by M J Lee
Jayne reached into her bag and produced the book and the picture of the cap badge. She opened the book to the flyleaf and read the inscription again. 'I'm sure he did. That's how the boy was in possession of this book when he went to America.'
'Looks like you have found his father,' said Mary. 'That's all I have. Four letters. You might find more in the attic at my old house, but I doubt it. Emily died in late 1928 from pneumonia we heard. But, judging from these letters, she may well have died from a broken heart.' She folded all the letters back into their envelopes. 'It was 1931 or 1932 before we came back to England from India. My father said he always intended to adopt the boy but by the time he could visit the orphanage, the young man had already been sent to America. I remember him saying that it was probably for the best.'
'I wonder what happened to Michael Dowling?' asked Annie.
Jayne was staring into mid-air. 'I have a hunch. I'm not certain but it could be the answer.' She stood up. 'I'm sorry, but I have to go back to Manchester and see my client now. They need to hear this story from me in person. I'll drop you back at home if you'd like.'
'That would be perfect.'
Jayne gathered her things, carefully putting the book and the picture of the cap badge back into the plastic folder in her bag. 'Thank you for everything, Mary. You've solved it all for me.'
Mary was flustered, brushing a stray white hair from her forehead. 'Take the letters. Your client should have them. What am I going to do with them?'
'I couldn't...'
'Take them. They will mean far more to him than they do to me. Come again, won't you. I've enjoyed your visit. And you too, Annie.'
'I will Mrs Clavell.' Jayne pointed to the door. 'Sorry, it's such a rush but he's old and very ill. He needs to hear this from me.'
Mary shooed both of them out of her room. 'Go, go. Go. I've missed far too much of Noel Edmonds anyway. I like to watch it from the start when they've got all the suitcases.'
Jayne and Annie closed the door behind them. They rushed down the corridor, saying a quick goodbye to the receptionist and ran to Jayne's car.
'You don't have to take me home. I can get a cab.'
'Don't worry, it's on my way.'
She put the car in gear and drove to the exit of the car park, signalling left. A quick look and she pulled out into the main road.
She didn't see the dark blue BMW.
Didn't hear the whine of the accelerating engine.
Didn't recognise the danger she faced until it was too late.
It came out of nowhere, crashing into the side of her car with the scraping crunch of metal on metal.
Her head was rocked backwards and hit the headrest behind her. In slow motion, she saw Annie's body fly to the left, the seatbelt straining across her chest, her head hitting the glass of the door window.
The car was revolving now, the countryside and hedges moving quickly past the windscreen. There was a puff of white smoke. Her body was enveloped in the soft embrace of the airbag as it inflated from the steering wheel.
Then the car stopped revolving and flipped over. Once. Twice. Coming to rest at the side of the narrow road.
She was looking straight into a hedge over the top of the dashboard. But everything was at a strange angle. A tree was growing straight at her, the thin leafless branches intertwined in front of her in a pattern she couldn't understand.
Off in the distance, she could hear the sound of an engine revving.
Getting louder now.
Closer.
Closer.
Another crash. More scraping of metal against metal. The car flipped over again and her body launched up to hit her head on the fabric covering the roof.
Annie was next to her, hanging loosely from her seatbelt.
Her voice screaming. No, not her voice, somebody else's voice. Annie's voice. Loud, sharp. A face covered in blood. Annie's face.
Then silence.
She heard the car door opening. The metal struggling to stay wedged into the car.
Got to wake up.
Got to wake up.
A hand reaching in and grabbing her head. Somebody had come to help her and Annie. She felt her seatbelt being unfastened. They were going to help her out of the car.
Must wake up.
Must get out.
She felt a strong hand grip behind her neck.
Get me out.
Get me out.
The hand tightened its grip and her head was forced forward, banging against the edge of the door.
Help me.
Help me.
Again, her head rocked backwards against the back of the seat. The hand tightened its grip, wrenching her forward onto the hard metal surface of the door. Blood gushed from a cut above her eye and flowed down her face.
