A Place Of Safety Page 21

  ‘If it’s Ann Lawrence—’

  ‘It’s Ann Lawrence all right. The attack happened barely seconds before she was found otherwise I’ve no doubt the bastard would have finished her off.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Apparently someone was driving up to the top layer almost as it was taking place. The attacker heard the car coming and ran.’

  ‘What, down the stairs?’

  ‘No, he rang for the lift and hung around filing his nails and whistling Dixie. Of course down the bloody stairs!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘The motorist saw her lying there and rang for an ambulance. She’s in intensive care.’

  ‘That’s a miserable coincidence, chief.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘We seem fated—Pardon?’

  ‘Bag-snatchers snatch and bugger off. They don’t hang around to beat their victims to death.’

  ‘You think all this is connected to the Charlie Leathers business?’

  ‘Bet your Aunt Fanny,’ said Barnaby, stealing without shame from the redoubtable Miss Calthrop.

  It was hard to believe, thought the chief inspector, looking down at the motionless, deathly pale form of Ann Lawrence, that she was still alive.

  As Barnaby gazed at the figure on the bed, his sergeant was observing him. Some emotion, which Troy could not easily decipher, swept over Barnaby’s face then disappeared, leaving it expressionless. Abruptly he turned aside and spoke to the nurse who had admitted them.

  ‘Who do I talk to about this?’

  ‘Dr Miller. I’ll see if I can find him.’

  While they were waiting, Barnaby remained silent, staring out of the window. Troy also averted his eyes from the white metal bed. He hated hospitals almost as much as he hated graveyards. Not that he had anything against the dead or dying personally. Just that they and he didn’t seem to have much in common. Having said that, this year he was thirty and a couple of months ago his grandma had died. The two incidents coming so close together had given him pause for thought. Of course he had all the time in the world to go yet - his parents were only fifty - even so, immortality, practically a dead cert a mere five years ago, now seemed a much more dodgy option. He was just thinking about waiting outside in the corridor when the nurse returned with a stressed-out-looking man wearing steel-rimmed glasses. He had a great frizz of very fair hair and wore a crumpled white coat.

  As Barnaby started to speak, Dr Miller eased the two policemen out of the room, saying that, at least as far as he was concerned, the theory that unconscious patients heard and understood nothing was far from proven.

  ‘So what are her chances?’ said Barnaby.

  ‘Too early to say.’ He stood there on the balls of his feet, a busy man, ready to run. ‘She’s got a deep cut across the head and massive bruising which could mean brain trauma. We’ll know more when we’ve done a scan. We’ve got her stabilised, which is the first step.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The big danger is a subdural haemorrhage.’ He tugged on his stethoscope. ‘This means draining off blood beneath the outer membrane - always risky.’

  ‘Yes.’ Barnaby, his stomach playing pitch and toss, swallowed hard. ‘Thank you, Dr Miller. We do know who she is, by the way.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He was already striding off. ‘Tell admin. on your way out.’

  There were quite a lot of bad-tempered motorists hanging around the multi-storey car park waiting for their vehicles as uniformed officers made a note of each and every registration.

  There was also a police presence on the top level under the direction of Colin Willoughby. Barnaby did not like Inspector Willoughby. He was a rigid man. A toady and a snob without imagination, sensitivity or a shred of human understanding. The last sort of person, to the chief inspector’s thinking, to make a good police officer.

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Willoughby as they approached. He sounded so amazed they could have been visitors from another planet. ‘What are you doing here? Sir.’

  ‘The woman who’s been attacked is involved in a case I’m currently investigating. Charlie Leathers’ murder.’

  ‘An identification already?’ He was plainly more resentful than relieved.

  ‘Ann Lawrence,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘The Old Rectory, Ferne Basset.’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘I’ve just come from Stoke Mandeville,’ said Barnaby.

  ‘Popped her clogs, has she?’

  The DCI’s lips tightened with distaste. ‘Do you have an accurate time on the assault?’

  ‘Five to three the bloke found her.’

  ‘I see.’ Barnaby looked about him. ‘So, what stage are you at here?’

