Back-Slash

by Bill Kitson

  ‘The hospital needs to know his details. Also his car’s stuck out on a country lane and I’ve got the keys.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I have anything.’

  The A and E department had changed shift before the information came through. Andrews put the phone down and smiled apologetically at a nurse waiting to speak to her.

  ‘Are you with the patient who had the chainsaw accident?’

  ‘Yes, how is he?’

  ‘He’s recovered consciousness, but he’s very weak. He lost a lot of blood and had to have a transfusion, so he’ll be kept in for a few days. He’s been moved on to a ward.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’

  ‘As long as you keep it short. Have you found out who he is?’

  ‘I’ve just got the details.’

  His eyes were closed as she approached the bed. She thought the nurse had been over optimistic in assessing his condition. His wounds had been bandaged, the dressings revealing the full extent of the injuries. He looked pale and ill. Far worse than when she’d found him. ‘Mr Myers,’ she said softly. His eyelids flickered but didn’t open. ‘Mr Myers.’ She repeated his name, this time a little louder. The second time he opened his eyes. He stared at her without recognition. ‘Mr Myers, can you remember what happened?’

  At first she thought he was too heavily sedated to take in her question, but after a few moments he gave a minute shake of his head.

  ‘You had an accident with a chainsaw.’ She spoke slowly and clearly as if to a small child. ‘I had to bring you in.’

  He frowned slightly, whether from pain or what she was telling him, she couldn’t be sure. Then she heard him whisper, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘We need to get your Land Rover off the road. Is there anyone at your home to drive it?’

  Another fractional head-shake.

  ‘You live alone?’

  There was no answer for a moment. Then after moistening his lips he whispered, ‘Barry,’ he paused for a second to allow a sudden bout of pain to pass before adding, ‘Barry Dickinson.’ His voice was so weak she’d to strain to hear him.

  ‘OK, I got that,’ she told him. ‘Can you tell me where he lives?’

  ‘Cottage, Winfield Estate.’ It was by no means a long sentence but he was gasping by the end of it.

  She heard a voice behind her. ‘OK, I think that’s enough’ – a doctor was standing by the end of the bed – ‘unless you want to undo all your good work. Sorry and all that’ – he gestured towards the door – ‘but he needs rest and quiet.’ He gently but firmly ushered her away and out of the ward.

  The following morning she was back at the hospital before 8.15. She was anxious to interview her mystery patient, but first she had to get past the ward sister. ‘I’m glad you’ve turned up,’ the sister informed her as she paused at the reception counter. ‘You’ve saved me a phone call. I need to check the information you gave us.’

  ‘Why?’ Andrews asked.

  ‘According to the details you gave his name is Andrew Myers, his address is Woodbine Cottage and his date of birth is the first of February 1971.’

  ‘That sounds right,’ Andrews agreed. ‘We got it from his employers, Winfield Estate.’

  ‘Well I think someone’s been feeding you bad information. According to our computer Mr Andrew Myers with that address and that date of birth doesn’t exist.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Andrews stared at her blankly.

  ‘Our computer can trace anyone who’s been allocated an NHS number, providing we know their name and date of birth. No NHS number has been issued to an Andrew Myers born on that date.’

  Lisa frowned. ‘Is he awake?’

  ‘Yes, and I asked him for his details.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  The sister pursed her lips before replying, ‘Andrew Myers!’

  ‘I’ll have a word.’ Lisa headed for his bed.

  ‘You’ve caused a lot of bother.’

  He frowned. He should remember her, but his recollection of recent events was more than hazy. ‘How did I get here?’ His voice sounded pathetically weak.

  ‘I brought you in. I’d to stop you because your driving was all over the place.’ She smiled. ‘I thought you were drunk, until I saw your injuries. You shouldn’t have driven in that condition.’

  He remained silent.

  ‘How long are you in for? Have they told you yet?’

  ‘Another two days perhaps.’

  ‘I have some questions.’ She looked at him as she spoke and was shocked at the change her innocuous remark brought about. His face became a mask of wary tension. She pretended not to notice. ‘How did the accident happen? Can you remember?’