Her eyes.
Don't blind me.
Don't blind me.
She was thrown back against the headrest of her seat, her neck snapping at the sudden movement. The hands gripped her throat, thumbs digging deep into her Adam's apple. She couldn't breathe.
Got to do something.
Got to do something.
For a second, the man relaxed his hold on her throat, fiddling with something on his jacket.
A camera.
He was filming her.
Filming her death.
She summoned up all her strength and thrust her elbow sideways. It met the soft flesh of a groin. She pushed the point of her elbow in deeply, hearing a sharp intake of breath as the man doubled over, kneeling in front of her.
She smashed her elbow down on the crown of his head. A small empty patch took the force of the blow. He's going bald, she thought, losing his hair. Her elbow crunched into his head, sending a shock up her shoulder.
She wiped the blood away from her eye. He lay on the ground at her feet, his head resting on the ledge of the door. She grabbed the door handle and wrenched it closed.
His head was trapped against the jamb. She felt the impact echo through her arms. She pulled the door, again and again, and again, feeling the metal thud into the soft flesh covering the skull.
She slammed the door until her arms were exhausted and she no longer had any strength.
A man's body lay across the sill of the door, blood pouring from his head.
Not moving now. Not saying a word.
In the distance, she could hear the high pitched whine of a police siren. Somebody must have called them.
It was a time she loved. The whirring red light. The roar of the police car engine. The metallic voice of dispatch. And, above all, the anticipation. What lay ahead? What would happen in the next twenty seconds? Would she be able to handle it?
But normally she was in the car rushing to the aid of a victim. This time, she was the victim.
Annie moaned next to her, blood pouring from a cut on her head. The man was still lying across the open door.
The siren got louder and louder, an annoying noise she thought, too annoying. She heard the sounds of running feet.
She finally let go of the car door and all went dark.
Chapter Fifty
Bradford Royal Infirmary, Yorkshire. November 22, 2015.
She opened her eyes.
Green walls. A neon light above her. The smell of perfume. A lovely perfume. A woman's perfume.
Somebody was leaning over her, adjusting something on her wrist. 'Where am I?'
'Bradford Royal.' The face was brown but the accent was Yorkshire with the 'ds' pronounced as 'ts'.
She tried to lift herself up. Strong hands pushed her back onto the pillow.
'You've had an accident. Concussion. You need to lie quietly.'
Jayne moved her head. Her brain seemed to move more slowly, sloshing around in her skull. A sharp pain lanced between her eyes. She let out a groan.
'See, stay still. You need rest.'
She lifted herself up from the pillow. 'Annie...'
'The other woman is fine. She's sedated at the moment. She's got a fracture
d tibia and clavicle, but she'll be ok. The other man wasn't so lucky. He's got a fractured skull, still in intensive.'
'My things...?'
'I've put them in the wardrobe over there. There's nobody else in this room at the moment. So enjoy the peace and quiet. Rest, that's what you need.'
Jayne tried to get up despite her throbbing head. 'I need to get to Manchester...'
The strong hands pushed her back on the bed. 'You're going nowhere in that condition. I'll get a doctor to see you soon.'
'What time is it?'
The nurse looked at the watch hanging from her uniform. 'Two twenty-five.'
Jayne looked out the window. The sun was shining and she could just see the fingers of a branch reaching out to the sky.
'It can't be. I left the home at five o' clock.'
'You've been out for over a day. It's Sunday.'
'What? I have to get up, go to Manchester...'
Once again, the strong hands pushed her back on the bed. 'You must stay in bed. You're in no condition to leave this hospital.' Her voice oozed professional calm.
'I've got go.' She struggled against the hands pushing her down.
The voice was calm and authoritative. 'You can't go now. The police want to interview you about the accident.'
