Moving towards me, he leaves a gap between his colleagues, wide enough for me to see the white face on the white pillow, the tuft of hair, growing, falling over the scar where she was operated on, where the bullet went in.
Dr Elliott notices me, gesturing me in. I can’t move. After all these weeks, she has half opened one of her eyes. Or at least the one I can see.
I can’t be certain, but I imagine that some of the lines on the monitor are forming different patterns.
‘Hi Andy.’ Dr Elliott offers his warm open smile. ‘She’s a little fighter.’
It’s not the first time he says that. And from my experience of him, he never says anything he doesn’t mean.
In the beginning, she wasn’t breathing on her own but connected to a life-support machine. After a while, they believed they could wake her up by reducing the medication that kept her in an induced coma. They stopped the medication but nothing changed. She didn’t wake up. A few weeks later, they suggested disconnecting her from the life-support machine and letting her die peacefully. It was all set up, authorities informed, documents signed. They stopped the machine and Becca started breathing herself.
When they took Becca off the machine, Dr Elliott was almost a hundred per cent certain that she would die. I told him she wouldn’t. I told him that she was a little fighter. I proved him wrong and he admitted it. Not that I needed a humble or unnecessary apology. At that moment in time, I was just glad and hopeful that Becca would recover and live happily after.
That was nine weeks ago, six weeks after the emergency operation when she was taken to hospital.
‘Come in, Andy.’ Dr Elliott turns his head and the nurse next to him steps aside. Mirabelle. She smiles encouragingly, but I can sense that the initial excitement has reduced a bit. I listen to Elliott addressing a handful of young doctors and Becca’s regular nurses. She has opened her right eye, but although the monitors show some activity in her brain, there appears to be no sign that she can see out of her eye or that the optic nerve is sending the right messages through to her brain.
‘It is rather disappointing,’ Elliott says later, when the crowd has disappeared and we both stand at the end on the bed. The balloons are still attached to the back of a chair. One of the birthday cards has escaped from its pin and is stuck between the headrest and her pillow.
‘But we can’t give up hope,’ he adds. ‘It can be a sign that something is happening in her head.’ I’m not sure which of us needs encouragement most.
His pager bleeps and he excuses himself. I reply with a short nod, telling him silently that I understand. He retreats swiftly and I sit on the chair beside the bed, the balloons swaying behind and above me.
44
I stay with Becca for an hour. She hasn’t moved since I came in. No significant brain activity is visible on the monitors. Dr Elliott comes in several times, his hopes fading each time he disappears in the corridor, where hospital life is business as usual.
My phone vibrates. No caller ID. I almost ignore the call but then remember I left a message for Jonathan Casey.
‘Hello?’
His voice is so low, I barely recognise it, but he sounds familiar.
‘Jonathan? Jonathan Casey?’
‘You called but … and we … I got your message.’
I stare at Becca’s hand. Has there been a slight tremor in her index finger?
‘I am in the hospital at the moment, Mr Casey. But I need to speak to you.’
‘No. no. not now. I’m not … I can’t get away from the children.’ I hear something in his vicinity but it is too subdued to make out what it is.
‘Are you at home, Mr Casey?’
‘Yes. Yes of course I am. The children … we have a bit of a situation here, inspector. Charlotte is sick. And Deacon isn’t feeling very well. I just collected them from school.
His voice is a combination of anxiety and pragmatism.
‘Something they’ve eaten? What about yourself?’
‘No. I’m all right. Nothing wrong with me.’ He pauses. ‘What makes you think …?’
‘The children may be ill because of something they ate. I wondered if you had eaten the same as them.’
‘No. No. It must have been the milk. For their cornflakes, maybe, I don’t use milk.’
I remember him with his expensive machine. He had milk in his coffee.
‘When can we meet, Mr Casey?’
‘Err … tonight?’
‘Of course. If that is more convenient for you. What time?’
‘Half eight? The children will be in bed by then and Bee won’t be here. She’s working late tonight.’
