The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  “Oh my God.” I felt the tears coming again. Clarke handed me a clean white handkerchief. He must have a huge supply of them somewhere.

  “You said that something else had come up?” I asked, trying to focus on something other than an image of Josh lying hurt and bleeding. “Something to do with the case?”

  Clarke perched on the edge of the bed. “Yes, but it’s not important right now. All that matters is that you’re safe.”

  “I’d rather you tell me. Is it Nick?”

  He stood up and hands behind his back, stared at the monitor that beeped away in the corner of the cubicle. He turned back to look at me.

  “I’m afraid so. He was killed last night. He fell under a train at the Oxford Street Tube station.”

  33

  I sat upright and stared at Clarke. “Oh, my God,” I said.

  He patted my hand soothingly.

  “I’m sorry. I know it’s a shock. His partner Gary identified him this morning.”

  A shadow passed over his face and I thought again of how hard his job was. He must have dealt with so many grieving relatives. Thinking about Nick, and the aura over him. I groaned. Clarke’s brooding expression changed to one of concern.

  “Are you okay?”

  I would never be okay for as long as I could see the damned auras with no way of saving the people that had them. I knew one thing for sure, though.

  “It wasn’t an accident,” I said.

  “We don’t know that yet. We’re still sifting through witness statements to see if he jumped, fell, or was pushed. Gary insists that Nick wouldn’t commit suicide, says he was happy, a little shaken up by finding Rebecca like that, but not depressed. Still, I’ve seen enough suicides to know that it’s often impossible for family members to see it coming. Someone’s happy as a lark in the morning, and dead at nightfall.”

  “Not Nick,” I said. “Remember how worried he was about Caspian? He insisted on taking the cat home with him. I don’t see that as the action of someone about to kill himself. Did he leave a note?”

  “Not that we know of.”

  “And how many people accidentally fall onto the lines in a Tube station?”

  “Not many,” he agreed. “Hardly any. But it can happen, especially if the platform is very crowded, as it was at Oxford Street yesterday evening.”

  “Too coincidental,” I said. “I don’t believe it.”

  Clarke nodded his head in agreement. “I am going to assume foul play until we learn otherwise,” he said. Standing up, he paced around the enclosed space.

  “Where was Gary when it happened?” I asked.

  “At a cocktail party. Lots of alibis. Let’s go back to what happened to you. Can you provide a detailed description of the attacker?”

  “Definitely,” I said. “I saw him during the day before he got into the apartment.”

  Clarke stopped pacing and stared at me. “The man who you said was following you? Dammit. I should have got on to that more quickly. I’m sorry, Kate.”

  “I wasn’t sure he was following me. It could have been coincidence. Now I know it wasn’t, of course.”

  I shivered. Clarke came back to sit on the bed. “Can you go over the details? I know the time of the attack. The emergency call came in at five past seven this morning. What happened before then?”

  The business card, the aftershave. Was I going to tell Clarke about my amazing deduction that the boyfriend was Peter Montgomery? In the stark light of the hospital room it seemed rather ridiculous. Plenty of men used Amouage, obviously, or there wouldn’t be stacks of bottles on shelves in London’s department stores. It wasn’t Montgomery, but the man in the wool coat who had been Rebecca’s boyfriend. I tried to remember whether there’d been any hint of aftershave on him, but couldn’t remember. All I remembered was the smell of my own blood. My hand flew to my temple and I felt a bulky dressing there.

  “Are you all right? Do you need a nurse?” asked Clarke.

  I shook my head, and wished I hadn’t; the room started to spin. When it settled again, I related the details as I remembered them from the moment I woke up, hearing the noise in the hallway. Clarke took some notes.

  “The front door was jimmied open,” he said. “That’s how the attacker got in.”

  That surprised me. What kind of technology consultant knew how to break down doors?

  “Do you think the man who attacked me also killed Nick?”

  “It’s possible. Nick died at eight pm the night before. There was plenty of time.”

