by H. Y. Hanna
“What happened?” I asked.
“We had to get in an’ separate them,” said the man with the boxing tape. He shook his head. “’Twas a bad night, that.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Last week… think it was Wednesday?” He looked at the young man, who nodded his head in agreement.
Two days before May morning, I thought. “Did you hear that Charlie was the boy who was killed at Madgalen Bridge on May morning?” I asked.
“Bloody hell, really?” said the man with the boxing tape. “I read about it in the papers but I wasn’t payin’ much attention. Thought it was another o’ these stupid stunts that the University students get up to.”
“I knew,” said the young man, his face sobering. “Trevor told me that the police were here yesterday—a detective sergeant—asking some questions.”
“Did you tell him about Charlie and Pete’s fight?”
“I wasn’t here,” said the young man. “And neither was Pete. But I suppose Trevor must have mentioned it.” He turned wide eyes to me. “Hey… you don’t think Pete had anything to do with the boy’s death, do you? He’s a bit of a grumpy old git but he’s not a murderer!”
I shifted uncomfortably. I could see that both men’s friendly manner had changed and there was now hostility in their gaze. Whatever they might say about the “town vs. gown” rivalry being over, they didn’t take kindly to the suggestion that one of “their own” was being made a scapegoat for a university student’s murder.
Thankfully, at that point I heard Trevor announcing the end of class and I got up from the bench to rejoin the Old Biddies. They ambled towards me, glowing with exercise and elation, and I noticed several of the other women—especially the one with the shaved head and nose ring—giving them a wide berth.
“Gemma, dear—you missed most of the class!” cried Ethel.
“Such a shame! It was so enlightening. I can now do an Eye Strike and a Spinning Slap Kick, you know,” announced Glenda with great pride.
“How’s your ankle, dear?” asked Florence.
I looked down and my heart sank. My ankle seemed to have swollen to twice its normal size. I tried to put my weight on it, gasped in pain, and lifted my foot up again.
“Oh dear, that doesn’t look very good,” said Ethel.
“I…I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said, grimacing as I hobbled on the spot. “I just need to put some ice on it when I get home.”
“You need to get that looked at properly,” declared Mabel. “But don’t worry, dear, I’ve just rung your mother and she’s coming to pick you up.”
“My mother?” I looked at her in dismay. “No, I tell you, I’m fine…”
My protests fell on deaf ears and fifteen minutes later—after a long, painful hobble up the stairs from the basement—I found myself standing at the side of the road, propped up by the Old Biddies, as my mother’s car pulled up next to the curb.
My mother got out. “Oh my goodness, darling! What happened?”
“It’s nothing, Mother—don’t worry. I’ve twisted my ankle, that’s all. I just need to get back to the cottage and put some ice on it—”
“Back to the cottage? Oh, no, we must get you to the hospital and have that ankle X-rayed.”
“What? No, Mother— there’s no need for that. I’m sure it’s fine,” I said desperately.
“Nonsense, darling, it could be broken for all you know! You might never walk again!”
Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.
My mother continued blithely, “In fact, I think I will ring Lincoln and ask him to come and meet us in A&E. Isn’t it lucky that he’s on call tonight?”
I groaned inwardly. I might have known. Any excuse to bring Lincoln Green on the scene. Lincoln was the son of my mother’s closest friend, Helen Green, and it was their lifelong ambition to see the two of us engaged. When I’d first returned to Oxford, my mother had been thrilled to find that Lincoln had moved back too, and she had done everything she could to throw us together. And okay, I had to admit, Lincoln was a nice guy. He was kind, good-looking, and an eminent doctor to boot. Perhaps if Devlin hadn’t been around, things might have been different…
But in my heart, I’d always known that Devlin was the man for me. I had known it eight years ago when he had proposed after our passionate student affair, but I’d listened to the wrong advice and made the wrong decision. This time, I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. We’d been given a second chance—Devlin and me—and I wasn’t going to lose it.
Still, even after I’d made it clear that I had chosen Devlin, my mother wasn’t giving up. She simply acted like our relationship was a temporary blip and that I would come to my senses soon. And she didn’t stop trying to throw me and Lincoln together at every opportunity.
