She pushed the wheelchair along another corridor and through more swing doors into a glass-walled waiting room.
‘I’ll leave you here for a minute while I check with Sister that they’re ready for you. She’s a tartar. She’ll bite my head off if I just barge in there without warning.’ She picked up a few magazines from the table in the middle of the room and dropped them on to Miranda’s lap. ‘Here you are, these will keep you occupied while I’m gone.’
The only other occupant of the waiting room was a man; out of the corner of her eye Miranda noted that he was expensively dressed; a beautifully cut suit, a crisp white shirt, a dark red silk tie and what she suspected were handmade shoes on his feet. He turned his head to glance at her and Miranda hurriedly looked down, embarrassed at being caught staring; she began to turn the pages of the top magazine, a glossy monthly which she saw was a year old. Odd how reading out-of-date magazines was somehow more riveting than reading the latest editions. She soon became absorbed in an article, which was why she didn’t notice the other magazines sliding slowly floorwards.
By the time she did realise what was happening it was too late. The magazines plummeted, pages fluttering.
The other occupant of the waiting room got up and came to help her.
‘Sorry, stupid of me,’ Miranda mumbled, very flushed. He might think she had dropped them deliberately, to get his attention.
He put the magazines back on her lap, then sat down on a chair right next to her and smiled. He had dazzling white teeth, a golden tan, which looked wonderful with his thick, curly, blond hair and bright blue eyes.
‘Which ward are you in?’
She couldn’t remember the name and made flustered noises, finally saying, ‘I’m visiting my mother in Mary Leeman ward.’
‘What is she in here for?’
‘A head injury, but they say she’ll be OK. Are you visiting someone?’
‘My wife.’ He sighed. ‘She’s pregnant, but has to be very careful. She’s had two miscarriages already. So she’s in here for observation. The same ward as your mother. I’m worried about Pan; she gets so scared, afraid she’s going to lose this baby, too. They would like her to spend the next six months in bed here, but I’ve just started a new job, at a hotel in Greece, I can’t stay on in London, and Pan won’t stay here without me.’
‘There must be good hospitals in Greece, though, where she can be taken care of?’
‘Yes, of course. But Pan wants to be in her own home.’
‘I can sympathise with her. I’m sure I would feel the same. She has an unusual name – Pan. Is it short for something?’
‘Pandora.’ He smiled at her. ‘Her father had a weird sense of humour. He always said, women cause most of the trouble in the world. Greece is still very much a male-orientated country although some women have gained more freedoms over the past twenty years. There’s an old Greek story about how trouble first got into the world. It tells you a lot about the way Greek men think. Trouble is supposed to have been shut up in a box. It was released by a woman, called Pandora.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard that story, but it’s just a myth, isn’t it?’
‘Greek men take it seriously. Even Socrates had a nagging wife, you know.’
‘Did he? Maybe that’s why he was always out of the house talking to young men! Does your wife like her name?’
‘She laughs about it, but she prefers to be called Pan. It’s shorter, and sounds quite modern, although, of course, it was also the name of one of the Greek gods. Pan, the god of nature.’
‘Are you Greek?’ He certainly didn’t sound it, and his colouring made her suspect he wasn’t Greek but he obviously knew a lot about the country.
‘No, I’m English.’ He held out his hand. ‘Charles Leigh.’
Miranda took his hand, saying her name.
‘Miranda,’ he repeated. ‘Now that is a lovely name, and The Tempest is my favourite Shakespearean play. Of course, my wife is Greek, although she speaks English. She spent several years at an English school.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Her father wanted her to speak good English – it helps in their business. He owned the hotel I’m going to run, and a majority of their guests are English. I met my wife when she was over here, on a training course, run by the hotel chain I work for.’
‘But she’s delicate?’
‘No, on the contrary. She plays a lot of sport, is very active. She’s a perfectly healthy girl, she just has a problem staying pregnant.’
Sympathetically, Miranda said, ‘What a pity, it must be very worrying for both of you.’
