‘I’m a private detective.’
‘Really? My uncle used one of those to check on his wife, and they ran off together.’
‘The detective and your uncle?’
‘You know what I mean; the detective and the wife.’
‘Life’s hazardous, isn’t it?’
She made a note on his chart. ‘Yours seems to be. You get some rest while you can.’
Cedric had brought in his laptop and he spent twenty minutes looking up inheritance law. He then slept for several hours, until around six thirty, when he saw Nora Morrow walking towards him.
‘This is an honour,’ he said.
She was dressed in a black-and-green Lycra gym kit, her hair held back under a bandeau. She looked disgustingly fit and he was conscious of his own feebleness. She sat and fished a bag of peaches out of her rucksack.
‘Here, these look tasty. Don’t get excited; I’m here to tell you off, as much as to wish you well.’
‘Good cop, bad cop?’
‘Ha-ha. Your sense of humour hasn’t been traumatised, anyway. How long are you in here for?’
‘Another night. Then I’m supposed to rest; I should be a hundred per cent within a couple of days.’
She gestured at the peaches. ‘Mind if I have one? It’ll keep me going through an hour at the gym.’
‘Help yourself. Any news on the case?’
She chewed on a peach, looking at him, crossing her legs. ‘No body, if that’s what you mean. Lomar did this to you, didn’t he?’
Swift raised his shoulders a fraction. It didn’t hurt. ‘I don’t know, I didn’t see.’
‘Hmm, so I understand. It would add up, don’t you think? Seems an odd venue for a random mugging. I could pull him in again.’
‘That’s up to you. Don’t do it on my account.’
‘Sir Galahad, eh?’ Nora said knowingly. She reached for the box of tissues on his cupboard, wiped her mouth and hands and aimed the peach stone expertly at the bin.
‘Have you spoken to Langborne?’ Swift asked.
‘No. Langborne, however, has been speaking to people, as I’ve no doubt you expected. Top people. My phone was red hot. I’ve been instructed to leave him alone and to tell you the same.’
Swift eased himself up a little on the pillows. ‘Come on, he has clear reason to be hostile to Carmen, given what she knew, given that letter. I’ve been checking inheritance law and a question over his paternity could possibly affect his share in the Holland Park house, especially if Florence wanted to cause trouble. Given that there seems to be no love lost between them, she might well do. Did you get the copy of the letter I scanned to you?’
‘Yes and all very interesting. But . . . I’m under orders. I’ve passed yours on. You know, it might have been better if you hadn’t gone to see him, and left it to me.’
‘But you’re so busy and understaffed,’ he replied sweetly. ‘Maybe Langborne had me beaten up.’
‘Not his style. He’d be more subtle. Your boat would mysteriously sink in the middle of the river.’
‘Is Charisse Lomar okay?’
‘As far as I know. I’ve got to go now and burn some muscle.’
‘Thanks for coming.’
‘Yeah. Don’t go blundering around any further, Swift; certainly not on Langborne’s territory. You could nix any chance of finding Mrs Langborne, if he is involved. I’m not going to forget about him but it has to be a softly-softly approach.’
He didn’t buy it and he was annoyed that she was standing over him and he was on his back with a throbbing head, in a ridiculous pair of pyjamas covered in bluebirds that belonged to Cedric. ‘But you’ve got your instructions, from the top.’
‘Oh, take your medication and meddle with something else,’ she snapped, striding away.
In the doorway she almost collided with a small, vigorous figure in a floral print dress, carrying a hessian shopping bag. Swift’s heart sank; Joyce was all he needed. The worst thing about being in hospital wasn’t the injury that had put you there or the hardness of the mattress or the stultifying atmosphere; it was having to accept visitors, whether you wanted them or not.
‘Tyrone, my dear!’ she said, bending to kiss his cheek, her necklace catching his ear lobe. ‘What on earth has happened? I came as soon as I heard.’
‘Joyce,’ he said heavily. ‘How did you know I was here?’
She pulled up the chair Nora had just vacated, loosening the belt on her dress and starting to take items from her deep bag.