“Mother, Lincoln is an intensive care consultant. You can’t call him for a stupid little case like a twisted ankle,” I said in exasperation.
My mother waved my protests away and, before I knew what had happened, I’d been hustled into the car and we were on our way to the hospital.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
By the time we got to the hospital, my ankle was throbbing so badly that I was beginning to think it might be a good idea to get some professional medical attention after all. Supported by my mother, I hobbled painfully into Accident & Emergency, and sat down in one of the plastic chairs in the waiting area, while my mother went off to register. It was a Monday evening and things were quieter than they would have been on a weekend, but the A&E was still fairly busy. I resigned myself to a long wait. I knew enough about triage to know that someone like me would rank very low down on the list of emergency priorities.
To my surprise, however, a tall, good-looking man with neat brown hair and dark brown eyes strode into the A&E waiting area barely ten minutes later.
“Lincoln!” my mother cried, waving madly. “I’m so glad to see you! Gemma has been distraught waiting for you.”
“What?” I spluttered. “Mother, that’s a complete—”
“Hallo, Gemma,” said Lincoln, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling in amusement as he came over and crouched down beside me.
“Hi,” I said, giving him a sheepish look. “Sorry about this. I did tell my mother not to call you—”
“Oh, I don’t mind, Gemma. You know I’m always happy to see you.” Lincoln smiled at me. “I’m on call anyway and it’s fairly quiet on the ICU ward tonight. Now, let’s have a look at this…” He bent and examined my foot, eliciting a gasp of pain from me as he probed my ankle.
“Hmm… looks like you’ve been in the wars a bit,” he commented. “Might be a good idea to have it X-rayed after all. It’s probably just a sprain, but you don’t want to be messing around if there are any fractures. I’ll go and speak to the nurses and get your X-ray sorted.”
He went off and a few minutes later, as I was being wheeled to Radiology, I had to grudgingly admit that perhaps my mother’s idea to call Lincoln had been a good one. Without him, I would probably have been sitting in the A&E until the early hours of the morning. Instead, I was out again and having my foot strapped in less than an hour.
“No broken bones,” said Lincoln cheerfully as he stood by my bedside whilst the nurse finished wrapping my ankle in a supportive brace. “Hopefully it’s just a mild sprain but you’ll need to stay off that ankle for a few days. I’m giving you some anti-inflammatory tablets and painkillers as well.”
“But… but the tearoom re-opens tomorrow,” I said. “I’ve got to get back to work—”
Lincoln shook his head firmly. “I’m sorry, but you have to take time off. You’ve got to rest that ankle to let the ligaments have a chance to heal. The swelling might go down quickly and it might heal faster than expected, but for tomorrow, at least, I want you to stay home and keep the weight off that ankle.”
“Oh, but—”
“Doctor’s orders, Gemma,” Lincoln said sternly. Then he smiled. “Surely one day won�
�t matter? Cassie will be there, won’t she?”
“Yes, and the Old Bi—I mean, Mabel Cooke and her friends will be helping out too… But you don’t understand—I haven’t missed a day of work since I started the tearoom!”
“Well, I’m sure they’ll manage without you. And if you’re feeling much better tomorrow evening, you can think about going to the tearoom the next day—just to sit at the counter, mind you. No running around, serving customers.” Lincoln wagged his finger at me. “Now, I’ll go and fetch your mother. Devlin’s probably in the waiting area too. Maybe he can take you for a drive tomorrow afternoon…” He trailed off as he saw my puzzled look.
“Devlin?” I said. “He’s here in the hospital?”
“Yes, just now when you were having your X-ray… I saw him around the corner. I assumed that he’d come to see you.”
“No…” I said slowly. “I haven’t had a chance to let him know what’s happened yet.”
Lincoln frowned. “Oh. Perhaps I made a mistake—although I was sure it was him…”
“What was he doing?” I asked. “Was he questioning someone?”
“No, actually, he… he seemed to be escorting a woman.”
“Oh.” I swallowed. “What did she look like?”
“Well, she was slim, blonde, very attractive… er, I mean…” Lincoln stammered, flushing slightly. He gave me a sideways look. “Er… well… as I said, I might have been mistaken and it wasn’t him.”
