Night Vision

by Jane A. Adams

  ‘He keeps almost starting awake,’ Maureen said. ‘Then he moans in his sleep, and he moves his hands like—’

  ‘He’s dreaming,’ the nurse told her. ‘That’s a good sign.’

  Sometimes the dreams were more pleasant. He remembered another hotel room, high up in a modern hotel looking out over a city he could not identify. A woman was with him. She was not his wife.

  ‘He talks in his sleep,’ Maureen said.

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘He calls out a name. A woman’s name.’

  ‘It could be anyone.’ The police liaison officer had seen all this before. The sick, the dying, those whose normal social controls are switched off, so often talked about things and people even those closest to them were ignorant of. Especially those closest to them . . . ‘It’s nothing, Maureen, just the brain firing at random. It’s a good thing. It means he’s regaining consciousness.’

  ‘He doesn’t call my name.’

  Sometimes the dream was tactile, sensual. Sensory overload, as he touched the woman’s skin and kissed her mouth and felt the softness of her breasts as they pressed close against his body. ‘Michelle,’ he said. ‘Michelle.’

  Maureen leaned close and listened. Listened to his breathing, listened to his words and shed painful tears. Never mind what they were telling her. This was not and could never be a good thing. ‘Who is Michelle?’

  ‘It could be anyone,’ Sally told her. She exchanged a glance with the police liaison, and Susan Moran nodded approval.

  ‘Anyone,’ Susan agreed. ‘A work colleague.’

  ‘He doesn’t call my name.’

  Sally slipped away and found the business card Alec left her. He answered on the third ring, just as she was about to decide this was a bad idea.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  She knew he meant with Nick Travers.

  ‘He’s doing OK,’ she said. ‘It’s Maureen I’m worried about.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘He’s talking in his sleep. He keeps saying a woman’s name.’ There was a hint of silence, of withdrawal on the other end of the phone. He knows, she thought. He knows who it is.

  ‘He’s talking about someone called Michelle,’ she said.

  ‘A work colleague,’ Alec told her. ‘She’s involved in the investigation.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘That’s what we thought.’ She rang off then and turned back towards the ward. Sitting at the bedside, Maureen was complaining sadly that Nick still hadn’t called out her name.

  ‘Problem?’ Parks asked.

  Alec shook his head. ‘Maureen’s friend from the hospital, just letting me know how things are.’

  ‘And how are they?’

  ‘He’s getting better, apparently.’

  ‘Good.’ Parks cast him a quizzical glance. ‘Look, I’m going to get the CCTV footage over to the tech team. You stay out of trouble while I’m not here to mind you.’

  Alec watched him go and made up his mind. He got into Travers’ car and drove back to the open prison where Neil Robinson had died and Michelle Sanders was governor.

  He talks about someone called Michelle, Sally had told him. Was that just because Trav’s mind had escaped to a safe place? A good memory? Or was there more to it than that? Alec still knew nothing about the prisoner who had dropped the phone number at his feet. Who was he, and what was his association with Neil Robinson? As far as Alec knew, no one else had followed up on it either. He told himself that events had rather overtaken earlier concerns, but the answer did not satisfy.

  He announced himself at the gate and asked to see the governor.

  Driving up to the main building, Alec took a proper look at his surroundings. The main building was an old house – Georgian, he thought – though with modern wings attached at the sides and a Portakabin parked on what must once have been a sweeping drive. Long buildings, those left over from the days when this was an army base, stacked up in a herringbone pattern on either side of a gravelled road, and at the back of these were areas of cultivated garden and then mature trees. He caught sight of the freckle faced prisoner who had dropped the phone number. The man glanced his way and then turned his back and walked purposefully on.

  Michelle Sanders met him on the steps. She didn’t look happy, arms folded across her body and a frown creasing between her eyes.

  ‘DI Friedman. What brings you here?’

  ‘You can spare me a few minutes.’

  ‘Can I?’

