As for using people ... as for wheedling his way in ... This thought stung him to the core. Was this what Alice was telling everyone? Worse, was this what they were believing? Was this what Catherine herself thought of him? The idea was especially painful because it was so unjust. He had never promoted himself in any inappropriate way, had never been anything but meticulous in his dealings with other people. Away from the office, he was like everyone else, he drank with his friends, went to the races with them, supported their charities, and now and again dropped in a bit of business. Everyone did it. Not only was he no worse than anyone else, he was a great deal better. The suggestion was outrageous! He had nothing to reproach himself for.
It came to him suddenly that there was something far simpler behind Alice’s attack. The answer was so obvious he couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t thought of it before. What she really loathed was the idea of being indebted to him. She couldn’t stomach the fact that he had saved her father from his own excesses, that by taking control of Duncan’s tin pot wine company Simon had rescued him from financial disaster. It was nothing personal at all.
He allowed himself a last burst of indignation and relief before pushing thoughts of Alice firmly to the back of his mind. The heat had gone from him, the sweat on his shirt felt cold on his skin. He found a washroom and splashed cold water on his face before going to a quiet spot overlooking the atrium and dialling Ben’s mobile. As it rang he pictured Ben squinting at the phone, reading the caller’s name on the display before deciding whether to answer it.
“About to call you,” came the laconic voice. From the background babble, Simon guessed he was speaking from a large public place, a hall or concourse.
“Where are you, Ben?” Simon used a neutral tone. “Everyone’s wondering. I’m at the hospital. Catherine’s come round. She’s asking for you.”
“She’s come round? Well, thank God for that! They said she would, didn’t they? Still a relief. And she’s okay, is she? I mean, cheerful and all that.”
“She needs you here, Ben.”
“Look, I just can’t make it. Not for the moment. Just can’t. Cover for me, will you, Simon? It’s a bit urgent.”
“What’s so urgent exactly?”
“Plenty!” Ben snapped in a rare show of nerves. Then, in a more subdued voice: “Got to be somewhere, that’s all. Just getting on a plane now. Won’t get back till late tonight no, at this rate, tomorrow. Yes midday, I should think. Just tell her that nothing, absolutely nothing in the world would keep me away but wild horses. Tell her exactly that, will you? Wild horses. She’ll understand.”
“What about a quick word on the phone? She’d love to hear-‘
“No!” he cut in. “Look, I would, I really would, but it’d be too difficult to explain. She’d only get upset. Make herself ill or something. Better for you to tell her. Really. Much better.”
Simon said firmly, “I need to know one thing.” He didn’t add before I
agree but that was what he meant. “Is this anything to do with the
business? Anything I should know about? Because if it is ‘
“Course not! I’d bloody tell you, wouldn’t I, if it was.”
Summoning all his courage, Simon took a flier. “Nothing to do with the Polska CMC deal?”
“No.” He sounded incredulous. “How could it be?”
In his thoughts Simon echoed: That’s right, Ben, how could it be? “In that case,” he said aloud, ‘is it anything I can help out with?”
“No, thanks.”
“As a friend, I mean?”
“Nope. Look got to run. They’re calling the flight.”
“Can I at least tell Catherine where you’ve gone?” “No,” he said in the brisk disparaging tone he always used to halt discussion. “Just tell her I’ll see her tomorrow. Okay?”
The connection went dead.
Pocketing his phone, Simon tried to remember a time when he had known Ben so rattled. Not for years, not since they had first started the business and gambled everything on the Qatar deal. On second thoughts, not even then; no, in all this time Ben had never had it this bad.
Avoiding a passing trolley, Simon crossed the corridor to the nursing station and, taking some blank paper from his briefcase, used a free end of the counter to write out Ben’s message to Catherine. As he underlined wild horses, he became aware of a woman marching up to the desk and casting vainly about for a member of staff. Simon recognised the tall, sharp-featured blonde immediately. She was a girlfriend of Catherine’s called Emma Russell, in advertising, or maybe it was PR yes, PR for an up-market china shop and her father was the managing director of an independent Midlands brewery.