‘Okay. Your home?’
‘Well, yes, if you don’t mind? I can’t leave the children alone. Can I? Bee will kill me is she found out.’
‘Of course.’
‘Err … what is it about, inspector?’
‘It is about Hugo Holmes.’
‘I told you, I have never heard of him.’
‘And I don’t believe you, Mr Casey. Hugo was married to Bee for almost three years. They divorced before you met her, but all the same. I can’t believe his name has never been mentioned in your presence.’
He is silent for so long that I start thinking he has cut me off. Then his voice is a whisper, almost inaudible. ‘Yes. You are right. And I can tell you something about Hugo Holmes.’
45
The house is enveloped in darkness. Birds and insects and neighbours are all asleep. A black cat moves sinisterly across the road, stopping for a moment when the sound of the engine dies. As the headlights fade in his eyes, he turns quickly and disappears in a gap in the hedge.
I sit and wait. Trying to remember the exact words he said before he hung up on me abruptly.
‘And I can tell you something about Hugo Holmes.’ Urgency in his lowered voice, a hint of breathlessness, as if he’d just come home and remembered he forgot to buy something important. He gave me no opportunity to ask him what he meant. Just those whispered words.
I stare along the deserted street. I’m tired. I can’t think properly. I can’t concentrate. I see wires tangled into one huge ball of different colours. Logically each colour represents a line with two ends. I can’t find any of them. It’s like a nightmare in which I need to untangle the wires before I fall into a deep black hole in which I can’t see the bottom. I am scared I’ll keep falling forever. I want to escape and stop my racing heartbeat.
I need to sleep. The last couple of days have been nerve-wracking. The case of the disappeared girls who hadn’t exactly disappeared. The sight of the body parts. The idea that there is someone living here somewhere who has the ability to kill someone, cut the body up in pieces and chuck them anywhere like unwanted pieces of equipment. My own night in that cold barn, cold, scared, desperate. Meeting Dorothy Trewoon again, looking into her shark-like killer-eyes. Becca, surrounded by balloons and cards because she’s passed one more milestone in her miserable little life. My scan. The appointment for my results hanging over my head like Damocles’ sword. Mr Grose and his pathetic little life indoors, keeping his kitchen door locked to hide his secret.
I am tired. I want to pull the duvet over my head, forget the world and sleep for a week. I want everything to be sorted and over when I wake up.
Rather than going to bed early, I made an appointment with Jonathan Casey. He knows something about Hugo Holmes, but surely, it could wait till tomorrow?
I got in my car and drove over. Finding he isn’t here. His car is not on the drive. The house is dark and somehow it feels like it’s empty.
I am tempted to start the engine again and drive back home. Another forty minutes and I’ll be home. In bed. Asleep. But his voice is in my head. Nagging me. I can’t leave without at least having looked for him in the house. He might have got fed up waiting for me and went to bed. I will wake him up and demand to know what it was he needed to tell me that couldn’t wait until tomorrow. I can’t let him sleep while not being able to sle
ep myself. It isn’t fair.
I reach and undo my seatbelt. The click and the clunk of the metal part against the window are like gunshots in fog. The cat is back. It is moving along the hedge for a few meters, then it crosses the road. Away from me. Some people say that if a black cat walks towards you, it brings good fortune, whereas it takes good luck with it if it walks away from you. My mother always laughed about it, saying, ‘Look away and you won’t see it’.
I close my eyes when he is in the middle of the road and he’s gone when I open them again. My talent for hiding my head in the sand must come from her.
I leave my car unlocked but put the keys in my pocket. In my other pocket is my hand, holding my mobile as though it is my only connection to life. Silly. My grip relaxes, but I don’t take my hand out of my pocket.
The porch door is ajar. Against my better judgement, I push it open with the tip of my index finger. No sound. The children must be fast asleep. The coat hooks are empty, save for a pink plastic raincoat. The shoe racks are empty; coloured boots, black shoes, coats and jackets, hats and scarves have all gone. Not a tiny speck of grass or dust or dried mud off shoes. The front door has a key in its lock, like someone forgot something and ran in with haste, leaving the key in the door to lock the door quickly on leaving.
