Innocent Blood
Page 18
Suddenly a woman’s face appeared close to his. So close that he could see the pores and touches of make-up on her cheeks. Her face somehow seemed very large. The red lips – which parted in a gentle smile – seemed like those of a giant. He blinked to reassess this vision.
‘So you’ve decided to come back and join us.’ The giant lips moved, forming these words.
He could not respond to this. He was not sure what it meant or who this oversized woman was.
‘Let’s give you a sip of water. Lubricate your throat.’ She held a paper cup to his dry, cracked lips and allowed the water to pass through. It felt so good. Snow leaned forward a little, greedily slurping in the liquid. It was the best drink in the world.
‘There’s a good boy.’
Snow peered up at her again. Of course, she was a nurse. She was looking after him. He must be ill.
With these simple thoughts in his mind, he slipped back into sleep.
When he woke again, it was dark in the room. The fluorescent tube above his bed was not lit and the nurse was not there. For a moment he felt a sense of panic, but his tired and damaged mind gradually came to the rescue. Memory began to form in his head like a tattered jigsaw puzzle. Slowly he remembered the closing moments of his life before darkness descended. As he did so, he became conscious of the dull pain in his head and the tight bandage that encased it.
He had been knocked unconscious; knocked senseless, concussed. That was it. He smiled at the deduction. He was in hospital and in safe hands.
Well, I am still alive but I hurt like hell, he thought.
Slowly and gingerly, he pulled himself from his prone position so that he could see the room a little better.
‘Hello!’ he called out. His voice strange, rough and alien. ‘Hello,’ he called again.
The door opened and a dark face peered into the room. ‘Hello, nuisance,’ it said brightly.
‘Could I have a cup of coffee, please?’
The Jamaican nurse chuckled. ‘Of course you can, darlin’. How do you like it?’
‘Black and strong.’
‘Like me, you mean.’ She laughed. ‘Coming right up and seeing that you’ve been a good boy I’ll see if I can get you a couple of chocolate biscuits.’
‘Thank you,’ said Snow, sinking down in the bed again, feeling as though he’d done a day’s work.
The next morning he was visited by a doctor after he had managed to consume a simple scrambled egg breakfast. The doctor conducted a few tests, asking Snow to tell him how many fingers he was holding up, reading aloud from a sheet and carefully following the trajectory of his Biro.
‘You seem to be on the mend all right, but the old bonce has taken quite a bashing, you know,’ said the young medic, sitting on the edge of Snow’s bed. ‘You’ve been badly concussed and it will take a while before you’ll feel your old self again. You’ll need to rest for a few weeks before you can get back in the saddle. The brain is a delicate organ, you know, and will take a while to fully recuperate. Don’t try and rush things or you can cause yourself some problems.’
‘I understand. When can I leave?’
The doctor smiled. ‘Not so fast. You’re not ready yet. A couple of days, I reckon, but we’ll need to give that brain of yours a scan first. Just to make absolutely certain there’s no permanent damage. In the meantime it’s your job to relax and take advantage of the rest. Can’t tell you what I’d give for a couple of days in bed being looked after by a set of pretty nurses.’
With a laugh and a cheery wave he left.
In the afternoon, Paul Snow had a visitor. He woke for his post-lunch nap to find Bob Fellows sitting patiently on a chair by his bedside. He was never more pleased to see the bulky form and ruddy cheeks of his DS. He was a link with the outside world, his old life and, for want of a better word, reality.
Bob grinned. ‘Good to see you, sir, although I must admit I’ve seen you looking better.’
‘Somewhat ropey, eh?’
Bob nodded. ‘A bit like a Picasso painting. Your face is a mass of colours from blues to red to yellow. And your nose seems a little bent. Still the doc seems pleased with your progress.’
‘That’s good.’
‘I would have brought you grapes but …’
Snow laughed heartily, although his head ached as he did so. ‘I’m not really interested in grapes. But what I am interested in is … the story.’
‘The story?’
‘How did I get here? What’s happened to Bird and the little girl?’
‘Are you sure you’re up to all that?’
‘Of course I am. It will comfort me to have those pieces put into place.’
