by David Waine
*
The antiseptic smell of disinfectant wrinkled Matthews' nose as he followed his superior officer through the main entrance of the Royal London Hospital's Accident and Emergency Department. Matthews had nurtured a paranoid fear of hospitals ever since having his appendix forcibly removed at the age of eight and, even now, he could not repress a shudder as he passed through into the eternally bustling reception area, alive with pale blue nurses, white coated doctors and seated ranks of everyday people, all nursing some malady or injury with the same resigned air of tedium as they waited to be seen.
Ignoring them, Abberline marched straight up to the reception desk and presented his warrant card.
“Detective Chief Superintendent Abberline,” he announced, “and this is Detective Sergeant Matthews.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the receptionist with a professional smile, “you are expected. Dr. McLean will be here directly.”
Both men turned away from the receptionist as she bleeped the doctor and relayed the message.
“That's all I need,” muttered Matthews, “not only am I up all night, yet again, but now we have to interview a bloody Jock.”
“Don't say that in front of him, Matthews, or you'll be wishing he'd left his claymore at home,” remarked Abberline without a smile.
It turned out that Dr. McLean had left her claymore at home, along with her sporran. Her handshake was firm and dry, and her voice displayed tones more characteristic of an Oxford college than a croft in the Highlands.
“Chief Superintendent Abberline?” She smiled, revealing white teeth, “I understand that you wish to speak to Mrs. Turner.”
“Yes, Doctor,” replied Abberline, “if that would be all right.”
Dr. McLean nodded. “Yes, I don't see why not, although she is still quite groggy, so I am not sure that you will be able to get very much from her. You can certainly have five minutes though. This way, if you please.”
Indicating a corridor off to their right, she led both men along it, talking as she went. “She has spent most of the night asleep while we checked her over. Basically, she is all right in that he did not injure her in any way, although he did subject her to a mild sedative, which would have kept her woozy. She is only really coming out of that now. Her mind is still quite woolly.”
They stopped at a door where a police constable stood guard. A female officer sat by the bed opposite Paul Turner, who scowled as Abberline and Matthews entered the room.
“What do you want?” he asked testily.
“A word with your wife, if you don't mind, Mr. Turner,” replied Abberline equably.
“If you lot had been a little less keen to lock me up, she might not have had to go through this ordeal!” Turner snapped.
“As she was abducted before any of us, you included, knew about it, Mr. Turner, I can't say that I agree with you,” said Abberline, but without heat. “Besides, if it hadn't been for Sergeant Matthews's vigilance in following up a lead, she might still have been on that wasteland.”
Turner glared at him before finally subsiding into sullen silence.
Turning his attention towards the pale woman who looked so fragile in the bed, he said gently, “Mrs. Turner I am Detective Chief Superintendent Abberline, and this is Detective Sergeant Matthews, who found you last night and brought you to hospital.”
Memory returned to the young woman and a small smile of gratitude flickered across her face as she recognised the subordinate officer.
“May we ask you a few questions?”
Kawai Turner looked a little confused, and stared longingly at her husband. He merely shrugged and turned away. Finally, she looked back towards Abberline and nodded uncertainly.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, the senior police officer began gently. “We already know that this man abducted you shortly before your husband arrived home from work, which would be about six thirty on the night in question. Would that be correct?”
Mrs. Turner nodded. Abberline could sense that she was trying to marshal her thoughts and having difficulty. The sedative, he supposed. “Yes, I was making the evening meal when suddenly he was in the kitchen and — oh!” She covered her face with her hands as the memory crowded back in on her. Doctor McLean at once checked her pulse and had a long look into her eyes. Only then did she nod her assent for Abberline to continue.
“We know that he took you away in a car because your husband told us that he heard the vehicle driving away at speed. Could you tell us what sort of car it was?”
“It was a small car,” she managed to murmur.
“Do you know the make?”
She shook her head. “I don't know much about cars,” she admitted, “but it was small and boxy. It was very fast and had a loud engine.”
“A hot hatch,” suggested Matthews, “a sporty version of a small town car,” he explained at her confused expression, “Like a Ford Fiesta or a Vauxhall Nova?”
She nodded at last. “Yes, I think so.”
“Did you see the number plate?”
She shook her head. “No. Sorry.”
“The colour?”
Her face screwed up in concentration. “It was dark, it might have been blue.”
“Very good, Mrs. Turner,” put in Abberline gently. “Your husband tells us that the man who abducted you wore a ski mask. Did he keep it on all the time?”
She nodded. “Yes, I think so,” she replied. “I don't remember him taking it off, but I don't remember very much at all.” It was the answer that Abberline expected.
“Did he speak to you?”
“Hardly at all,” she admitted, “and when he did it was in a whisper.”
“He disguised his voice?” Matthews.
