The Calling of the Grave (42 page)

    Naysmith
warily got to his feet. 'Sir. I didn't know you were—'

    Simms
didn't look at him. He clenched his black leather gloves so tightly in his fist
it looked like he was choking them.

    'I'd
like to speak to Dr Hunter. Alone.'

    'He's
already been interviewed. I can—'

    'That'll
be all, Detective Chief Superintendent.'

    Naysmith
looked furious but managed to restrain himself. He gave me the barest nod
before brushing out. The distant sounds of the hospital only heightened the
silence inside the cubicle. Simms glared at me.

    'What
the
hell
do you think you're trying to do?'

    I
wasn't in the mood for another inquisition. I felt drugged with fatigue and worry
and was very conscious of lying propped up in the ridiculous hospital gown.

    'I
was
trying to sleep.'

    The
pale eyes were cold and hostile. 'Don't think you're going to come out of this
with any credit, Dr Hunter, because I can assure you that you won't.'

    'What
are you talking about?'

    'I'm
talking about these . . . these wild allegations you're making! That Jerome
Monk is innocent, that a police officer fabricated evidence against him. You
can't seriously think anyone will
believe
that?'

    'They
aren't my allegations. And I didn't say—'

    'In
the past week Monk has caused the death of a helpless man and almost killed two
police officers. Or have you forgotten that?'

    I
felt a stab of guilt. 'There was nothing I could—'

    'A former
police consultant is fighting for her life because of him, yet you still seem
intent on exonerating a convicted rapist and murderer. It's no secret that
people around you have a habit of getting hurt, Dr Hunter, but I never expected
this sort of recklessness, even from you!'

    I
must have pushed myself upright in the bed but I couldn't recall doing it. 'I'm
not trying to exonerate anyone. I'm just saying what happened.'

    'Oh,
yes, this "fit" that Monk conveniently threw in front of you. I
supposed it never occurred to you that he might be doing it deliberately? Or
that he'd already fooled the prison doctors into believing he was having a
heart attack?'

    'What
I saw wasn't faked. And he didn't fake the cardiac symptoms either: he induced
them. There's a difference.'

    'You'll
have to forgive me if I don't share your credulity, Dr Hunter. It's obvious
Monk manipulated you. He spoon-fed you this . . . this cock and bull story and
then let you go, hoping you'd do exactly this!' He slapped the gloves against
his thigh. 'Have you any idea of the
damage
this could do?'

    'To
your reputation, you mean?'

    I
regretted losing my temper straight away, but the words were out. Simms' pale
eyes bulged. The hand clutching the gloves twitched, and for a second I thought
he might actually strike me. But when he spoke his voice was controlled.

    'I
apologize, Dr Hunter. Perhaps I should have waited to see you. You're obviously
overwrought.' He pulled on his gloves as he spoke, working his fingers into the
tight leather. 'I hope you'll give some thought to what I've said. We're on the
same side, and it'd be a shame for a professional disagreement to get out of
hand. People are quick to talk, and I know police consultancy work is hard to
come by.'

    His
face was completely expressionless as he stared down at me. Using the sleeve of
his coat, as though even his gloves weren't proof against contamination, he
swept aside the curtain and went out.

    I
watched it swaying behind him as his footsteps receded into the background
hubbub.
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
I was too tired to care
very much.

    But I
knew a threat when I heard one.

    It
was late afternoon before I was discharged. I'd managed to sleep after Simms
left, but only fitfully, slipping in and out of wakefulness in the small cubicle.
Still, I felt better for it, more alert if nothing else. At some point my
clothes had reappeared, unwashed but dried and neatly folded in a plastic bag.
The mud and bloodstains were proof that the previous night had been real, much
as I might wish otherwise.

    No
one could tell me anything about Sophie, but I persuaded one of the nurses to
check. She reported that she was out of surgery but still critical. I told
myself that was only to be expected after an emergency craniotomy: the doctors
would have had to remove a flap of bone from her skull to drain the build-up of
blood.

    But
the news did nothing to lift my spirits. I dressed and sat fretting in the
cubicle until a junior doctor finally told me I could go.

    'Where's
the ICU?' I asked her.

    The
intensive care unit was quieter and less bustling than Emergency, with an air
of strained urgency about it. The desk nurse wouldn't let me in to see Sophie,
but given the state of my torn and dirty clothes I probably wouldn't have
either. Feeling a sense of deja vu, I explained that I only wanted to find out
how she was. It made no difference: the nurse was adamant she could only give
out information to next of kin.

    'If
you told me you were her husband or fiancé, perhaps . . . ?' she added pointedly.
It was a deliberate opening, but I hesitated.

    'Dr
Hunter!'

    The
voice was Sophie's. I turned, ridiculously hoping to see her miraculously
recovered. But it was another woman who was walking down the corridor towards
me. Her face was blotched from crying, so that it took me a moment to recognize
Sophie's sister.

    'What
are you doing here?' she demanded, without giving me a chance to speak. She was
quivering with emotion, her hands white- knuckled on the wadded-up tissue she
clenched.