‘Well, there are certain pieces missing from my end too, sir. How on earth did you know about Bird – that he was the bugger who’d kidnapped the lass?’
‘Later, Bob, eh? When I’m more compos mentis. Just fill me in from your end.’
Bob could tell Snow was getting a little agitated so he dropped that particular query.
‘A motorist found the girl wandering on the road in a distressed condition not far from the golf club cottage. Her hands were covered in blood and she was gibbering. Eventually this guy was able to get some sense out her, called the police and we found you and Bird up at the cottage. It was Bosworth who got there first. He said you both looked dead, lying there on the carpet. “Still as corpses you were”, he said.’ Bob smiled. ‘Always was a bit of a drama queen, Bosworth.’
‘Is Bird …?’
‘Well, he’s alive but …’ Bob Fellows grimaced and wound his right hand in a circular motion up by the side of his head. ‘Doolally, I’m afraid.’
‘In what way?’
‘It seems there is severe brain damage. That lass gave him a right going over. Mind you, can’t blame her, the bastard deserved it. The docs have said he’s now … what was the phrase … “in a vegetative state”. As I said, doolally.’
Snow did not know how to react to this news. Feelings of relief and regret mingled in his still foggy mind.
‘What about the little girl?’
‘Ah, she’s coming round. She’s not exactly in a good place yet, but they reckon in time she’ll make a full recovery. There’s little physical damage but mentally she’s still a bit spaced out. She has no memory of the attack which, I suppose, is a good thing. Something like that could really freak the lass out for the rest of her life. She was sedated at first but has been weaned off the drugs now. She’s a gutsy little thing. She’s been able to give us a statement of what she remembers, the kidnap and stuff – but that’s all. We just need your version now – but that can wait, can’t it, until you are up and about and your normal self.’
Snow nodded gently. ‘I suppose so,’ he said.
‘Oh, I forgot,’ cried Bob suddenly, wriggling in his chair. ‘You’ve got an admirer.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, as you can imagine this business has been in the papers. Well, that headmistress at Elizabeth’s school seems most concerned about you. Came to the HQ to ask if you were all right, how you were going on etc. I reckon she fancies you. I saw the way she looked at you in her office …’
‘What bloody nonsense. She’ll just be relieved her pupil is safe.’
‘Bloody nonsense yourself, sir. I know what I know and what I saw.’ He winked at Snow in an exaggerated fashion.
Snow couldn’t help himself but smile.
‘When d’you reckon you’ll be out of here?’
‘By the weekend, but I’ve been told to take a week or so to recover fully.’
‘Well, I’d take advantage of the break. There’ll be a hell of a lot of paperwork waiting on your desk.’
‘I can’t wait.’ And Snow meant it. He longed to be out of this hospital cocoon, away from the white walls, the smell of antiseptic and the hushed atmosphere, and back in the thick of it again, and if that meant writing reports and filling forms and other mundane tasks, so be it. He would welcome the tasks with open arms.
With these troubled thoughts swimming around his brain, he drifted once more into the safe realm of sleep.
He was woken some time later by a nurse who held a mug of tea in her hand.
‘You’re a popular one today,’ she said breezily, placing the mug in Snow’s unsteady hand, the warmth bringing him a strange kind of comfort. ‘You’ve another visitor. The second this afternoon.’ She threw a glance towards a figure standing in the doorway. Snow focused his sleepy eyes on it. It was Matilda Shawcross, the head teacher of St Jude’s.
‘I hope you don’t mind me popping in,’ she said with an apprehensive smile. ‘I’ve just been to see Elizabeth in another ward and I thought …’
‘Hello.’ Snow returned the smile. ‘I’m very happy to see anyone from the outside world …’ He paused awkwardly, realising that this sounded like a back-handed compliment. ‘Please, come and sit down.’
She did so and the nurse bustled out of the room.
‘How are you?’
‘To be honest, I’m not sure. I’ve not been allowed out of bed yet.’
‘It must have been quite an ordeal.’
‘Actually, I can’t remember much.’
‘Well, it’s thanks to you, Elizabeth is safe. You’re a bit of a hero.’
‘A colourful character at least,’ he said, indicating his face. ‘My sergeant thinks I look like a Picasso painting.’
