The Gardens of the Dead (26 page)

PART FOUR

a girl’s progress

1

Anselm faced Mr Hillsden.
Between them, in a hospital bed, lay George Bradshaw, a frown holding one side
of his face like a paralysis. Clippers had neatly removed his hair and beard,
leaving a ragged stubble. The skin around his eyes was pale, as if he’d just
returned from two weeks on a sunny alpine piste.

‘I don’t
recognise him,’ said Anselm quietly. The man in the witness box had been tall and
imposing. Where on earth had he been after he’d walked out of court? What
manner of journey could so reduce a man? He said, ‘How did you find him?’

‘With
respect,’ said Mr Hillsden, ‘I lodged at Trespass Place.’

‘All
this time?’

‘Indeed,
on the upper platform of a fire escape.’ He stood with both hands resting on
the ornamental knob of his curtain pole. ‘He chose an agreeable location, if I
may say so. South-facing and close to all local amenities.’ There was a heavy
irony in his voice — that of the commentator who can’t adequately explain what
he’s known and seen. His watery blue eyes never strayed higher than Anselm’s
folded arms.

It
transpired that Mr Hillsden had secured an ambulance by halting it on
Blackfriars Bridge with his raised staff. He’d then waited at the hospital all
night until the Vault opened, when a sympathetic nurse had made a telephone
call to Debbie Lynwood. She had immediately contacted Anselm, who, in turn, had
left a message for Inspector Cartwright. It was nine in the morning.

Anselm
examined the twisted shape in the bed. According to his witness statement,
David George Bradshaw was a married man with one child, a careworker by
profession, in the employ of the Bridges night shelter. ‘When you wake,’ said
Anselm, detached from his surroundings, ‘please tell me what I did wrong.

The
sound of feet and bustle announced the approach of a consultant weighed down by
a stethoscope and students. ‘Are you a chaplain?’ he asked. The tone was kindly
but implied a treatable deviation from the norm.

‘No.’

His
eyes moved onto Mr Hillsden. A relative?’

‘With
respect, no.

‘If you
don’t mind,’ he said hastily ‘I’ll proceed.’

‘Go
ahead,’ said Anselm, stepping back.

The
doctor flicked through the medical motes on a clipboard while his young
audience formed an arc around the bed. Mr Hillsden did not move and stood among
them, head bowed, hands on his staff.

‘Male, sixty-something,’
intoned the consultant. ‘First admitted after a beating at Waterloo Station. Multiple
blows to the cranial vault. No patient history’ — he glanced towards an industrious
young man with a pad and pen — ‘Edgerton, stop writing and listen. Just think.
It’s far more difficult. Outcome: ruptured aneurysm. Louise, a definition, please.’

A sac
in a major artery or vein that burst,’ said the young woman, ‘causing a leak of
blood into the brain.’

‘Correct.’
The doctor hung the medical notes on the bedstead. ‘The required surgical
procedure is rather like patching the inner tube on your bike, but rather more
difficult. You may record that for posterity, Edgerton. In the instant case, no
post-op complications. One hitch: short-term memory loss. Treatment?’

Glances
fell on Louise.

‘In
effect, there is none.’ The doctor eyed his patient with pity. ‘To anchor
events a routine and supported life is essential. Unless he writes things down,
the recent past will draw back like the tide on Dover Beach. In the
circumstances, that may not be a bad thing. Last night someone found him
soaking wet. He’s now got mild to moderate hypothermia. Treatment, Gardner?’

‘Cover
with blankets at room temperature.’

‘Precisely’
he replied. ‘What you see now is a pandemic condition characterised by static
posture and reduced but reversible sensitivity to external stimuli. Diagnosis?’

No one
spoke.

‘With
respect,’ said Mr Hillsden apologetically ‘the term “asleep” has the advantage
of economy.