  ‘Oh, we’re doing everything by the book. No need to worry. Sir.’

  ‘I’m not worried. I’m just asking a straightforward question.’

  ‘All the numbers are being noted. And we’re—’

  ‘Who let those people up here?’ Barnaby jerked his head angrily towards a man and women stepping out of the lift. ‘Don’t you know enough to protect a scene where a savage assault has taken place?’

  ‘Go back down,’ shouted Inspector Willoughby at the top of his voice. He waved his arms furiously at the couple. ‘Go away! Now!’

  They leapt back into the lift.

  ‘This approach, this whole level should have been taped off. And the stairs, which is how he escaped. What the hell are you playing at, man?’

  ‘It’s all happening. Sir.’

  ‘It’s not happening fast enough, is it?’

  ‘Her car’s a Humber Hawk, by the way,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘Very old.’

  Willoughby glared. He did not like being interrupted, even by someone of his own rank. As for this plain-clothes upstart . . .

  ‘It’s just down there,’ nodded Troy, compounding his insolence.

  ‘I’ve got eyes, Sergeant. Thank you.’

  ‘I’d like it roped off,’ said Barnaby. ‘And gone over by SOCO. Every inch.’

  ‘What?’

  He may have eyes, thought Sergeant Troy, but his ears don’t seem to be up to much.

  ‘I’m not in the habit of repeating myself, Willoughby. Just see to it.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Where was she found?’

  ‘Over here.’ Willoughby led the way towards a scarlet Megane. ‘Lying in front of the car. I’d say a couple of feet from the radiator grille.’

  Barnaby looked more closely at the car. There was a slight but definite indentation on the rim of the bonnet. Vividly he saw Ann Lawrence’s head being swung down against it with tremendous force and felt sick again. Then told himself not to run with such vivid fantasies. She could have been coshed by anything. But then why bother to drag her over to the car? Also the wound was high. Partly on the forehead but also on the front section of the skull. In any case, how often do attackers walk up to their mark, look them in the face and strike? They creep and sidle and slink. They pad up silently behind and let them have it. Barnaby looked about him.

  ‘She got as far as here,’ he stood in the aisle between the cars some distance away, ‘presumably making for the lift. He followed and jumped her, dragging her over to the Renault. You can see the heel marks through this oily tyre track. And nearer the car as well.’

  ‘I had made a note of that, actually, sir.’

  ‘Good for you, Willoughby,’ said the chief inspector, disbelief sticking to the words like toffee. ‘So we’ll have to hang on to the Megane, get it properly examined.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  There was an exquisite pause which Barnaby delighted in extending. It was plain that Willoughby did not know exactly why the red car had to be tested. Fear of being thought stupid meant he could not bring himself to ask. But if he didn’t ask, when SOCO asked him if they were looking for anything specific, he wouldn’t know. It was moments like this, sighed the chief inspector contentedly to himself, that made what was often a mundane job really worthwhile.

  Sergeant
Troy said, ‘Look here.’

  ‘What?’ Inspector Willoughby moved quickly to the car, pushing Troy aside.

  ‘How d’you get a dent in a place like that?’ Troy, having nodded at the bonnet, spoke over his shoulder to the DCI. ‘Not from a collision, that’s for sure.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Barnaby smiled. ‘Well spotted, Sergeant.’

  Willoughby, ferociously envious and annoyed, stared at the car with burning eyes. He’ll melt the paint, thought Barnaby, if he keeps that up.

  ‘Make sure everything she was wearing goes to SOCO.’

  ‘Naturally, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘And I’ll want a tape of the interview with the man who found her. Right,’ he turned away, ‘that seems to be it. For now.’

  ‘I’ll check the pay ticket on the Humber, sir. It’ll give us Mrs Lawrence’s exact time of arrival.’

  ‘You’re on form today, Sergeant, and no mistake.’

  And Troy made his way towards the Humber with a swing and a swagger, the tips of his ears glowing with pleasure.

  As both men were leaving the building, Barnaby’s mobile rang. It was Sergeant Brierley ringing from the incident room to inform him that the tape of the anonymous 999 call on the night of Carlotta Ryan’s disappearance had finally arrived.

