Authors: Quintin Jardine
`Not something anyone would have said about Roly, though. He was sexually generous to a fault. To a very big fault, actually.' Carefully, and without warning, she replaced her glass on the table, sat down hard in the carver chair at its head, and burst into tears.
SIXTY-THREE
‘He shifted painfully against the pillows which propped him up, looking up at the lugubrious face of Mr Braeburn.
`Look, Mr Skinner,' said the mournful consultant, 'I'll grant that you have a remarkable constitution, to have survived a wound which would have finished off most people, and to be recovering from it so well. But I do wish that you would take my advice and accept more medication to ensure that you have a restful night.'
The big policeman smiled, but shook his head slowly. 'You've got me off the glucose and back on solid food. I even took a piss half an hour ago, albeit with the help of my good pal Andy over there. That means that my system's working normally again. In that case, when it wants to go to sleep, it will. I've got a thing about medication of any kind. Just ask my wife. I won't even take Rennies.'
`That's right,' said Sarah. She was still seated at his bedside, holding his hand. Andy Martin stood at the back of the room, beside the wall, laughing quietly to himself. 'He knows it all, my husband. His standard remedy for indigestion is a pint of milk, and his patented hangover cure is a six-mile run.'
Mr Braeburn nodded. 'Efficacious in both instances, I will allow. But surely, you will agree as a doctor with my recommendation in these circumstances.'
As a doctor, of course I do.' Bob glowered at her. 'And as a wife, perhaps if you left us alone, I might try to talk him into it’
Ànything to further the cause,' said the surgeon, throwing up his hands in despair. He turned and left the Unit, with Andy Martin following behind.
Sarah watched the door close and turned back to her husband. She squeezed his hand.
'Bob, don't you think we're being a bit difficult here? I mean, that guy just saved your life and now you won't even let him give you a pill.’
His jaw tensed. 'Look, love, I just want to be able to sleep naturally, that's all. I hate the idea of sleeping pills.'
`No. There's more to it than that. After the accident on Friday, and before the attack, you were . . . funny. Going out for a run in the middle of the night, for instance. That ain't normal behaviour even for you. What made you do that? Was something worrying you?'
He shook his head. 'I can't remember.'
`Bob, I don't want to rush you into recalling things, but on Saturday night you had a nightmare. You didn't tell me what it was about, but I guessed it was a reaction to all the things you saw on Friday, much as I had immediately afterwards. Have you been having more dreams?'
Ì don't know. I feel . . . I don't know how to say it. There's a sort of darkness in here.' He tapped his head. 'And a feeling of being trapped in it. I can't bring back detail, any of it. I just know that I don't want to take anything that will make me sleep.'
She rubbed his hand again, and nodded. 'Okay, I understand you. Bob, this isn't my expert field, as you know, but I'd say you were suffering from post-traumatic stress. Nightmares, flashbacks, even memory lapses, are all classic symptoms. I think I had some of the same last Friday night. But I'm different from you. I was able to cry myself through it. You might need some help.' She hesitated. 'Would you do something for me?'
'Depends,' he said slowly.
'Would you talk to Kevin O'Malley?'
‘ O’Malley? But he's a shrink! I don't need a head doctor.'
She grasped his hand, tighter than ever. 'Bob, he is an acknowledged expert in the sort of counselling which you insisted should be available to every person on duty on the Lammermuirs last Friday. You're not immune, big guy. You need him too.'
He looked at her doubtfully. 'I can get myself through this. I just don't need drugs or quacks to do it.'
'Bob, this isn't the first time. When you woke up in a sweat on Sunday morning you told me that you'd had dreams like that before — after that business with the man in the cottage.'
Suddenly, he went rigid. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes standing out. 'Him!' he gasped. 'He was in the dream; and a doll; and Chanel No. 5; and—' the words came tumbling out. He looked round at her, and for the first time in her life she saw panic in his eyes.
'Okay, okay,' she said firmly. 'That settles it. I'll ask O'Malley to see you tomorrow morning. For now, I'm going to recommend to Mr Braeburn that he gives you Prozac. And if he agrees, my dear, you will take it.
'That is not a request.
That,
Deputy Chief Constable, is an order!'
