“He had surgery last night, but they say he’ll recover.”
“Oh thank God,” she said. A tear escaped her eye, running down her cheek onto the pillow. “I remember wondering where to go and my body taking over, sending me home. But I felt no joy or urgency. God forgive me, I didn’t even think of the kids. I may as well have been heading towards an empty garage. I just needed somewhere to die quietly, alone.” More tears followed that same track down her face, and this time she wiped them away with her free hand. Her fingernails were digging so tightly into Daniel’s wrist that he thought she might draw blood. “Then I saw you and I was so angry. I knew you’d stop me ending it. And I knew you’d been responsible too.”
“What for?”
“For the drugs, for the drugs I’d stolen on your behalf. You were as guilty as River.”
Daniel glanced behind him, towards the cubicle’s curtain. He said, “Sshh, not so loud, whisper again,” in a quiet tone he wanted her to mimic.
“Sorry. You know the rest anyway.”
“Let’s go back a step. How did you get the hatchet?”
“I don’t remember.”
“How did you become so certain about River?”
“I don’t remember that either. It’s buried in the darkness between being at the pharmacy and arriving at River’s. Perhaps the memory will come back. Do you think that’s possible?”
“I think it’s very possible.”
There was a lull as Charlotte looked to be weighing something up. After a space filled with the clicking of that clock - and Daniel worrying about how to broach the subject of prosecution - she said, “What if I’m best not remembering?” The question demanded no answer. “Am I going to be prosecuted?”
“They’ll charge you, probably with attempted murder.” At that her eyes became wells of tears again. “But listen … a police medical practitioner has taken a blood test from you. He’ll have taken two samples, one we’ll need for analysis, and one which you have every right to keep. But we can’t test our sample until you’ve given permission for us to do so. With the results, I’m sure we can mitigate the charge by pleading a strong case of diminished responsibility. To do that, we need to perform the test. Will you give your permission?”
She nodded her head violently, causing those wells to spill more tears. Her chest expanded as she sucked in a lungful of breath, letting out a whimper as she exhaled. “Don’t worry.” She made her tones even more hushed, “I won’t say anything about you and the drugs.”
He swallowed at the thought of his involvement and nodded shallowly. Promising to visit her later in the day, he kissed her forehead and said his goodbyes. She was reluctant to release his wrist.
As he shut the curtain behind him, heading out, he couldn’t help but puff out a lungful of air, the loudest sigh he’d ever uttered.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
As Daniel was embracing Charlotte, Aitken was on a seemingly endless corridor march. River’s consultant had a spring in his step. Aitken was struggling to keep up, trying to hide her incipient breathlessness.
“How is he?”
“You’ll see for yourself shortly. Physically he’s okay, but you don’t get over an attack like that overnight. Do you know what prompted it?”
“Not yet, but we’re onto it.”
“I bet you are. This way. We’ve managed to allocate him a room on his own, for now. The lucky man.” Some fifty yards ahead, along an unending corridor, a sign hung from the ceiling. With blue writing on a white background, it stated, ‘Prenatal Clinic.’ Aitken guessed River’s room must be somewhere this side of the sign, it couldn’t be that far now.
“Can he stay there, in a private room I mean?”
“Possible, but unlikely. That’s the thing with this job, you never know what’s coming through the front door.” With some strangers, you can feel a relationship growing in just a few minutes. Aitken’s brief acquaintance with this stunning man was a good example.
“Bet you like it though, don’t you? The drama, the unpredictability.”
He paused with his hand on a door handle, which led to a room on the right of the corridor, twenty yards before the prenatal clinic. “I don’t like it … I love it.” The pause was a nod to Simon Cowell. Somehow she couldn’t imagine this guy spending his Saturday evenings watching the X-Factor. He probably spent his spare time on dry ski-slopes or training for marathons.
River was watching the television using a set of cheap-looking headphones. Aitken’s uniformed presence was commanding; he took his headphones out and - with his good arm - pushed the TV back on its multi-jointed retractable arm. He sat up, wincing a little.
Aiken walked to his bedside, and held out her right arm to shake his hand. She realised her mistake instantly; thick bandaging encased his right shoulder and upper arm. She withdrew her right and put out her left. He shook it limply.
“I’m DC Aitken. I’ve come to take your statement, if you’re up to it.”
A voice came from behind her, “I’ll leave you to it. Half an hour max, he needs his rest.”
She threw a brief smile over her shoulder and said, “No problem, thank you,” and motioned towards a long-armed, heavy-looking cushioned chair against the wall to her right. “May I?”
“Sure.”
She dragged it over, perched, took out a pad of LP74 forms and a Parker pen from her bag, then crossed her legs. Casually resting her elbows on her thighs.
“How are you?”
“I’ve been better.” He moved his head to briefly regard the bandages. His black T-Shirt was ripped towards his neck. Its severed edges lay across the bandages. His curly hair was lank and greasy, but Aitken imagined he’d be quite a looker under more favourable circumstances.
“Are you up to this?”
