by Bud Craig
“What’s that?”
She put her glass on the table.
“Can’t you guess?”
Her accent sounded stronger somehow. I shook my head.
“Give me your hand,” she instructed.
I did so. She cleared her throat.
“Gus Keane,” she said, stroking the back of my hand with her thumb. “Will you marry me?”
Oh, no. Buggeration. Too late I tried to rearrange my features. She must already have seen the flicker of horror on my face.
“You want to get married?”
That was pointless, I told myself. You can hardly pretend you didn’t hear what she said. The smile gradually slipped from her face as she pulled her hand away. I had to say something.
“Well...I’m not sure...you know...”
My words petered out. I looked at the blue and white geometric pattern on the duvet cover as though fascinated. She stared at me.
“You’re turning me down?”
The smile had definitely gone. Tears were not far away.
“You’re fucking turning me down?”
Her voice was louder now. This was bad: she hardly ever swore. I glanced surreptitiously around, half expecting the people in the next room to bang on the wall.
“I’m sorry...”
“You’re sorry? You’re fucking sorry?”
“Marti...”
“What the fuck did you come away with me for if you were going to...”
“I had no idea...”
She swigged back her champagne in one go, slammed the glass down on the bedside table and got out of bed. I couldn’t stop myself from thinking how good Marti looked naked. The hours she spent in the gym really paid off.
“Why do you think I brought you here? It’s 29th February. Leap Year for fuck’s sake.”
Yeah, but even so, I thought, feeling decidedly thick. I said nothing. She picked up her knickers from the floor and put them on. They almost matched the purple varnish on her toenails. Not that that had anything to do with it.
“I might have known,” she went on. “I always end up with a commitmentphobe.”
This irked me.
“Commitmentphobe,” I said. “What’s one of them? It’s not even a proper word.”
I remembered the women’s magazine I’d picked up in the doctor’s waiting room on the day of my last check up. Is Your Man a Commitmentphobe? Our Quiz Has The Answer. Commitmentphobe indeed. She had now put her bra on and was pulling her t-shirt over her head.
“Oh, isn’t it?”
The t-shirt muffled her words. With a final angry tug she managed to get it on. Seeing her threatening look, I gave up the attempt to defend myself.
“Strange though it may seem,” she went on, “A grammar lesson’s the last thing I fucking need.”
She sat on the edge of the bed to put her jeans on. I got up and began to get dressed myself.
“It doesn’t seem that important just now,” she went on. “Not compared to the humiliation I’m facing right now.”
It should have been ‘compared with’, but I let it go.
“Marti, you know I’ve been married once and...”
By now I had put on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a cotton jumper.
“Lots of people get married twice,” she countered as she put socks and purple suede boots on.
Yeah, including you, I thought. If she’d had her way, I would have made husband number three. Everybody knew the second marriage was usually even more disastrous than the first. What price a successful third one? Mumbling to herself and gritting her teeth, she picked up her suitcase and put it on the bed. Searching in her handbag she pulled out the room key and tossed it over to me. I tried to catch it but the metal tag attached to it hit me in the chest.
“I’m leaving,” she said.
“There’s no need...”
Taking her fleece from the back of a chair, she put it on. She picked up her handbag and wheeled her suitcase to the door.
“Shut up! And don’t try and stop me. In fact, I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”
With that she was gone. Thirty seconds later she rushed back in, grabbed her dress from the wardrobe and went out again. That went well, I said to myself, as I searched for my trainers. Finding them at the other end of the room I put them on without socks. The phone rang on the bedside table. I ignored it, dashing out of the room and slamming the door.
On the way downstairs the room key jangled in my hand. I wondered what the hell had got into Marti. At times in the last few weeks she’d been quiet, uncommunicative. I put it down to worry about her mother and overwork. Maybe it was partly dissatisfaction about our relationship. The one I had thought was perfect even though Marti was always busy and worked away a lot. The good thing about that was, when she got back, I was always pleased to see her. The rest of the time I was glad to be on my own. If Marti and I had been together all the time how long would our relationship have lasted?
Reaching the foot of the stairs, I heard a car alarm in the distance. I noticed a couple of about my age walking towards the lift. Marti was taking a sheet of paper from the receptionist.
“Hang on a minute,” I half shouted.
She began to walk away, struggling with her bags and the dress draped over her arm. As I passed reception I plonked the key on the desk. Marti had by this time reached the front door. Outside I chased after her across the car park. The ground still felt icy underfoot. The blare of the alarm was louder now. To my right a motor bike approached the hotel. Marti quickened her pace as I caught up with her.
“Marti, don’t go,” I said.
She scurried towards a line of cars in front of us. The alarm stopped suddenly, the resulting silence a shock. The motor cycle found a parking space in the line of cars. The rider, clad in leathers, removed her helmet, her long, red hair tumbling down her back. She sat upright for a few seconds, looking to the horizon like a model doing a photo shoot. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Marti fall and collide with her car. Her keys flew from her hand. I raced over to her.
