White Lilies

by R. C. Bridgestock

  His eyes prickled and then tears came. His vision blurred and the floodgates opened. He let them bubble over and flow silently down his cheeks, until they dripped unashamedly on the front of his coat. He tried to brush them away with the back of his hand. ‘Why? Why? Why?’ he whispered, looking heavenward as he caught his breath and sobbed.

  Hearing someone enter the room, he let go of Bridey’s hand, took a deep breath, put his chin to his chest and bit his lip to try to control his display of emotion. Although he couldn’t see who it was, he heard the distinct patter of footsteps on the hospital floor. He sat on the chair next to the trolley and gripped his head in his hands tightly, trying to make the pain go away.

  A hand was laid on his arm. ‘Can I get you anything? A drink, perhaps?’ the nurse asked soothingly. He shook his head. He didn’t look at her; he couldn’t speak for the knot in his throat which felt like it was about to choke him. If he tried to utter a word, he knew it would release the beast within him, which he was afraid he would not be able to control. Instead, he concentrated on his rough, shovel-like hands and gently picked up Bridey’s dainty fingers in his once more.

  ‘If you need anything, anything at all, I’m just outside at the desk,’ the nurse said, before she turned and walked quietly away. He wanted nothing, nothing but for this to be a bad dream.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. She stopped. He didn’t turn to face her. ‘Where’s Toby?’ he said. Closing his eyes and holding his breath, he waited for an answer.

  ‘I’m sure the doctors will come and see you in a moment,’ she said softly. ‘Is there anyone else…?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ he said, quietly. Graham stood over his wife for a moment and held both her hands in his before putting his face to hers. ‘Please don’t leave me. I love you so much,’ he whispered, kissing her lips.

  Detective Sergeant John Benjamin was at the hospital with the Family Liaison Officer, getting a brief resumé from the paramedics and arranging with uniformed officers for statements to be taken. He was discreetly seizing Bridey’s clothing and personal belongings from the hospital staff when his telephone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ he said to his companions as he stood aside to take Dylan’s call.

  ‘John, I’m going to have Danny Denton and Billy Greenwood’s flat turned over,’ he said. ‘I’ve been speaking to PC Whitworth and he has confirmed to me that he wasn’t happy with Denton but he had no evidence to keep him in.’

  ‘Okay, boss,’ John said.

  ‘Keep me updated from the hospital, will you? I’ll have my mobile on.’

  ‘Maybe sooner than you think, boss. It looks like the doctor is heading towards the room where Graham Tate is.’

  ‘Poor bugger, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes,’ said Dylan.

  ‘No, me neither,’ said John.

  Chapter Sixteen

  While some of Dylan’s team were making enquiries into Mildred Sykes’s murder, he took a handful of officers to lock up Danny Denton and Billy Greenwood and search their flat. The two youths needed to be placed in or out of the investigation once and for all and at the moment they were his prime suspects in the Bridey Tate hit-and-run enquiry.

  Dylan stood looking up at the sullen grey concrete monolith of council-owned residences. What had once been deemed as ideal living for the masses was now nothing more than an urban eyesore of suffocating maisonettes piled on top of each other.

  A man about Dylan’s age came up behind him without him noticing, so deep was his concentration.

  ‘I’ve been mugged twice,’ said the man to Dylan as he looked down at his walking stick. ‘Had my pelvis broken two years ago and it gets worse. I pay £53 a week for the privilege of having a flat with a two-foot by four-foot patch of soil outside my front door with a garden gnome and asthmatic rose bush,’ he said sullenly. Dylan didn’t know what to say, so nodded instead.

  ‘I see the comings and goings of all the shit round here you know, but I also look at the boarded-up windows of the flat across the street that was petrol-bombed last week. You’re not going to get anything out of folks round here, mate, if that’s what you’ve come for,’ he said, before shuffling on his way.

