Remember, Remember

by Lisa Cutts

  I made the call from the landline, knowing that dialling 999 from a mobile was likely to connect you to the wrong county, and I couldn’t recall whereabouts in Sussex we were. I was already going to have to explain who we were and why we had returned to our star witness’s home address having inadvertently catnapped his moggy. I could feel my own heart rate increasing as I looked at Tommy, praying he would keep breathing. I told the operator I wanted an ambulance and, as I was being connected, I watched the tormented face of Tommy as he tried to get more air into his lungs. Wingsy was shouting Tommy’s name at him and gently shaking his shoulder in an attempt to get some response. I put the call on speakerphone and explained to the operator that we were police officers and knew only a little of Tommy’s medical background. The calm, reassuring female voice never faltered and kept asking the right questions and giving instructions. I didn’t feel anywhere as calm as she sounded, but I knew that panicking wasn’t going to help. Several minutes went by, with me watching the timer on the phone’s display as it ticked away the seconds and Wingsy watching the shallow breathing of the man on whom we were pinning our hopes for a successful conviction against the Rumbly family – and whom we had come to like.

  Eventually we heard the noise of an ambulance’s siren heading in our direction, and relief hit me. Wingsy ran down to the front of the house to wave the paramedics towards our patient, and within seconds I heard someone crashing up the wooden stairs. Wingsy was explaining the little we knew about Tommy’s condition and was offering to look for medication and any relevant notes. Tommy was still breathing, although he was struggling, and there was little else we could do. I hoped it wasn’t too late. I heard the second paramedic coming into the house, and went to the top of the stairs to let her know where we were. Once I’d explained who I was and that I had no idea if there were any next of kin, I announced to anyone who was listening that I was going downstairs to find an address book or recent contacts for family and friends. I didn’t think that anyone heard what I said but that suited me fine. I wasn’t comfortable around death, and the thought of watching Tommy take his last breaths did nothing for me. I headed for the kitchen, figuring that most people kept assorted paperwork in the room with the tea and alcohol. I felt I knew the patient well enough to guess this was likely.

  One of the stranger parts of my job was looking around other people’s homes. Sometimes they were literally fleapits which left us scratching, but other times they were just untidy, and this was true of Tommy’s house. The former footballer’s house needed a little in the way of dusting, but it was far from the worst I’d ever been in.

  As I sorted through address books and scraps of paper, I could hear the paramedics talking to Wingsy upstairs and the creaking of floorboards. Eventually, I heard the sound of a trolley being taken up to the bedroom.

  Tommy was being taken to the hospital and, from my fruitless search of his personal papers, it looked as if he had no one in the world to sit beside his bed waiting for him to wake up.

  44

  Wingsy followed the ambulance to the hospital, trying to keep up with it on its blues and twos. We had an unmarked car and no need to drive at speed, and, without justification for exceeding the speed limit, police officers were as liable to a speeding ticket as anyone else. Besides, we had a black box fitted to the car to record speed, and the police passenger was supposed to grass the driver up if they were driving too fast. Some days, my job got me down.

  I decided to call the office and let them know what Wingsy and I were doing. And, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Jim answered my call to the office number. His voice provoked the same reaction in me that fingernails down a blackboard would. Nevertheless, I persevered with my message that we were accompanying Tommy to the nearest A&E, which fortunately was the same hospital where he was due to receive his treatment, meaning his notes should be easier to locate. Having a lot of experience of hospitals over the years for both personal and professional reasons, I knew that the interdepartmental liaison was sometimes shocking.

  ‘He’s not been nicked, though, has he?’ asked Jim.

  ‘Who?’ I asked, wondering where we were going with this.

  ‘Your bloke – the one on his way to the hospital,’ said the office dickhead.

  ‘No, he’s not been nicked,’ I answered, wanting to end the call.

  ‘Doesn’t matter, then, does it? It’s not a death in custody. At least you’re off the hook.’

