Under Orders sh-4

by Dick Francis

  ‘But I don’t feel guilty any more,’ I said.

  ‘Guilty about what?’ said a voice.

  I jumped. Mr Pandita, the surgeon, had entered the cubicle silently behind me.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I said, ‘you nearly gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘There are worse places to have one,’ he smiled. ‘I have a friend who had a heart attack at a hotel where hundreds of cardiac surgeons were having a convention. They almost fought over him as he toppled off a bar stool.’

  ‘Lucky him.’ I nodded at Marina. ‘How’s she doing?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I think I would refer to her condition now as serious but stable. It’s no longer critical. I do believe your girl is going to live.’

  I could feel the welling in my eyes, I could sense the tightening at the bridge of my nose and the pressure in my jaw. I cried the tears of relief, the tears of joy.

  ‘Provided we can bring her out of the unconsciousness safely tomorrow then she should make a complete recovery. But we’ll keep her sedated for the night just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘What time in the morning?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ll stop giving her the sedative in the drip around seven. We’ll remove the ventilator, and then we’ll see. Everyone is different but, if I was a betting man,’ he smiled again, ‘I’d say she should be awake by noon at the latest. That is, of course, if her brain wasn’t starved of oxygen, but I think that’s unlikely. There were no reports that she had stopped breathing at any time.’

  ‘Should I stay here the night?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re welcome to if you want,’ he said, ‘but it’s not necessary. She’s over the danger time. There shouldn’t be much change overnight and we can always call you if there is. The best thing you can do is to go home and get a good night’s sleep and be here for her tomorrow. She won’t be feeling too well, I’m afraid. The sedative tends to make patients feel rather sick.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor,’ I said.

  ‘Actually I’m a mister.’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘Off the street?’ I smiled at him.

  ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘It stems from the time when surgeons were all barbers. They were the only people with sharp enough blades. Can you imagine? “A quick shave, sir, and I’ll whip out your appendix on the side.” In those days, doctors saw it as a failure to have to cut open their patients, and most surgery proved fatal. It was the option of last hope. So surgeons weren’t doctors and they were called mister. And it’s stuck. Now you progress from being a mister to a doctor and then finally back to a mister.’

  ‘For jockeys, mister means an amateur.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, I don’t think I’m an amateur.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I think not. You saved her life.’

  He waved a hand. ‘All in a day’s work. Bye now.’

  He moved on. There were probably others more needful of his skills.

  I waved at the silent policeman as I went back out to Jenny. I thought it would be too soon for Charles and Rosie to be there but they appeared out of the lift at the same moment as I came through the door.

  ‘Great news,’ I said. ‘The official bulletin is now that Marina is no longer critical and she is expected to make a full recovery.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Charles.

  Rosie clasped her hands to her face but it did nothing to stem the rush of tears down her cheeks. Her shoulders shuddered with sobs at the same time as her mouth opened in laughter. The release of tension was tangible for us all.

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ said Jenny.

  Yes, indeed, it was very much all right.

  ‘I only have three bedrooms,’ I said when Jenny said she wanted to come back to Ebury Street with the rest of us. ‘So who are you going to share with?’

  I thought for a moment that she was going to say she’d share with me, but good sense prevailed.

  ‘I’ll go home later,’ she said, ‘and I’d better give Anthony a call. He may be wondering where I’ve got to.’

  ‘Haven’t you called him?’ Charles said.

  ‘No. I’m often out when he gets in from the office. And other times I wait in and he doesn’t come home for hours. He goes for drinks or dinner with a colleague. He doesn’t usually phone me. It’s the way we are.’

  How sad, I thought.

  We went straight down to the street and set off back to my flat in a black cab.

  ‘Well?’ I said to Rosie.

  ‘No match,’ she said.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘We’re looking for two people then.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘And this one’s a woman.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ She sounded rather hurt that I’d questioned her. ‘I got a good profile off that piece of envelope and it didn’t match the first one at all. Men and women have different chromosomes and different DNA. It’s easy to tell from the two profiles that it was a man who punched Marina last week, and a woman who licked the envelope tonight.’

  A wife, perhaps, or a girlfriend? Could anyone stick that envelope shut without knowing the contents? I doubted it. A man had attacked Marina outside my flat last week; Marina had his skin under her fingernails. And this week the message came with the saliva of a woman. Maybe I was searching for even more than two people.

  ‘So what are we going to do now?’ said Charles.

  ‘No idea,’ I said. ‘I thought I could at least discount the female half of the population from suspicion, but now…’

  ‘It can’t be that bad,’ said Charles.

  ‘Almost,’ I said. ‘And there is one thing that really bothers me. Is race fixing sufficient motive for murder?’

  ‘Money is always a motive for murder,’ said Jenny.

  ‘But we’re not talking big money here. Huw Walker was offered a few hundred a time to fix a race. He told me that himself.’ And Chief Inspector Carlisle has the tape, I thought.

  ‘If really big money was involved then you would be likely to offer the jockey a bit more than a few hundred. That’s not much more than his riding fee,’ I said.