SIXTY-FOUR
‘Does Downing Street know about this visit, Chief Superintendent?' Although she was seated and he was standing, Laura Davey seemed to look down her long nose at Andy Martin,
The policeman gazed back at her in surprise. 'No, Mrs Davey. Nor is there any reason why it should. My Force reports to the Crown Office, in Scotland, and to no one else.'
`That's a lofty principle,' she said, 'but a little naive, surely. My husband and Shaun Massey were the two leading Defence Ministers in the Western world. You don't expect me to believe that the investigation of their assassination is being left in the hands of a few Scottish detectives!'
Martin smiled down at her, as pleasantly as he could. 'Not a few, ma'am. We're a well-resourced Force in our own right, and of course we have help from other agencies as we need it. Let me assure you that your husband's death could not be investigated more rigorously. We will find his murderer,' he said with emphasis, 'but first we have to establish why he was killed.'
`Stewart Morelli told me that you were certain that he was the target, rather than Massey.
Is that still the case?' said Laura Davey, her hostility lessening slightly in the face of Martin's unshakeable courtesy.
`That's a fair interpretation by Sir Stewart,' said the detective, èven if it isn't one hundred per cent accurate. What we are certain of is that the bomb which destroyed the aircraft was hidden in your husband's Red Box.'
'What! You're sure of that?'
'Quite sure. We believe that it was detonated when the box was opened.'
But how? Who . . . ?'
'Maurice Noble took it with him from the office the evening before the disaster. It was kept in his house overnight. That's what we know for sure. It was interfered with at some point between leaving Whitehall and being carried on to the plane.'
`Does that mean that you suspect Maurice?'
Martin grimaced. 'Let's just say it puts him on the list. Unless, of course, he was the target.'
Mrs Davey stood up from her fireside chair, and paced across the room past Sammy Pye, who stood, stiff and solemn in the window of the big Tudor drawing room, then back again towards Martin. She wrung her hands as she walked. 'But why would it have been opened in flight?' she said. 'That's most unusual.'
'We don't know the answer to that question. We haven't discovered yet whether it was Mr Noble or your husband who opened it, although we will know soon.'
`How?'
'I won't go into detail, but it involves DNA tests.'
'No,' said Laura Davey firmly. 'Please don't go into detail.' She sat down again, in her chair beside the blazing log fire, and looked up at Martin, no longer with disdain.
‘What do you want to know, then, Chief Superintendent? Why have you come here?' She waved a hand towards a sofa. Ì'm sorry. I'm being very rude: please sit down, both of you.' Martin nodded his thanks and settled into the plush sofa, while Pye took a chair by the window.
'We need to know all about your husband, Mrs Davey. In particular, whether there was any . . . and I use the word in its broadest sense . . . domestic motive for his murder. Did he talk to you about his Ministerial work?'
She shook her head. 'No. Not at all. Colin hardly ever brought the Red Boxes down here, and when he did, we never discussed what was in them.'
Martin nodded. 'I need to ask you some fairly personal questions, Mrs Davey.'
Ì understand,' she said. Still, the policeman thought, she seemed to tense slightly in her chair.
Did you have a good marriage?'
`We got on well enough, if that is what you meant. Colin was away a lot, obviously, but when he was here, we didn't row, or anything like that.'
Did he have any Constituency problems that you knew of?'
She laughed lightly. 'Not a chance. My husband ruled the place with a rod of iron, and the local Association loved him for it. A Constituency Party feels very grand when their Member of Parliament reaches Cabinet rank. He can do anything he likes and say anything he likes.
Àll the office-bearers were Colin's placemen, and everyone did exactly as he wished. The same was true of the local Council. The Tory administration there did exactly as it was told. As for George Russell, the MEP, he was as loyal and obedient as the rest. He'll reap his reward now as Colin's successor.'
`You expect him to hold the seat?'
Òf course he will! The flags will still be at half-mast on Polling Day, and he'll have the support of the local newspaper. `How can you be certain of that?'
She smiled again, almost sweetly. 'Because Colin bought it, before he came here as MP.
We own a chain of local papers around the South-East, and all the editors have their orders.'
Martin grinned back at her. 'I suppose your husband refereed the local football team, too!'
'Not quite,' she replied. 'But he was the cricket umpire!'