Mrs. Turner nodded. “He kept forcing a drink down my throat,” she said in a panicked voice, looking towards the doctor.
“It was a mild sedative to keep you quiet and confused,” reassured Dr. McLean. “It has not harmed you and it is wearing off now.” Mrs. Turner looked relieved at the news and sank back against her pillows. Dr. McLean turned towards Abberline and spoke softly. “She is tired.”
“Mrs. Turner,” said Abberline urgently, “this may be very important. Do you remember where he kept you?”
The young woman thought hard. “In a dark, cold place. A garage, I think.”
“A garage next to a house?”
“No,” she shook her head, “no, there was a row of them.”
“A lock-up?”
She nodded. “I suppose so.”
Abberline leaned forward. “Do you have any idea where this garage was?”
She thought again. Both policemen knew that her mind was fuzzy with the effects of the sedative and that her memories would be, at best, vague. They saw her eyes begin to glaze over and lose focus.
Dr. McLean intervened immediately. “That's enough for now, Chief Superintendent. I have my patient's welfare to consider.”
Abberline withdrew with grudging thanks to the doctor.
“You will let us know when she is fit enough to answer some more questions?”
“As long as the questioning is gentle,” replied the doctor firmly. “She has been through enough as it is. I will let you know.”
Abberline repeated her words to himself in a sotto-voce imitation of her voice as they strode through the hospital's main entrance to their waiting car. “There are four others who have been through much worse than she has and can never speak to us again.”
“Don't be hard on her, sir,” responded Matthews in an uncharacteristically reasonable voice. “She’s told us about the car.”
“She has,” agreed Abberline uncharitably, “a hot hatch that might be dark blue. Can’t be more than a million of them in London.”
“She's doing the best she can, sir,” protested Matthews.
“Aren't we all,” growled Abberline, turning the ignition key, “and how much good is it doing us?”
It was during the b
riefing at Bow Road later that morning when the call came through from the hospital.
“Chief Superintendent? This is Dr. McLean. My patient has remembered a further detail and has asked me to fetch you back.”
They were there within minutes. The doctor was waiting for them outside Mrs. Turner's room.
“Before you go in,” she said, “I must caution you to be extremely gentle with her. She is in a delicate state and will not respond well to pressure.”
“Understood,” said Abberline grimly as the doctor held the door open for them.
Mrs. Turner was sitting upright now and seemingly awake. A little colour had returned to her cheeks.
“Good morning, Mrs. Turner,” said Abberline with a smile. “I think you're looking a little better.”
“A little, thank you,” she replied faintly, returning the smile weakly.
“She would have been a lot better without you badgering her,” snarled Turner from his position beside the bed.
“Our apologies, Mr. Turner,” said Abberline, attempting a smile, but really speaking through gritted teeth. Turning his attention to the woman in the bed, he said gently, “I understand from Dr. McLean that you have remembered a further detail.”
“Yes,” she answered faintly. “It isn't much, but you never know.”
“What have you remembered?”
She screwed her face up with the effort of recalling. Abberline's eyes immediately flashed sideways towards the doctor, whose own eyes were fixed on her patient. She detected his movement, however, and nodded subtly.
“It was…” began Kawai Turner, “it was just before he dumped me in that place, that garage,” she went on. He drove past a building that seemed familiar.”
Abberline and Matthews both leaned forward. “You know what building it was?”
“Not exactly,” she replied, “but I have seen it before. I have driven past it more than once, I'm sure.”
“What did it look like, Mrs. Turner?”
Her face screwed up again with effort. “It was a large, wide building. It had a brick frontage, but behind it was like a huge shed, but it wasn't a shed,” she shook her head to clear it.
“What was it, then?” pressed Abberline.
She looked up at him, her face suddenly clearing. “I remember now,” she cried, a light kindling in her eyes. “There were floodlights. They were lit up. It was a grandstand. A football ground.”
Abberline and Matthews exchanged sudden glances. Was this a breakthrough at last? “Do you know the name of the stadium?” asked Mathews.
She shook her head. “I have only driven past it. I don't know anything about football really.”
Abberline sat back, thinking aloud. “An old grandstand like a huge shed, but with a brick frontage,” he quoted. “Not a new ground with cantilevered stands, then.”
“Chelsea have a stand called 'The Shed'”, Matthews spoke quietly to Abberline.
“Possibility — but tenuous,” Abberline murmured back. Returning to the pale woman on the bed, he questioned further. “Is there anything else that you remember about this football ground, Mrs. Turner?”
Her almond-shaped eyes screwed up in thought. Finally they opened again as a faint gleam of recognition returned. “Yes,” she said, a hint of revival in her voice. “There were trees near it, trees and lawns. There were railings. A park. Yes, there was a park right next door to it.”
Abberline looked questioningly at Matthews, whose own face was suddenly suffused with realisation. “Craven Cottage!” he announced. “Fulham!”