  ‘I think the chain hit something, a nail or maybe a hard knot. Anyway it snapped and flew back at me.’

  ‘Where did it happen?’

  ‘In Layton Woods.’

  ‘Is that where you work?’

  He shook his head. ‘I work for Winfield Estate. It borders Layton Woods. I was clearing a section of woodland that crosses the boundary between the two estates.’

  ‘Can you confirm a few personal details for my file? Your full name, address, date of birth and occupation.’ She waited, biro poised, as he hesitated.

  ‘Andrew Myers, Woodbine Cottage, Kirk Bolton. I’m a forester employed by Winfield Estate and my date of birth is the first of February 1971.’

  ‘Married or single?’

  Again she noticed the momentary hesitation before he replied. ‘Single.’

  ‘OK, I’ve only one more question. Can you explain why you don’t appear on any official records? The hospital computer fails to recognize an Andrew Myers with that date of birth as having ever been allocated an NHS, or National Insurance number.’

  She was uncertain what to expect. Fear, possibly anger. What she saw in Myers’ expression was a mixture of bitterness, resignation and sadness. His reply was a long time coming. ‘A man may call himself whatever he wants. If I wake up tomorrow and decide to call myself Geoffrey Thompson for the day, nobody can stop me. If I want to change it the next day, I can do that too. There’s no law against it.’

  ‘Listen,’ she said; her voice low but firm. ‘You’ve caused a lot of trouble. Not just for me, but for your friend Mr Dickinson, and for the hospital. I didn’t get home until gone midnight and my shift should have finished at 6 p.m. And no, we don’t get paid overtime. Apart from that, if I hadn’t stopped you when I did, you’d probably be dead.’

  His mouth twisted bitterly. ‘You wouldn’t have to do crowd control at the funeral.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, spare me the self pity.’

  He tried to shrug then winced. ‘Look,’ he said firmly. ‘It isn’t that I don’t appreciate your help, but I just want to be left alone. Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘Mr Myers. All I’m trying to do is wind up this matter. I need to know why you insist on calling yourself by a false name.’

  He sighed wearily. ‘Don’t you lot ever give up? Don’t you ever let a man alone once you’ve had your teeth into him? It’s as if you piss on him and leave a scent for others to follow. Why can’t you simply take it on trust that I’ve done nothing that would remotely interest you? Can’t you leave me alone to get on with my life? All I want is to remain anonymous.’

  There was a long silence before she said, ‘Trust? OK, I’ll do a deal with you. Tell me why you want to remain anonymous. If I’m satisfied you’re on the level I promise it’ll go no further. How’s that?’

  He nodded agreement. ‘But not here though, and not yet. When I get out of this place. I’ll tell you then.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  chapter three

  ‘Morning, Lisa, finding your way round?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Lisa grinned and jumped to attention.

  ‘Don’t take the piss. I understand you were thrown in at the deep end yesterday. Manage OK?’

  ‘I had no problem solving the theft that turned out not
to be a crime. Had a few problems with the accident victim though.’ Lisa related her experiences. She’d just finished her tale when Nash’s phone rang. He picked it up. ‘Ruth? How are you? And more importantly, where are you?’

  He looked up and made a drinking motion with his hand. Lisa nodded and left his office. Binns was in the CID room staring at a computer screen that stayed stubbornly blank. ‘Bloody computer’s on the blink.’ He scowled at the monitor. ‘Third time this week it’s been out of action. I reckon it’s caught the flu bug.’

  ‘Do you want a coffee? I’m making Mike one, for when he comes off the phone.’

  ‘Talking to one of his lady friends, is he? Or is it work?’

  ‘Someone called Ruth, so probably not work.’

  Binns laughed. ‘Think again. That would be Superintendent Edwards. She was attached to us after Tom Pratt’s heart attack, before she joined the Inspectorate of Constabulary. The chief’s got her back on a temporary secondment.’ Binns paused. ‘She’s a top-class copper.’

  ‘How did the chief get her to agree to come back?’

  ‘Power of persuasion. When she sets her mind to it, not many would have the balls to refuse her.’