  ‘It might seem a lot to a jockey from the valleys,’ said Charles.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘but Huw had been around a long time and had been used to earning good money.’

  We arrived back at my flat, piled out of the taxi and went inside.

  ‘I come back to the race fixing,’ I said when we were all safely settled and I had provided sustenance in the form of more ham sandwiches and a bottle of wine.

  ‘Who could gain sufficiently for it to be worth the risk of killing a jockey in broad daylight with sixty thousand members of the public close to hand? The era of an individual running a big betting coup is past. Drug dealing has killed the ability for the crooked gambler to pull off the big con.’

  ‘Why?’ said Jenny.

  ‘Because drug dealing produces such huge amounts of cash that banks and governments have introduced a whole raft of money-laundering checks. These days, it’s almost impossible to pay for anything in cash without six pieces of identification and a reference from the Pope. Gone is the time when you could sidle up to a bookie with a hundred thousand in readies to stick on number two at Cartmel in the three-thirty. He’ll likely tell you now to get lost or place the bet by credit card.’

  ‘And you’re not going to do that if you’re doing something dodgy,’ said Charles.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Far too easy to trace.’

  ‘So what could be the motive for the murder?’ said Rosie.

  ‘That’s the million dollar question,’ I said. ‘Kate Burton, that’s Bill’s wife, told Marina that Huw Walker had said to her that the whole race fixing thing was more about power than money.’

  ‘But money gives you power,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Indeed it does,’ I said, ‘but if you have enough money, there may be the urge to have power merely for its own sake.’

  ‘Sounds too complicated for me,’ said Charles. ‘
Power to me means a broadside of twelve inchers.’

  Charles could usually apply a naval sea battle analogy to most situations.

  ‘So what’s the order of the day tomorrow?’ asked Jenny. ‘Please say I’m needed again. Today, for all its trauma, has been the most exciting day in my life for years.’

  She looked at me and smiled. I don’t think she truly realised what she had just said.

  ‘I’ll go to the hospital early,’ I said. ‘They’re taking Marina off the sedative at seven and I want to be there when she wakes. As far as I’m concerned, you can all come. In fact, I’d love it if you did — so long as you don’t mind more sitting around in the hospital corridor.’

  ‘I should go to work,’ said Rosie.

  ‘I’m sure no one would mind if you took a day off, especially after today’s events.’

  ‘My flies would,’ she said. ‘They don’t stop turning from larva into pupae and then into flies just because someone gets shot.’

  ‘Give them a day off,’ said Charles. ‘I’m sure that Marina will want you there when she wakes up.’

  ‘I’ll see how I feel in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll need to get some food in tomorrow morning before I go to the hospital,’ I said. ‘Marina will want more than ham sandwiches when she gets home.’

  ‘I suspect she’ll need lots of rest, too,’ said Charles.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Jenny. ‘What she’ll need is shopping. Trust me, I’m a woman. Things get better with shopping. And the more expensive, the better. Retail therapy and all that.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ I said. ‘And she’s been nagging at me for ages to take her to Bond Street to buy her some designer dresses. Armani, I think she wants.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Jenny. ‘You never treated me to anything so grand. I hope you’ve got your gold card ready.’

  ‘They can’t be that expensive,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Jenny. ‘You won’t get any change from a couple of grand for each dress. Then there’s the matching shoes and the handbags. You’ll need one of those big gambling coups yourself just to pay for it all.’

  ‘Really,’ I said. But I wasn’t paying attention. My mind was replaying the image of a long line of designer dresses with matching shoes that I had seen in Juliet Burns’s wardrobe.

  CHAPTER 17

  ‘What time is it?’ Marina said softly into the silence.

  Her condition had steadily improved during the night and she had been moved to a new room with a view of the Thames and the Houses of Parliament. I was standing looking out of the window, and I hadn’t noticed her open her eyes.

  I glanced at Big Ben across the river. ‘Twenty past ten.’ I turned and smiled at her.

  ‘What day?’ she said.

  ‘Friday. Welcome back to the land of the living.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You got shot.’

  ‘That was careless. Where?’

  I mentally tossed up. ‘In your leg.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Can’t you feel it?’

  ‘All I feel is sick,’ she said.

  ‘My darling love,’ I said. ‘I was warned that you might feel bad due to the sedative they gave you.’

  I rang the bell for a nurse who duly appeared.

  ‘She’s awake,’ I said rather unnecessarily. ‘Can she have anything for the nausea?’

  ‘I’ll see what the doctor says.’ She disappeared.

  I sat down on the chair by the bed and held Marina’s hand. Only yesterday I had been required to wear a mask. Now I leaned forward and kissed her.

  ‘You had us all worried for a while,’ I said.

  ‘All?’ she asked.

  ‘Charles and Rosie are outside, and Jenny too.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘And will I survive?’

  ‘Yes, my dear, indeed you shall.’

  ‘What damage is there?’ she said.

  ‘None that will be permanent,’ I said. ‘But you emptied most of your life-blood on to the pavement outside the Institute. If it hadn’t been for Rosie’s attempts at stopping the bleeding, you wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Which leg?’ she asked.

