by Liz Evans
‘How’s he doing?’
‘Not so hot. Busted a leg and some ribs, they reckon. And ’e’s had a bang on his ’ead. That’s the one they’re getting revved up about.’
‘I brought his girlfriend in. She’s up at reception.’
‘Oh, great.’
The curtain swished open long enough for us to glimpse Figgy in a cot bed. Lumps of torn and bloody clothing were dropping to the floor as a nurse wielded a large pair of scissors, whilst a doctor was scribbling on a clipboard. The sister in charge was adamant there was no chance of talking to him until tomorrow - late tomorrow.
‘I’ve got his fiancee here ... and she’s pregnant,’ I explained.
‘Oh. I see.’ The sister’s brisk expression softened. ‘Shall I have a word?’
Gina had turned away to relay the progress report on her radio; now she swung back and announced she was off. ‘No sense ’anging around. Be someone up to talk to ’im tomorrow. See ya.’
There aren’t that many ways of saying ‘your man’s got several broken bones, possible internal bleeding and maybe a cracked skull’. The sister did her best and was helped by the fact that Mickey seemed to be on another planet part of the time, but even she got the message eventually: Figgy was in serious trouble and the next few hours were crucial.
‘Can I see him?’
‘They’ll have taken him to x-ray by now. Best to let them get on as fast as possible. I’ll come tell you as soon as there’s any news. Will your friend be staying with you?’
I couldn’t see I had much choice. I fetched a couple of teas from the vending machine and we settled into the plastic chairs amongst the two-year-old magazines and endlessly droning television set that no one was watching.
‘Do you think he’ll die?’
The correct answer was ‘Definitely not’ followed by a lot of reassuring noises.
‘I don’t know. But they’re good here. If anything can be done ... you know?’
‘Yeah. I know.’
She sipped the hot tea. I watched the curtain of sun- bleached mouse hair revealing and concealing her face as she dipped to each mouthful.
‘How long you and Figgy been together?’
‘About two years, maybe a bit less.’
‘What about your family?’
‘Haven’t got any - just Figgy.’
She lapsed into a blank-eyed stare. I took her hand and we sat like that for a while, watching the ambulance crews coming and going and the waiting room gradually empty.
‘He’s not really bad, yer know,’ Mickey said finally. ‘He knows he shouldn’t have broken into your friend’s flat like that. He only did it because of ...’
She rubbed a hand across her stomach again, like Aladdin reassuring himself the genie was still in the lamp.
‘I was going to have one last year. We were squatting in this block of flats then. In Shepherd’s Bush. Loads of people were. It was sort of official. The council knew we were there and everything. Figgy got all this paint and paper and stuff and done ours up ... for the baby, he said. He got a cot and a pram and all this kid’s stuff, expensive brands too. He was so proud he was going to be a dad, you know?’
She turned big grey eyes on me and I nodded encouragingly. ‘So what happened? Did you miscarry?’
‘One of the blokes in the other flats was dealing drugs. He got raided ... and he figured someone had grassed on him.’ ‘And Figgy was splashing cash around on baby gear ...’ She nodded, swallowing tea that had gone stone-cold by now. ‘He’d been getting the material cheap at car-boot sales ... he’s good at doing things up ... but they didn’t believe me. They broke in when he was out, you see ... one of them punched me in the stomach ...’
I gave her a hug. She leant against me.
‘Did the police get them?’
‘Figgy wouldn’t let me make a statement. Said they’d get bail and come after me again. We moved to another squat ... miles away ... but I hated it, I kept thinking they’d find us, so ...’
‘You found yourselves a very desirable beach hut.’
‘It was only supposed to be for a few days. We really did mean to get a proper place, but the bed and breakfast the Social offered was so awful ... and ... your friend’s flat is lovely ... She’s so lucky ...’ Her voice caught.
‘Another tea,’ I suggested, grabbing the empty cup and bolting. Empathy isn’t my strongest talent.