‘Hello? My voice echoes against the walls. I hope I’m not waking the children. The house is dark. Cold. And empty. The kitchen is clean, the fridge is empty. Not even a milk bottle in it. TV light is off, the Wi-Fi box doesn’t flash. The heater has been turned off. Mattresses in the bedrooms are bare. Wardrobes and drawers are empty. Not a damp towel in the laundry bin. No toothpaste or brushes or bottles of shower gel in the bathroom. The toilet seat is down, the lid closed.
They have left. Moved to who knows where. The first question is: why? The second question is more important: why so quickly? It isn't so long ago that I had stepped over children’s boots and shoes and coats in the porch. Now they have gone without a trace.
I go back to the hallway. Anger and frustration about the wasted trip. Inwardly, I repeat his words: ‘You are right. And I can tell you something about Hugo Holmes.‘ Rewind. Play again. ‘I can tell you something about Hugo Holmes.’ Whatever he meant at that moment, he changed his mind
I leave the house as I found it, the key in the front door. Pull it closed. Was the porch door open? Ajar? I can’t remember.
There is a noise behind me. I turn and see a dark shape approaching me, eyes with a devilish shine as they are caught in the light of my mobile. The cat. Black and eerie. Foreboding.
Something else stirs in my brain. A cat flap in the door. They have left the house as if nobody has ever lived here. They forgot the cat. Something tells me that they won’t come back for it. No doubt the cat will survive on its own. Unlike dogs they are perfectly capable of finding and catching something to eat. Or perhaps someone will take pity on it and take it in.
The cat has stopped on the tarmacked front garden. Looking at me as though it’s waiting for me to go one way and it will go in the opposite direction. It sits down, licks the white toes of a front paw.
I retrieve my car keys and somehow I must press the button, as the warning lights of my car flash and I can hear the click of the automatic locking system. Startled the cat jumps up and vanishes. More bad luck. I hear the cat flap bang when it enters the shed.
I don’t know what to expect in the shed of a house that has been abandoned by its residents. Nothing. The odd box of unwanted items. Left rubbish. I follow the cat, thinking it's cruel leaving it behind and expecting other people to take care of it. Perhaps Lauren would like to have it. Her boys. If not … can I keep it in my flat? It would be nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who won’t nag me, force me to do things I don’t want to do. Remind me to eat and drink on time. Caring. Loving.
The cat flap bangs when I open the door. Immediately, I am almost overwhelmed by a bitter, sour smell. Not the smell of cat litter that hasn’t been changed for weeks. Something else.
Vomit.
I find him behind a wheelbarrow with folded blankets and a bicycle with two flat tyres and no seat. His hair is damp and his left cheek is in a puddle of vomit. Eyes are staring at me and this time it isn’t just the cat.
46
The next morning I watch the dark sky lighten to a pale glow as the sun rises over the horizon. Dark, navy-blue clouds are silhouetted against a warm glow that turns from yellow and orange to pink to pale blue, gradually gaining strength of colour.
Today is decision day. Several unrelated issues, but some definitely need a decision, though I have no idea yet how I will deal with them. The strange brooding dawn gives away to the reality of the day. I want to pull the duvet over my head and close my eyes. Sleep. Sleep until the day is over. I want to ignore everything, forget what I’m supposed to do today. I don’t want to make any decisions. Yet, as someone told me long ago, even not choosing between A and B is itself a decision. The decision to postpone what I must do today will only cause me discomfort and anxiety.
I get up with an undeniable sense of foreboding. Brushing my teeth, I wander through my flat, switch the kettle on, check my phone for messages. I shower and attach a clean stoma bag to my stomach and check the drawer under the sink to see if I need to order new supplies. Not yet. Postponed.