She smiled. ‘Oh, that’s unkind but I must admit you are wearing quite a palette.’
‘Thanks,’ he said with mock gruffness and they both smiled and then lapsed into an awkward silence.
‘You’ve just seen Elizabeth?’ Snow said at length. ‘How is she?’
‘A little subdued, somewhat confused, but I think she’s on the mend. Thankfully, she has blocked a lot of unpleasant detail from her mind.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Mr Snow … er, Inspector …’
‘Oh, please call me Paul. I feel a bit ridiculous being referred to as “inspector” wearing hospital pyjamas and a face like a road map.’
She smiled again and not for the first time Paul thought it was a lovely smile. Somehow it emphasised her elegance and intelligence, qualities that he always admired.
‘OK, Paul. Do you like Indian food?’
For a fleeting moment, Snow was nonplussed by this sudden change of direction in the conversation. ‘Indian food?’ he repeated, unable to keep the puzzlement out of his voice. ‘Well, yes.’
‘I make a mean biryani with all the trimmings, naan bread and all. I was wondering, when you’re back on your feet properly and your face has regained its normal colour, if you’d like to come round to my place and sample the delights of my curry.’
‘You’re inviting me to dinner?’ Snow could not keep the surprise out of his voice.
‘Brilliant deduction, Watson.’ There was that smile again.
New territory was opening here and he was uncertain how he felt about it, but he found himself nodding. ‘Well, that’s very kind.’
‘So … is that a date?’
‘Well, yes, that’s a date.’
THIRTY-TWO
Three days later Paul Snow was deemed fit to be released into the world again. He had undergone another brain scan and was told that everything was fine. His face was still showing the multi-coloured hues of severe bruising but he knew these would eventually fade, although his nose might bear a few scars. He was warned that he would most likely suffer from bad headaches for a couple of months, but apart from that, time would be the healer.
Before he left the hospital, he asked if he could see Colin Bird. There was a little reluctance by the doctor in charge of the case, but because of Snow’s rank and involvement in the affair, he relented. Snow was taken to another part of the hospital and into a room similar to the one he had been staying in. Sitting in an upright chair by the bed with a hospital blanket over his knees was Colin Bird. He too had a face of many colours along with several gashes to his cheek and forehead. He stared with glassy, immobile eyes ahead of him, making no movement as Snow and the doctor entered.
‘Hello, Colin, there’s a visitor for you.’
There was no reaction.
The doctor moved over and took Bird’s hand and squeezed it. Slowly, his head turned, but the features remained still and the eyes failed to register any emotion. Bird raised his gaze to take in Snow but there was no sign of recognition there at all.
Snow felt sick to his stomach. What had Bob Fellows said? Something about him being in a vegetative state. That was a polite way of indicating that he was dead from the neck up.
‘There’s no one at home, I’m afraid, and there’s a real probability that there never will be,’ said the doctor. ‘When his wounds are healed, he’ll be taken to a mental institution for tests, but I’m afraid for him it’s a life spent with the shutters down.’
Snow nodded grimly and turned to the door. He had seen enough.
Some moments later he was stepping out of the hospital into the bright sunshine and facing the real world once more. The real, dark, complicated, dangerous and demanding world.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DAVID STUART DAVIES left teaching to become editor of Sherlock Magazine and is generally regarded as an expert on Sherlock Holmes, having written six novels, film books and plays featuring the character. He has given presentations on Holmes at many festivals and conferences as well as on board the Queen Mary II. He appeared as toastmaster at the Sherlock Holmes Dinner at Bloody Scotland in 2012 – Scotland’s first international crime writing festival. He also created his own detective, wartime private eye Johnny Hawke, who has appeared in six novels. David is a member of the national committee of the Crime Writers’ Association and has edited their monthly members’ magazine, Red Herrings, since 1999. He has also been a Fellow of the Royal Literary Fund at Huddersfield University since 2012. He lives in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire.
Visit David’s website at:
www.davidstuartdavies.co.uk
COPYRIGHT
Cover photograph © iStockphoto
First published in 2015
The History Press
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This ebook edition first published in 2015
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© David Stuart Davies, 2015
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