‘That’s an understatement. It’s a nightmare. I’d be happy to adopt, I hate to watch her going through this, but she wants to have a baby of her own.’ He grimaced. ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I’m burdening you with all this – there’s something about hospitals that gets you talking about things you wouldn’t normally mention!’
Nurse Embry came bustling back. ‘Ward sister says she’s ready for you, now.’ She smiled at the man. ‘Mr Leigh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sister asked me to tell you to come in, too.’
She began to wheel Miranda out into the corridor and Charles Leigh followed them.
‘Well, I hope you find your mother well, Miranda,’ he said, holding open the ward door for them.
‘Thanks, and I hope your wife is fine, too.’
He was a very attractive man, but under that smooth tan she saw pallor and his eyes had a veiled desperation in them. She was sorry for him, and his wife. How did anyone cope with such a situation?
They were in a far worse plight than she was, despite the fear she felt all the time. She couldn’t imagine how you coped with their problem. The grief and apprehension must be overwhelming.
Nurse Embry pushed her over to a bed at the far end, by a high window, in which her mother lay, her head bandaged and her face very pale.
‘Mum.’ Miranda was stricken, staring at her, feeling very guilty. It was all her fault. If she hadn’t sent her mother to stay at the flat it wouldn’t have happened. It should have occurred to her that whoever had tried to kill her might go to her flat and try again.
‘It looks worse than it is,’ Dorothy quickly said, seeing her expression. ‘Now, don’t be taking any notice of these bandages, the nurses were just practising on me, that’s my opinion. I haven’t any serious injuries, just a few grazes and bruises. And a great big lump like an egg! They’ve x-rayed my head but they said there was no brain damage, no internal injuries. They’re only keeping me in for a night in case I turn out to have concussion.’
‘But you’re having headaches, Nurse Embry told me.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s only natural, after being thumped on the head. But a headache won’t kill me.’ Dorothy searched her face anxiously. ‘Miranda, that nice policeman says I should go home when they let me out, not go back to your flat.’
‘Yes, he’s right, I think you should, too.’
Her mother burst out, ‘What is going on here, Miranda? Why did someone burgle your flat? What’s this all about? You haven’t told me the whole story, have you? There’s something behind all this.’
Miranda sighed. ‘Yes. You see, I . . . saw . . . something, somebody was killed, and I was the only witness. And the murderer is trying to kill me, well, the police think so, and it is beginning to look like that.’
‘The hit and run . . . that was deliberate? He wanted to kill you?’ Dorothy looked aghast.
‘Yes, Neil thinks so. Sergeant Maddrell, that is. Some witnesses thought he drove straight at me. Of course, it could all be a mistake, but after you walked in on this burglary I don’t think so. It’s too much of a coincidence.’
Her mother groaned. ‘Miranda, you can’t go back to that flat, either. I must have been attacked in mistake for you – and next time it could be you walking in and being beaten over the head, and that time you could die. You could come to me, but the police think he searched my bag, so n
ow he’ll know my address. It might not be safe for you to come down to Dorset.’
‘It might not be safe for you, either. Maybe you shouldn’t go back there. They might know your address, might come looking for you.’
‘Why should they? I don’t know a thing; it wasn’t me who saw a murder.’ Dorothy paused, staring at her. ‘What exactly did you see?’
Miranda hesitated. ‘It might be better if I don’t tell you. What you don’t know, you can’t be forced to tell them.’
‘Maybe you’re right. But I’m going home anyway. I’ll feel safer in my own home. And I’ll get someone to stay with me.’ Dorothy chewed her little finger thoughtfully, then her face cleared. ‘Freddy. He’s a retired policeman – you know, you met him last time you came. A big chap with a ginger moustache. The funny thing is, the hair on his head is brown, not ginger. Odd that. But I’ll feel safe having him in the house. Tough as shoe leather, he’ll make sure nothing happens to me.’
‘Isn’t he the one who proposed at Christmas?’