‘I rang Cedric to thank him for his birthday card and he told me what happened. He sounded very worried. So naturally, I came straight away. Now, I’ve brought you some bottled water, fruit juice, apples, tissues, hand sanitiser and books.’
He looked at the stuff she was heaping on to his bed. One of the apples rolled out of its bag on to the floor. He could see three hefty thrillers, a short-story omnibus and a colouring book for adults with a packet of felt tips attached. Joyce tapped it and he knew she was about to explain the obvious.
‘These are very popular right now. They’re supposed to be soothing and absorbing. There was such a huge choice but I got these mandala patterns.’
‘So I see. This is very kind of you but I’m only here until tomorrow, you know.’
She patted his hand and retrieved the apple. ‘Well, better to have too much than too little. You can take the books home and have a good read while you recuperate. That’s a bad bruise. Are you in much pain?’
‘No, just tired now.’
Being Joyce, she was impervious to the hint. ‘I always think being in hospital is so isolating. Now, when you’re discharged would you like to come and stay with me for a couple of days? I’m sure you shouldn’t be on your own and although Cedric is upstairs, he can’t really be expected to do too much. It won’t take me two shakes to get your room ready.’ She beamed at him hopefully.
‘That’s kind but, really, I’ll be fine. I’m not an invalid, just a bit bruised.’
‘Now, Tyrone, you should let yourself be looked after sometimes. You’re an independent man, I know, but there are times when—’
‘Joyce.’ He sat up as straight as he could manage. ‘No. Thank you but no.’
She sighed. ‘Oh well, if you’re sure . . . I could pop round and do some shopping for you, make a few meals?’
‘Again, that’s very kind but I’ll be fine.’
She looked away, scanning the other beds, then arranged the apples on top of his table. ‘You’re a difficult person to help, Tyrone.’
‘Am I? Perhaps, but I manage.’
She shook her head, then settled back in the chair and told him how much she had enjoyed her party, running through the gifts she had received, talking about people he didn’t know. After ten minutes he told her he needed to go to the bathroom, and then he thought he might get some sleep.
‘It’s been a long day, I’m exhausted. So good of you to come, though.’
She walked out with him, still talking about someone called Roderick and how his wife was in a coma after falling down some steps on a visit to a stately home.
‘Now, you will let me know if you don’t feel well once you get home?’ she said as he opened the door to the men’s toilets.
‘I will,’ he lied, kissing her proffered cheek, backing away from her. He watched to make sure she was exiting through the swing doors, and then splashed his face with running cold water.
Back in the ward, feeling ill humoured, he switched on his phone. It was the first time he’d checked it since the attack. There was a message from Rachel Breen, thanking him for the information about Ed Boyce; one from Poppy Forsyth, saying it would be good to catch up; and one from Mike Farrell at the hospice. He said he thought that Swift might like to know that Mr Pennington had passed away that afternoon. Swift stared up at the ceiling, glad that the ailing man had got his wish. His phone rang. It was Mary.
‘Hi,’ she said, ‘have you been resting?’
‘Not much c
hoice.’
‘You sound grumpy.’
‘I am. Joyce has just been to see me. She brought me a colouring book. And these pyjamas are ridiculous.’
Mary giggled. ‘You should buy some and keep them in case of emergencies. How did Joyce know you’re in hospital?’
‘Cedric told her.’
‘Ah, the grapevine. Listen, I’m about to add to your grumpiness. I need to tell you that I’ve been on the receiving end of phone calls from Whitehall and Met royalty. You’ve upset Rupert Langborne, I gather.’
Swift gave her a summary of recent events. ‘I’ve already had a warning from Nora Morrow,’ he told her.
‘Well, do heed it, Ty. I know, I know; why should some people be able to put pressure on the law et cetera, et cetera. I don’t like it much either. But then there’s reality and with no body, there’s no reason to pursue him.’
‘There never will be a body unless someone tries to find it.’
‘Well, I’ve told you what I have to. You’re your own man but for goodness sake, get better before you work again. Enjoy your colouring in.’