At that moment, we heard my mother’s voice outside the cubicle. A minute later, she sailed in brandishing a pair of crutches. “Darling! Look what I’ve got for you.”
Lincoln looked relieved by the interruption. “That’s a great idea, Aunt Evelyn. It’ll help Gemma keep her weight off her ankle.”
“Yes, but it is such a distance to the car,” said my mother coyly. “And really, Gemma shouldn’t be walking…”
“Oh, I’ll be fine—especially now that I’ve got those…” I said, reaching for the crutches, but my mother slapped my hand away.
“Oh, no, no, these are for tomorrow. You really must stay off your feet as much as possible tonight, don’t you agree, Lincoln?” My mother gave him a coquettish smile. “You’re so big and strong—I was thinking, perhaps you could carry Gemma out to the car?”
I looked at my mother in horrified disbelief.
“Oh… of course. It would be a pleasure,” said Lincoln gallantly.
“No,” I gasped. “I don’t need to be carried! This is ridiculous—”
Once again, my protests fell on deaf ears and I found myself being scooped up by Lincoln and carried out of the hospital in his arms, while my mother trailed behind us, beaming. My face was so red, everyone probably thought I had scarlet fever. I mumbled a “thank you” as Lincoln deposited me gently in the front passenger seat, and then I spent the rest of the drive home fuming, trying not to think evil thoughts about my mother.
It had been decided that I would stay with my parents for a few days until my ankle healed, and the Old Biddies had thoughtfully fetched Muesli from my cottage. She came trotting up to inspect my bandaged foot as I hobbled into my parents’ foyer.
“Right. A hot drink, darling, and then off to bed with you,” said my mother briskly.
I felt like I was nine again as my mother settled me in my old bed, brought me a hot drink, fussed over me, and then finally, after kissing me goodnight, left me with Muesli curled up against my hurt ankle. The medication they’d given me at the hospital was starting to kick in and I pulled the blankets up drowsily. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought suddenly of Devlin again. I had sent him a text, telling him what had happened, after we’d got back, but I hadn’t heard from him. I frowned, feeling hurt and disappointed. Okay, I had downplayed my injury in my message, but still, I thought that he would have called to see how I was.
Unless he was busy…
I remembered what Lincoln had said. Had Devlin really been at the hospital? What had he been doing there? And who was that blonde woman he had been with?
With these thoughts tumbling through my mind, I sank at last into a troubled sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Oh, Muesli, go away…” I muttered, giving the little tabby cat a gentle shove as she attempted to climb onto my lap yet again.
Shifting restlessly, I tried to find a more comfortable position. After a day of sitting around doing nothing, I was not in the best of moods. And although Cassie had already rung once and told me that everything was going fine, I was worried about my tearoom. I sighed. I’d never been good with inactivity, especially in the working week when it felt like everybody else in the world was busy planning, working, learning, discussing… and here I was, sitting on my parents’ sofa, with nothing more to look forward to than more daytime TV.
Still, at least I’m having a bit of peace and quiet, I thought. My mother had gone out to meet some friends for lunch and it was nice to have a break from her gushing abut Lincoln’s masterly doctoring last night. I leaned back against the cushions and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was still only 2:30 p.m. Cassie had said that she would pop in after work but the tearoom wouldn’t close for several hours yet…
I sighed and looked back at the laptop on my lap. I might not have been able to do proper work at the tearoom but there was something else I could work on: the mystery of Charlie Foxton’s murder. I flexed my fingers over the keyboard. After all, we were in the internet age and they did say that there was nothing you couldn’t find online…
“Meorrw!” said Muesli from the cushion next to me. She reached out a paw and prodded my stomach.
“Not now, Muesli…” I muttered distractedly as I typed some keywords into the search engine. Damian Heath.
A list of results came up. There were several Damian Heaths, mostly Facebook profiles. I clicked on a couple of the entries, scanning the photos… Aha! That was him. The picture showed a grinning Damian with a rainbow-coloured knitted beanie cap on his head. His arm was slung around the shoulders of someone just out of the picture. I wondered if it was Charlie. I scrolled down the page. Since I wasn’t Damian’s “friend” on Facebook, I couldn’t see most of his posts—only the occasional public joke or funny video that he had shared. Nothing helpful. Anyway, I doubted that Damian would have posted about the planned murder of his best friend on social media.
