‘I don’t have an appointment,’ said Snow quietly, holding up his ID card. ‘Dr Patel is expecting me. I just need a few words with him on an urgent matter.’
‘Well, he’s seeing a patient at the moment. You’ll have to wait. He should be free in about five minutes.’
Snow joined the tableau of waiting patients, naturally adopting their dispirited demeanour, staring blindly into space. In less than five minutes a large middle aged lady with flushed features wobbled out of Dr Patel’s consulting room clutching a sheaf of papers.
‘You can go in now,’ said the nurse, tapping Snow on the shoulder.
Dr Mahendra Patel was a tall, very good looking Asian with extraordinary brown eyes that radiated intelligence and perception. He grinned broadly as Snow entered and rose from his desk throwing his arm out in greeting.
‘My dear Paul, this is such an unexpected pleasure. We have not seen each other in many a long day.’
Snow nodded, shaking Patel’s hand. The two men had met during one of Snow’s investigations and had become friendly on a casual basis. Snow had even attended Patel’s wedding two years earlier but since then they had seen little of each other.
‘I gather this is not a social call and you do not want your bowels examining,’ Patel said mischievously.
‘I need some information, I’m afraid and I reckon you are my easiest channel for obtaining it.’
‘I see. Well, I’ll do what I can, but it will have to be quick, I have several patients waiting outside all wanting to know how their bum is doing.’ He chuckled.
‘I know this not your department but I need to know something about a girl who I believe gave birth in this hospital probably within the last year.’
Patel chuckled again. ‘You are right, it is not my department. Babies are not my area of expertise, but I reckon I know people who could help. Tell me more.’
‘There isn’t more to tell. The girl’s name is Lucy Anderson, a single mother. The child was white, possibly a little girl.’
Patel lifted the phone. ‘I’ll get on to the midwifery department. They should be able to help.’
‘Good man.’
Snow waited patiently as Patel spoke to his colleague on the phone and then waited again while records were checked. Some five minutes later Patel replaced the receiver and handed Snow a sheet from his notepad.
‘That’s all the details I could glean, old chap. A girl, Lucy Anderson, aged nineteen, gave birth four months ago. As you say, a single mum. No record of parents. Probably deceased. No record of the father of the child either. Sadly that is not uncommon these days. She gave birth to a baby girl, born prematurely. About two months early. Religion: Roman Catholic. Address given was given as Ramsden Buildings. Any use?’
‘Could be. It certainly clears one matter up. Thanks for your help. I’ll let you get back to your patients.’
Dr Patel stretched out his hand for another friendly shake. ‘It was good to see you again – however briefly.’
‘Ships that pass in the night, eh. I hope you and Surinder are well and happy.’
Dr Patel beamed. ‘We are. You must come round for a meal sometime.’
‘That would be good.’
‘Indeed, next time you give me a ring, make sure it’s for some social occasion, eh?’
Snow made his way back to the car, his mind moving various pieces of information around in his mind, searching for anything that glimmered with a promise. Now it was time for him to go home and have that drink.
When he arrived home he saw that there was a familiar vehicle parked outside his house. As he pulled into his drive, the occupant of the car got out. He was carrying a manila file.
‘Hello, sir,’ said Bob Fellows with less than his usual ease.
‘Bob, what brings you here?’
The sergeant looked embarrassed and shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. ‘I’m sorry about what’s happened, sir. It’s bloody ridiculous… No one could have done any better, got any further with the case than you… And then they go and give it to that idiot Crowther, I mean…’
Snow thought Bob’s indignation was touching but also rather comic.
Snow smiled. ‘Come inside and have a drink.’
As Snow poured a glass of lager for his sergeant, Fellows slapped the file down on the kitchen table. ‘I’ve spent the last hour photocopying various documents and photographs relating to the case. They’re all in here. I reckon just because you are officially off the investigation it doesn’t mean that you have to give it up, does it?’