He accepted some mushroom soup for supper, then ate two peaches to get rid of the gritty taste. An email arrived from Ruth, confirming that she could meet tomorrow. He had lost track of time and forgotten that it was Sunday. He replied, confirming he would see her at one. When the nurse who had taken his temperature came to offer him a sleeping tablet, he told her he would be leaving by ten in the morning at the latest.
She looked astonished. ‘That will be up to the registrar,’ she said.
‘No; I think it’s up to me,’ he smiled. ‘Oh by the way, would you like this for the nurses’ station? It might pass the time on night shifts.’ He handed her the colouring book.
‘Thanks; these are all the rage, but they’re not cheap.’ She flipped the pages, sending a welcome breeze his way.
‘So I believe.’
He turned off his reading light when she’d gone and eased onto his side, looking forward to some restored liberty.
* * *
He took a taxi back to the house the following morning. Other than a slight headache and an intermittent soreness in his back, he felt better, less fragile. Hungry after the nauseating hospital fare, he ate cereal and toast and savoured three cups of strong coffee. Cedric was out so he left a message to say he was back and put the eye-catching pyjamas in the wash.
Ruth was ten minutes late and rushed in apologetically, saying one of her students had needed extra help with an essay. She looked at him anxiously as she took her seat.
‘What’s happened to you? That’s a nasty bruise.’
He explained, deciding to order a fruit juice rather than wine. The packet containing his painkillers advised no alcohol.
She took his hand. ‘I hate not knowing what’s happened to you in between these meetings. But shouldn’t you be at home, resting up?’
He looked down at her fingers, the nails short; he could see she still chewed the skin at the side of her thumb. She wore no adornments, no jewellery. She didn’t need to add to her beauty.
‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘Never mind me; you look a bit watery-eyed.’
‘Oh, just been on the run, you know.’
She said she wasn’t very hungry and chose a plain omelette, with water to drink. She crumbled some dry bread and nibbled it while they exchanged news. When they were eating, she suddenly put her fork down and said she had to go to the loo, rushing away. Her omelette lay on her plate, barely touched. She was gone for more than five minutes and when she returned her face was waxy. She pushed the plate away.
‘Sorry, I can’t eat any more.’
‘What is it? A gastric bug?’
She sipped water, holding her stomach, as if monitoring its progress. Cradling the glass in both hands, she looked at him.
‘I’m pregnant, Ty. I found out a fortnight ago. I’ve been chucking up every day.’
‘Well . . . congratulations. I didn’t know you were planning a family; you hadn’t mentioned it.’
‘We weren’t; at least not after Emlyn’s diagnosis. But then, it’s some hope for the future, a child; a refusal to be beaten. Sorry, I have to be sick again.’
He felt as if Lomar had come back and hit him again. He couldn’t face what was left of his pasta. He forced himself to check his thoughts and feelings, realising that he had assumed Ruth wouldn’t have children, knowing that he felt it as a blow because it cemented her marriage. And why shouldn’t it, he chided himself; a marriage should be as solid as cement anyway. What had he been hoping: that Ruth would leave Emlyn, exhausted by what their life had become and turn up at his door? He told himself he was a fool, that these meetings were a betrayal of Emlyn and himself, and he needed to end them.
Krystyna, the waitress, came up to him, looking anxious. ‘Is the lady okay? She doesn’t seem well.’
‘She has morning sickness,’ he told her.
‘Oh, that’s awful; my sister had it bad. But congratulations to you both!’
She went away, humming and he realised she thought he was the father. He couldn’t feel any cheaper.
When Ruth came back she was shivering. At least, she said feebly, there couldn’t be anything left to bring up. He said she must get home and called her a taxi. Krystyna held the door open for them, nodding and smiling. At Victoria he saw her, as usual, as far as the ticket barrier.
‘Sorry about this, I was looking forward to seeing you.’
‘Well, it’s momentous news. Look after yourself and the baby; sit near the loo on the train. Make sure you get a taxi at Brighton.’