‘And a couple of times since! I like him a lot, but I’m still not ready to give up my independence. I’ll ring him before I leave here, make sure he can come. But I’m still worried about you. You can’t stay in London, or at my house. You can’t stay indoors all the time, can you? But if you go out you’ll be vulnerable. He might get hold of a gun next time. If he’s serious about killing you. Do you really think he is?’
Miranda nodded. ‘It is beginning to look like it. I’ll have to think of somewhere to go.’
‘Abroad would be safest, and don’t tell anyone where you’re going! Not even me!’
Miranda let her gaze wander around the ward at the other patients. ‘Abroad, yes – but where, that’s the question?’
On the other side of the ward she noted Charles Leigh sitting beside a bed in which a really beautiful girl lay. A girl with hair like black silk, a smooth, golden skin and slanting dark eyes.
Dorothy saw her looking at them and said quietly, ‘She’s in here for tests. Poor girl, she keeps losing her babies and they’re trying to find out why. I had a long chat while we were both in the x-ray department. She’s foreign, I couldn’t make out whether she had said her name was Pam or . . . well, it sounded like Pan but that’s ridiculous.’
‘No, it really is Pan – short for Pandora. I just met her husband, in the waiting room. He’s English, but she’s Greek.’
‘She’s a lovely girl, seems very cheerful but I could feel how sad she was underneath.’
‘And she’s so beautiful.’
‘Very,’ her mother agreed, but her voice was vague. ‘How about Italy?’
Miranda blinked at her, bewildered. ‘What?’
‘You could go to Italy, get a job there.’
‘I don’t speak Italian.’
‘You don’t speak any languages.’
‘I know a little French.’
‘A very little,’ her mother said drily. ‘I suppose you could go to France, though.’
‘I was thinking of America or Canada – at least they speak English.’
‘Or Australia,’ Dorothy suggested with enthusiasm. ‘You can cook and use a computer – I’m sure you could get a job there.’
‘It’s an idea,’ Miranda agreed. ‘I’ve often thought of having a holiday in Australia and working there would be fun.’
Ten minutes later Nurse Embry arrived to wheel her back to her own ward.
‘I’m sorry to break up your chat, but a consultant is expected soon and visitors cannot litter the wards while he’s here. He’d be outraged. He likes a tidy ward.’
‘He’s one of the older generation,’ Dorothy tartly explained to her daughter. ‘Thinks the world revolves around him, treats patients like dolls, not human beings.’
As she pushed Miranda back to their own ward, Nurse Embry said with a chuckle, ‘Your mother is very funny. I wonder how she gets on with Sister? She is one of the old-fashioned variety, runs her ward as a military operation. These days hospitals are very different, they aren’t as strict and nurses won’t put up with being snapped at and bullied. Nor will patients.’
‘My mother certainly won’t.’
‘I could see that.’
They passed the waiting room where Miranda had sat for a while talking to Charles Leigh. There was someone else in there now. Another man whose profile seemed familiar, unless she was becoming paranoid. Miranda turned to glance at him and felt her heart crash inside her ribs.
‘What’s wrong?’ Nurse Embry asked, bending over her. ‘Hey, you’re hyperventilating. What is it?’
‘Don’t stop,’ Miranda gasped. ‘Go on, take me back to the ward, please.’
Nurse Embry hurried her along the corridor. ‘Can’t you tell me what’s wrong? Are you in pain?’
‘No, just . . .’ Miranda took one quick look backwards as they turned the corner but he wasn’t in sight, he hadn’t followed them. Perhaps he hadn’t seen them.
‘Upset? About your mother?’
‘Yes,’ she lied, because she couldn’t tell the nurse the truth. Had he really been there, in the waiting room? In a black leather jacket and a black shirt with no tie, casually relaxed. Didn’t he ever wear any other colour?
Had she simply imagined seeing him? What would he be doing in the hospital? Who could he be visiting? Whatever the truth, it was another of these unbelievable coincidences which kept happening to her. Her life, her world, had become chaotic with them.