Taking my mobile from my pocket, I switched it on. There were several messages waiting for me. They’d have to wait a bit longer. I crouched down to see what had happened to Marti. At least she was still breathing. She had landed on her front. I could make out a bruise on her forehead. Her eyes were closed as if in sleep. There didn’t seem to be any blood. Was that a good sign? I knew sod all about it. Face it, Gus, you know sod all about anything, I said to myself. I moved Marti’s suitcase, which had come to rest on top of her left leg, to one side. The dress she’d only bought yesterday lay in a puddle, smeared with mud. Then my phone rang.
“For fuck’s sake,” I shouted as I pressed the red button to abort the call.
I stood up and dialled 999.
“Hello, yes,” I said. “Ambulance, please, quick...someone’s collapsed...she’s unconscious, she...her name’s Martina Pym...the car park of the Keaton Hall Hotel in Worsley.”
I gave the operator my name and put the phone back in my pocket. Marti lay ominously still. Shit.
“It’s OK, Marti,” I said. “The ambulance will be here soon.”
Seeing her car keys under the Mercedes’ back wheel, I picked them up. After a few seconds thought I unlocked the car and opened the boot. I put the dress and suitcase in and took out Marti’s Barbour and my anorak, which I put on. It was only then that I realised how cold I was. I draped her coat over Marti – at least I could make sure she kept warm. Some vague memory – a film I’d seen, something I’d read – told me you were supposed to do that. Then I saw her handbag on the ground. Stuff had fallen out and been strewn over the gravel. I put a pocket diary, a makeup bag and a purse back in the handbag, which went into the boot with the other things. Slamming the boot shut, I put the keys in my jeans pocket.
Hearing the sound of footsteps behind me, I turned to see the motor bike woman rushing over to me. Close up she looked (a) about 40 and (b) gorgeous. Why notice that at a time like
this, I asked myself? The wind blew her hair around; she kept putting her right hand up in a vain attempt to control it.
“Is everything all right?”
I shook my head.
“Not really,” I said. “She’s...she just collapsed.”
She put her hand over her mouth.
“Oh, my God.”
I sighed.
“I’ve called an ambulance,” I added. “Let’s hope they arrive soon.”
“I’m Sally,” the woman explained. “I’m the hotel manager. I’m just about to start my shift...”
She concentrated for a moment.
“I’d better go,” she said. “Anything I can get you?”
I shook my head. After she left I bent down again and tried to rub some warmth into Marti’s hands. I’d never felt so helpless. Not to mention worried sick. And guilty. Sally returned after a few minutes carrying an orange blanket, which she gave to me. I draped it over Marti. Then she handed me a flask and a mug with the hotel crest on it.
“I brought you some coffee,” she said. “Might warm you up a bit. That wind goes right through you.”
“Thanks.”
It was thoughtful of her even if I would have preferred tea.
“What a thing to happen,” she said.
Quite, I thought, but I couldn’t think of a reply.
“Well, I’d better get back, get changed...”
She waved vaguely in the direction of the hotel and walked away. Then my mobile rang. I answered it this time and immediately wondered why.
“Is that Gus Keane,” said a Scottish voice.
“Yes, but...”
“Thank goodness for that. I’ve been trying to get you for hours.”
“Who’s that?”
An impatient sigh.
“DI Ellerton, Greater Manchester Police.”
Not again, I thought.
CHAPTER TWELVE
What did Sarita want this time? It wouldn’t be anything good, that was for sure. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about.
“I need to speak to you urgently,” she said.
“Well, you can’t...”
I wasn’t in the mood to be polite. I just wanted her to go away.
“There’s no ‘can’t’ about it,” she insisted. “We need to interview anybody who was in the Park Hotel last night.”
“Sarita, this is the worst possible time.”
“Sorry,” she said, “I must see you.”
The sound of a siren filled the air. I looked up to see an ambulance pulling up next to me.
“What’s that,” asked Sarita.
“An ambulance,” I explained. “I’ve got to get someone to hospital. Ring back in ten minutes.”
I ended the call before she could say any more. The paramedics did their job with care and efficiency – good old NHS, I said to myself – and were ready to go within minutes. I said I’d drive to Salford Royal Hospital in Marti’s car. As I carried the luggage out to it, my phone rang again. Putting the cases down on the ground, I answered.
“Gus,” said DI Ellerton. “What’s going on?”
“I’m just about to drive to Salford Royal. Be there in about 10, 15 minutes. Then I...”
“I’ll meet you there.”
I didn’t have time to argue, but asked her one question.
“What’s it about?”
“I can’t explain over the phone.”
* * *
Driving Marti’s nearly new Mercedes was different from the ten-year-old Peugeot I was used to. It was much quieter for a start and smoother, easier. I could never enjoy driving but if I could have afforded a car like this it might not be so bad, I thought. As I drove down Barton Road onto the M60 and merged with the heavy traffic, I tried not to picture the scene that had played itself out in the car park just a short time ago. I struggled just as hard not to wonder how Marti was. And now there was this thing with the police.