“Best do it whilst it's fresh in my mind I suppose.”
“Okay, great, can I ask-”
“Before we start. Is she here?”
“Mrs Torrence?” He nodded.
“Does she know where I am?”
“No.”
“Is she … with it? Making sense I mean.”
“I believe so, I’ve not seen her. We have someone with her now.”
“Okay. Sorry … you were going to ask me a question.”
“I just wanted you to tell me what you remember.”
“Where do you want me to start?”
“Wherever you like.”
He told her the story of his day, starting with feeling ill at the pharmacy and ending with the paramedics struggling to get access to his flat, with him bleeding, propped up against his door. “I know this is a difficult question, but what do you think was going through her mind as she attacked you?”
“I really couldn’t tell you. Her eyes were dead. It was like she was physically there, but mentally somewhere else.” Aitken picked up a Latin American twang she’d not noticed before.
“What’s your relationship like with Ms Torrence?”
“Good, we got on well. Really well, actually. I don’t know what got into her.”
“Anything happen at the pharmacy, any stresses there that might have altered her mental state?”
He’d been incredibly chatty and forthcoming until this point. The sparkle vanished from his eyes. She’d reached too far with the question, had hinted too strongly about her knowledge of the audit. The shutters were coming down.
“Nothing to affect her to that extent. No.” His response was brusque and evasive.
“We’re checking if she was under the influence of mind altering drugs. Do you think it’s possible she took something from the pharmacy, which altered her state of mind?”
“It’s possible.”
“So you think she might be capable of stealing?”
“I don’t know her well enough to judge that.”
“You’ve worked with her for two years, is that correct?”
“That’s right, how did you know that?”
“We are the police,” she smiled di
sarmingly at him and reviewed her notes. “She’s never asked you to remove stocks, or manipulate stock levels on her behalf?”
“Of course not. Look, I’m the one who’s been attacked and I can’t help feeling that I’m under suspicion somehow.”
“Well, I apologise if I’ve come across that way. I have a habit of chasing down logic. Sometimes a little aggressively.” She stood up. “Do you intend to press charges?”
“Do I need to?”
“It’s up to you. But if you don’t, it’s likely we’ll decide to independently. We’ll need to see what Mrs Torrence’s psychiatric evaluation throws up first." To the left of his digital alarm clock, she slipped her calling card. "Take a day or two to think about it, and give me a call. Hope you’re feeling better soon Mr Dilettantes.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Whilst Daniel was visiting Charlotte at the hospital, he missed three calls from Edwards. He’s connected the pieces right on schedule, thought Daniel. He approached Cliff in the car park. The wind had risen with a penetrating chill. Leaves swirled and tumbled across the ambulance lane in front of the hospital.
“I guess Aitken’s still in with River. How’d you get on with Cheshire?”
“Well … I think. I spoke to three people who’d worked the cases. One guy, DS Fenton, was really helpful. Two of the incidents were similar in nature, the others couldn’t have been more different. Different locations, ages, methods. You name it.”
“Motive?”
“Unknown.”
“In every case.”
“Yep.”
Daniel stood wordlessly, scratching the nape of his neck whilst Cliff took his penultimate drag, holding his stubby cigarette like a dart.
“That’s the connection,” said Daniel distantly.
“Come again.”
“All with no motive. That’s our connection. Do you think you can establish if any of the perpetrators had blood samples taken at post mortem that we can still get access to?”
“I’ll try.”
“Thanks. I’ve got to get back to Edwards. I think he’s going to be a handful.”
Cliff nodded and stubbed out his cigarette muttering, “Got to quit this.”
Daniel didn’t have the energy to comment. He dialled Edwards.
“Daniel?”
“Yep.”
“I heard about the toxicology results … implications?”
“Significant. Did you hear about what happened to me? About me being attacked.”
“I did, are you okay?”
“Just a dozen stitches in my arm. Nothing that’s going to slow me down. Anyway, we’ve interviewed the woman who attacked me - a Charlotte Torrence - we believe she also attempted to murder a colleague of hers tonight. From her version of events, we suspect she was under the influence of drugs, and not ones she’d taken willingly.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Cast iron character witnesses. Anyway, we’re awaiting blood tests. I’m betting they’ll show traces of the same drugs found in Jackson’s and Nixon’s samples. If they do, not only have we got an undeniable connection between these incidents, for the first time we’ve got a living witness.”
“Living suspect you mean.”
“Well, both in a way. We’re also running down connections to that spate of similar murder-suicides in Chester, they started in two thousand and eleven and ended not long before the Blaine attacks began. We’re checking toxicology on that too.”
“What’s your gut telling you?”
“We’ve got someone out there who takes pleasure in drugging people and watching the carnage unfold. And he’s not done yet.”
“He?”
“Short-hand. Could equally be a woman.”
“Okay … I’m convinced. Set up an incident room in Lincoln focussing on the recent attacks.”
“Lincoln’s too far away.”
“Louth hasn’t got a big enough room. I’m upping your resources and we’ll need representation from Cheshire CID.”