  ‘Jim, there have been few times in my life when I’ve met someone who is as much of a nutsack as you are. Tell Harry to give me a call when he’s free and that me and Wingsy are going to the hospital. I don’t know when we’ll be back.’

  I hung up. Wingsy said, ‘What’s with the dramatic sighing?’

  ‘It’s that idiot Jim. He gets to me.’

  ‘He gets to us all. Is it only that, or is it also because you’ve taken a shine to Tommy Ross?’

  ‘Bit of both, really, bit of both.’

  I was quiet for the rest of the journey to the hospital. I’d grown very fond of our witness over the last couple of days, and it wasn’t merely because he was the best hope we had of putting Leonard Rumbly inside or getting some sort of justice for those killed in a train crash that so easily need not have taken place; it was simply that I thought that Tommy was a decent bloke. He’d been stupid and weak with the match-fixing scandal, but temptation was one of the things that made us human. Tommy had never felt able to do the right thing before, but, with his wife dead and us turning up out of the blue, he had a chance to redeem himself. The thought that he might not do that was causing me more concern than it really should have. Quite why that was, I wasn’t sure, but now it was in the hands of the medical staff.

  We pulled up in one of the police bays of Worthing hospital’s A&E entrance and went inside to find out whether Tommy Ross was likely to see another day.

  45

  Once we’d got past reception and been sent in the direction of the nurses’ station, we saw the paramedics who had brought Tommy in. They were completing their handover to those on duty in A&E. One sister was listening intently to one of the paramedics as he updated her. They saw Wingsy and me approaching and made brief introductions, but the only thing that was important to me was the wellbeing of the man who had just been wheeled away on a trolley. As keen as I was to check he was OK, he wasn’t going to improve by me peering around a disposable NHS curtain at him, so I stayed where I was and made some notes instead. I was trying to find out as much detail from the paramedics’ update, along with the next-of-kin details from Tommy’s hospital records, when my mobile rang. The sister glowered at me. She looked very cross but then I supposed working in a busy Accident and Emergency unit would do that to you. On the other hand, maybe she simply disliked the police.

  Instead of pointing out that we’d probably saved Tommy’s bloody life, I walked around the corner from her and took the call. At least I’d managed to get next-of-kin details from her before I put a supporting wall between me and her. I couldn’t see Wingsy flirting with her.

  ‘Nin, where are you and Wingnut?’ said Harry’s voice in my ear.

  ‘Didn’t Knobhead tell you?’ I answered. ‘We’re at the hospital with Tommy Ross. We had to go back for something and he’d collapsed.’

  Harry listened as I told him as much as I could about Tommy. ‘OK, then, treacle,’ he said when I’d finished, ‘get as much information as you can about how he’s doing, tell the hospital that you’ll be in touch tomorrow, give them contact details and make your way back. Oh, yeah, and did you get the next of kin?’

  ‘I most certainly did,’ I said, sounding a bit more smug than I really should have: as I was reading the name out to him, it hit me why it had sounded so familiar when I heard the sister read it from his notes. I’d been distracted by the day’s events but really should have been paying better attention. I was supposed to pick up on these things. ‘It’s Charles Fitzhubert,’ I said, adding with a little mor
e hesitation in my voice, ‘He’s one of the other footballers who were on the train when it derailed. Rather strange that Tommy should have him as next of kin.’

  ‘Well, presumably you got an address for him along with his name? No guesses what you’ll be doing tomorrow.’

  ‘Actually, Harry, depending on how Wings feels about it, I’d rather go tonight. We’re halfway there anyway.’

  There was a brief pause and Harry said, ‘OK. Don’t be too late off. I’m getting a hard time about the overtime budget again, and you’re supposed to be taking it easy.’

  Harry was right, but I needed to pay Fitzhubert a visit and I didn’t want to leave it any longer. I needed to know why he was named as Tommy’s nearest and dearest, and exactly how much he knew about Leonard Rumbly. This might make all the difference to our evidence against Rumbly, but of more importance was why Tommy had failed to mention he was still in touch with Fitzhubert. I only hoped he would wake up to tell us the answers to those questions.