We went through six more cups whilst we waited, interspersed with frequent trips to the loo. The night sounds of the hospital became quieter and stiller. The waiting room emptied as the casualties from chucking-out time at the pubs and clubs were cleared. Ambulances came and went occasionally, but even they had slackened off. Figgy had picked a quiet night to get knocked down, which was probably lucky for him.
After her hesitant justification for Figgy squatting in Annie’s flat, Mickey had become monosyllabic, answering questions with a listless yes or no until she’d finally lapsed into a weary trance, staring blindly at a magazine that stayed open on the same page for nearly two hours.
I used the time to wrestle with my conscience. That description of the car that had hit Figgy fitted Stephen Bridgeman’s motor. I kept getting other picture bytes: me describing Figgy to Stephen in the cellar - and telling him he might know something about Kristen’s disappearance; Stephen stalking out of the house while I was ducked down trying to untangle Uncle Alfie’s wheelchair, that car revving and manoeuvring at the far end of the drive whilst I was talking to Bone.
I pointed out to my conscience that it had been a couple of hours later that Figgy had been hit.
Sure, my conscience agreed. But, like, he’s not going to pile up on the pavement outside the amusement park, is he? Under all those bright lights with plenty of witnesses. Some of whom might be sober enough to take down the car number. Much smarter to park up near and take Figgy out as he goes round that dark corner where all the shops are shuttered and there’s no reason for anyone to hang around. I mean, let’s not forget you were kind enough to tell him the performance times.
‘Thanks for mentioning it,’ I muttered.
‘What?’ Mickey jerked out of her trance.
‘Nothing. I was just thinking aloud.’
‘Oh.’ She went back to the tattered article on Ten Things to do with Sour Bread Dough.
So, my conscience needled, maybe you should just mosey on over to that payphone and suggest to our finest in blue they might like to check out Bridgeman’s car for forensic evidence. Before he puts it through a car wash.
I tried justifying myself. ‘Look, Bridgeman hired me to find Kristen - who admittedly has now turned into Julie-Frances - but he still wants me to track down the lady and his missing files.’
Could be a double bluff. The guy works out you’re looking for Kristen, so he decides to employ you. That way he gets to find out how much you know. Maybe he knows damn well what happened to Kristen. Maybe he made it happen.
‘Why should he?’
Insurance policy. If things did turn nasty over this node thingy of his, he could always claim she stole the designs. Or perhaps the lady just got too greedy.
‘Bollocks.’
Do you mind. I’m not a conscience who’s used to such language.
‘Well, it doesn’t make sense. I could always testify that he’d told me he and Kristen were in it together.’
Assuming you take care when crossing the road from now on.
‘Two accidents might be difficult to hide.’
Perhaps he’ll just pay you off. A nice fat bonus. What would you say to five thousand to forget what he told you about his set-up with Kristen ? Well?
‘Don’t rush me. It’s a tough call.’
The doctor came down ten minutes later. Mickey sat bolt upright, her fingers forming a tourniquet around my wrist, her wide eyes fixed on the approaching figure as if she could draw the news from his skin. At least it saved him asking which of us was Figgy’s fiancee. He took the chair opposite her.
‘He’s OK. His head injury isn’t as bad as we feared; there’s no bleeding into the skull that we can see. There was some internal bleeding from the ribs but we’ve sorted that out. And we’ve pinned his right leg. There’s a fracture ...’ he sliced across his own shin, ‘and another higher up which is cleaner ... we’ve left that to heal naturally for now.’
‘Will he still be able to skate?’
This was plainly not the question the doc was expecting. ‘I ... er ... let’s wait and see what the physios can do.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘For a moment. He won’t be properly with us until lunchtime, I suspect. I should get home and get some sleep, young lady. By the looks of you you could do with it.’
I hung around outside in the corridor while they took Mickey into the ward and let her kiss her well-out-of-it fiance.
She returned clutching the yellow roller-blades to her chest. A wheel was missing from one and the other was shattered around the ankle area. ‘They said to bring his things in tomorrow.’
‘Fine.’ I yawned. ‘I’ll drop you home.’
She gave me a shy, grateful smile. ‘Thanks. And thanks ever so much for stopping with me. I couldn’t have stayed here alone. You’ve been dead brilliant.’