Jayne lay still. Quick flashes snapped through her brain. The sound of metal on metal. A car engine revving. The touch of those cold fingers on her neck. The pain as her head hit the door. The crunch of metal on a human bone as the car door struck his head, again and again and again.
'I'll go and get a doctor. He'll give you a sedative. Just lie here quietly.'
Jayne nodded her head slowly. The good little patient.
As soon as the door closed, she sat up in bed. A searing pain stabbed between her eyes and out through the back of her head. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and attempted to stand. Something was holding her back. She looked down at her hand. A tube went from the back of her hand to a bottle above her bed. She peeled off the plaster and pulled out the catheter.
More pain.
She gritted her teeth, gingerly resting her feet on the floor. She stood up and immediately, the world began to spin. Grabbing hold of the end of the bed, she steadied herself. Who had tried to kill her? And why? She had a pretty good idea now. There could only be one reason.
She took two faltering steps to the wardrobe. Her bag and her clothes were inside. She reached in and took them out, nearly collapsing with the pain in her head.
'Sit down, I need to sit down,' she said out loud. But then she remembered the nurse. Can't let her find me. Need to get to Manchester.
She slid into a skirt and pulled on a jumper over her hospital night gown. As it slid over her face, she felt the fabric catch on the bandages above her eye, making her wince.
She tottered to the sink in the corner. The face that stared back at her was pale and wan, the white of the bandages standing out against the blue of her eyes. 'Well, you're not going to win Miss World. Not this year anyway.'
She pulled on her jacket, feeling the pain in her shoulder shoot through her body. Once again, her head began to throb. Steady, Jayne. Just take a moment.
The pain subsided. She looked at her shoes. High heels. Can't risk them. She slipped her feet into some hospital slippers, grabbed her bag and hobbled to the door. Opening it a little, she peered out into the corridor. That particular hospital smell of pure antiseptic and strong cleaning solvent hit her nose. Outside, two nurses were rushing into the ward opposite. There seemed to be some kind of emergency. The desk at the end of the lobby was empty.
She opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. Holding on to the wall, she edged her way down towards the lobby. The lift doors were closing. She shouted at a man inside. What came out of her mouth was a sharp squeak. 'Please hold the door.'
The lift opened. She hobbled into the lift and nodded thanks to the man. As she did so, a sharp pain hit her again, shooting through her right temple.
'You look worse for wear. Just had an operation?'
The man was making small talk with her. Please let him shut up. She forced a small smile. He looked back towards the door, staring at the stark metal.
The lift slowly descended. Too slowly. Quicker. Quicker.
Finally, after what seemed like an age and a half, the doors opened onto a busy lobby. People were hovering all around, rushing here and there.
She navigated her way cautiously through them, nearly bumping into an old man in a wheelchair but narrowly avoiding him.
She stepped through the doors. The cold November air hit her like smelling salts. She stopped, gathered herself and stumbled on.
A taxi rank. Open the door. Sit inside.
'Where to, love?' Another broad Yorkshire accent.
Where was she going? Manchester. But where in Manchester?
'Where to, missus?' repeated the taxi driver.
And then it came to her. 'The Midland Hotel, Manchester.'
The taxi driver sucked in his cheeks. 'It'll cost ye. Have to charge both ways. Gotta get back to Keighley tonight.'
She reached into her bag. Where was her purse? Had she left it in the hospital? No, there it was. How much was in it? Enough.
'Hello love, let's say 100 quid both ways. Off the meter, ok?'
She nodded her head. She felt so tired, so very tired. Must stay awake.
She felt the car pull away from the curb. 'Don't mind if I put the radio on, do ye? Always good to have a bit of music on a long trip.'
She nodded her head again. Must call John Hughes. Tell him I'm coming. But then she thought about the accident and all that had happened to her since she took this case. Her hand closed around the phone.
She felt tired, so tired. She could hear the sound of Smokie on the radio, but it seemed so far away.
She closed her eyes and for the second time in less than a day, her world went dark.
Chapter Fifty-One
Midland Hotel, Manchester. November 22, 2015.