‘Exactly my thinking,’ said Snow, with a sly smile. He opened the folder and sifted through the material. ‘That’s very good, Bob. Very thoughtful. Thank you. This stuff will be useful to me’.
‘I’ll keep you informed about how things are going… off the record like.’
Snow nodded. ‘Of course. That will be appreciated. Actually, I’ve made a little headway myself.’
‘Already?’
Snow’s smile broadened. ‘Already. I’ve visited the hospital and I can confirm that Lucy had a four month old child – a little girl.’
‘What about the father?’
‘No record of him. He’d obviously done a bunk before the birth.’
‘So where is the baby now?’
‘That is a good question. Perhaps Inspector Crowther will come up with the answer.’
Fellows rolled his eyes in response to this observation. ‘And bacon sandwiches might fly,’ he grunted before taking a long swig of his lager.
‘The baby angle is interesting but it does not really give us an insight into the motives for the other murders.’
‘That’s our bloody holy grail isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely. That link still eludes us.’
Bob drained his glass and touched the manila file. ‘Well, I hope this stuff helps. It’s often the case that if you go over things, you spot something you missed the first time around.’
He drained his glass, patted Snow gently on the shoulder and headed for the door. ‘I’ll get out of your hair. Don’t worry, sir. I’m sure we can sort this out between us.’ His features shifted briefly into a tight grin.
Snow felt immensely touched by this demonstration of kindness and loyalty. It had surprised him and the fact that it had increased his sense of humility.
‘Much appreciated, Bob,’ he said, hoping that his tone and steady gaze added greater eloquence to his feelings than the simple expression.
After his sergeant had gone, Snow sank down onto a kitchen chair. His legs seemed to crumple under him. Suddenly he felt very tired. A wave of exhaustion engulfed him. It had been a hell of a day but he had, until now, apart from his fainting fit, managed to keep the stress of it at bay. Until now. Left alone in his own silent kitchen, his reserve crumbled. He actually felt like crying, but his eyes remained dry. He sat like a melting statue for some fifteen minutes, his mind awhirl with thoughts and flashing images of moments he had lived through the last few days. It was like a grotesque and distorted newsreel. Eventually, with a snarl he banished them, clearing his brain and, standing up, he made a determined effort to shake off the malaise.
Self-pity, capitulation to despair and maudlin thoughts were not going to help him dig himself out of the hole he was in. Constructive thought was his only life-line. A fragile one, he admitted, but that was all he had. His eyes caught sight of the whisky bottle on the work surface. It shimmered before him in temptation. It was a temptation he knew he had to reject. Instead he lifted the electric kettle and replenished it from the tap, the noise of the water drumming inside filling the room. Just as it was coming to the boil, the doorbell rang.
Snow grimaced. A line from Dorothy Parker came to his mind and he found himself murmuring it as he made his way to the front door: ‘What fresh hell is this?’
On opening the door, he found a hunched distressed figure standing there. It was Matilda. She had been crying. Snow adjusted this observation. She was crying. He eyes were r
ed, her mascara had run and she was shaking with emotion.
On seeing Snow, she stiffened, her body grew more erect and her features toughened. With great speed her arm arced forward and she smacked him hard across the cheek.
‘You bastard,’ she cried. ‘You fucking bastard.’
CHAPTER
TWENTY SIX
A few hours earlier that day, Matilda had driven away from school with a splitting headache. She was tired and ready for a hot bath and a gin and tonic. The Christmas term was always the most draining one of the school year. Not only were there the carol concerts to organise, the Christmas parties and the nativity play to set in motion and oversee, but there was the increasing skittishness of the kids as the festive season took hold. This year, of course, the pressure had been added to by the re-emergence of Roger in her life and the rippled effects this had upon the comparatively calm waters of her life. And then there was Paul. She was perplexed as to where this relationship was going to go. Especially now after their mini-rift. She was very fond of him, maybe even a little bit in love with him, but she was unsure of his feelings for her. Even in his passionate moments, there was always something reserved about his behaviour as though he was afraid to reveal the true Paul Snow completely. It was a puzzle and she did not yet know how to solve it. Of course, her coolness towards him when she was first dealing with Roger had not helped. She hoped things would not only get back on an even keel but indeed progress over the Christmas period.