  46

  Twenty minutes later, Wingsy and I had left the hospital and were on the road to Portsmouth, heading for Charles Fitzhubert’s address. The sister had offered to call ahead, but we wanted to try to speak to him first.

  Wingsy was driving so I took the time to leave a message on Bill’s mobile, telling him I didn’t know when I’d be home, and then I picked up my voicemails. I had one from my mum asking when I was going to visit my sister, and one from Stan asking if I was planning on going over on Sunday as usual for lunch and to put the world to rights.

  I hadn’t allowed myself to think too much about Stan. While I wanted desperately to get the truth from him, I was exhausted. My days off were in sight but I was aware of how much we had to do in the meantime. I was working on Saturday so I couldn’t visit my sister this weekend, which was a relief, although I felt guilty about it. It wasn’t that I didn’t love seeing her, but afterwards I always felt totally drained. If most of Sunday was spent at Stan’s, no matter how uncomfortable our conversation might be, I still had to fit in some time with my boyfriend and also for the laundry – I was one pair of clean knickers away from catastrophe.

  I realised Wingsy was talking to me. ‘Are you listening to anything I’ve been saying?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Of course I was. You said something about food.’

  ‘No, I bloody didn’t. I asked you if you wanted to ring Fitzhubert to make sure he doesn’t leave before we get there.’

  I dialled the number as Wingsy continued to go on about how I didn’t listen to a word he said. I wasn’t paying full attention, as I was listening to Fitzhubert’s answerphone message. As I ended the call, Wingsy looked in my direction, momentarily taking his eyes off the road. ‘Why didn’t you leave a message?’

  ‘When we were talking to Tommy, didn’t he tell us that Malcolm Bring’s former girlfriend’s name was Marilyn?’

  ‘Yeah, he did. Marilyn Springate, I think it was, but she got married. What about it?’

  I was dialling the number again but this time from Wingsy’s phone, which was set up on the hands-free. ‘Listen to this,’ I said.

  As the sound of ringing stopped and the message cut in, a man’s recorded voice filled our car: Please leave a message. Charlie and Marilyn Fitzhubert will return your call as soon as possible.

  Wingsy and I exchanged glances. With his attention back on the motorway, I watched his profile as his forehead disappeared into his balding head while he thought the matter over. ‘Don’t you think it would be very weird,’ he said, ‘if the pregnant ex-girlfriend of the bloke who caused the train crash ended up marrying someone who was also on the train at the time?’

  I tapped my notebook on the dashboard. ‘Add to that, Wings, that she was pregnant by the man who set the whole thing up.’

  ‘We need to find out exactly what Marilyn’s part in all this is.’

  47

  We discussed whether we should turn around and head home, as our journey was looking a little pointless. But we agreed that, if nothing else, we could put a note through the door and hope they called back that night.

  When we arrived at the address provided for Charles Fitzhubert, distinguished former footballer and next of kin for Tommy Ross, disgraced former player, we found he lived in an impressive house set back from the main road. As we drove up the leafy driveway, I thought how perfect a setting it was: far enough away from the noise of the traffic, but close enough to the road to stop the inhabitants feeling isolated. The size of the house and its grounds were similar to Tommy’s, but this one was very much a home that was pulsing with life. The front garden was neat and tended, the windows sparkled, and the Jaguar parked outside the front door still had its windows open. Someone had only very recently arrived home.

  Wingsy parked near to the Jaguar – far too near for my liking. In silence, we walked to the front door. I glanced down at the doormat telling me I was ‘welcome’. That annoyed me for some reason. I was probably looking for an excuse not to like Charles Fitzhubert. He had a wife, a happy home, a successful footballing career to look back on. Tommy had none of that, and I couldn’t help but wonder how easy it would have been for the two of them to have swapped places all those years ago, had one of them turned right instead of left – away from Leonard Rumbly.

  Charles Fitzhubert opened the door and I tried not to hate him on sight. Wingsy introduced us, and I nodded at Fitzhubert as Wingsy told him my name. He barely glanced at me as he invited my colleague in. I followed in their wake and decided to leave Wingsy to do the talking; I knew I wouldn’t win Fitzhubert over with my knowledge of football trivia.