“Hello, Emma.”
She stared at him uncertainly. “Oh ... hi.”
“Simon Jardine.”
Though they had met at least three times before, it was clear she hadn’t placed him. He suppressed the small flutter of resentment that was apt to stir in him at such moments.
“Cheltenham Gold Cup, lunch in the marquee,” he prompted lightly.
“Oh yesl’ she exclaimed, springing to life. “You work for Ben. Tell
me-‘
“With him-‘
“What?” Blinking briefly at the interruption, she rushed on
impatiently, “But how’s Cath? Is she all right? Tell me ‘
“She regained consciousness a few hours ago,” Simon reported gravely.
“She’s out of intensive care.”
“Oh, thank God for that!” Emma spread a scarlet-nailed hand against her chest in an extravagant gesture of relief. “Thank God. I hadn’t heard anything since Monday, and what with trying to get an earlier flight and the rush oh, thank God!” Slowing down a little, she asked, “But what are they saying? Is she going to be all right? Will she She moved closer and, resting her fingers lightly on Simon’s arm, fixed him with an intense rather disconcerting gaze. She had large round eyes, hazel-brown, with brilliant whites and thick lashes. Despite her height, or perhaps because of it, she tilted her head forward so that, though her gaze was level with his, she seemed to be peering up at him. “Someone told me she’d hurt her back, that it might be serious, that’ her voice faltered ‘it might be broken. Is it true?”
“I don’t think the doctors know anything definite about anything yet.
Too soon.”
“But it’s possible?”
“Really no one knows.”
She removed her hand rather crossly. “Well what are they saying, then?”
“Her skull’s fractured, she was badly concussed, but there are no blood clots, which are the dangerous thing apparently.”
“But are they reasonably happy with the way things are going? Do they think she’s going to be okay?”
“They won’t commit themselves.”
Giving up on him altogether, she narrowed her mouth and glanced away.
“Can I see her? Is it allowed?”
“Duncan’s with her at the moment. And Alice. Best to ask them.”
“Oh, if they’re both in there I’d better wait, hadn’t I? It’d be too much to have me as well, wouldn’t it?” Increasingly fidgety, she glanced around several times before grunting, “Anywhere to smoke in this place? I’ve just had eight hours on a plane and a perfectly awful time in New York. The fascists there scream at you if you so much as light up in the street.” Another scan of the pristine white corridors and, with a sharp sigh of resignation and a pursing of her mouth, she abandoned the quest.
As if to keep her mind off nicotine, she began to speak in a rush that emphasised her high rather breathless voice. “I only found out when I happened to call someone from New York. They told me she was on the critical list. I couldn’t believe it. Tried to phone Ben, left dozens of messages he never called back. I realised he must be here night and day, of course, but that only made me more frantic. Imagining the worst. So I phoned everyone I could think of. Finally got through to Jack and Amy Bellingham you know, the restaurant pe
ople and they told me Cath was here, in intensive care, and that she’d broken her spine and fractured her skull and the doctors weren’t sure if she was going to make it. Well, you can imagine I was just devastated. I mean, from the way they were talking it sounded so desperate. And when they told me she’d been pushed well, for God’s sake! is it true? did this maniac really push her?”
“All that anyone knows for sure is she fell.”
Emma shuddered visibly and screwed up her eyes. “Where? How?”
Even now, four days after the event, Simon had to take a slow breath before he could bring himself to relate it. “She was found on the hall floor, underneath that railed landing. The banisters gave way. She fell across a large wooden chest they think it was that which broke her back. Her head met the floor.”