Their first Christmas together.
The traffic was particularly bad this evening. The slow stop/start progress in the December early evening darkness, penetrated all the while with startling bright headlights of oncoming vehicles, increased the ferocity of her headache. She was in a really bad way when she at last pulled into the drive of her house. It was only when she had switched off the engine that she noticed that there were lights on in the hall and sitting room. Her immediate thought was burglars, but then it was bit early in the day for nocturnal thievery and then she reasoned, with a sinking feeling, it was more likely to be Roger. Unfortunately, he still had a key.
Remembering this, she groaned. That’s all she needed - burglars would be the better option. With some trepidation, she entered her own house. She had thought that the apprehension she felt rising within her was a thing of the past after Roger had moved out. More fool her, she thought grimly.
She discovered him sprawled on the sofa, fast asleep, a glass held limply in his hand. It appeared to contain gin. It wasn’t water, Matilda was sure of that. She dumped her coat and bag down on a chair and went through to the kitchen. It was clear to her that when sleeping beauty woke up he would need a strong dose of black coffee.
As she waited for the kettle to boil, she considered the various possibilities that had brought her brother back to her house, somewhat worse for wear with drink. Something must have happened to ‘upset’ him. It usually didn’t take much. His horse had come last, a potential boyfriend had turned him down … or… Of course. It was the job, wasn’t it? she reasoned. His first interview and his first rejection and so boo hoo let me get drunk and cry on my sister’s shoulder. She was fairly certain that was the scenario.
She stirred the coffee slowly, mesmerised by the little coin of creamy foam spinning on the black surface. Tired as she was, she certainly was not in the mood to be Roger’s Florence Nightingale, offering him sympathy and ministering to his ego. She returned to the sitting room, extracted the glass from her brother’s limp grasp and placed the mug on the coffee table before shaking his shoulders with some force.
‘Come on, wake up, Roger. Get some coffee down you.’
After another shake, his eyes fluttered erratically and then slowly opened wide. It took him a few seconds to establish where he was and, perhaps, Matilda thought wryly, who he was. With a groan, he pulled himself up into a sitting position.
‘Coffee.’ She pointed to the mug on the table, the creamy coin having disappeared.
‘Thanks,’ he croaked and raising the mug to his lips took a long gulp.
‘Ouch,’ he cried. ‘That’s bloody hot.’
She ignored him and sat down. ‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice was hard and angry. She wanted him to be in no doubt that she was very pissed off to come home and find him in her house, soused on the sofa.
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘What’s wrong with the telephone?’
He shook his head wearily. ‘This is too important… too sensitive for the telephone.’
‘Sensitive…?’ She didn’t like the sound of that.
‘I’m in a mess.’
You have been for years, she thought, but kept it to herself. ‘I gather you didn’t get the job.’
For a moment Roger look confused and then his eyes brightened as comprehension returned. ‘The job. Yeah. I mean no, I didn’t get it. They turned me down. Ex con cannot be trusted.’
‘They didn’t say that.’
‘They didn’t have to.’
‘Well, you knew it wasn’t going to be simple. Jobs are not that easy to come by these days even…’
‘Even for those without a prison record, eh?’ There was real anger in his voice now and his hand shook so much the coffee sloshed over the rim of the mug.
Matilda decided not to retract the thought. ‘Yes, even for those without a prison record. You have got to face facts.’
To her surprise, he began giggling, giggling in an unstable way. ‘I reckon it’s you, sis, who’s going to have trouble facing facts.’
What the hell did he mean now? She raised her brows in silent query.
‘I may be fucked up but it’s not all hunky dory in your garden either.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Lover boy. Little Pauley.’
‘Paul, what about him?’
‘Indeed, sister of mine, good question: what about him?’
