growing.’

‘Hope Valley? I like that. It’s giving me hope.’