  After she had finished speaking, Barnaby asked if she would get a further matter sorted. Troy listened in some bewilderment. He did not ask for an explanation, he had his pride. In any case it would probably be, ‘Work it out, Sergeant,’ then, when he couldn’t, he’d feel twice as bad as if he’d never asked in the first place. But bicycles?

  Within half an hour of Barnaby and Troy leaving the hospital, the news of a murderous attack on Ann Lawrence was all round the village. Not much later the dreadful details also became available via Connie Dale, the postmistress, whose daughter was a nurse in the geriatric ward.

  Ferne Basset’s reaction this time was very different to its response when Charlie Leathers was killed. Morbid relish was replaced by genuine distress, for most of the villagers had known Ann since she was a little girl. Known and liked her for her gentle, inoffensive ways and unobtrusive kindness. Many remarks were made along the lines of “Thank God her father isn’t here today”, and “Her poor mother must be turning in her grave”. People wondered aloud how on earth the Reverend would manage.

  It would be hard to pinpoint just when the precise situation at the Old Rectory became common knowledge. Either someone called at the house and was rebuffed. Or concerned inquiries, made by telephone, were handled in a strange and deeply unsatisfactory manner. One or two people were simply cut off. Another was answered by a stranger’s voice. Having promised to fetch Mr Lawrence, the phone was laid down and no one returned to pick it up although the caller could overhear masculine voices and loud laughter. Later it was discovered that the Reverend had not even visited the hospital where his wife lay at death’s door.

  Hearing this, Hetty Leathers was deeply upset. She wanted very much to be there if only so that Mrs Lawrence knew there was at least one person who cared. Pauline’s husband Alan was standing by to drive her to Stoke Mandeville but the ward sister, once she had discovered Hetty was not a close relative, said there was really little point as things were at the moment. So Hetty picked a large bunch of flowers and branches of autumn leaves that Mrs Lawrence loved and Alan drove in and left it at reception with a card from all of them.

  That evening Evadne fed the Pekes, gave them a drink, read a story (Laka - the Timberwolf ) till they were settled then made her concerned way to Hetty’s bungalow.

  The night was cool and the Rayburn was glowing, transforming the kitchen into a snug little cave. Candy, without her plastic collar and elastic bandage but still in plaster, rocked and staggered happily towards Evadne, licking her hand and barking.

  ‘How’s our small miracle?’ said Evadne, sitting in the rocker and accepting a glass of Lucozade.

  ‘So much better,’ said Hetty, taking the shabby fireside chair opposite her friend. ‘It’s wonderful to see her gradually becoming less timid. Although we haven’t been out for a proper walk yet.’

  ‘That will be the test, I’ve no doubt.’

  They sat for a few moments in companionable silence. The silence lengthened and the longer it lasted, the more impossible it seemed that either would wish to speak. For there was only one possible subject of conversation and who would want to talk about that? But it could not be contained for ever.

  Suddenly Hetty burst out, ‘It was Charlie! Ever since he was . . . that’s when it started. What’s going on, Evadne? What’s behind it all?’

  ‘My dear, I wish I knew.’

  ‘First him, now poor Mrs Lawrence. I’ve never heard that women say an unkind word about a living soul. And now she’s . . .’

  ‘There, Hetty.’ Evadne reached out and took her friend’s hand. ‘We must pray for another miracle.’

  ‘But it’s so frightening. What will happen next? I feel we’re gradually being pushed towards the edge of a great black hole.’

  Evadne could not have expressed it better or - given the fearful accuracy of the image - worse, herself. She knew exactly what Hetty meant.

  Like most people in Ferne Basset, she had been convinced that the murder of Hetty’s husband had been a random act of violence. Probably committed by some deranged soul mistakenly released from a mental institution before his time. The man had been asleep in Carter’s Wood. Charlie had stumbled over him and, enraged and terrified, the lunatic had sprung up, killed him and run away. Understandable, inasmuch as madness ever is. That had been the going theory and everyone had accepted it with alacrity and not a little relief.