  A call from Dylan’s radio brought officers to his side from the nearby police cars. The assembled group climbed the stairs to the targeted flat. To be fair, the flats were not the worst Dylan had seen. Some he had raided sported the metal grilles of a prison cell at the windows and doors. However, the stairs and landing leading to Flat Seven were dark, smelly and probably vermin infested. Seeing the half glass entrance door to the flat, Dylan was tempted to instruct his officers to take it off its hinges – which he knew would bring an element of surprise – but on reflection he decided he might get more cooperation from the inhabitants if he adopted the softly, softly approach, to start with anyway. He needed solid evidence to enhance what the investigation team knew already. He knocked at the door and got an instant response.

  ‘What the fuck do you lot want?’ asked Danny, with a swagger. ‘You found out who nicked my car?’ he said, putting his nose to Dylan’s.

  ‘You sure your car was stolen?’ Dylan spat in reply. ‘You’re under arrest on suspicion of attempted murder,’ Dylan said, pushing him back against the wall with a hand that gripped his shoulder.

  ‘What?’ Danny screeched. Officers pushed past Dylan and Danny with military efficiency to seek out Billy. One stopped alongside Dylan to handcuff Danny and escort him out to the waiting marked police car. Dylan walked through to the lounge and watched Billy Greenwood’s jaw drop open as he was read his rights by a detective.

  ‘Check their pockets for keys, then take them away,’ said Dylan to the officer as he walked Billy past him, leading the way with the cuffs. ‘Let’s search this shit hole.’

  The flat-screen TV in the corner of the room stood out to Dylan like a sore thumb and he ordered it to be seized immediately, along with anything else that looked out of place in a flat that resembled a doss house rather than a home. A scan with the ultraviolet light across the TV revealed a house number and a postcode.

  ‘You see,’ he said, smiling. ‘It may not work very often but when it does it gives you a bloody good feeling, doesn’t it?’ he laughed. He knew further checks would tell them just who it belonged to.

  The search team was thorough. They recovered an unexpectedly large amount of cash, tools and a key for a garage with a tag attached that read, No. 7, which would be their next point of call. Dylan held it smugly in his clenched fist. They also found a set of car keys, but for what car? Dylan pondered. They were on a new Subaru key fob. The car surely wouldn’t be far away. The search of the garage didn’t reveal much other than a few car parts, which were seized, bagged and tagged.

  Now it was time to return to the nick and rattle the cages of Denton and Greenwood and see what dropped out of their interviews. Charging a person was complex. Although they had been arrested on suspicion of attempted murder, Dylan knew from experience that the charge was likely to be reduced to death by dangerous driving, even if it was proved they were in the car at the time of the hit-and-run accident. However, before that, the charge would be escalated to murder if the accident proved fatal.

  The next hurdle for the team would be to prove which one of them was driving the car. Then, they had to show the passenger’s involvement. Hopefully they would get the passenger charged for encouraging the driver to commit the crime. The team now had twenty-four hours’ detention of the men, which wasn’t a great deal of time to complete the necessary investigation, but Dylan would be moving the investigation forward all the time, and that was all he could hope for at this stage.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Through his tears, Graham saw two people in white coats walking down the corridor towards him, as if in slow motion. A nurse stood beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder as she settled him on a chair by the side of his wife. The surgeon bent down on his haunches in front of him. Graham held his wife’s hand in his tightly and screwed up his eyes. ‘Our son,�
� he said quietly.

  ‘Mr Tate, I’m truly sor…’ the doctor said. Graham heard himself shriek like an animal in pain. The doctor reached out to him and, staring at Graham, he gulped before he continued. ‘Toby is being brought to you as we speak. There is no easy way of saying this…’ He inhaled. ‘Your wife and child are clinically dead. They didn’t suffer. Neither regained consciousness.’

  The nurse bent down and put her arms around Graham’s trembling body.

  ‘No,’ he wailed, flinging her to one side. ‘I need to see him,’ he begged. ‘I want him here with us,’ he sobbed, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he reached out into thin air.

  ‘Of course, Mr Tate, he’s on his way …’ the doctor said. ‘This seems so inadequate but I really am truly sorry for your loss.’

