He bit his lip. Not because he was upset: he was trying hard not to laugh. Then he grinned. “You know you’re even more attractive when you’re angry?”
“I’m going now,” she said, ignoring the tease.
“Where are you going?” he asked in his best pitiful voice.
“Where do you think?”
Anna walked out of the room.
Chapter 42
St. James knew Anna well. She had left to call the VON. She was mad, that was for sure, but in a good way. She didn’t want him having a setback in another country. And the best way to prevent that was not to go in the first place.
St. James was feeling a little stronger. He sat up in bed, paused long enough for the dizziness to pass, then swung his feet over the side and held onto the mobile table to steady himself.
The door swung open and a nurse trotted in, scolding him for getting out of bed as she took his temperature and blood pressure and made notes on a handheld computer. All very efficient and procedural, even the scolding.
St. James slowly shuffled around the room, trying to regain his balance. Kitchen staff opened the door and slid a breakfast tray onto the mobile table and left without a word.
Friendly place.
After ten minutes of movement he was exhausted and beginning to think the doctor and Anna were right. It was stupid to even think about England.
Then, as if a switch went off in his head, he suddenly became more determined to go.
Damn the pain.
If he didn’t go, someone, somewhere, would think they’d won. He wouldn’t contemplate that. He sat on the edge of the bed and ate cold runny eggs and burnt hospital toast. Awful, but he was hungry enough not to care.
He lay down and slept for a while longer until Dr. Lee woke him at 9:30 to check his vitals once again. Satisfied everything was normal, Lee pulled the stethoscope from his neck.
“You still planning to check yourself out?” he asked, resigned to logic being no match for St. James’s determination.
“That’s the plan.”
“Thought so,” he said with a long sigh. “I brought you a prescription for pain, a week’s supply. They’re strong, so use them sparingly, when you can’t stand it anymore. Here’s my card. I hate to say this to someone who ignores my advice, but call me if you get into trouble.”
“Thanks, Doctor … for everything.”
He handed St. James his card, wished him well, and continued on with his rounds.
Anna arrived shortly after, carrying a small case containing fresh clothes.
“Are you still determined to do this?” she said, hoping he’d changed his mind.
“Yes, I am.”
“Thought so.”
“You sound like the doctor.”
Anna remained silent as she opened a locker, pulled soiled clothes from a shelf and shoved them into an empty compartment in the case, then laid fresh clothes out on the bed. Holding the blood-stained jacket with the bullet hole up to the light, she said, “I suppose you want to keep this for your memories.”
“Absolutely. Battle trophy.”
Anna rolled her eyes. “Some battle.”
St. James struggled to his feet and slowly changed into the fresh clothes Anna had brought while she went to the nurses’ station to inform them he’d be signing himself out
St. James signed the necessary release papers, and a nurse in scrubs wheeled him onto the elevator with Anna by his side. He sat by the front door until Anna pulled the Cadillac up to the entrance. Then Anna and the nurse guided St. James from the wheelchair into the front seat.
When Anna pulled the rental up to 700 Sussex she asked the concierge to fetch the same wheelchair she had occupied just days before.
“I’ve been working here five years. You’re the first couple to use this wheelchair,” the concierge said, smiling, eyeing them one at a time. “Nice that you take turns.”
“Smartass,” Anna said, smiling.
A wide, boyish grin suggested he liked the label.
Anna wheeled St. James onto the elevator and pushed the fifth-floor button. He struggled to the bedroom, gingerly slipped out of his clothes, and fell into bed.
Their flight was at 3 p.m. Tuesday afternoon. It was now 11:00 Monday morning, giving him just one more day to recover before travel; not nearly enough, but it would have to do.
At 12:30 Anna woke him to introduce Sally, an attractive young VON nurse who showed Anna every step of the necessary care, from removing old bandages to cleaning the wound, applying antiseptic ointment, and securely re-bandaging St. James’s shoulder.
“It’s to be done twice a day,” Sally said, “more often if it gets wet or soiled.”
When Sally finished, she gave Anna a list of supplies to buy.
“I’ll be gone a half-hour or so,” Anna said to St. James. “I’ll probably have to wait for the prescription to be filled. Is there anything you need before I go?”
“I’m fine.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. Dozer called to ask how you were doing. He’d already been to police headquarters to give Spencer a description of the shooter.”
St. James just nodded.
St. James went back to sleep only to wake a short time later to sounds of Anna packing.
“Have you been to the drug store already?” he mumbled.
“Yes. You’ve been sleeping. I was gone for forty-five minutes.”
“Oh.”
“I’m just guessing what you need for a week away,” she said. “Never packed for a man before.”
“Glad to hear that.”
St. James slept most of Monday afternoon and evening. It was clearly too soon to be out of hospital, but he was too stubborn to admit it, even to himself.
On Tuesday morning he stayed in bed while Anna scrambled a couple of eggs and made toast for him.
At 11:00 she said, “You have to dress now, we haven’t much time.” She stuffed a few last-minute items in each bag. “We need to allow extra time. It’ll take longer in your condition. Do you want a painkiller?”