Since she was in a grateful mood, I grabbed the opportunity on the way home to ask her if she knew what Figgy had been talking about when I called the other day.
‘When he threw me out he hinted he might know more about one of my cases than I do. A missing woman. The one I asked you about that first day. A friend of the old blind man with the dog?’
Mickey shook her head, still clutching the roller-blades to her chest as we bounced over sleeping policemen. ‘No. He never said nothing about her to me. How would he know anyhow?’
‘I wish I knew,’ I admitted, sliding into a parking space outside Annie’s flat. ‘You going to be OK on your own?’
‘Oh yes, I’m fine now.’
She got out of the car and promptly threw up in the gutter.
Scrambling out my side, I detached her from the passenger door she was using for support and helped her inside. Clinging together, we climbed the internal stairs to the first floor.
The tom-toms gave us the first hint that all was not well. They were propped in the hall by Annie’s door.
‘How did ...?’ Mickey looked puzzled. She took in the plastic sacks and wire supermarket baskets lined up further along the carpet. ‘Oh noo ...’ She burst into tears yet again.
I leant on the bell until the safety chain went on and the door opened a fraction.
Zeb blinked through tousled hair. ‘Oh, hi, Grace. Won’t it keep? I’ve only just got to bed. You’ve no idea how many of these so-called “twenty-four-hour” locksmiths aren’t. Still, here I am. Lawfully in possession of my sister’s flat. With a new lock in place.’ He slapped it gleefully.
Mickey’s sobs turned into a keening sound as the combined effects of shock, relief and tiredness hit her at once.
‘For heaven’s sake, Zeb, her bloke could have been killed tonight.’
‘Er, yeah ... I heard. Sorry. How is he?’
‘He’ll live, apparently.’
‘Great. Well, all’s well ... and all those other cliches ... Night.’
Mickey flung herself at the closing door. ‘Wait. What am I going to do? It’s my flat.’
‘Not unless you’ve got a proper rental agreement, it isn’t. Now I must get some sleep ... I’m in the witness box tomorrow. Night, Grace ... and thanks for tipping me off.’
‘You what?’
‘The radio. Terry Rosco dropped it in. Gave me the gen on the bloke being carted off to hospital. I owe you.’ He dropped me a large wink and shut the door.
Mickey got her second wind and demonstrated it by whacking me straight in the middle of the healing bruises.
CHAPTER 34
I put her up anyway. It was that or leave her in a shelter on the front.
By the time we’d crashed for a few hours, rolled out of bed and telephoned the ward to confirm Figgy was doing fine but still asleep; had a bath ... and telephoned to confirm that Figgy was still doing fine and still asleep; breakfasted on stale-ish toast and Marmite ... and telephoned the ward to et cetera, et cetera ... I knew I was going to have to find Mickey alternative accommodation.
It was nothing personal; I just felt like my space had been invaded. And she was playing havoc with my telephone bill.
I slung the dirty dishes in the sink whilst she was on the phone for the hundredth time and grabbed my keys. By the time she hung up I was ready to chivvy her outside and into the car.
‘But if Figgy wakes up and I’m not there ...’
‘Two minutes,’ I promised, swinging right and heading for the sea front. I just hoped Rachel wasn’t out.
She wasn’t. And, as anticipated, she fell on Mickey with zeal - and yoghurt cake.
‘Just a nibble, darlin’,’ she insisted, slicing out a half-pound wedge. ‘You got to keep yourself healthy, for the little one. You look a smidge peaky to me. You been eating properly? I know what you girls are ... diet, diet, diet ... you’re not careful you’ll get that nervous-rexy.’
‘She’s been living in a squat,’ I said, without going into details.
‘No!’ Rachel’s eyebrows shot up into the walnut-whip wig. ‘Darlin’, this is not good ... you don’t want no nasty damp slum for a new baby ...’
‘And now what with her boyfriend laid low in hospital...’
‘But he’ll be out soon ... they said so ...’ Mickey’s eyes flew to the carriage clock ticking away amongst Rachel’s china ladies.