  What seemed like seconds later, Graham saw Toby’s lifeless little body. He was swaddled in a white sheet. Graham’s tears had stopped. He felt numb. There was nothing outside the quiet, dimly-lit hospital room that mattered to him. He looked into Toby’s face and gently kissed his tiny pale bow-shaped lips that held a bluish tinge. He looked so peaceful, even though tubes and wires were attached to his little body.

  ‘Somebody will pay for this. If it’s the last thing I do, I swear to you,’ he said, through gritted teeth. ‘Don’t worry, my precious.’ Graham stroked his wife’s cheek. ‘I’ll find you both again. We’ve got so much yet to do together,’ he sobbed. ‘You know, like we’d planned,’ he smiled. A sob caught in his throat. He inhaled deeply and brushed away his tears. The nurse knocked at the open door.

  ‘A cup of strong tea,’ she said, putting it down on the table.

  His wife and son were now side by side.

  DS John Benjamin watched him from the corridor with tears in his own eyes. He couldn’t help but ask himself what he would do if that had just happened to him? He shuddered at the thought and, looking up to the ceiling, he prayed silently that he would never know.

  Fixing his mind to the job in hand, he noted that Graham Tate was built like anyone would imagine a bricklayer to be: stocky, thick-necked, rugged and muscular, though now his deflated form portrayed a man crumpled, with his strength sapped and his spirit gone.

  A phone ringing at the nurse’s station broke John’s train of thought. ‘Mr Tate, it’s for you. I believe it’s your wife’s father. Do you want to take it?’ Graham stood frozen. Reluctantly, he moved from Bridey’s side to answer the call.

  ‘Hello, is that you, lad?’ said the panic-stricken older male’s voice at the other end of the phone.

  ‘They’re dead, you know,’ Graham managed to gasp.

  ‘I know, son, they’ve told us. We’ll get to you as soon as we can,’ Ronnie said with a trembling voice.

  Graham handed the phone back to the nurse, his face expressionless. There was nothing else to say. As if in a trance, he walked past John and back into the room where his wife and child lay.

  John saw Graham jump when the doctor pulled a chair up beside him. The doctor coughed before speaking.

  ‘Mr Tate, I’m sorry to have to ask this, but we’ve found a donor card in your wife’s purse which signifies to us that it was her wish for her organs to be used in the event of her death. This is reinforced on her driving licence. I don’t know how you feel about your son being a donor, too. Time is a crucial factor in respect of some of the organs. They can save lives – one person’s death can help up to eight others. Let me assure you, your wife and son are dead, the machines are only keeping the blood circulating, preserving their organs, but that’s it.’

  Graham stood up, his face red and contorted as though he was about to burst. His fists clenched. ‘Don’t you dare. Do you hear me? Nobody touches them,’ he shouted. John readied himself to go into the room.

  ‘Mr Tate, please calm down,’ John heard the doctor say in a gentle, soothing voice. It was obvious he had seen this reaction many times before. ‘Let me assure you, it was your wife’s wish, should she die, that her organs be used. Think about it, please.’

  ‘Get out,’ shouted Graham. ‘Just leave us alone.’

  ‘That I can’t do, Mr Tate. If we are to make use of your family’s organs we need to act quickly to adhere to her wishes. I need an answer.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Graham knelt down at the side of Bridey, turned her hand over and kissed her palm. ‘I don’t know if I can do it,’ he sobbed. ‘The thought of someone taking away part of you and Toby,’ he whispered. ‘Please tell me what to do,’ he begged.

  Looking at her beautiful, tranquil expression, he sensed her answer. Suddenly, the image of the day she’d sat at their dining table and filled in the donor card sprung to his mind. They’d been talking to a lady who had been running a stall for the Heart Foundation at a garden fête. Her name was Rita and she’d had a heart transplant six months before. ‘I couldn’t walk twenty yards without stopping for breath before, my love,’ she had said. ‘Couldn’t play with my grandkids, or go shopping with my hubby, never mind go on holiday,’ she said. ‘And now look at me,’ she’d giggled. ‘We’re off on a cruise in February,’ she’d said as she hugged her husband tight.