Emma clasped a hand to her mouth. “That hall it’s stone, isn’t it? God! It’s too awful to think about! Too ghastly!” She dropped her face into her hands amid curtains of hair and gave a long strangled moan. Then, lifting her head abruptly, flipping her hair back from her face, she cried, “And this person this animal, this piece of scum he did it on purpose, did he? To get some sort of ghastly kick?”
“There’s no way of knowing.”
“But how did he get in? Where was Ben?”
Taking care, as always, to be precise, Simon outlined what he’d been told by the police. That there were signs of a break-in, that the house had been ransacked, that Ben had been found stunned and confused, that when he’d been able to talk to the police some hours later he’d told them about finding an intruder.
Emma listened attentively with her head on one side and her arms hugged tightly round her waist. She had a slender, narrow-hipped figure, almost boyish, with a thin face that emphasised the childlike roundness of her eyes. She was dressed entirely in black, in a well-cut trouser suit rumpled from the journey. Her hair was straight and shoulder length and very blonde. Every few minutes she pushed it back from her face in what was evidently a nervous mannerism. She was probably the same age as Catherine though her angular rather pinched face made her seem older, more like thirty-two or -three.
“I always said it was a dodgy area,” she muttered. “It’s not really Notting Hill, is it? More like North Kensington. Anyway, I thought they were still meant to be in France. I didn’t think they were back till this weekend.”
“Something came up.”
She declared disgustedly, “With the bloody business, I suppose!” Then, in a voice hardly less contemptuous: “And of course the police haven’t caught this person yet, have they?”
Simon shook his head.
“No, too much to hope for. The police are uselessl I got robbed last year right outside my door, and they were completely pathetic. Didn’t want to know. Tried to fob me off with Victim Support. I mean, the woman was absolutely sweet and all that, but it wasn’t tea I needed, it was transport and rapido. I ended up missing the most fantastic party She broke off with a small sidelong glance at Simon and added a little defensively, “I hope they’re making a hell of a lot more effort over this.”
“The guy in charge seems reasonably efficient. Bright, too.”
Emma eyed Simon. “You’ve met him?”
“Wilson? Very much so. Talk to him twice a day, sometimes more. I’m liaising with them, you see. On behalf of Ben and Duncan. To take a bit of the load off their shoulders.” The last comment had sounded almost boastful and he frowned at the lapse.
Emma was looking at him with new interest. “Liaising? I hadn’t realised. In that case you’ll know if they’ve checked She paused abruptly, her eyes slid away. “No,” she said after a moment, as if taking herself in hand. “No, perhaps .. .” Then, attempting to strike a different note, she asked casually, “Where’s Ben? Is he around?”
“He had to go away.”
“But he’ll be back soon?”
“Not immediately, no.”
“You mean away away?”
“Yes.”
She gave Simon a mildly resentful glance, as if Ben’s unaccountable absence was in some way his fault. “But I can get him on his mobile?”
Simon made a doubtful gesture. “I rather think he’s out of reach. But I’m expecting him to call later. I’d be glad to pass on a message.”
Emma exhaled sharply, almost petulantly, and it occurred to him that she wasn’t one to bear the trials of life with good grace. “It’ll wait,” she muttered.
Overtaken by a fresh attack of restlessness, she flicked her hair back, though now, as before, it fell forward again almost immediately. “Do you think they’ll be in there much longer, Duncan and Alice?” she said fretfully. “Or shall I put my head round the door?”
“It might be an idea.”
But she made no move towards Catherine’s room. Instead, agitating her hand, she paced off across the corridor.
A wall clock showed a quarter to five. If he got a move on Simon realised he might be able to catch DS Wilson at his desk before he knocked off for the day.
Returning to the message for Catherine, he picked up his pen again and added “He sends tons of love’ and was immediately worried that tons was too breezy, even by Ben’s standards, that much or deepest love would be more fitting.
He’d just decided to leave the love measured by weight when Emma came back. Leaning both forearms on the counter, she said, “It was definitely a burglary?”
“Sorry?”