  She turned and led the way, not to her office this time, but into what seemed to be a comfortable sitting room at the front of the house.

  ‘Staff room,’ she said, in answer to his unasked question. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Have a seat. There’ll be no one here until lunchtime. Then the admin staff will want their space back.’

  ‘You have a lot of admin staff ? This is a big room.’

  She cast him a look that was half puzzled, half amused. ‘Yes, we do,’ she said. ‘It’s also used for some classes. We’ve got a writer in residence here two days a week and – look, what are you here for?’

  Alec took a seat close to the window. This had once been a grand room, with its elaborate plaster cornices and a very large marble fireplace. Old rugs covered most of the wooden floor, and the furniture was a mishmash of ancient easy chairs and a couple of sofas. He wondered who had donated them and doubted any would comply with modern fire regulations. On the walls were cork notice boards, pigeon holes and photographs of staff and inmates on what looked like important occasions. A trestle table along the back wall supported trays of mugs and hot water urns and the makings for tea and coffee. Michelle took milk from a small fridge set next to it. ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Two, please.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Too sweet.’

  He waited until she had sat down in an opposite chair and then asked, ‘You heard about Travers?’

  ‘Travers? What about Nick?’

  Of course, he’d not yet been officially named, Alec remembered. In the early morning bulletins he’d still been an unnamed guest. ‘The news this morning, the stabbing at the motel.’

  It took a second or so to register, then he saw the colour drain from her face. ‘That was Nick? Oh my God.’

  Alec reached across and took the cup from her hand before it slipped through her fingers. Her face was white.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, I kind of assumed—’ Stupid, how could she have known? ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Is he . . .? I mean . . .’

  ‘He’s going to be all right, we hope. We found him in time. I found him in time.’ Only just in time. ‘It was touch and go, but he’s going to be OK.’ He paused. Already, the colour was returning to her cheeks, but as he proffered the mug of coffee he could see her hands were still trembling.

  She grasped the mug between them and held it tight.

  ‘You care a great deal for him,’ Alec said.

  ‘I did,’ she said firmly. ‘Did. We were close for a while.’

  ‘You had an affair.’

  ‘Is that any of your business?’

  ‘Ordinarily, no.’

  ‘So why did you come here today? If it was to tell me about Nick, then thank you, though I’ve got to say your people skills need some improvement.’

  ‘True. But no, it wasn’t just that. He spoke your name. He’s still only semi conscious, drifting in and out, but he spoke your name.’

  ‘Oh. So you’re here because that upset Maureen?’

  Alec laughed. She was recovering fast. If he’d had any hope of using her weakness to his advantage, that moment was fast slipping away. ‘No. I mean, yes, Maureen was upset, and I’ve no doubt he’ll have some explaining to do once he’s well enough, but no. You were clearly on his mind. Why is that, do you think?’

  She shrugged. ‘How the hell should I know? If, like you say, he’s not fully conscious, then it could have been some dream he had, some memory that got triggered b
ecause we saw each other again . . .’ She trailed off, suddenly seeing where Alec was going with this. ‘It’s been years since we last met.’

  ‘How many years?’

  ‘Five? Six? No, five.’

  ‘And the relationship lasted?’

  She pursed her lips, looking mutinous; he didn’t think he’d get an answer. Then she said, ‘On and off for a while. Eight, maybe nine years.’

  Alec blinked.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘He didn’t tell you that, did he? It was serious, Alec. For a while I actually thought he might leave her.’

  ‘They have kids.’

  ‘Which, I believe, is why he didn’t. I can’t think it was for love of Maureen.’

  ‘And what ended it?’

  ‘I ended it. I, like all those before and since who have been the “other woman”, realized that he liked to have the best of both worlds. I decided I had to get on with my life. The job came up here, so I applied. I told him this was a fresh start and I wouldn’t see him again. And I didn’t.’