  “So, here’s the deal.” Clarke looked at his watch. “A police officer will be stationed here to keep an eye on you until you’re discharged. Then I’d like to get you out of London, preferably somewhere no one would be able to find you. Do you have family you can go stay with?”

  “My brother. But I don’t want to put him or his boys at risk. They’ve been through enough already. Besides, I’d rather stay in London. I can’t leave the investigation and all that.”

  And I can’t leave Josh. The words swam around in my head. It was my fault that he was injured. I had to stay close to him.

  “Okay. I’ll get a twenty-four hour guard organized at least for a day or two, until Josh is ready to be discharged. We have to keep you safe until we catch this guy, whoever it is.”

  He stretched and then pressed his hands to his back.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked.

  “No, just spending too much time hunched over my desk and a pile of paperwork. I could do my job so much better if I never had to fill in another form, but that’s the way it is. We figure that a petty crime uses up one tree. An investigation like this one chews up a whole forest.”

  The curtain opened to reveal a young uniformed officer. He had short dark hair and a serious expression. He stood at attention until Clarke told him to relax.

  “I’ll come back in later. You’ll be in good hands with PC Wyatt here.”

  With that, Clarke was gone. I lay back on the pillows, suddenly aware of pain in my shoulders and ribs. My head ached. A quick glance at the bag attached to the tubes running into my arm confirmed that my pain medications were running down. I didn’t want to be a wimp, but I hoped the nurse intended to get them going again soon.

  PC Wyatt sat, staring at the curtains as though expecting an armed killer to burst through at any second. That was his job, I knew, but it seemed a little dramatic. It was hard to believe my assailant would risk coming to such a public place. Then again, Nick had been killed in the most public of locations. I felt a lump forming in my throat. Nick had done nothing wrong and he was dead. And Josh could have died. I couldn’t bear to think of him being hurt. I wanted to see him.

  I lay back on the pillows but it was impossible to get comfortable. My mind was whirling. I needed to get up and move around for a minute.

  “I have to use the bathroom,” I said. “I suppose you’ll have to come with me, at least as far as the door.”

  “All right,” Wyatt said, shifting on his chair, looking embarrassed.

  On the table next to me was a plastic bag with a pair of socks in it. I managed to open it and slid them out. They were blue, thick and fluffy, emblazoned with the hospital logo, and had silicone dots on the soles so that my feet wouldn’t slip on the polished floor. I pulled them on with one hand, the other still restricted by the IV tube. Wyatt stood up to help me.

  My legs felt shaky. I pushed the IV bag on its portable stand, welcoming the support it offered. We went out through the curtains, past other cubicles, into a wide, well-lit hallway. Wyatt asked the way to the bathrooms, and a harried-looking nurse directed them to the left.

  “Just a few yards,” she said. “Will you be all right?”

  I nodded and set off in that direction. The overhead lights were bright and blinding after the dimmed illumination of my cubicle. Their reflection bounced on the glossy beige walls and made my eyes hurt; the dark floor shone like an oil slick. Wyatt and I walked slowly. We’d just reached the bathroom doo
r when I saw my nurse bearing down on us like an approaching thunderstorm.

  “Miss Benedict, what are you doing up and walking around by yourself?”

  She turned an iron gaze on PC Wyatt, who straightened his shoulders and stared back.

  “She’s not by herself. I’m taking care of her,” he said. “She needed the restroom.”

  “Stay right there. I’ll get a wheelchair.” Turning abruptly, she disappeared round a corner at the end of the hall.

  Wyatt gave me a conspiratorial wink. I leaned against the wall, swaying under the bright light, feeling the slightest pull of the sticky socks on the floor, tenuous threads holding me to the ground.

  At the other end of the corridor, a group of people appeared, walking slowly, and as they came closer, I saw that two male orderlies were supporting an elderly man who shuffled along in a plaid bathrobe and beige slippers. His thin white hair was only a shade lighter than his skin, which was blanched and waxy. But he was smiling and joking with the men, telling them that he used to run marathons and planned to do another one once they let him out.

