Contents
Title Page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
By the Same Author
Copyright
ONE
Wilefowle High Security Hospital, Shelham, North Yorkshire, UK. 14.00 hours. Wednesday, 6 March 2013.
‘You wanted to see me, Doc?’ Patrick Downey said from the door, trying not to look worried.
The doctor in the white coat looked over his desk and smiled broadly at him. ‘Yes. Come in, Patrick. Come in. I have some excellent news for you. Sit down.’
Downey, in pyjamas and dressing gown, sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk.
Dr Macwhinney, still smiling, said, ‘I kept telling you that your petitions would not go unheeded.’
Downey blinked and licked his lips.
‘This morning I received a report from the visiting board which examined you last week,’ Macwhinney said. ‘Essentially it says that they saw no trace at all of your personality disorder. Now, that’s tremendous news, isn’t it? In addition, I note from the house doctor that the dreams have now stopped, also that you are not dependent on any anti-depressive, tranquillizing or other medication. In fact, to show our faith in you, Dr Howitzer, Dr Zimmerman and I have already made the statutory declaration that you are entitled to trial leave according to the Mental Health Act 1983.’
Patrick Downey’s mouth dropped open. It was something he had been waiting to hear for fourteen years. His eyes became moist. He felt in his pocket for a handkerchief, but he couldn’t find it. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his dressing gown, and then looked down at the floor. ‘How soon can I leave then, Doc? Does that mean I can leave today?’
Dr Macwhinney smiled. ‘Not quite as quickly as that, Patrick, but quite soon. We have to set up arrangements for you to be able to check in each day—’
Downey’s nose turned upward and the corners of his mouth downward. ‘You mean so that I don’t run off?’ he said.
‘Not at all,’ Macwhinney said. ‘It is to see that you are feeling happy and confident, that’s all. If you run off, Patrick, it means that the entire panel of doctors have made a gross mistake, and it will show the world that the psychiatric staff at this hospital are completely incompetent. And the press would love to hear that, wouldn’t they? No, Patrick, the terms of the “trial leave” require you to check with an appropriately accredited doctor, whom we will make familiar with your case. Should he not be able to advise you, he will be able to contact Dr Howitzer or Dr Zimmerman or me 24/7 for the first four weeks of your leave. It’s in your interests, Patrick. All right?’
Downey accepted what Macwhinney had said. ‘Yes,’ he said.
Macwhinney beamed and said, ‘I know you have been here for twelve years, which is a big chunk out of your life, but you must look on your stay in this hospital as necessary to get well again. I know there are many restrictions here, but they are for everybody’s good including your own.’
‘Oh, I do. I do. I know how I was. How introverted I was … sullen and depressed. Now I feel a thousand per cent better. And I want to thank you and Dr Howitzer and the entire team for your kindness and professional skill in seeing me through that time and for healing me.’
‘It is a delight for us, Patrick, to have a success with you, even though it has taken twelve years. There are 259 other patients in this hospital who still suffer from some sort of paranoid schizophrenia with complications and are living proof, sadly, of our limitations. But … be that as it may … now, you have to decide on whether you want to go back to your roots in South Yorkshire or start entirely afresh in a different part of the UK. Also, we shall need to create a new identity for you.…’
Bromersley High Street, South Yorkshire, UK. 14.00 hours. Saturday, 4 May 2013.
Charles Morris liked women and women liked him: it was a convenient arrangement. He was the sort of man who had women eating out of his hand. When he entered a room, females from eight to eighty turned to look. Most of them continued looking, particularly if he reciprocated by the raising of an eyebrow followed by a shiny white grin.
He looked good, really good, particularly to sexy young women.
Of course, he looked after himself … always had done. He didn’t smoke and drank only rarely. He worked out most days, swam, and then topped up his tan under a lamp.
His suits came from Savile Row and his car was a new Jaguar XJL.
His manners were impeccable, his anticipation matchless. If madam accidentally knocked a cup off the table, it was Charles who would catch it and avoid the breakage. If a door needed opening, Charles had his hand on the handle ready. If she needed more cream in her coffee, Charles would already be passing the jug.
He had moved to Bromersley recently and lived in a well-appointed apartment in an old vicarage that had been converted into six luxury units. It was located in a large garden on the outskirts of Bromersley at the foot of the Pennines.
That Saturday afternoon, he had an arrangement to meet up with the present light of his life, Moira Elsworth. She was quite the prettiest girl in town and he was mad about her. She was always on his mind. He could think of nothing else for long. She had those long, curvy legs that men like to see and caress.
He had parked the car and was standing on the busy pavement under the clock outside Jeeves, the jewellers. He had arranged to meet her there at noon. They had planned to have lunch together, but she was already five minutes late. He knew that Moira had intended visiting her mother and was then coming on by bus from there.
Moira had been living with her mother, Christine Elsworth. Christine had turned a few heads in her time, but at fifty-six, the years were taking their toll. She had a small flower kiosk on the fringe of the town. She had married Grant Elsworth in her thirties. Grant had been a clerk in the council tax office in Bromersley Town Hall. He had worked his way up to chief clerk, but tragically had died eight years ago, leaving Christine a widow at the early age of forty-eight. They had had one daughter, Moira, now twenty, who had inherited the most attractive physical features of her mother and her late father.