  ‘You sure about that? You seemed very uncertain about the last time the two of you had been in touch. I’d have thought if it coincided with coming here you’d have known practically to the day.’

  ‘You’re a hard man, Alec. I saw him once, OK. He came here, I sent him away. Nothing happened.’

  He let it lie for a moment, sipped his coffee and watched her thoughtfully. ‘Tell me about Eddison.’

  ‘What?’ The frown returned. She sat back, suddenly defensive. ‘What about him?’

  ‘You have history. The three of you.’

  ‘Eddison is . . . How can I put this? He is not a man you want as your enemy.’

  ‘And is he yours?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, you see, that was just it. Charlie Eddison was a friend of mine long before I knew Nick. He warned me about Nick, warned him off. Not that I took any notice.’

  ‘Warned you?’

  She laughed bitterly. ‘You don’t think I was the first or only one?’

  ‘There were other affairs?’

  ‘Oh, Lord, Alec. You really don’t know him, do you? I like to think the others all dropped away once I was on the scene, but after me? There were rumours. Always rumours.’

  True, Alec thought. There were always rumours. But then, in the rather hothouse, incestuous world of policing, there were very few people who didn’t attract the rumours. He’d been the subject of a few, as had Naomi. You learnt to view it as an occupational hazard and dose every one with a large pinch of salt.

  ‘So tell me about Eddison.’

  She closed her eyes. Her hands still grasped the mug tightly, and she had not yet even sipped at it. He wondered again if she was going to talk to him.

  ‘Eddison and I go back a long way. Just friends. He was more a friend of my brother’s, really. My brother died, then Eddison became a friend of mine.’

  ‘What’s his background?’

  ‘You should ask him.’

  ‘I’m asking you. It saves time.’

  This time she paused to drink her coffee. Alec waited.

  ‘Charlie and my brother, Ben, they were in the army together. Then they both went into the police together. Way back when the force really began to computerize in a big way, Charlie got himself on to every training course he could and gradually shifted into the specialist, intelligence-led side of things. I attended some of the conferences. So did Nick. Charlie took to all this like the proverbial duck. You’d never know it to look at him, but he’s got a brain like—’

  ‘Trav said he was an information gatherer. He likes to have something on everyone he meets.’

  She laughed. ‘Look, you make it sound like it’s deliberate. I don’t think Charlie can help it. Some people just have to know and have memories like elephants for trivia. Charlie’s one of those. He remembers and he collates, and sooner or later, usually when you least expect it, he puts a whole raft of random stuff together and comes up with a conclusion. It’s made him good at what he does, and it’s made him a lot of enemies in his personal life.’

  ‘Just his personal life?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, maybe professional too. He’s like . . . You know how men always reckon a woman in an argument will remember every previous slight, practically since before they were born? Well, in Charlie’s case he really does remember.’

  ‘And he uses that?’

  ‘I suppose he does.’

  Alec paused and finished his drink. It was all starting to make a little bit more sense. ‘And Munroe?’

  ‘Him, I don’t know.’

  ‘Eddison say anything about him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is that significant? Would he normally have told you something? Anything?’

  ‘I don’t see why. He introduced this DS Munroe as a colleague on secondment. He didn’t say from where, and I didn’t ask.’

  ‘But you suspect?’

  ‘Alec, what’s all this about? Why don’t you just ask them?’

  ‘Because you know as well as I do I’m not going to get a straight answer.’

  She considered that. ‘I wondered if he was Internal Affairs,’ she said. ‘Just a feeling.’

  That was possible, Alec thought. He changed tack, sensing that he’d mined out this particular seam. ‘When we were here, one of the inmates in Robinson’s hut gave me something. Well, gave is probably putting it a bit strong. He dropped a piece of paper at my feet and made it very plain he didn’t want me to acknowledge the fact.’

  ‘Oh.’ Now she was interested, he thought. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. ‘What was it, and who?’