St. James winced, then said, “No, I’m okay for the moment.”
It took ten minutes for him to dress. Then he shuffled to the kitchen where he hauled the bottle of Macallan single malt from the cupboard and poured a double shot of scotch into a crystal glass. He had survived another attempt. Almost the last one, too. Closest he’d ever come. The rate attempts were happening, he’d need a new bottle before the end of the two cases.
Anna emerged from the bedroom struggling with two suitcases.
“Drinking? You’re drinking now, when we’re rushing to catch a flight?” she exclaimed in disbelief.
“Not really.” St. James explained the ritual.
Anna just looked at him with a weird expression and her head cocked sideways.
“You’re a strange man, Hamilton St. James.”
“Man has to have traditions.”
Dozer arrived to carry suitcases and escort them to the taxi stand next door. St. James and Anna shuffled arm in arm ahead of him.
When the plane took off, St. James’s pain reached an unbearable threshold, so he asked the flight attendant for water to take a painkiller. He wished he’d had enough foresight to book a direct flight to Heathrow to avoid changing planes in Toronto.
The connecting flight to Heathrow was on time, and St. James was glad to finally lie in a business-class reclining bed. Anna adjusted it for him and moved the TV screen closer so he could watch. But he immediately pushed it away.
“Don’t feel like watching anything,” he said.
The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was the sound of the landing gear folding into the belly of the plane. He slept the entire seven-hour flight to Heathrow.
Chapter 43
Half hour before landing, Anna woke St. James to change his dressing.
A curious flight attendant stopped to look on.
“What happened?” she asked.
Looking for shock value, St. J
ames replied, “Gunfight.” He got the response he was looking for. She gasped, covered her face with both hands, and hurried down the aisle.
St. James looked at his shoulder and said to Anna, “How does it look?”
“It’s clean. No sign of infection.”
She carefully applied ointment and re-bandaged the shoulder tightly so it wouldn’t slip out of place, just as Sally had shown her.
“Not bad nursing for a waitress,” he said smiling.
Anna grinned. “I wonder if this ointment heals smart mouths.”
She kissed him and went back to her seat.
“Thank you,” he said, loud enough to be heard across the aisle.
She just waved and picked a magazine from the seat pocket in front.
When they finally entered a room in the Copthorne Hotel on Plymouth’s Armada Way it was 3:45. Walking through airports, standing in lines, and climbing in and out of limousines strained the muscle tissue, causing St. James significant discomfort. He gave in and took a second painkiller, feeling fortunate to have gotten by with only two so far. He laid down while Anna unpacked their suitcases.
At 6:00 on Thursday morning St. James’s eyes met the face of an alarm clock on the night table. For a moment he had no idea where he was. The smell of french fries threw him off. Anna must have ordered room service.
Anna was still sleeping. St. James noticed the bruise on her forehead had faded some. And his pain of yesterday was now merely a tormenting ache.
Both on the mend.
He swung his legs over the side and slowly forced himself upright, then shuffled to the window and quietly pulled back the beige curtains.
The room overlooked a small park-like area separating the hotel from what looked like a four-story red-brick office building across the way. Concrete walkways neatly crisscrossed a well-manicured lawn. Several countries’ flags flapped in the wind atop twenty-five-foot poles.
“How are you feeling?” Anna mumbled.
“I was trying not to wake you.”
“It’s all right. Jet lag messes up my sleep pattern. You must be hungry. I can’t remember when you ate last.”
“Neither can I. I’m starving.”
“Do you feel strong enough to go to the dining room?”
“Think so.”
Anna hopped out of bed and into the shower while St. James watched the BBC news. In ten minutes she was dressed and ready, and it was St. James’s turn. Once he had toweled himself down, Anna removed the wet bandage and cleaned and redressed his shoulder.
She held St. James’s good arm as they made their way down to the dining room. Anna ordered toast and jam. St. James, more ravenous, went for the full English breakfast.
“That should hold you for a while,” Anna said when he had finished the big meal.
At 9:00 St. James phoned Basil Hughes at CISI’s Plymouth plant. Basil, of course, was expecting him and suggested they begin with a plant tour at ten. He would send a car around to collect them at 9:40.
“Would you prefer I stay here?” Anna asked. “I did bring a book.”
“Absolutely not! Wouldn’t hear of it. You are part of the team. Besides, I’m not fit to go alone.”
Anna smiled. She would have been devastated if he had said yes.
At 9:40 sharp a chap named Henry asked for them at the front desk. Twenty minutes later they were shaking hands with Basil Hughes at the plant on SW Coast Path.
Tall and lanky, Basil Hughes was in his mid-forties with a thin face and a full head of black hair, greying at the temples. Bushy eyebrows matched an equally thick draping moustache, and the largest Adam’s apple St. James had ever seen moved up and down like a piston whenever the man spoke. Basil’s accent marked him as neither upper nor working class.
Basil turned out to be quite pretentious. St. James guessed being General Manager of CISI’s largest plant made him upper class, at least in his mind.