‘For God’s sake drink your coffee, sober up and get out of here.’
‘You’ve got to know. For both our sakes, you’ve got to know.’
‘Know what?’ Matilda felt decidedly uneasy now and something told her things were suddenly going to get very unpleasant.
‘Your boyfriend. Paul. He’s like me.’
‘What do you mean…?’ the sentence faltered on her lips, for she felt she knew the answer to the question.
‘He’s a pansy. A queer.’
Matilda gave a laugh. It was false and melodramatic.
‘I am afraid it’s true.’
‘You’re talking nonsense.’
Roger shook his head. ‘Do you think I would make this up just to hurt you? I’m not that big a bastard. It’s the truth. Paul and I are of the same breed, I assure you. I should know: we’ve slept together.’
As the sense of these words stabbed at her brain, Matilda gagged and her stomach convulsed. She thought she was going to be sick or faint. Her whole body seemed as though it didn’t belong to her any more. Her distress came from the full acceptance of Roger’s claim. She believed him. Why would he lie? Why would he lie about this? It explained so many things.
She began to cry. Silently and without any dramatic motion, the tears poured down her face. Roger rushed forward and knelt by her chair. ‘I am so sorry. I know it’s horrible but it is best you know. I think he has feelings for me and I have for him.’
‘I don’t want to know! I don’t want to know!’ she snarled, her body beginning to heave with emotion. ‘Get out. Get out and never come back! Do you hear me? Never. Never. Never!’ The voice rose to an hysterical pitch now which unnerved Roger. He pulled back from her, rising to his feet.
‘We never meant to hurt you…’
Matilda gripped the arms of her chair, her nails digging into the fabric. ‘I’m sure you didn’t. I’m sure you didn’t give me a second thought. Either of you.’ She paused, the fury dissipating for a moment, replaced by a brief sob. ‘It is true,’ she said at length, ‘isn’t it? This isn’t one of your fantasies
. A cruel lie?’
Roger shook his head. He suddenly felt very sober and wretched. ‘I wouldn’t… My God, I wouldn’t. If it’s any consolation, I did the chasing but…’
‘What a fool I’ve been. How stupid…’
‘No, no. Paul never meant to deceive you.’
Matilda gave a bitter chuckle. ‘You’re going to tell me that he was deceiving himself. Burying his true nature.’
Roger gave a shrug of the shoulder. ‘Trying to at least.’
‘Go now.’
‘And never darken your doorstep again,’ he said in a failed attempt to be flippant.
‘Yes. I meant what I said. But do me one last favour.’
‘Of course. If I can.’
‘Leave Paul alone tonight. Don’t go running to him. I need to see him. There are… there are questions I need to ask. From tomorrow he’s yours, but… leave him alone tonight.’ Tears began to roll again.
Roger nodded. ‘Very well. If I could use your phone to call for a taxi…’
Matilda nodded.
‘I’ll get them to pick me up at the end of the street. I’ll be out of your way in a trice.’
Within five minutes he was gone and Matilda was alone. She hadn’t moved from her chair as though paralysed by the shocking truths that had just been revealed to her. Had it really all been a sham? Had Paul just used her to create a fiction, representing a heterosexual face to the world to cover up the truth? It seemed so cruel. He seemed so cruel. And strange. They had been close, intimate and loving towards each other. But then, she considered, not quite as close, intimate and loving as she would have liked. Examining their relationship under the brutal magnifying glass provided by Roger, she could see the weaknesses, the cracks, the fallacies. The more she reviewed the affair, she saw with fresh eyes how she had romanticised their friendship, pushed it along, Paul following uneasily in her wake. She saw it all now. The horrid truth. Of course, it was partly her fault but in truth Paul was the real demon. He had known it wasn’t right. He had known that it was a pretence. Even if it was self-delusional, he had placed his own considerations first. He hadn’t given a thought for her feelings at all.
Blood Rites: A Detective Inspector Paul Snow thriller Page 17