She woke as the taxi driver shook her shoulder. 'We're here, madam. The Midland Hotel, Manchester.'
Her eyes flickered open. 'What time is it?' she muttered.
He checked his watch. '3.45, madam. You've been asleep the whole journey.' His head began to wobble in that wonderful way South Asians do when they are concerned. 'I could take you to a hospital, if you want, you don't look well.'
'I'll be fine.' She reached into her purse and paid him one hundred pounds, adding another twenty as a tip.
'This is too much, madam. One hundred is enough.'
'Keep it. It will pay for the petrol on the way back.' She grabbed her bag and staggered out of the car, holding onto the side of the taxi for balance as another wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her. Got to keep going. She pulled out her phone and made a call. She hoped they would come soon or she wouldn't be able to make it through this.
She let go of the taxi and staggered up the steps, through the marble-lined lobby of the Midland. The place stank of money and opulence. Where else would Rolls have met Royce? Must focus. Don't allow my mind to get distracted.
She limped into the lift and pressed the button for John Hughes' floor. Just ten more minutes and then I can check myself back into the hospital. The nurse was right. I need to sleep. A deadening surge of tiredness filled her body. She leant against the side of the lift as it rose. Beneath her feet, she noticed a carpet with one word on it. Sunday. Was it Sunday already? She hoped John Hughes hadn't left for the airport yet. She must talk to him in person. Tell him the story. Test her hunch.
The lift jerked to a stop. She walked gingerly out, down the carpeted corridor, holding on to one wall just in case her legs gave way.
She pressed the door button. Almost immediately it opened. 'You're here, finally, take these cases down to our car.'
She stepped into the suite, Richard Hughes had his back to her, putting some papers in a briefcase. 'Get a move on, porter, we haven't got all day.' Slowly,
he turned his head. The look of surprise on his face was wonderful. For the first time in her life, Jayne actually saw a mouth drop.
He recovered quickly. 'Mrs Sinclair, you're here.'
'Well spotted, Mr Hughes.'
John Hughes wheeled himself slowly into view. In a weak voice, he said, 'I knew you wouldn't let us down, Mrs Sinclair.'
'You're looking pale, Mr Hughes.'
'Better than you look, Mrs Sinclair. And I've got Leukaemia.'
For a moment, another wave of nausea washed through Jayne's body. She closed her eyes and began to feel herself fall.
'Where's your manners, Richard? Bring Mrs Sinclair a chair.'
Jayne heard the pad of feet on a deep carpet, followed by the touch of wood against the back of her knee. She opened her eyes and dropped into the chair. That felt better. Much better.
Focus.
Focus.
John Hughes was speaking.
'Sorry, I missed that.'
'I was saying Mrs Sinclair, you look like you have been in the wars.'
'I had an accident. You should see the state of the person who caused it.' She looked straight at Richard Hughes. 'Not a pretty sight.'
'See, Richard, I told you. A woman after my own heart.'
'We need to leave for the airport, Uncle…'
'We'll go soon. Mrs Sinclair has to tell us what she found first.' He nodded at Jayne, indicating that she should start.
Jayne took a deep breath. 'The name of your father wasn't Charles Trichot. It was Michael Dowling.'
'You told us that on the phone,' interrupted Richard. He was immediately shushed by John Hughes.
'Michael Dowling was a student at University College Dublin, reading history. He was also a member of the Irish Volunteers who took part in the Easter Rising.'
'A fighter. I knew my father had to be a fighter.' John Hughes hit his knee with his fist. It was the most animated Jayne had ever seen him.
'He was captured and imprisoned at the end of the Rising, serving time in Frongoch prison in Wales before being released in 1917.'
Richard Hughes stood up and stood behind his uncle.
Jayne continued speaking. 'He joined the IRA as it was known then, becoming an organiser for them, travelling the country as a representative of HQ. His best friend at this time and comrade in arms was Declan Fitzgerald.'