They laughed together, gently, until the policeman's face grew serious once more. 'Now to the most difficult area,' he said. 'Was your husband faithful to you?'
Laura Davey drew a breath and swept her blue-blonde hair back from her right temple. 'I can say, categorically, that there were no other women in my husband's life. Is that a straight enough answer?'
Martin nodded. 'Couldn't be straighter. Did he ever mention a woman named Ariadne Tucker?'
`Maurice Noble's wife? Yes, a couple of times.'
`What did he say about her?'
She gave a brief laugh. 'He said that he had never met a lady who had her husband more firmly by the balls.'
`Mmm,' said Martin. 'What did he think of Noble?'
‘Ah, poor little Maurice. Colin thought that he wasn't up to the job. Not totally committed, forgetful, too easily rattled, too easily bullied by the civil servants; those were just some of the things he said about him. Why, I recall him saying just last week, "I can't imagine why Morelli put that bloody man into the job!" He was going to fire him, at the first suitable moment.'
Ànd did Noble know this?'
`He must have had more than an inkling.' She stopped, and looked hard at Martin. 'You think Maurice did it, don't you?' she said quietly.
The way things are shaping up, Mrs Davey,' he replied, evenly and frankly, 'it's difficult to see who else could have. The trouble is my boss up in Scotland, Bob Skinner. When he's faced with a situation like this he reacts by looking all the harder for that someone else.
He's ill just now, but I know that's what he would want me to do!'
SIXTY-FIVE
‘Look, Kevin. You are the only obviously sane shrink I have ever met, but I've just had my body carved up, so I'd like to keep my mind in one piece right now . . . if that's all right with you.
O'Malley looked at the big figure in the bed. His face was drawn, pain lines were set around his eyes, and he looked frailer than the psychiatrist could have imagined, yet there was still something formidable about Skinner.
`You're the patient, Bob,' he said. 'So it's your choice at the end of the day. I'm not going to Section you, or anything like that. But in the past, when you've consulted me about suspects, you've always taken my advice. Why should it be different now that you're the patient?'
Skinner growled. `Gerrout of it, man. Don't try logic on me - it won't work. I'll see myself through this thing. I slept fine last night, after Braeburn gave me that happy pill.'
O'Malley sat on the bed, and looked out of the window of the private ward into which the policeman had been moved. 'How do you know that you slept okay, Bob?' he asked quietly.
Ì didn't waken up in a sweat. I had no dreams.'
Às far as you know, you didn't.'
`But I would bloody know, man; they're my bloody dreams!' `Yet you can't remember them when you have them.'
`So who does, always?' He paused. 'Look, man, don't cross examine me. I'm too old a campaigner for that. My memory even is back. I recall every detail of what happened last Friday, every last victim.
`So what? Your memory was working on Saturday night, but you still had the nightmare, to the point at which you were prepared to go out running twenty-four hours later, just to stay awake.'
The studious, bushy-haired O'Malley pushed himself to his feet and looked over to Sarah, who sat in a chair by the window, with a lively Jazz wriggling in her arms. 'This is my diagnosis, Doctor. Tell me whether or not you agree with it.
`The patient is suffering from a form of mental toothache. There is an abscess in there, in the form of a suppressed emotional reaction. So far you've prescribed Prozac as a form of analgesic, and that has worked.
`But the abscess is still there, and it will not go away. It has to be drawn out and exposed to the light, if the patient is to be restored to a state of what passes in him for total mental and emotional equilibrium. The man, the doll, the perfume . . . we have to find out about them and to show Bob what they are and what they mean.' He leaned against the window frame and looked down at Sarah.
`My proposal is that the patient should be placed under hypnosis. However, this must be voluntary on his part and free from constraints on mine if it is to be effective. Do you agree, Doctor?'
She nodded vigorously, smiling as Jazz, in her arms, tried to mimic the gesture. 'I couldn't agree more,' she said. Now tell me, without this treatment, what's your prognosis?'
O'Malley looked directly at Skinner. 'Without this treatment, the patient will form a dependence upon the palliative drug or will become a chronic insomniac, inefficient at work, and liable to fits of severe depression. Conceivably, these might require in-patient care. With my proposed treatment, the patient should make a full recovery. Without it, I am quite certain that he will never be the same man again.'