  I watched them go into the elevator. Their voices faded as the doors closed with a loud ping. In the ensuing silence, which felt deep and unnerving, I bent to massage a cramped calf muscle. Footsteps caught my attention, I glanced up to see a man striding along the corridor, fast and determined. Maybe a doctor in a hurry, I thought, dropping my gaze back to my leg, and giving it another rub. Then realization jolted me like an electric shock. It was the sandy-haired man from the escalator, the man who had attacked me. He stopped abruptly, obviously surprised to see me in the middle of the corridor, but kept coming, one hand going to his coat pocket.

  I seized Wyatt’s arm and screamed, “It’s him. The man who attacked me.”

  Wyatt moved in front of me. “Get in there,” he said, pushing the bathroom door open. Leaving Wyatt to face a man with a knife seemed cold-hearted, so I stayed at the door, shouting for help. The man with the black coat turned and ran, the policeman in pursuit. Wyatt was talking into a radio and had something in one hand that looked like a gun but I knew that wasn’t possible. It must be a taser. The attacker ran through a set of double doors at the far end of the hall, leaving them swinging wildly on their hinges. I stopped yelling when Wyatt reached them. Banging through them, he disappearing from view. Silence fell like a shroud.

  Seconds later, it was broken by the squeak of wheels on linoleum; the nurse came round a corner with a wheelchair. She pulled it to a stop, put the brakes on and guided me into it, tutting the whole time. Her kindly face was flushed pink, whether with exertion or dismay at the situation, it was hard to tell.

  “Where is that policeman? I understood he was supposed to stay with you? What’s he doing going off and leaving you standing here alone? I’ll report him to his superiors.”

  “He chased after the man who attacked me in my apartment.”

  “The man was here? In the hospital? Oh my goodness.”

  The nurse looked up and down the corridor as if expecting him to jump out at them. “Should we call for help?”

  While we waited there, uncertain what to do, the double doors swung open again. I stiffened, and the nurse put both hands firmly on the wheelchair handles. But it was Wyatt, still talking on his radio and hurrying towards us.

  “He got away,” he said, panting slightly. “But I’ve got a couple of units out looking for him.”

  He took his cap off, ran his hand through his hair, and put it back on. “I should have used the taser, but I never got close enough.”

  “You were very brave,” I said. “And he had a big head start on you.”

  The nurse guided my foot onto the footrest. “I’m taking you to your bed. We need to get you back on your medications. Will you be coming with us, Constable?”

  Wyatt nodded, following behind us. It wasn’t until I was back in bed that I remembered that I still needed to go to the bathroom.

  34

  Later that day, I sat in my wheelchair next to Josh’s bed. PC Wyatt, looking uncomfortable on a plastic chair, sat facing the door. His back was straight; both feet, in their black polished shoes, rested firmly on the floor. Opposite the bed, a small television hung on the wall, running soundless BBC news commentary. A window with the blinds drawn up showed an oblong of blue sky and the tips of branches bearing decaying remnants of their once vivid foliage.

  The room was gray and white: white sheets and blankets, gray walls, gray and white floor and a gray metal bed frame. The only splash of color was a potted red begonia that I had bought for Josh at the hospital gift shop, together with a brown teddy bear with a red ribbon around its neck. Probably too cute, but I’d fallen in love with the little fluffy toy and its big brown button eyes. It made Josh smile when I gave it to him. He’d propped it up on the pillow and draped an arm around it.

  Josh had three stab wounds, two on his arms, which he had used to defend his body against the knife slashes, and one, more serious, in his thigh. He had lost a lot of blood, but transfused and stitched up, he was in no longer in danger. His face was paler than usual, white against his dark hair, which was still tousled from a night of medication-induced sleep.

  We were going over all the details, trying to fill in the gaps for each other on what had happened in the apartment the previous morning. Josh had got up early, planning to let me sleep in. When he was in the bathroom, he had heard me scream and rushed out to see a man with the knife.