Outside the ward, by a
door marked EXIT, Anselm and Mr Hillsden once again faced each other. This time
nothing lay between them, save for the kind of awkwardness that might befit
separated friends. Anselm looked at the lowered head, the green cagoule and the
polished, split brogues. Casually as he might have done on a rather stiff
social occasion, he said, ‘Might I ask, to which Inn do you belong?’

For an
instant, Mr Hillsden’s washed eyes caught Anselm’s gaze. A faint smile moved
beneath the grizzled beard. ‘The Inner Temple.’ The words were barely audible.

‘Which
chambers?’ asked Anselm carelessly.

‘3
Vellum Square.’

‘An.’
Anselm knew it well. ‘Facing that glorious magnolia tree?’

Mr Hillsden
nodded. ‘There’s a sundial, too …’

Footsteps
echoed, moving swiftly Anselm glimpsed the magenta scarf of Inspector
Cartwright at the end of the corridor. He called out and she paused, retracing
a few steps. With a brief wave, she came towards them.

‘She
will be as grateful to you as I am,’ said Anselm, turning back to Mr Hillsden …
but he was gone. Anselm ran through the EXIT door into a stairwell. Leaning
over a railing, he could see nothing but a shadow thrown across the steps,
descending.

‘Come
back,’ he shouted.

The
staff sounded on the stone like the tapping of a patient carpenter. A door
closed out of sight and Anselm found himself alone with Inspector Cartwright.

‘Who’s
that?’ she enquired. A breath of lavender came with her approach.

‘Just
another member of the Bar,’ he replied.

Anselm and Inspector
Cartwright chose window seats in the cafeteria. Down below the Thames seemed
not to flow It flickered with light around a reflection of Parliament and Big
Ben. The sky was immense, cold and blue.

‘Did
you make any sense of those accounts?’ asked the Inspector, stirring foam in a
mug of hot chocolate.

‘No,’
replied Anselm. ‘No matter how hard I looked.’

‘I don’t
suppose it matters, now that Mr Bradshaw has turned up.

Anselm
examined his toast. This was soft, additive-packed, white sliced bread. None of
your grains and nuts, like the breeze blocks at Larkwood. It should have been a
moment to relish, but his appetite had gone — with Mr Hillsden. ‘The letter
from Elizabeth has been destroyed,’ he said shortly ‘George’s clothing was
binned at three in the morning. The waste disposal truck came at six. I arrived
at half eight. I think that just about explains what’s transpired in our
absence.’

‘We’re
stuffed, then,’ observed Inspector Cartwright.

‘Not
quite,’ said Anselm. He measured his words with care, sharing a thought that
had come to him earlier that morning. ‘All manner of fowl are drawn to the
monastic life. Some are very talented but for years these guys have to follow
the same routine as the rest of us. And then one day … the Prior gives them a
job. Suddenly all that unexercised talent breaks out on the laundry, or the
kitchens, or — and I have a concrete example in mind — the priory’s accounts. It’s
hell for the rest of us, of course, but in that one quarter we have levels of
efficiency the Bundesbank couldn’t dream of. All of which persuades me we
should send the accounts to Brother Cyril. This is a man who spends the night
hours chasing pennies, and he finds them.’

Inspector
Cartwright had the original papers: she would fax them to Larkwood as soon as
she got back to her office. Anselm wrote out the number, explaining that he’d
prepare the way with a call to Father Andrew ‘In the meantime,’ he said, ‘I
shall wait for George to wake up.’

What
was Riley doing? The question was unspoken but it bound them together.
Inspector Cartwright sipped her hot chocolate and Anselm nibbled his cold
toast.

2

Riley glared at Prosser,
at his felt hat, at the cigar jammed beneath a handle-bar moustache. They’d
both set up their stalls in Beckton Park. The air was sharp and a frost had
made the grass ribbed and hard. The ‘dealer’, as he called himself, had ambled
over to Riley’s patch and was nosing through his goods. He stood with his hands
behind his back, picking up this and that with a nod of approval.