Was he going to come to her ward? Her ears beat with the sound of her own blood. Her blood pressure must be sky high. What would she do if he walked in here? Every time she set eyes on him something terrible happened. When she was a child, her mother had often told her she had a guardian angel looking after her, night and day. She had never told her the Angel of Death was likely to follow her around, haunt her.
Nurse Embry put her back to bed then insisted on taking her pulse, her temperature, her blood pressure, looking concerned as she took that.
‘Your pulse is a bit fast, but it’s your BP that bothers me. It’s far too high. You know, there’s no need to worry about your mother. She’s going to be fine. She’ll be going home tomorrow.’
And I’ll be left alone here, thought Miranda. What if he comes tomorrow, after she has gone? She grasped wildly at a way out.
What if she spoke to Neil Maddrell? Told him she was afraid of having visitors, apart from him, got him to ring the ward and insist that she had no visitors without warning, without the staff asking her if she wanted to see whoever had come.
‘Can I have the phone brought over?’ she asked Nurse Embry who looked uncertain, but finally agreed and went away and came back wheeling the portable phone. Neil had given her his number at the police station.
‘Sergeant Maddrell isn’t here at the moment,’ she was told. ‘He’ll be back later today. Can I take a message?’
She tried to think but her mind was in such a tangle she couldn’t work out what to say.
‘Hello?’ the operator at the police station asked.
Pulling herself together, she hurriedly said, ‘Yes, would you tell him Miranda would like him to ring her at the hospital?’
She hung up. When Nurse Embry came to take the phone away Miranda said, ‘I’m tired, I think I’ll have a sleep. Don’t let any visitors in, will you? Except the police. And if I get a phone call from Sergeant Maddrell will you bring the phone over to me?’
‘Are you OK?’ The nurse hesitated, looking anxious.
‘I’m fine, just sleepy.’ She kept her eyes shut and after a moment heard the phone rattling away. She hadn’t expected to sleep, it had just been an excuse, a way of making sure she had no unwanted visitors. But as she kept her eyes shut and refused to listen to the desultory chat going on in the ward, from one bed to another, she slowly slid into a light doze.
Neil Maddrell rang hours later when she was eating her light supper. It wasn’t disgusting, but on the other hand she would rather have had something else than
this salad with tinned tuna followed by a tinned pear with tinned cream.
‘I saw that man, here in the hospital,’ she broke out in a shaky whisper, afraid somebody might overhear. The other patients always eavesdropped on phone conversations. ‘You know, the man who I told you about, who is a customer of Finnigan’s, the boat builder, the one who I saw just before my accident and afterwards, among the crowd around me. He was sitting in a waiting room. I was being wheeled back to the ward. I don’t think he saw me, but I don’t want him visiting me – can you talk to the ward sister, leave instructions to make sure they don’t let him in?’
The policeman was reassuring. ‘Of course, don’t worry, I’ll make sure they keep him out, but . . . tell me, why do you find him so frightening?’
She couldn’t tell him; it would sound so stupid. ‘I don’t know.’
It was true, in a way. Whenever she tried to think about him her mind became confused, muddled, with different emotions churning inside her. ‘I just don’t want him near me,’ she insisted.
‘I’ll take care of it. Is that all?’
‘Yes.’ She couldn’t tell him that she had felt safe here, in the hospital, but now she didn’t. Would she feel safe anywhere in future?
‘How did you find your mother?’
‘She seems OK. Well enough to go back to Dorset tomorrow, she says.’
‘What are you going to do when you get out of hospital? Have you decided yet?’
‘Well, I can’t go back to my flat, obviously, and I don’t want to put my mother into danger by going to her house, in case they follow me down to Dorset and have another try at . . .’ She didn’t want to finish that sentence or contemplate what ‘they’ might do next. She plunged on huskily. ‘I may go abroad, I’m trying to decide where. My mother suggested Australia.’
‘Rather a long flight, especially for someone who has recently been ill. These long-haul flights are tiring. Also, we may need you to come back at any time. I would rather you stayed in Europe, where you can get back here quickly.’
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