“The police they think it was just a burglary?”
Her choice of words made him look up. “Well yes. Things were stolen, the house was ransacked.”
“It wasn’t a stalker then?”
He stared. For an instant he thought he must have misheard her. “A stalker? Why do you say that?”
She gave a sharp sigh, as though the whole matter had become altogether
too much for her. “That’s what I wanted to talk to Ben about, you see,
to ask him what he thought -whether the guy could have had anything to
do with well, anything. Look, it was probably nothing Cath only
mentioned it once, she didn’t seem to take it seriously but it’s been
on my mind, I kept thinking about it on the plane, that this breather
might have turned out to be a complete psycho. You know, followed her,
waited for her. I mean, it often starts with calls, doesn’t it? And
then they go on from there, get obsessed. But if it was just a
burglary, then ‘
Simon interrupted, “Are you saying someone was stalking Catherine?”
“No well, not then no, it was just calls. But that’s what I wanted to
ask Ben if anything else had happened, like anyone had started hanging
around, or if this guy was just, you know, a sad anorak in a phone
booth.” She threw up a hand. “But, look, how do I know? It was
probably nothing. It might have stopped weeks ago ‘
Simon couldn’t get to grips with this at all. “Let me get this straight, someone was making nuisance calls to Catherine?”
“Yes.”
“Threatening calls?”
“Well not quite. I think Cath said that he only ever spoke once. After that he never said a word. That’s why she wasn’t too fazed.”
“There was nothing else apart from the calls?”
She said touchily, “Well... no.”
“He never bothered her in any other way?”
“Not that she ever Emma pushed a palm against her head in a gesture of stupidity. “I’m crazy, aren’t I? If this guy had shown his face, Ben would have said something, wouldn’t he? If anything had happened to frighten Cath, he would have told the police.” She gave a long groan. “I left my brain on a bar stool somewhere, didn’t I? I really hadn’t thought.”
But Simon wasn’t listening, he was too busy trying to see how the police were likely to interpret this information, how it might affect the course of their investigation. “Best to be on the
safe side,” he said finally.
“What?”
“Best to tell the police. They should know everything, decide for themselves what’s important.”
She shrugged, but she was relieved all the same. “You think so? Well, in that case Her eye was caught by something over his shoulder. “Oh, there’s Alice!” She gave a tentative wave and prepared to move off.
Simon put the message into her hand. “Could you read this to Catherine?”
Emma waved more strenuously to Alice and mimed greetings. “Sure.”
“And the police may want to talk to you. Shall I call you ‘
But she was already hurrying off. Just when he thought she would leave without a word she spun round and, pointing the edge of the folded message at him, sighting along it like the barrel of a gun, called, “Got it now you’re the one into ballerina gear!”
Simon had long since taught himself to arrange his mouth into a smile whenever this subject came up. “Ben’s little joke,” he called back.
But she was already striding off and didn’t hear.
Avoiding Alice’s distant and frosty gaze, Simon turned away to find the pudding-faced nurse leaning over the counter, holding out a phone to him. “A friend of Catherine’s, wanting to speak to someone.”
Simon looked at the wall clock, then his watch; time was running out to see Wilson. He took the receiver hastily with a brusque, “Yes?”
“Yes, hullo there. This is an old family friend of Catherine Galitza.” The soft male voice hesitated slightly over her married name. “I wanted to know how she was.” The accent was muted but unmistakably Irish.
“I’m not at liberty to give out information over the phone.”
“I just wanted to know if she was conscious yet.”
Simon said grudgingly, “She is.”
“Ah.” It was a cry of relief. “And the operation went okay?”
“Operation?”
“Wasn’t it yesterday? To stabilise the spine?”
Whoever the man was, he was astonishingly well-informed. “Who is this?” Simon demanded.
A slight pause. “My name is Terry.”
Simon pictured the flowers and the note, saw Catherine’s reaction.
“Terry who?”
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