  The cottage felt cold, uninviting. As soon as he opened the front door he could smell the closed-up atmosphere. The door opened directly into the lounge. The room was spartan in appearance. Along one wall was a small dresser, on another, a large bookcase whose shelves were crammed with a wide selection of books. There was no television, but there was a modern music centre and a vast collection of CDs in a rack alongside. For the rest there was only a single armchair, coffee table and a standard lamp. A solitary man’s room.

  Although the drive home by taxi had tested him, Myers ignored the armchair. His priority was the Aga. Without it the cottage would remain unheated. He’d seen a weather forecast on the TV in the hospital. It was threatening a hard frost. It would be pointless surviving the chainsaw massacre only to succumb to hypothermia. Cleaning out and relighting the stove normally took ten minutes. On this occasion it was over half an hour. He was sweating slightly and felt in urgent need of a cup of tea, but knew he’d have to wait.

  He remembered a distasteful task left over from the accident and walked slowly through to the bedroom. The sheet on the single bed had been ripped to provide a makeshift dressing. Myers picked up the remnants and carried them through to the kitchen for incineration.

  He heard the engine long before Barry Dickinson reached the cottage. He opened the front door as the gamekeeper’s vehicle pulled to a halt.

  ‘Now then, Andy, how’re you doing?’

  ‘Not too bad. Did today go OK?’

  ‘Ay, well enough.’ The gamekeeper opened the Land Rover’s tailgate. Myers stepped out of the doorway and the next second a black shape hurtled past him.

  ‘She doesn’t seem tired,’ Myers commented.

  ‘Not her. I hope her tea’s ready.’

  ‘No problem. Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘I would that. Here let me do it.’ He handed Myers a foil-topped plate. ‘Your supper,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘Shirley said to warm it through.’ Myers thanked him as Barry brewed them a drink.

  The Labrador had demolished her meal, wandered over to her bean bag and lain down, head on paws. ‘Nell did you proud today,’ Barry said. ‘Sir Maurice was capped with her, and I’d someone wanting to buy her. Sean Parker also had a couple during their shooting week. He told me one bloke refused to believe Nell wasn’t his to sell, got quite shitty about it.’

  Myers looked down at the Labrador. She twitched one eyebrow and gave a perfunctory wag of her tail. ‘She doesn’t seem to have come to much harm, despite her amateur handlers.’

  The keeper winced. ‘Who made you an expert? Anyway, I’ve a couple of messages from Sir Maurice. Firstly, he wants to know how you are, and he wants to know if you’re interested in breeding from Nell. There’s a bloke near Helmsdale has a right good dog, a Field Trial Champion. Sir Maurice reckons there’d be some grand pups in a litter from that mating. He’s already talking about buying one of the bitches’ – Barry grinned – ‘for me to train.’

  Myers stared at the keeper coldly. ‘Is that supposed to be an inducement? I’d have to give it a lot of thought. These things can go wrong and she’s all I’ve got.’

  Barry’s eyes softened momentarily. Although he’d often wondered why Myers chose such a hermit-like existence, he’d never intruded with questions.

  ‘Ay, well we might be able to change that. Get you fixed up if you fancy it,’ he said mischievously. ‘You’ll have to wait till after Christmas though. Sir Maurice told me to invite you to the shoot supper on the twenty-ninth. He warned me there’s only one answer to the invitation and it isn’t “no”.’

  Myers shook his head. ‘I don’t do the social bit.’

  ‘I told Sir Maurice that. I said you’d rather curl up with a good book than a bad woman.’

  ‘What was his reaction?’

  ‘He wasn’t impressed. He threatened to get Falstaff to come and collect you.’

  Sir Maurice’s butler-cum-chauffeur was built like an all-in wrestler with a ferociously piratical beard. The likeness to a Shakespearean character made the nickname inevitable. Local rumour was that Sir Maurice had been involved with the security services long ago and that Falstaff was his lifetime bodyguard. Neither master nor man commented on the rumour, which did nothing to quell it.

  ‘I’ve nobody to take; nobody to ask,’ Myers objected. ‘Everybody else will be there with wives or girlfriends. I’ll be a real gooseberry.’

  ‘I’ve an idea. Why not ask that nice lady detective who rescued you? She’s a fit-looking bird.’