Christine Elsworth’s time was fully taken up looking after her 92-year-old invalid father and the little flower kiosk. Moira had lived with her in an old, squashed, back-to-back terraced house in the middle of a thousand other squashed, back-to-back houses, with windows that looked out on to grimy red brick walls. There wasn’t a tree, bush, blade of grass or dandelion in sight. Moira had detested the place.
People pushed past Charles, with their shopping bags or parcels, sometimes carelessly hitting him on the knee or back with their purchases. He looked at his watch. It said twelve minutes past twelve. He stamped his feet on the flagstones and looked round in all directions for Moira but she was nowhere to be seen. He was certain the arranged meeting time was noon. He couldn’t think of any reason why she wasn’t there. He hoped she hadn’t been taken ill or anything like that. It would drive him mad if anything happened to her. You heard such strange things these days. It could just happen to Moira. Not long since on a bus in Leeds, some 20-year-old nutcase with a knife murdered a 17-year-old girl as she was travelling to college. She had died in seconds. Ghastly state of affairs. He prayed that such a thing could not have happened to Moira.
He peered through the crowd and then there was a tall woman with silky blonde hair and his pulse raced. She was advanc
ing towards him. But it wasn’t Moira. He frowned, checked his watch again and shook his head. She was sixteen minutes late.
Suddenly, from behind, he felt a touch on his arm and a breathy voice said, ‘Hello, darling.’
It was Moira. The relief!
He turned, arms outstretched. They glanced at each other, sighed and wrapped themselves together in a kiss that they held for several seconds.
Shoppers and passers-by barely gave them a glance as they bustled past along the busy pavement.
Eventually he pulled away from her. ‘Are you all right? I was getting so worried.’
She laughed and her eyes twinkled. ‘Oh, yes. Do you know what, Charles? I met a girl in my mum’s shop. We went to junior school together.’
He looked at her. She didn’t seem to care that he had been so worried.
I haven’t seen her since we were twelve,’ she said, ‘and she recognized me straightaway. She recalled all sorts of things that happened to us that I had almost forgotten. Isn’t that fantastic?’
Charles wasn’t at all interested.
‘Are we having lunch together or not?’ he asked.
She noticed the coolness. ‘Er … yes, if that’s all right, Charles. That is what we … er, planned.’
‘Yes, but I wondered if you wanted to do anything different. I mean, if you wanted us to find that schoolfriend and have her join us for lunch … if she’s that interesting.’
She looked at him uncertainly and licked her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue. After a second, she said, ‘No. It’s not that she was particularly interesting, but I hadn’t seen her for eight years and … it’s not at all important, Charles darling, I was just telling you what happened because … erm, well, I thought you might be interested. But that’s all right. Let’s go for lunch.’
‘You don’t seem a bit concerned that I’ve been standing here for sixteen minutes waiting, worrying and wasting time.’
‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized. Yes, of course, you have.’
‘Thank you. It’s a bit much that I have to point out that you’re very late … because of you meeting up with an old schoolfriend and chatting away. I was thinking that something dreadful had happened to you.’
Moira pursed her lips. ‘She was a very good friend to me. We were together from nursery school.’
‘So you think it’s all right to stand me up like a fool, worrying about whether you’d be run down by a bus, or something worse?’
‘I didn’t stand you up. I’m here now. Are we going to have a meal together or not?’
‘You’re really not a bit sorry. You could have phoned me and made an alternative arrangement, or made a date to see her another time.’
‘I didn’t plan this. It happened just as I was coming out of the shop.’
‘Come on,’ Charles said, grabbing her arm. He wanted to say a lot more, but he could see that Moira was not going to climb down any further and he didn’t want to lose her. Although she was living with him, she could easily move back in with her mother, and he wasn’t willing to be even one night away from her.
They picked their way through the shoppers along the pavement.
She looked up at him and sighed. She must not take the argument to its end as she didn’t want to win the argument and lose the man. He could easily pick up another woman and she shouldn’t rely on her slick replies to get her out of trouble.
‘Where do you want to go?’ he asked.
‘I’ll leave it to you.’
‘Depends whether you’re hungry or not.’
She breathed in, thought a moment and said, ‘Do you know, darling, I’m not that hungry.’
He sighed. That was an answer he hadn’t expected. Since he had known her she had always said that she was starving.
They were passing a sandwich bar.
He pointed to it. ‘A turkey salad wrap?’
She nodded and smiled.
They came away from the bar with two turkey salad wraps in a bag. Charles smiled and said, ‘My car’s in the car park round the corner. Let’s pick it up.’
She relaxed; the storm had abated.
They got in the Jaguar. When the doors were closed, he leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips, hoping that he had not come on too strong about her being late. She seemed to be settled now.
‘Shall we go home, have some coffee with these wraps … and relax?’
She thought relax was a euphemism for sex. She was uncertain but she said, ‘That would be lovely.’