“I wasn’t thinking of Louth. I can commandeer a place here in Blaine, I’m sure of it.”
“You’ve got two hours. Secure somewhere suitable there, or Lincoln it is.”
“Thanks Ted.”
“What for?”
“For leaving me in charge.”
“Daniel, what you’ve got to wise up to is the only person who still doubts your abilities is you.” The line went quiet and Daniel closed his eyes. He felt more like crying in that moment than he had during Alison’s funeral.
“I’ll come back to you about the incident room.”
As he hung up, Aitken re-joined Cliff by the smoking bench. “How did you get on with Mr Dilettantes?” asked Daniel. Aitken relayed the gist of the interview. “You say ‘defensive.’ How defensive?”
She stood with crossed arms and her chest puffed out, meeting Daniel’s testing eyes. “Overly defensive, for someone with nothing to hide.”
“What do you think? Did he steal those drugs, is he our man?” Daniel asked of them both.
Cliff said, “Boss … to me those sound like two entirely different questions.”
Outside Blaine’s church hall, a line of trestle tables full of bric-a-brac stretched wider than the building’s breadth. ‘Church Fete all day today - everyone welcome’ was painted - by children, it appeared - on a bed sheet draped across the tables’ front. Tupperware tubs of money on the tables were holding still in the breeze, though their ill-secured labelling flapped merrily.
Daniel approached a lady who was fumbling with books of raffle tickets in her lap. She gathered them and placed them under one of the money tubs as he approached. She stood up carefully as though suffering a back complaint. Her eyes were a fog of silvery cataracts; Daniel suspected he looked no more than a blur to her. She smiled up at him from a hunched back, her posture redolent of a hobbit’s.
“Don’t stand on my account.”
“It’s okay dear. If I don’t get up every half an hour or so, it only gets worse. Your Alison’s husband, if I’m not mistaken. How is she?”
“She died.” He was perplexed as he remembered this woman from Alison’s funeral, although her hunched back had not been so pronounced and he didn’t recall that thick clump of hair sprouting from a mole on her cheekbone.
“Oh, that’s right dear. I’m ever so sorry. I keep having to ask my Nephew who’s still with us. It’s my memory you see. Nicky!”
She was talking to a young man - Daniel thought probably early twenties - who was manning a stall to Daniel’s left. He’d just sold a well-thumbed tome of wartime stories to an old man with medals pinned to his tweed lapel.
“Yes Aunt Agnes.”
“I was just telling … sorry dear.”
“Daniel.”
“Yes Daniel, about my memory. Terrible isn’t it?” Nicky just smiled and nodded, as he fished change from his tub. “I keep forgetting to feed Alfie. Nicky says I should write things down, but I can barely read my own writing nowadays, and anyway, if I could remember to do that, I wouldn’t have a problem now, would I?” A wheezing laugh escaped her and she coughed.
“I guess not. I wondered if Reverend Jacobs is here?”
“He’s inside dear … I think. There’s more stalls in there too. Why don’t you go and have a look. Something might catch your eye.”
“Thank you, I will.”
Daniel walked around the stalls and into the hall. To his right a man with large bug-like glasses was shuffling himself and his piano stool into position. He lifted the lid, and played the introduction to Mr Bojangles, whistling along.
The tables in the hall were set out in a U-shape. Reverend Jacobs, dressed all in black, was bent over a table of costume jewellery, his enthused interest perhaps as fake as the gems he rooted through.
“Reverend?”
He turned around, his white square of dog-collar the only sign that he wasn’t just a regular bargain hunter, other than the air and posture of the man, both gently authori
tative. He beamed.
“Daniel, so good to see you. We’ve not seen you in a while. How are you?”
“I’m okay, thank you. I’m sorry to get straight down to business, but is there somewhere we could talk?” The Reverend’s smile fell away.
“There’s a small function room that’s being used to store coats. Will that do?”
“Perfect.”
The Reverend led him through to an eight by eight foot box room with only one small, unopened, square window. The room smelled strongly of the coats of the elderly; mature suede and mothballs. It was overpowering and Daniel coughed, “Sorry.” The Reverend seemed unaffected, leant as he was, cross-armed against a stack of coat-laden chairs.
“What is it I can do for you Daniel? Are you here on official business?”
“I am. I need to commandeer this hall.”
“Whatever for?”
“We’re rapidly expanding an investigation.”
“That’s intriguing. May I ask what it is you’re investigating?”
“You may, but I can’t tell you I’m afraid.”
“How long will you need it for?”
“I’m not sure at this stage, perhaps a week.”
“How soon?”
“ASAP.”
“I’d like to help but as you can see, we can’t just pack up and leave in the middle of a fund raiser. Plus there’s the costs to consider if we cancel the events planned for the week. There’s a barn dance on Wednesday and-”
“Tell us how much revenue you’ll lose and we’ll cover your losses.”
The reverend nodded slowly but without committal, clearly considering. “And we can finish up today?”
“As long as we can start moving in by six.”
“We’ll be done by five, you can have it from then.”
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