‘Don’t kiss me,’ she said, ‘I must smell of sick.’
He ignored the instruction and pressed his lips to her cheek. When she had gone, he went into a bar and, ignoring his medication, had a large brandy. On the way home, he rang Poppy Forsyth; if he was going to feel self-disgust he might as well add to it, use the Dutch courage from the drink and get it all over with.
‘Hi, Poppy, thanks for your message.’
‘Hi there, hon, good to hear you, how are you doing?’
‘I’m okay. Listen; I don’t want to mess you around. I can’t meet up again just now.’
There was a silence. ‘Oh,’ she said flatly. ‘Any particular reason?’
‘I just have some things going on in my life that I need to sort out, some complications. It’s not . . .’
‘No. Don’t say, “it’s not you, it’s me,” that would be too clichéd. It’s fine, see you around maybe.’
You couldn’t get the satisfaction of slamming a mobile phone down but he knew Poppy would have if it were possible. He was a little sad and relieved. At home, he felt tiredness creep over him so he stood for a long time under a hot shower and tidied up, putting out the rubbish. He checked in with Cedric, returning the damp pyjamas for his tumble dryer but left quickly, not feeling up to conversation. He made coffee, took another painkiller and was going to sit in the garden but it had started to rain so he slumped in the living room, feeling jaded and jittery. He started to write an email to Ruth, saying that he didn’t think they should meet again but stopped after the third sentence and deleted it. He at least owed it to her to say it in person. He switched on the radio and listened to a man singing with a nightingale, the voice lilting to the bird’s melody. His thoughts turned to Langborne, his old boy network, his patronising air, his belief that he could make difficulties disappear by ringing the right people. He searched for Langborne’s Knightsbridge address on the web, suspecting it wouldn’t be in the public domain, using credits to access a site where he could find it.
* * *
Langborne’s flat was in a secure mansion block two streets away from Harrods, a four-storey red-brick building. Swift arrived there at six thirty and scrutinised the bells on the handsome double front doors. He rang number forty but there was no reply. He crossed back over the street and waited until he saw a woman laden with shopping bags exit from a taxi and open the door wit
h a key. He quickly came up beside her, holding the door for her, nodding cheerily, one resident to another. She smiled and said something in a language he didn’t recognise, then tottered away on high heels through doors on the left of the wide lobby. Swift checked the map of the building, which was placed conveniently by the lift, then rode up to the fourth floor. The corridors were wide and deeply carpeted, walls covered in cream embossed paper, small tables holding vases of flowers at either end. There was a deep hush, no noise allowed to penetrate from the grimy streets. The air was stifling and dense; he had a sense of people waiting behind doors, looking through their spyholes when the world intruded. You could murder someone in one of these cocooned apartments and their screams would be muffled by the thick walls. He rang the bell on Langborne’s door because it was there, but he wasn’t in. Swift walked up and down the corridor a few times, then sat on the carpet by the door, took an Evening Standard from his pocket and read it from cover to cover. When he heard the lift he stood, pretending to use his phone, nodding at the couple who exited, taking their briefcases and weariness home for the night.
At seven fifteen the lift hummed and Langborne stepped out, dressed in a flowing calf-length tweed coat, carrying an umbrella and with a Harrods shopping bag in his hand. He saw Swift as soon as he turned from the lift and came towards him, shaking his head.
‘Mr Swift, I didn’t expect to see you loitering here.’
‘You might be able to give the Met instructions but I’m not so biddable.’
‘So I see. Well, excuse me for not asking you in but yet again, you haven’t been invited. Looking at that bruise, maybe you’ve been intruding somewhere else as well. Perhaps you were the kind of child who turned up for birthday parties without an invitation?’ He took his key and inserted it in the lock.
Swift leaned against the wall. ‘I thought you might like to know that your father died yesterday.’
Langborne left his key dangling and stood, looking at the floor. He sighed like a teacher who is having to repeat instructions to a wayward class. He put the Harrods bag down, then did his routine of swaying on the balls of his feet.
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