  “God, I feel awful about putting you in danger like that,” I said. “I shouldn’t have let you stay the night.”

  “Don’t be silly. I just wish I could have stopped him from attacking you. I did my best but I never knew how much a knife cut could hurt and bleed.”

  “I hardly remember any of it. It’s a blur from the moment he kicked me.”

  “Just as well the neighbors heard all the commotion and came up the stairs to investigate,” Josh said. “I think he would have killed us both if he’d had more time.”

  He leaned back, tired from talking, looking wrung out at the memory of what had happened. I rested my head on the back of the chair, realizing I was tired too. A knock on the door brought me upright.

  Wyatt jumped to his feet and relaxed when Inspector Clarke walked in. He stayed near the door.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said. “They told me at the nurse’s station that Kate was here.”

  “Come in, join the party,” said Josh.

  “I thought you’d like an update,” said Clarke, sitting on the chair next to Josh’s bed.

  “Did you catch the man who attacked us?” I asked.

  “No, not yet. But we will. Wyatt put in a valiant effort to apprehend him but we lost him. However, I do have some news. We have a witness who saw a man push Nick onto the rails at the Tube station. She’s made a statement and given us a description. We’re reasonably sure that it’s the same man who attacked you, based on your preliminary description.”

  He paused when there was a tap at the door. An orderly poked her head in. “Tea trolley. Anyone want tea and biscuits?”

  Wyatt raised his head so expectantly I had to say yes. Anyway, I needed caffeine and sugar to stay awake. The woman poured four cups of tea that looked strong enough to clean drains with. She handed them round and left a plate full of custard creams and digestive biscuits on Josh’s bedside table. For a minute, an appreciative silence filled the room while everyone sipped their tea.

  Less numb now than I had been the previous morning, I felt the pain of Nick’s death more acutely. The man who’d come to my apartment had come with intent to kill, there was no doubt. With Nick, he had succeeded.

  “This man, who we think is Rebecca’s ex-boyfriend, wanted to get rid of Nick and me because he thinks we know who he is?”

  “That’s the assumption, yes.” Clarke said. “We’ll need you and Josh to give us a detailed description of the man.”

  I thought back, trying to remember what the man looked like. Ligh
t blonde hair, medium height, but I hadn’t really seen his face. He’d been wearing a scarf when I’d spotted him at the Tube station street. In the darkened hallway, I’d hardly seen him at all.

  “Wyatt got a good look and that’s going to help us,” said Clarke.

  “What next then?” I asked.

  Clarke drained the last of his tea and put the cup down on the table. “I have to get back to the station. I’ll keep you posted on the investigation. I’m going to have Wyatt stay here until you’re both released. Kate, where will you go? I don’t think you should be in your apartment by yourself yet, until we can get more information on our assailant.”

  “My brother’s coming to get me later this morning.” Suddenly, I remembered something. “But it’s Rebecca’s funeral tomorrow. I should be there.”

  “No way,” said Clarke. “I’m sorry, but that’s not a good idea, at many levels.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re hurt and can hardly stand up by yourself, for one thing. And the murderer could make an educated guess that you’d be there. It wouldn’t be hard for him to have another go at you. No, I’d like you to be somewhere out of the way for a while.”

  “I’ll go to my brother’s in Oxford for a few days then. But you will stay in touch and let us know if you find the attacker, won’t you?”

  “Of course. I have your cell number. What about you, Josh? We can’t rule out a repeat attack even on you, now that you can identify the man who did it.”

  “I’m going to Gloucestershire to stay with my parents until I can walk again,” Josh said.

  He looked at me. “This is going to make Alan very unhappy. His Montgomery project team is disintegrating.”

  Thinking of Alan and Montgomery reminded me of the business card and the scent of aftershave. I was sure now that I was wrong, but I might as well tell Clarke what I’d been thinking in the middle of the night.

  “There was something I was going to call you about this morning,” I said to him. “Last night, I realized that Peter Montgomery wears that aftershave, the one that had been in Rebecca’s bathroom. I could still smell it on his business card.”