    'I
wanted to find out how Sophie is—'

    'How
she is? My sister's lying in intensive care! They cut open her
skull,
that's how she is!' Her face crumpled. 'There could be brain damage, or . . .
or . . .'

    'I'm
sorry—'

    
'Sorry?
Don't you
dare
! You said you'd look after her! I wanted her to come home
with me, where she'd have been safe. Instead she's . . . she's. . .' She turned
on the desk nurse. 'I don't want this man going near my sister! If he comes
back, don't let him in!'

    She
spun round and hurried back down the corridor. The nurse looked embarrassed.

    'Sorry,
but she's next of kin . . .'

    I
nodded. There was nothing else I could do there. The heavy doors to the ICU
swung shut behind me with finality as I headed back to the main wards.

    There
was one more person I had to see.

    I was
batted between wards before I finally found where Cross had been taken. At
first I thought the policewoman was asleep. She had her eyes shut, and a
cowardly part of me was relieved. But as I approached her bed she opened them
and looked directly at me.

    She
looked a mess. The blonde hair was plastered darkly against her head. Her face
was even more shockingly bruised and swollen than Sophie's had been, and a
painful-looking assembly of wire and screws clamped her jaw shut.

    Now I
was there, I didn't know what to say. We just looked at each other for a
moment, then she reached for something on the bedside table. It was a writing
pad: she wrote briefly and then turned it round for me to see.

    
Looks
wrse than it is. Morphine great
.

    I
wouldn't have thought I could laugh, but I did. 'I'm glad to hear it.'

    More
slow scribbling, then the pad was turned round again.

    
Sophie???

    I
chose my words. 'Out of surgery. She's in intensive care.' The pen scratched
once more.
Miller conscious. Nrses say making bad jkes.

    I
smiled. It was the first good news I'd had in what seemed an age. 'That's
great.' I took a deep breath. 'Look, I . . .'

    But
she'd started writing again. It was more laborious this time as she began to
tire. When she'd finished she tore out the sheet from the notepad and folded it
in half. Her eyelids were already starting to droop as she held it out for me.
I think she was asleep again before it left her hand.

    I
waited until I was in the corridor before I opened it. Cross had written just a
short message:
U did right thing.

    My
eyes blurred when I read that. I had to pause for a while before I tucked it
away. I desperately wanted to get out of the hospital, to breathe fresh air and
clear my head, but that would have to wait.

    There
was something else I needed to do first.

    My
car was still at Sophie's with the rest of my things. I could have phoned for a
cab, but I decided to pick one up outside. The walk would do me good, and I
didn't want to stay at the hospital any longer than I had to.

    A
receptionist directed me to the nearest taxi rank, but I hadn't gone far from
the entrance before a car pulled up alongside. I looked round as its window was
wound down.

    It
was Terry.

    'Thought
I might find you here,' he said. I carried on walking. 'David! Jesus, hang on a
minute, will you?'

    The
car pulled forward until it was alongside again.

    'Look,
I only want to talk. I heard what happened last night. How's Sophie?'

    Reluctantly,
I stopped. No matter what I thought about him, Terry had once had a
relationship with her. Feelings don't stop just because it's over.

    'She's
in intensive care. I don't know any more than that.'

    'Christ.'
His face had paled. 'I know I'm the last person she'd want to see. But she's
going to be all right?'

    'I
don't know.'

    He
looked stunned.

    'Where
are you going?' he asked, subdued.

    'I
need to collect my things from Sophie's.'

    He
leaned over and opened the passenger door. 'Come on. I'll give you a lift.'

    I
didn't want to spend any more time in Terry's company, but talk of Sophie made
my anger against him seem unimportant. The past was the past. Life was too
short to bear grudges. Besides, I was so tired I could hardly stand.

    I got
in.

    Neither
of us spoke for the first few miles. It was only as the city and suburbs gave
way to open countryside that he broke the silence.

    'Do
you want to talk about it?'

    'No.'

    He
fell quiet again. I stared out of the window as the moor began to swallow us
up. The car heater was on, and the warmth and drone of the engine began to take
effect. I felt myself start to drift off.

    'At
least we know now who attacked Sophie the other day,' he said.

    I
sighed: Terry never could take no for an answer. 'I still don't think that was
Monk.'

    'What,
even after this?'

    'He
admitted going to her house but she was already in hospital by then,' I told him.
'I thought an animal had got in when I took her home, because he was using soil
from a fox den to mask his scent. It was hard to miss. If he'd been there
before, when I found her in the bathroom, I'd have noticed.'

    'Fox
piss? Crafty bastard. 'Terry sounded almost admiring. 'There's lots of rumours
flying around. Talk that he was having a relationship with Angela Carson. That
he might not have meant to kill her.'

    I
rubbed my eyes. 'It's possible.'

    'You're
not serious?'

    I
didn't feel like talking but I couldn't blame Terry for wanting to know. And
there didn't seem any reason not to tell him. 'Before I left the hospital I
spoke to a neurologist. He told me about a condition called frontal lobe
syndrome. It happens sometimes when the front of the brain is damaged.'