  He led us along the hallway towards the open door of a lounge, waving us in and gesturing towards a sofa facing the doorway. An incredibly beautiful woman sat on a matching sofa opposite. She looked in her late fifties but, if she was once Marilyn Springate, she must have been closer to her mid-seventies. Despite her youth being many decades behind her, however, she was the centre of attention in the room. That was no mean feat either: it was crammed full of so many tacky items, it was difficult to take it all in. She had a poise few could carry off without appearing haughty, which was also quite an achievement, since she was sitting beside an indoor water feature.

  Raising his voice slightly over the sound of trickling water, Wingsy, having glanced around the room, said with no hint of sarcasm, ‘Nice room. I’m DC John Wing and this is my colleague DC Nina Foster. I know that you’re Charles Fitzhubert. May I ask your name?’

  Before the woman had a chance to speak, Fitzhubert answered, ‘This is my wife, Marilyn.’

  Wingsy continued, ‘We’ve come straight here from Worthing hospital.’ My friend paused at this point – long enough to grab their attention but not enough to let them dwell and worry about what was to come next. ‘Your friend Tommy Ross was taken in by ambulance earlier today.’

  Both Wingsy and I had been looking at Fitzhubert. He had a look of mild surprise on his face at this announcement but seemed neither worried nor indifferent. I registered this in a split-second before my attention was ripped away by a gasp from Marilyn. Her poise had abandoned her. When I turned to look at her again, there was a definite curve in her back that hadn’t been there moments earlier. A gentle crease brushed her forehead. That pleased me as, up until that point, I hadn’t been entirely convinced that her features were Botox-free. What didn’t please me was the expression of concern now showing on it.

  Fitzhubert sat next to his wife and made a clumsy grab for her hand. His encased hers. I thought I’d try to get him to acknowledge me. ‘Tommy named you as his next of kin, to be notified in case of emergency,’ I said. ‘Are you related?’ I already knew the answer to that, but I wanted an explanation for why, after all these years of no contact, plus Tommy’s chequered past, Fitzhubert would be named on his emergency contact forms.

  ‘No, we aren’t related,’ he said, ‘but we’re old friends.’ As I held his gaze, I saw from the corner of my eye the movement of his fingers as he squeeze
d his wife’s hand. She flinched. They were making me very uncomfortable. Something was very wrong here.

  ‘When did you last see him?’ I asked.

  ‘At his wife’s funeral,’ said Fitzhubert, ‘and that was the first time in years. Before that, I couldn’t tell you. I don’t really understand why he’s put me as his next of kin, to tell you the truth. I suppose that the sad old bastard didn’t have anyone else.’ He gave a hollow laugh. No one else joined in.

  ‘What’s he in the hospital for?’ Marilyn asked, voice peppered with concern. ‘It must be serious or you wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I said. ‘We had gone to Tommy’s house in Sussex to speak to him about something and we found that he’d collapsed. We were already aware he’s not been well for some time. He has cirrhosis of the liver. The hospital will have more details.’

  I felt as if I would be giving away Tommy’s secrets by telling these two anything else, even though Fitzhubert would find out more from the hospital; it felt like a betrayal on my part to give more than was necessary. What I’d travelled over one hundred miles for was their reaction to the train crash. I wanted to see the look on their faces after all this time. They didn’t strike me as all that keen to get out of the door to visit their old friend on his sick bed. Medical details could wait.

  ‘Officer,’ said Marilyn, leaning forward a fraction, ‘you’re not from Sussex police, so why were you in Tommy’s house?’

  ‘We’re from Riverstone police station,’ I said. They both leaned back slightly as if something bad was coming. ‘We’re making enquiries into the 1964 Wickerstead Valley train crash.’

  Mention of our home town didn’t usually bring such a transformation in people’s attitudes. Charles Fitzhubert had gone very pale, and Marilyn had begun to cry.