I try to put into some order today’s issues that are bothering me most. The scan. Hugo Holmes’s case. Lauren. Carter. I owe Gerald Davey an apology. I have suspected him, accused him, wrongly; he had nothing to do with Leanne’s and Siobhan’s ordeal. I will have to go and see him and apologise, as he deserves. Bee Robson. Bernie Whittaker. Jonathan Casey. The scan is clearly on top of my list, but I decide on an alphabetical order and it comes, happily, last. Last but not least. I shake my head, angry with myself and turn off the kettle as it comes to the boil.
Not on my priority list, but I decide to have breakfast at The Tearoom in the Garden. Not because there is no food in the fridge, but because I am too nervous to be on my own. I know I can call Lauren or my parents but I’d rather not tell them that I have an appointment in Treliske to get the results of my latest scan. Perhaps people are right and I am a sad, pitiful loner. Perhaps dealing with the worst things in life will seem less awful if you share them with other people, loved ones, or even people you barely know. I can’t. However much I would like to, I can’t share or be open about my emotions.
If I’m told that the original tumour – I haven’t named it yet – is still growing, or has spread elsewhere in my body, I don’t want anyone else to know. Maybe later, but not today. I will have to deal with the horror of chemotherapy, radiotherapy, more surgery even before I will be able to talk about it. And in the worse case scenario, if I’m told that there is no treatment available to stop the process, I won’t tell anyone before I’ve dealt with the implications of this myself, and the prospect of my shortened future.
The minutes tick by with the speed of a sleepy tortoise. The girl behind the counter who failed to have a cheerful conversation with me is now in the kitchen, chatting and laughing with her colleague, and preparing for the busy hours ahead. I am the only customer in the tearoom and I feel lonelier than I would have been at home.
My phone rings and I pick it up quickly, hoping for a miracle. That my feelings have been conveyed to Lauren by some sort of telepathy and she's enquiring how I am. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to tell her … something, part of the truth. Enough for her to offer to come with me. Or another miracle, the hospital, cancelling the appointment because the scan is clean and I need not come back. The idea is as childish as it is stupid.
No caller ID.
The need to speak to someone, anyone, makes me answer, rather than curiosity.
‘Hello?’
Behind me the door opens and the cold morning drifts in along with an obese family. Four children between 5 and 10 and their parents. They move with the awkwardness of carrying too much flesh. Or maybe fat is the right word. I feel sorry fo
r the children. Obesity is not in their genes but in the way they’ve been brought up, educated, taught what to eat. They sit and grab menus. I can already see ‘full English breakfast’ glimmering in their eyes.
‘Are you at the police station?’ I recognise the voice because of its arrogance
‘No, I’m …’
‘Home?’
As if on cue, a saucer crashes to the floor. For the superstitious, shards of broken crockery are a sign of a happier future.
‘Not at home,’ he concludes contented.
Something makes me stare out of the window. I see Carter walking on the path in a grey coat that looks expensive even from this distance. ‘Were you coming to see me, Mr Carter?’
‘You’re in the tearoom.’ It is a statement rather than a question.
‘I am.’
He chuckles and as I gaze past the obese father’s head, I can see Carter changing direction and putting his phone in his pocket to prevent me from objecting. He walks swiftly towards the small bridge in front of the building. An autumn leaf lands on his shoulder and he brushes it off with a hint of annoyance.
He comes in, a swirl of wind and leaves round his feet, shaking his head as though the leaves are stuck to it as well. Birdsong dies as he shuts the door. He orders a double espresso and sits opposite of me.
‘You are a strange man, Mr Tregunna’ He untangles his burgundy scarf, leaving it hanging loose in front of him.
‘And you aren’t?’
He chuckles. ‘But I must say I quite like you.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t say the same, Mr Carter.’
He shrugs. My opinion doesn’t matter to him.
‘So why are you here?’
‘I thought we’d better have a word.’
‘About?’
What every body is saying: DI Tregunna Cornish Crime novel Page 30