Basil delivered an excellent tour of the spotless plant. As they moved through the building St. James asked for a detailed explanation of last year’s inventory count, the location of inventory at the time, and how trawler catch was treated. Basil was thorough and forthcoming. St. James didn’t get the sense he was withholding anything.
Production lines were humming at full tilt, one processing cod, another haddock. Fifty or so line workers were milling about, some cleaning fish, some deboning, and some running filleting machines. Others wrapped and packed. One fellow ran a forklift carrying pallets of ready-for-market product into one of the eight freezers lining a wall. A modern plant in every way with its new stainless-steel processing lines.
Freezers were numbered, containers of fish separated by species, in neat rows. Appropriately well-organized for proper inventory counts, St. James concluded. Packaging inventory was just as neat. Workers swept loading bays. Outside, company trucks were lined up evenly in parallel formation. Neatness, orderly inventory, and sanitation was the backbone of plant culture. St. James was impressed.
St. James asked Basil to explain why trawler inventory was not counted at the same time as freezers.
“Three trawlers were originally destined for this plant. Later, Toronto switched them to Portsmouth, for catch to be counted and processed there. Then, Toronto reversed that decision, so the trawlers didn’t arrive here until late in the day. That was when the catch was finally counted and included in Plymouth’s inventory numbers.”
“Did Toronto give any reason for the switch?” St. James probed.
“Not really … not a clear one anyway. They said it was some sort of mistake.”
St. James nodded and made a note.
When they returned to Basil’s office he pulled a file bearing St. James’s name from the top drawer and handed it to him.
“Here is the information you requested in your email. I think you will find everything’s there … count sheets, summaries, analysis completed by my accountant, as well as correspondence with head office.”
“Thanks so much. I appreciate the work you put into this, Basil. During the count did you receive any special instructions from Toronto?”
Basil twisted the end of his moustache. “Special instructions?”
“Procedures or steps out of the ordinary, compared to prior years, that is.”
Basil considered this for a moment, staring down at the desk.
“No. Nothing that I recall, except what I already told you about the trawler inventory.”
“Has there been confusion in the past concerning which plant should process catch-in-transit?”
“Not since I’ve been here.” Basil paused and looked at St. James. “Are you all right? You look very pale.”
“Jet lag. Not used to travel,” St. James lied. “Think we’ll go back to the hotel to work on the file.”
Anna gave St. James a look.
“Very well. Penelope and I were hoping you could join us for dinner; perhaps tomorrow night when you are time-adjusted?”
“That would be wonderful,” Anna said enthusiastically.
“No doubt I will need some time with you tomorrow morning. Will that be okay?” St. James said respectfully, taking into account Basil’s exaggerated self-importance.
“Absolutely. I and the plant accountant will be here. Call and I’ll send Henry around for you.”
They shook hands and Basil summoned Henry to take them back to the Copthorne. As soon as they entered the room St. James went to bed. While he slept, Anna changed the bandage once again.
Chapter 44
When St. James awoke mid-afternoon Anna was nowhere to be seen. A sticky note on the bureau mirror said, “Gone shopping, love Anna.”
He ordered a chicken sandwich and coke from room service, then settled in at the room’s small table with Plymouth’s inventory file from CISI HQ and the one Basil had given him that morning.
Time for the tedious work.
He created two piles of documents, one for each file, and then sorted sheets in each pile by date prepared. He fol
lowed all species counts from count sheets themselves through to Basil’s inventory summaries, then to copies given to him by Karen’s assistant. Partway through the exercise, room service knocked on the door to deliver the sandwich and coke. He took five minutes to wolf down both, then went straight back to work.
He had been at it for two hours when a key turned in the lock. Anna walked in carrying an armload of parcels that she tossed on a chair and gently threw her arms around St. James’s neck.
He pushed aside his work and turned to her. “Where did you go?” he asked with genuine interest.
With her usual enthusiasm Anna said, “Hamilton, I had such a wonderful time! The concierge recommended the Drake Circus Shopping Centre. I found the most delightful shops and stumbled on a few things I couldn’t resist. How are you feeling?”
“Bit better.”
Anna pointed at the two piles of documents. “What are you doing?”
He thought quickly.
“Organizing things for you.”
She smiled. “Liar.”
“I hate that word,” he said disingenuously.
“What do you call someone who doesn’t tell the truth, just to take advantage of another?”
St. James grinned. “I would say they were economical with the truth.”
“Great line.” Anna resigned herself to helping. “Okay. What do you want me to do?”
He laid out detailed steps for her to follow and explained what to look for and make notes of.
“I need to get some air. Do you mind if I leave you for a bit? A stroll around the park would do me good, I think.”
“No, go. But don’t overdo it.”
He leaned over to kiss her. “I won’t. I appreciate your help, as always.”
The day was damp, overcast with a gentle breeze. It looked like rain, but then again England always looked like rain.
He strolled through the small park, sat for a while on a bench, and took in several deep breaths; breathing exercises to manage what now was a constant dull shoulder ache. Sounds of heavy traffic spilled over from the A374, spoiling the quiet of the hotel grounds.
Double Shot of Scotch Page 24