He smiled, put the car in gear and drove out of the car park. It was slow work getting out of the town centre, but, once away, he made good time on the ring road.
‘Tonight, Moira, we can go out to the Feathers,’ he said, as he changed up to top gear. ‘I’ll book a table for 7.30. That’ll give us plenty of time together. What do you say?’
‘I don’t know,’ she repeated. She wanted to climb down without losing face. And she desperately wanted his caresses, his embraces, and especially his reassurance, but she also wanted to teach him that she wasn’t a cheap and easy lay.
He thought she was thawing. He ran a hand experimentally along her thigh. At first she stiffened, then relaxed and sighed. Indescribable warmth surged upwards into her bosom.
He breathed out. The muscles of his chest and stomach also relaxed and he smiled. He was glad the battle was over and that he had won. At least, he thought he had won.
22 Jubilee Park Road, Bromersley, South Yorkshire, UK. 15.00 hours. Saturday, 4 May 2013.
‘Thousands and thousands,’ the 92-year-old man muttered from his wheelchair. His thin, white fingers shook, and his dull eyes shone as his mind drifted in and out of the mists of memory.
‘Now, Mr Piddington, let’s settle you down,’ Nancy Quinn, his pretty young part-time carer, said as she pushed him out of the kitchen, down the hall and through the door into his sitting room. She manoeuvred the wheelchair into a position by a table and opposite the television.
‘Thousands and thousands,’ he continued muttering.
Nancy Quinn pulled on the handbrake.
‘You keep saying that,’ she said, ‘but you don’t say where it is now.’
‘Thousands and thousands,’ Piddington continued.
‘But where is it now?’
‘Where? That’s it. That’s what they never found out. But I know. There’re thousands and thousands. Do you know, I could go and live in Majorca.’
‘You could probably buy Majorca, Mr Piddington,’ she said as she wiped down the table top. ‘All that sunshine would do you the world of good.’ An idea crossed her mind. She sniggered. ‘I could come with you. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Be your fancy piece?’ she said and lifted her blue overall up three inches suggestively. ‘You know, I could be really nice to you.’
Far away in his own reminiscences, his white face was expressionless as his watery eyes looked into hers. ‘Thousands and thousands.’
Her young face straightened. She went close up to him and looked into his eyes. ‘Where is it, Mr Piddington? Where is it?’
‘Thousands and thousands.’
She pulled an angry face. ‘Aw!’ She shook her head impatiently. Then she said, ‘Look, Mr Piddington, it’s time I was off. Have you taken your pills?’
‘What? Yes,’ he said. Then he frowned. ‘Have I?’
‘All of them?’
He looked at her blankly.
‘Aw!’ she said again. She reached out to a tray on the table which had twenty or thirty boxes and bottles of pills. She glanced at some of the labels, then looked inside the container at some of the contents, then fastened them up and said, ‘Yes. I think you must have. Right, I’m going.’
He stared at her, his mouth opened and a stream of saliva dropped from his top set down his chin.
She impatiently snatched a tissue from the box on the table at his side and brusquely wiped his chin and mouth.
He didn’t seem to notice what she was doing. His fac
e looked vacant again as he muttered, ‘Thousands and thousands.’
‘I know. I know! I know!!’ she screamed. ‘You silly old duffer. You’re doing my head in. I gotta go. I gotta go.’
Piddington hardly noticed her outburst.
She rushed out of the room, into the hall and up the stairs.
The old man watched her go out and then frowned. He wearily glanced round the room, looked across the table, then patted his dressing gown pockets. He found the remote control for the television, vaguely pressed a button and a picture of horses jumping over fences came up on the screen. He watched them intently. He liked horse racing.
A minute later, there was the sound of a distant toilet being flushed. Nancy Quinn came down the stairs and into the sitting room. She was wearing a raincoat over her uniform and had a handbag hanging from her shoulder.
‘Now, Mr Piddington,’ she said, ‘I’m off. Christine will be here soon. See you tomorrow.’
He didn’t answer. He was watching a replay of the end of last month’s Grand National.
The front door slammed.
The picture on the television soon changed to a newsreader. He tried to interest himself in it, but he couldn’t. He closed his eyes to rest them and fell asleep.
The next thing he remembered was a female voice in the distance: ‘Dad. Dad! I’ve got some tea for you. Don’t you want it? Dad. Come on.’
He reached consciousness and his hands and his chest began shaking.
He opened his eyes.
His daughter, Christine Elsworth, was standing at the side of the wheelchair with a beaker in her hand. ‘It’s all right. It’s me, Dad. Do you want this tea?’
He peered up at her, then reached out for the beaker. The shaking stopped.
‘There you are,’ she said.
Piddington sipped the tea. Christine Elsworth had made it sweet, just how he liked it.
‘You must have had a heavy sleep,’ she said. ‘I’ve been here about ten minutes. I’ve brought your tea. It’s in the oven keeping hot, till you’re ready.’ She glanced at the tray of pills on the table. ‘Hmm. Where are those pills you have to take before meals? Ah, here they are.’ She pressed one out of the plastic packaging and put it into his hand.
The Big Fiddle Page 1