  ‘A phone number,’ he said. He fished his notebook from his pocket and flicked through, finding the number he had written down. Showed it to her. ‘Does this mean anything to you?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s a local number?’

  ‘It seems to be.’

  ‘And the man who dropped it?’

  ‘I’d like to speak with him.’

  She appeared to consider, then shook her head. ‘Why? You’ll be able to find out who owns the number without involving him, so—’

  ‘So why did he want me to have it?’

  ‘Could be anything and nothing. Could be a wind up, you thought of that?’

  ‘Of course I have.’

  ‘Right. Look, Alec, if it becomes relevant then I’ll consider your request. Until then, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Your objection?’

  ‘Presumably, you realized the man wanted to keep this quiet. You allowed him to do so. You could have brought it to my – our – attention at any time while you were here, so why didn’t you?’

  ‘One man is dead, and we still don’t know exactly how or why.’

  ‘And my reasoning is the same. I will not put someone else at needless risk.’

  ‘You could isolate him. Protect him.’

  ‘Does this look like a secure unit? No, Alec, we do good work here, and we spend a hell of a lot of time building trust and cooperation between staff and inmates. I won’t—’

  ‘If there’s so much trust, why didn’t he come to you? To a member of your staff ? Why wait until an outsider came along?’

  ‘And why choose you and not one of your colleagues? Alec, my guess is this is nothing. Someone taking the piss.’

  ‘And if it’s not?’

  ‘Come back to me when you’ve got something. If you get something. Which I doubt.’

  She stood, and Alec realized he was being dismissed. Had he learnt anything new? He still wasn’t sure.

  She walked him to the door and then watched him get into his car.

  Alec drove back down the gravel drive. The same work crew tended the allotments behind the huts. Alec slowed the car and watched, then pulled on to the verge and stopped the car. One of the guards watched him as he crossed the grass between the huts.

  ‘Can I help you? You were here the other day.’

  ‘DI Friedman. Yes I was.’ Alec e
xtended a hand, and the man looked momentarily flummoxed and then shook it.

  ‘Boss know you’re here?’

  ‘I’ve just had coffee with her. What are you growing?’

  ‘What are we—?’ The guard looked puzzled, then shrugged. ‘You name it,’ he said. ‘We keep the kitchen ninety per cent supplied for veg from the plots here. We’ve got links with a local plant nursery – they take some of the lads on day release.’

  ‘Sounds like a good scheme.’

  ‘It is. It works. We’ve got the lowest recidivism rate of any prison in our category. Our inspection was outstanding.’ He was clearly proud of that. Alec could understand why. It was a rare thing to be part of a success story in the prison system.

  Alec pointed at a row of tall stalks. The freckled faced prisoner was working close to them. ‘Is that sweetcorn? We tried growing that last year, didn’t get a damned thing.’

  He began to walk towards the rows, and the prison officer fell into step. ‘Last year was cold and wet; we lost half our crop even here where we’ve got shelter. We’re lucky; this patch is south facing, so we get the sun coming round the back of the trees most of the day. Over that way it’s a bit overshadowed, but the fruit trees do all right. We’ve also got a special bit of fertilizer for the corn, isn’t that right, Griffin?’

  So the man’s name was Griffin. Good. That narrowed things down a bit. ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘Pig shit,’ Griffin said. He regarded Alec warily. ‘From the farm next door.’

  ‘We rot it down, add it to the compost, and see that over there?’ The officer pointed at a row of tall green plants Alec did not recognize. ‘That’s comfrey, that is. Helps the compost to rot faster, release all its nutrients better. I didn’t believe it at first, but one of the old boys from the village told me about it, and I got Griffin here to look it up on the Internet.’

  Alec glanced back towards where he’d left the car. He was unsurprised to see Michelle Sanders now standing next to it.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Looks like the boss wants another word.’

  He could feel them watching him as he returned to the vehicle. Michelle was incandescent; only the awareness of the many eyes of the work crew watching kept her temper in check.