I kept thinking how good things had seemed not much more than an hour ago. I often told myself this was the best part of my life. But then how do you judge such things, I asked myself as I reached junction 12 and went onto the M602? A few minutes later I was turning right down Stott Lane into Salford Royal Hospital car park.
In reception DI Ellerton got up to greet me, lifting up her handbag cum briefcase from the seat next to her. She was formally dressed again.
“I’m here to visit Marti,” I said, getting in first, “she’s had an accident.”
“Oh, my God.”
I explained as briefly as I could what had happened, but not the events leading up to it.
“The paramedics seemed to think it wasn’t too serious, but I must see her before I do anything else.”
She stood still, deep in thought.
“OK, I’ll wait here.”
As I dashed off towards the lifts, I wondered whether to tell Marti the police wanted to speak to me. After a bit of thought, I decided not to. She had plenty to worry about as it was. I had visions of her lying comatose on a bed with one of those breathing tubes jutting out of her mouth like on the telly. The ward sister would first of all forbid me to see her. Then, relenting after a quick look at her watch, she’d say, ‘five minutes, no more’.
When I finally found the right ward, the nurse I asked for directions pointed me to a single room to the left. No dire warnings not to tire the patient. I found Marti sitting up in bed struggling with the Guardian crossword. A black and blue bruise almost covered the right side of her forehead. In spite of this, she looked remarkably cheerful. Almost weak with relief, I approached the bed.
“You took your time,” said Marti, with a smile on her face.
“How are you feeling,” I said, ignoring the jibe, which I took to be a good sign, and kissing her on the cheek.
“Stupid,” she said.
Not quite what I’d been expecting.
“Eh?”
“Yeah,” she explained, “losing it like that. I could at least have hung on to my dignity. Bloody embarrassing.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
She smiled ruefully.
“I thought perhaps you didn’t. I’m feeling...OK, I suppose. This bump on my head was hurting but they’ve given me the most amazing pain killers. I’m as high as a bloody kite.”
“What happened?”
She shrugged then winced.
“Well, those boots I was wearing may look good but they haven’t got much grip. Especially in the ice. I slid along the gravel, fell over and banged my head.”
So that’s why she ended up on the ground. She’d come a cropper like Josie Finch, I thought. Would Marti need a stick too?
“I thought you’d had a heart attack or something.”
“Fortunately not. My left leg collided with the car,” she explained, “then my suitcase fell on top of it. Result: mild concussion, severe bruising on my left leg – bloody severe actually, I can hardly move it – and I might have pulled a muscle as well.”
Could have been a lot worse, I thought.
“Only trouble is,” said Marti, “they’re going to keep me in for a couple of days to keep an eye on me.”
“I should bloody hope so.”
“What about mum and my appointments?”
“Can’t be helped,” I said.
Marti frowned then moved around a bit. She seemed to regret making the effort.
“God, I’m gonna be laid up for ages,” she complained. “I’ll be hobbling about like mum. We’ll be a couple of crocks together.”
Another sigh.
“‘I’m worried about Martina,’ she’ll be saying, ‘she’s had a fall’.”
I laughed at the thought.
“It’s not funny,” she said, starting to laugh herself, “I won’t be able to drive or anything.”
“If there’s no bones broken you’ll be mobile again in a couple of weeks.”
She scowled at me.
“If that’s meant to cheer me up, Gus Keane, it doesn’t. Two weeks! I�
��ll be dead of boredom by then.”
I shrugged. There was no talking to some people. At least she’d have plenty to moan about.
“Oh, can you get me some clothes, nightie...and my kindle.”
I committed those things to memory.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll look after you.”
We looked at one another for a moment.
“If you’ll let me,” I added.
“I’m gonna have to, aren’t I?”
She took my hand and squeezed it, taking a deep breath.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, “In spite of everything.”
“Good.”
She wriggled about a bit more, as though trying and failing to find the most comfortable position. There was still an air of unreality about all this, I couldn’t help thinking. But it was real enough; it had actually happened.
“Anyway,” she said. “I need some sleep. You can go now.”
I leaned over to kiss her on the lips. Her response was quite promising.
“Thanks for coming, Gus,” said Marti as I walked away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
* * *
In the hospital reception the Inspector was pacing the floor, drinking from a cardboard cup. Seeing me she stopped pacing.
“I’ve managed to get hold of a room,” she said.
She offered tea or coffee, but I’d rather go without than insult my taste buds with a drink from a machine.
“OK. Follow me.”
Functional plastic chairs had been placed apparently at random around the room we’d been given. As we pulled up a couple of them to a table, I looked round. It seemed to be some kind of staff room. The Inspector took out a notebook and pen from her bag.
“Right,” she said, sipping something that, judging by the smell, was meant to be coffee. “Were you in the Park Hotel, Salford, last night?”
“Yes. I was with an old friend, Tony Murphy, hadn’t seen him for years.”
“Anybody else?”
“Well, it was quiz night. A few people from work had a team and Tony and I joined them.”
At Sarita’s request, I went through the names of the quiz team, but she interrupted before I could mention Simon Natchow.
“So Josie Finch was a member of the team?”
I nodded.
“When did you last see her?”