  Bridey had made her decision there and then. She had always said people who donated their organs were brave, but after meeting Rita she didn’t have the slightest doubt that it was a wonderful gift to give to a fellow human being – the gift of another lifetime – to someone who deserved it like Rita had. He knew he would give his consent because she always knew the best thing to do.

  He kissed Bridey’s forehead, then Toby’s chubby little cheek before he whispered, ‘Remember I’ll find you both again one day, wherever you are. I love you.’

  ‘I love you more cos I’m older,’ she used to say back to him. Slowly, but without hesitation, he looked up at the doctor. ‘Take them, but do it quickly before I change my mind,’ he said, as he sank into a nearby chair and put his head in his hands, weeping steadily.

  ‘She would be very proud of you,’ said the doctor.

  Graham Tate’s large hands cupped the mug of tea the nurse gave him and he squeezed the ceramic vessel tight as he stared into space.

  ‘I’ll go open the windows,’ the nurse said, putting her hand on Graham’s shoulder. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘To let their spirits go free, together,’ she said, simply. Graham nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.

  ‘Boss,’ John said quietly into his mobile phone. ‘Both mum and baby have been pronounced dead.’

  Dylan couldn’t find the words. He sighed deeply instead.

  ‘We’ve pulled Denton and Greenwood in, and their flat’s being searched. Give me a call when you’re leaving the hospital, will you? I’d like you to be involved with the interviews.’

  ‘It might be a while. I’m just going to try to speak to Mr Tate, but as you can imagine…’

  ‘I know, John. Just speak to me as and when you can, mate.’

  ‘Will do,’ said John as he rang off.

  DS Benjamin found himself in the room where Mr Tate sat, grasping the untouched mug of tea. ‘Can I take that from you, Graham, and get you a fresh cup?’ the nurse asked as John stood by. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Benjamin, who would like to talk to you.’

  Without fuss or question, Graham Tate handed the nurse the cup.

  ‘Milk and sugar?’ the nurse asked John, who nodded.

  Graham Tate’s expression was blank.

  ‘I’m really sorry about your wife and son,’ John said. ‘I thought you might like me to tell you what we know about the accident, unless it’s too soon?’

  Graham Tate shook his head. ‘No, please. Are you married?’ he asked, watching John who took a seat.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘Two – and no, I can’t begin to understand how you’re feeling right now.’

  Graham Tate closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘They’d gone shopping, you know, to Mothercare. Not a nightclub, not a football match.’ He sighed. ‘A place y
ou’d think they’d be safe. It’s the first time she’d been out on her own since she’d had him. Just a short walk round the block, she’d said. Just a chance to try out the new pushchair, you know.

  ‘I would have been with them if we’d not been behind on the house build. She’d rung me and left a message to say they were okay and they both loved me. Listen,’ he said, holding his mobile phone tightly to John’s ear. He pressed a button and played the message.

  ‘Hi, gorgeous daddy,’ said a happy, girly voice. ‘Toby wanted to let you know he’s got lots of nice things,’ she giggled. ‘I knew you’d be worried so I thought I’d ring you to let you know we’re all safe and sound without you fussing over us. Just going back home now for a feed, aren’t we, son? We love you lots and see you soon.’ The phone went dead.

  Graham put the phone to his ear and played the message again. Tears ran down his face, his mouth wide with grief.

  John’s heart sank. The nurse carried in two mugs of tea and handed them to the men.

  ‘Mr Tate, Graham, try drinking some, please? And let me tell you what we know.’

  ‘Wait, let me show you their picture,’ he said, taking photographs out of his wallet with trembling hands then touching the images fondly. He mopped his tears with a handkerchief.

  ‘They’re beautiful, Graham,’ John said, looking closely at the young faces – so alive, so happy.

  ‘I’ve just agreed to donate their organs, you know,’ Graham said. ‘She’d signed up, you see.’ He looked to John for approval and John nodded. ‘But it was the hardest thing …’ he said, gulping. ‘And now I’ve got to live with it.’ He looked up and John saw the panic rise in his eyes.