I headed off the request for a lift to the hospital by asking Rachel if she could introduce Mickey to the new mum across the hall. And in an apparent burst of inspiration suggested she could show her over the vacant flat upstairs. ‘It’s not been let yet, has it?’
‘I don’t think so. That estate agent, he comes round the other day. Asked me how we’d feel about having pigs in the back garden. Pigs, I ask you! What sort of klutz keeps pigs in a flat? But for you, darlin’, it is perfect.’ She patted Mickey’s arm. ‘Nice little bedroom for a nursery. And any time you want a baby-sitter, you only got to ask.’
‘But we can’t afford it. They’ll want a deposit, and rent in advance. And references ...’
‘Pooh ... these things can be sorted out. The owner’s a friend. I’ll write, tell him you’re good people.’
‘Figgy won’t accept charity.’
‘Charity. What is charitable about a loan? The banks, they make them all the time ...’
I’d found a new nest for my cuckoo chick. It was time to leave. I recalled a sudden urgent appointment at the office.
‘But the hospital ... you said you’d give me a lift.’
‘Don’t worry, darlin’, I got a car. And maybe we got time for a little baking before we go. Sometimes that hospital food is not so good ...’
‘But he’ll need his things ... clothes and toothbrush ... it’s all at Grace’s.’
I promised to meet them at the ward with the plastic sacks - thereby ensuring Mickey had no excuse to come back to the flat.
Since I’d said I was going back to the office, I figured I might as well check in. It meant driving past the police station. The conscience which had been snoozing since last night woke up ... stretched ... and kicked.
Go on ... get in there and tell them the hit-and-run could have been Bridgeman.
‘It’s too late. He’ll have washed the car by now. It was a stupid theory anyway. It was probably just some bunch of drunks in a stolen motor ... Besides, Bridgeman’s cheque won’t have cleared yet... and if I don’t eat, you don’t either.’ I wound the window down and inhaled the sharp aroma of ozone caught in the freshening breeze scudding across the billows. A few drops of wetness - rain or air-blown spray - touched my cheek, and I could see the empty deckchairs whipping and cracking on the sands, indicating a strengthen-ing easterly wind.
It
looked like the weather was about to take another somersault. Wednesday’s brief bright spell was on the way out. It was lucky for Joan Reiss that it had happened that way round. A howling gale would have been the final disaster in her already memorable garden party.
But then I doubted Joan ever left anything to chance. She struck me as the sort of woman who’d order up sunshine ... the sort of woman who’d dare a raindrop to fall on her carefully planned celebration ... the sort of woman who was currently sitting in the hall of Vetch (International) Inc ...
‘This lady wants to see you,’ Janice announced needlessly.
I could have guessed that. It was something about the steely glint in the eyes as she rose from her chair and said quietly: ‘May I have a word, Miss Smith? In private.’
‘My office is upstairs.’
She preceded me up. Once we were out of Janice’s hearing I asked how she’d found me.
‘It was hardly difficult. Larry Payne asked me what a private investigator was doing snooping around the party. Up until then I wasn’t aware that one was; although I had realised it was unlikely that you earned your living as a cleaner. This is the only agency listed in the local yellow pages. Had you not been employed here, I should have tried further afield.’
Her gaze swept the office. It was the only thing that had recently.
‘I’m glad to see your dismal efforts aren’t confined to paid cleaning.’
‘No. I’m just a natural-born slob. And you never did pay me, Mrs Reiss.’
‘Then I think we may consider ourselves equal in that department.’ She moved a chair opposite the desk and settled herself with an expression that indicated she wouldn’t be shifting from that position until she got some answers.
It was a grey-checked trouser suit this morning; all brisk chicness and don’t-mess-with-me.
‘Now, I should like to know why you are investigating my family.’
I did a quick mental assessment of my options. Telling her to push off wouldn’t work. She’d just go on probing and niggling until she found a way into the case. On the other hand, if I told her about the missing files, I’d be dropping Stephen right in it. Henry’s original commission seemed my best bet.