  Myers smiled ruefully. ‘The trouble with fit-looking birds is they’re usually either married or in a relationship with some hairy-arsed bloke twice my size. Anyway she’s far too young for me and, as I said, I don’t do the social thing.’

  Barry couldn’t restrain his curiosity. ‘Why, Andy? I mean, you’re not exactly hideous. You know how to behave, you don’t have BO and you don’t fart or pick your nose in public.’

  ‘I prefer it that way.’ Myers’ face darkened. ‘All right, I’ll go to the shoot supper. Let’s just leave it there, shall we?’

  ‘OK, Andy, I wasn’t prying. We can sort the arrangements out on Boxing Day. You’ll be right by then? It’s the biggest day of the season, bigger than ever this year.’

  ‘I should be. I don’t want to miss it.’

  ‘Grand, because I’ll likely be rushed off my feet and you’re the best picker-up around, especially when you’re working her.’ Barry pointed to Nell.

  ‘Why will you be extra busy?’

  Barry pulled a face. ‘Sir Maurice has added extra guns for Boxing Day, because in the first shoot in the New Year he’s invited half the Cabinet and a fair number from the House of Lords, as well as the local bigwigs. That’s going to mean a big Special Branch contingent and the like, all fidgety because of the guns about. A right headache, I can tell you.’

  Stuart Moran was tired. As senior partner of the Leeds office of a national firm of solicitors, he had plenty of work to tire him, but this was a different weariness. He couldn’t afford to ease up; not with two avaricious ex-wives to support. He needed a break. Christmas was approaching but Stuart wasn’t going to follow his normal routine. Instead of stuffing his diary with social engagements, he declined every invitation. This came as some surprise to his personal assistant. Exactly how personal her assistance reached was known only to a select few, but Lesley had been Moran’s mistress long before the end of her marriage and Stuart’s second.

  ‘I’ve had an idea about Christmas,’ Moran told her. ‘Let’s do something different. I’ve got this brochure.’ He passed it over the desk. ‘See what you think.’

  ‘“The Golden Bear at Netherdale”,’ Lesley read aloud. ‘“Why not make it a romantic festive season, a time for lovers?”’ The brochure described a programme of dinner
s, dances, outings and walks. Lesley was no fan of the open air; social events were more up her street.

  Moran braced himself for stiff resistance and was surprised when Lesley agreed with seeming enthusiasm. She didn’t relish the idea of Christmas buried in the countryside, but she had ambitions to become Mrs Moran mark III. As she left to make the booking his direct line rang. ‘Moran,’ he identified himself. ‘Oh, it’s you. What do you want?’

  ‘Have you thought over my latest instructions?’ his caller asked.

  ‘No,’ Moran stated with a touch of bravado. ‘I’ve told you before, Harry, I don’t want any more to do with it. I want out; for good.’

  ‘I think that would be a mistake.’

  ‘I mean it, Harry,’ Moran insisted. ‘As far as I’m concerned it’s all over.’

  ‘You can’t walk away. You’re in too deep.’

  ‘I can walk away whenever I want. Don’t forget, I hold the evidence.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that. It sounds almost like a threat. That would be a serious mistake, Stuart. If I was you I’d think again.’

  ‘No, Harry, my mind’s made up.’

  ‘There’s no way I can persuade you?’

  ‘No there isn’t!’

  ‘Very well. We shall see.’

  The line went dead, but for a long while afterwards Moran stayed clutching the receiver, the dialling tone unheeded in his ear. Eventually, he took a sheet of notepaper and began to write. Slowly, with several pauses during which he stared at the wall, his eyes unfocused, Moran filled the A4 sheet. He reached into the drawer, extracted another sheet and continued. When he’d finished, he read the document through a couple of times before signing it. He placed it in an envelope before reaching for the phone book.

  Nash was daydreaming, idly toying with his wineglass as he waited. The casserole he’d prepared was simmering gently. The doorbell rang and he wandered down the hall, opened the door and smiled at the visitor. ‘Hi, Ruth, come on in.’

  ‘Mike, this is really good of you. I couldn’t get a hotel room for love nor money. Everywhere is booked solid for the next three weeks.’