  And now this. But wasn’t the attack on Ann Lawrence also random? Someone had suggested it was a bag-snatcher. And miles away from Ferne Basset. So didn’t that, once more, put the village in the clear?

  Evadne realised she was regarding the place where she had been so happy for so long almost as a character in a story. A clear and sunlit haven, beautiful in all its seasons, sustaining and secure when the tale begins then gradually, as the narrative becomes more opaque, tangled and disquieting, so the village, too, becomes transformed into a wilderness full of unknown dangers. They truly had awoken to find themselves in a dark wood, where the right road was wholly lost and gone.

  ‘What’s that, Evadne?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ She had not realised she was murmuring aloud. ‘A line from a poem which seems to sum up our predicament.’

  Hetty gave the impression of taking a deep breath. Then she said, ‘There is something I haven’t told you.’

  ‘What’s that, Hetty?’

  ‘Pauline knows but the police don’t seem to have made it public so . . .’

  ‘You know I never repeat anything.’

  ‘Apparently Charlie was trying to blackmail someone.’

  ‘Oh!’ Evadne went very pale. ‘And they think that was the motive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So it was someone he knew?’

  ‘Not just someone he knew, Evadne . . .’ Hetty was trembling, shaking from the crown of her head to her shabby, slippered feet while Candy quivered in sympathy. ‘Don’t you see, it must be someone we all know.’

  When the news about Ann Lawrence reached the Fainlights, they were pussyfooting around each other with great caution, determinedly avoiding a quarrel.

  About an hour earlier Valentine had returned from Jackson’s flat and disappeared into his room to work. While she sat nervously waiting for him to re-emerge, Louise had vowed to behave with nothing but supportive, loving, uncritical kindness. She would keep this up until the moment she left the house. And for ever after. She and Val would not be divided. He would not divide them.

  And, after all, everything passes. Louise took this stark consolation to her heart as she spent the next half-hour alternately tormenting and comforting herself by wondering how this wretched union would eventually be severed.

  Perhaps Jax would simply ge
t bored. No, she was quite sure that feelings of either interest or boredom were simply not relevant as far as this affair was concerned. He could be bored to tears but as long as there was something to be gained from the relationship, it would continue. Valentine might hope that he was a special person to Jax but Louise was sure that the great cold landscape of the boy’s heart was impregnable. The only special person in Jax’s life was himself.

  Neither could she imagine Valentine getting bored with Jax. One did not tire of an obsession. It burned itself out or it burned you out. For the same reason it was impossible to picture Val falling in love with another person.

  Fleetingly Louise remembered how happy her brother had been during his years with Bruno Magellan. So distraught was Val for months after his partner’s death, endlessly reliving all their earlier joys and pleasures while sliding further and further into a pit of depression, she had despaired of ever seeing him find the will, energy or courage to start another relationship. And then, after months of slowly struggling back into the light, to be seized by a passion so sterile and reckless it appeared to be hurling him once more into the depths of despair was heartbreaking.

  Was that Val coming down? Louise, sitting by the window, turned her head sharply towards the stairs. It struck her that for weeks now that was all she had been doing. Either constantly watching her brother, or listening for him.

  She listened for Val’s return when he was out and for signs that he was about to leave when he was in. She listened to him on the telephone and tried to guess who the caller was. She listened to his voice when they spoke, attempting to anticipate the twists and turns of his emotions before they were made manifest to twist and turn against herself. To her shame she had even looked through her brother’s correspondence which was how she discovered a credit slip from Simpson’s in Piccadilly for a leather blouson (American Tan) costing eight hundred and fifty pounds.

  Now Louise thought for the first time of how her behaviour might appear to Val. She had assumed, blinded as he was by his frenzied attachment, that he had never noticed this close surveillance. But what if he had? How then would it make him feel? Crowded, that’s how. Spied on. Unable to escape, like a prisoner in a cell with a little peephole. Helpless to avoid observation any time the jailer chose. No wonder, thought Louise, with a quick, blinding intuition, he wants me gone.