‘Keep
away from Nancy’ said Riley.

‘Whatever
do you mean?’ Smoke came slowly from Prosser’s nostrils.

‘You
heard me.’

Prosser
stepped away but then hesitated. ‘Look, Riley were both men of business, so I’ll
be honest. I’m interested in the shop, not your good lady. You’ve a prime
location there. No offence, but I’d say the building requires the sort of
investment you can’t afford.’

‘Push
off.’

‘I’d
give you a good price.’ He walked backwards, winking.

‘I’ll
never sell.’

Riley
held himself tight, arms wrapped across his chest. A chill had reached his
bones and he squirmed, thinking of Wyecliffe’s questions. They’d burrowed into
his head and eaten away at what was left of his peace of mind. He’d wanted the
solicitor to weave his magic, to do something startling with the law that
would protect him. But he couldn’t pull it off, not this time. Instead, he’d
made it worse — deliberately — with that remark about the dead being on to
Riley’s trail. For the first time, there was no Wyecliffe twitching by his
side: he was on his own. Riley hugged himself more securely feeling more
exposed than ever. Someone was after him. They were watching and waiting and
they would come. A familiar racket began deep in the tissues of the brain: he
heard bangs on the wall and screams on an upstairs landing. Riley covered his
ears with gloved hands and stood to shake off the sound. Violence swirled
inside, making his eyes glaze and dry out.

Riley
blinked. Beckton Park appeared as if it hadn’t been there. Trees, grass and
people became solid. Prosser was watching, legs crossed on a commode as if it
were a throne, puffing on his cigar. Despite the cold, Riley felt sweat sting
the corner of his eyes. When his head grew quiet, he sat down, slightly out of
breath.

As if
someone had turned on a radio by his ear, Riley heard himself talking to Nancy
over his breakfast.

‘It was
me,’ he said honestly feeling grubby ‘I oiled the wheel and I must have left
the cage open.’

Nancy
leaned on the counter almost dazed and unable to speak. Riley couldn’t
understand it. She’d had three hamsters. When one died, she bought another. It
was a routine. But this time it was different. She’d never been so winded.

Riley
turned aside to escape the recollection. At once, his eye snagged on a
billboard showing a smiling woman with a bottle of milk. Her lips were red and
her teeth were as white as the sky There were lots of children in the
background looking at the bottle, as if it would make them happy He swore and
looked the other way But he saw a mother tabbing by a pram, and beside her a
man, hungover, lean and yellow He closed his eyes to escape …
everything.
When
he opened them he saw a newcomer thirty yards away He was reading the name on
Riley’s van.

Major
Reynolds had once said, ‘You’ve made lots of choices, and you can make others.’
That one idea had stuck to Riley like pitch. He’d never been able to scrape it
off. All he’d wanted was a warm bed for the night, but the Major had given him
words that burned.
You can make other choices.
The idea was horrendous …

The man
drew close. He was middle-aged, dressed in a bomber jacket, jeans and a cap.
Uncertainty made him fidget with the zip on his jacket. He moved it up and
down, and said, ‘Can I buy a number?’

Riley
charged his eyes with disgust until they stung. Did he really want to do this
any more?

‘Sorry,’
said the man fearfully ‘I’ve made a mistake …’

Riley
summoned him back with a flick of the hand and took out a notebook. He flicked
through the blank pages until he came to a calling card, picked up from a
telephone booth near Trafalgar Square. Slowly he read out the number.

The man
seemed to wake up, patting his pockets, trying to be normal. He took out a
crumpled envelope and a pencil.

‘I’ll
read that again,’ said Riley his attention shifting to Prosser. The dealer had
sidled from behind his stall and was watching every movement. He lit a new
cigar and studied the glow of red ash.

After
jotting down the number, the man said, ‘I understand it’s fifteen quid?’

‘We don’t
talk,’ said Riley taking the money ‘It’s the only rule.’