  ‘Can’t you tell?’

  ‘Both of them hurt.’

  ‘They had to take a piece of vein out of your left leg to repair the artery in your right, which was damaged by the bullet.’

  ‘Clever stuff,’ she said, smiling. There was nothing wrong with her brain.

  The nurse returned with a couple of pills for her to take. ‘These will only be any good if you can keep them down so only a little water.’

  ‘But I’m so thirsty,’ said Marina.

  ‘Just little sips,’ said the nurse bossily, ‘or you’ll bring them up again and it’ll be worse than ever.’

  Marina pulled a face and winked at me as the nurse poured a thimbleful of water into a glass and gave it to her to take the pills.

  We waited in silence for her to leave, then laughed.

  I marvelled at how a human being can be at death’s door one day and then seemingly fine and dandy the next. All to do with the need for oxygen to make things happen, and the blood supply to deliver it around the body. Cut off the current and the bulb goes out. Turn it on again and the light shines brightly. Only it’s not that simple with a brain. Once off, it stays off, because the brain also controls the switch.

  ‘I’ll go and get the others,’ I said.

  ‘What am I wearing?’ said Marina, trying to sit up a little to look down at the off-white regulation-issue hospital nightgown.

  ‘They’re not going to worry about what you’re wearing,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I do,’ she said. ‘And what’s my hair like?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘You’re beautiful.’

  In truth, she appeared washed out and tired with the two lines of stitches from last week still prominent in her face. But, all things considered, she looked great.

  I went to fetch Rosie, Charles and Jenny. They came in and gathered round Marina’s bed, fussing over her and being equally astonished at how quickly she was mending.

  The bossy nurse reappeared. ‘Only two visitors at a time,’ she said.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘They won’t be long.’

  I stood back by the window and looked at Marina. I had been badly frightened at how close I had come to losing her. Fear, relief, desperate fear again and finally overwhelming relief — the emotional rollercoaster of the last twenty hours had left me mentally exhausted and physically drained.

  Now I began to notice a subtle change in me. The feeling of wellbeing and joy at finding that Marina would fully recover was slowly ebbing away and being replaced by a growing anger. I was annoyed with myself, of course, for not having taken the previous warning even more seriously than we had. But this was a mere bagatelle compared to the fury that was rising in me towards the person, or persons, responsible for this.

  Mr Pandita arrived, wreathed in smiles.

  I found that I had consciously to relax my right hand to shake his. I had been clenching my fist together so hard that my fingernails had been digging into the flesh.

  ‘I see she’s doing fine,’ he said. ‘But don’t tire her out too much.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Marina. ‘I assume we’ve met.’

  ‘Yes, sorry. I’m Mr Pandita and I’m the consultant general surgeon here. I operated on your leg.’

  ‘So it’s your fault I bloody hurt so much?’ said Marina.

  ‘Not all mine,’ he said. ‘You were pretty badly hurt when I first saw you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marina, suitably admonished. ‘Well, thank you.’

  Mr Pandita nodded then turned to me. ‘I think she should stay here for a while longer. That leg needs to be rested in order to allow the graft to heal. I don’t want her back on the table with a rupture or an aneurysm. You were lucky, young lady,’ he said to Marina. ‘The bullet missed your knee and your femur. A couple of days’
bed-rest here where you can be monitored and then you should be ready to go home.’

  Luck is relative, I thought. Marina had been unlucky to be shot in the first place and unlucky that the bullet had torn open an artery, but prompt action by Rosie, first-rate medical care, and her own strong constitution had won the day, not luck.

  Mr Pandita ushered all of us away to allow Marina to rest.

  ‘Come back later,’ he said to me. ‘Give her at least a couple of hours to sleep.’

  Rosie went back to work and Charles took Jenny off to lunch. I had urged him to stay with Jenny in London for a few days.

  ‘But why?’ he’d said.

  ‘Where you live is common knowledge,’ I’d replied. ‘And I don’t want you to get any visits from a gun-toting motorcyclist.’

  ‘Oh!’ he’d said. ‘Well, perhaps for a day or two. Or I could stay at my club.’

  I had inwardly laughed at his dilemma. The Army amp; Navy Club had much more attraction for Charles. It had a decent bar for a start. Jenny was always complaining about the amount of whisky he drank so he was unlikely to get much of it at her place. They had decided to discuss it over some lunch.

  Suddenly I felt quite lonely as I walked back across Westminster Bridge in the watery March sunshine. I called into the betting shop on Victoria Street but my friend from before, Gerry Noble, wasn’t there. Perhaps I was too early for him. I was disappointed and I hung around for a while in the hope he might turn up. He didn’t, so I asked one of the staff behind the counter if they knew if he was coming.

  ‘Gerry Noble?’ said the man. ‘I don’t know their names. I take their bloody money not their life histories.’

  ‘A big guy. Wears a Manchester United shirt,’ I persisted.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘they could all wear bloody leotards for all I’d notice. As I said, I’m only interested in their money.’

  Clearly, he enjoyed his work and I was wasting my time.

  Instead I continued my walk back to Ebury Street and then busied myself clearing up.