Next, I tried Miriam Hopkins. I hadn’t really expected to find her and I was right. There were a few Miriam Hopkinses on Facebook, but, from their profile photos, they were all much younger. Like many of the older generation, it was unlikely that Miriam had much of a presence online.
“Meorrw…” said Muesli peevishly, as she pawed my abdomen again. I knew what she wanted: to climb into my lap and curl up for her afternoon sleep.
“Not now, Muesli…” I said absently, my eyes still on the screen.
“Meorrw!” insisted Muesli and she climbed into my lap, wedging herself somehow into the space between the laptop and my abdomen.
“Muesli!” I said in exasperation.
The little tabby took no notice, shoving the laptop away to make room for herself. She began kneading my thighs, purring loudly, her bum in my face. I leaned around her and tried to continue working. I typed Tanya Koskov and didn’t get very much. Hmm… I remembered that “Tanya” was short for her full name, “Tatiana”. I tried Tatiana Koskov and, again, got a few hits but nothing interesting. Oh wait…of course. I remembered the importance of the patronymic in Russian names. In fact, now that I thought about it, I remembered Mikhail calling the Russian girl “Tatiana Vladimirovna” rather than “Tanya”. Chances were, the media might use that, especially in Russia. I tried again, curving my arms awkwardly around Muesli to reach the keyboard. She was blocking my view of the laptop and it was almost impossible to see what I was typing.
“Muesli! I can’t see anything!” I said irritably, trying to look around her furry bum.
The little cat turned around, padding on the spot, trying to
make herself comfortable. My laptop beeped as she stepped on the keyboard.
“MUESLI!”
I started to lose my temper, then paused, my eyes on the screen. Somehow, Muesli’s antics combined with my jostled typing and the auto-complete feature had brought up a set of search results which looked very interesting. I lifted my laptop up and propped it on the arm of the sofa, leaving Muesli happily snuggling on my lap, having got her own way. It meant that I had to twist in a really awkward fashion to read the screen, but hey, anything for a quiet life. Besides, it seemed that I might have to thank Muesli for helping me flush out a clue.
My eyes scanned the screen eagerly as I scrolled down the page of results, clicking on several articles. Many were in Russian but, although I couldn’t understand the text, I could guess from the accompanying photos what they were about. They showed Tanya at various clubs and parties, her slim figure draped with expensive designer outfits, her expression haughty and brooding as she stared into the camera. She was surrounded by various other young people—handsome men and beautiful girls—all obviously from Russia’s celebrity circles and “high society”. There was one shot of her getting out of a limousine and entering a ballroom, accompanied by a much older man with grey hair and a shrewd, clever face. Again, I couldn’t read the Cyrillic script, but I guessed that this was Vladimir Ivanovich Koskov escorting his daughter to a function, with a host of bodyguards in the background behind them, looking exactly like the Hollywood stereotype of KGB agents with their dark shades, toothbrush moustaches, and black leather gloves.
I opened up Google Translate in a separate window, randomly selected a few sections of text from various articles, and pasted them into the translation box. I knew it wasn’t very accurate, but it was better than nothing. Most of the stories were the usual stuff of celebrity gossip mags: Has Tatiana Vladimirovna had plastic surgery? Surely her bottom lip has been looking swollen and strange in recent photos… Was Tatiana Vladimirovna pregnant? (Gasp!) That outfit she wore to the premier must be hiding a baby bump… Such a scandal! How embarrassing for Vladimir Ivanovich Koskov—those photos of his daughter leaving the nightclub drunk and practically unconscious… Oh my God, how much did Tatiana Vladimirovna’s customised Chanel handbag cost?... Have you heard about the Caviar Diet that Tatiana Vladimirovna is on? But really, she’s looking so thin and haggard… Have you seen how fat Tatiana Vladimirovna is looking lately? That dress she wore to the awards ceremony just didn’t flatter her at all. Unless… (Gasp!) do you think she might be pregnant?