‘I’m sorry,’ Marigold said, wiping her eyes. ‘But this is the first time I’ve ever come across a woman dealing with post-partum depression by tracking down a murderer. You must admit it sounds ludicrous.’
‘I’m damned if I’m going to admit any such thing,’ said Willow, but she laughed, too, and felt much better. ‘Come on, there must be something useful you can tell me. Did Alex make many enemies – apart from Durdle, I mean?’
‘Not really except the rest of the people who’d annoyed him. He always had a neat way of humiliating them. It was the other side of the coin from his skill in making one feel spectacularly wonderful. Seeing people’s fears and weaknesses as easily as he did, he was able to go either way with them.’
‘So which of them do you think it could have been? Durdle hated him but doesn’t seem a likely killer to you, and you must have known him quite well. Could one of the other managers have done it?’
‘Committed murder? I shouldn’t have thought so. After all, it’s not as though Alex was killed by someone hitting out in a blind rage. This was planned – and quite cleverly, too. Besides, didn’t it happen at night? You’d never catch a manager in hospital outside nine-to-five.’
‘Wouldn’t you? Then who? You must have some idea who could have hated him that much.’ Willow heard her voice sounding both petulant and shrill, and she modified it. ‘What about other doctors? They have to take life-and-death decisions all the time. It might be easier for one of them to kill someone who got in his way.’
‘I think that’s naive, if you don’t mind my saying so. I suppose oncologists and geriatric specialists might find it easier than most to help someone to die, but only in the sort of case where the line between pain-relief and poison is so thin it‘s hardly there. It wouldn’t apply to Alex.’
Willow drank some more of her espresso and then, remembering Kimmeridge’s views about the cruelty of forcing very premature or very damaged babies to live, said: ‘Although obstetricians do sometimes take the law into their own hands, don’t they?’
‘I suppose some of them do, but only out of the strictest need to prevent suffering.’ Marigold looked serious and slightly withdrawn. ‘And a great many of them are like Alex and go to any lengths to make sure any viable child is given every possible chance of survival. Who are you suspecting now? Not John Kimmeridge, surely?’
Willow shrugged, for the first time wondering how Kimmeridge squared his views about the cruelty of resuscitating very premature babies with his Roman Catholicism. Unaware of the turn Willow’s thoughts had taken, Marigold leaned forwards a little in her eagerness to say: ‘You’d be mad to suspect Kimmeridge. Under his sarcasm, he’s the gentlest thing in the world. And intelligent, too, if that’s really a contraindication of murder.’
‘Then what about the ambulance crews and their rage over Alex’s allegations?’ Willow knew that she was flailing around, but she wanted to try out all her possible suspects on the woman who must have known Alex Ringstead better than anyone else.
‘What? I don’t know anything about that. What allegations?’
‘Alex is said to have thought some of them were running a burglars’ information service,’ said Willow drily. ‘Apparently he was trying to get them sacked and some of them were resisting and talking about industrial action at least.’
‘That must have been since my time. I don’t know anything about it.’ Marigold looked down at her watch. ‘I’ll be late if I don’t go soon. Look, is there anything specific that you want to ask me? If there is I’ll do my best to answer, but now’s your chance. I’ve quite enjoyed letting off steam, but I’m not going to be amenable to any more questions after this evening. And I don’t want you ringing Chiswick again. Is that clearly understood?’
‘It sounds fair enough,’ said Willow. ‘All right. Do you think that any of your other friends, suitors, supporters, what-have-you, might have misunderstood your choice of revenge for what Alex did to you and killed him out of some kind of misplaced loyalty to you?’
For the first time Marigold looked worried. The blood receded from her cheeks as she shook her head.
‘Certainly not. What a completely stupid idea!’ She even sounded shaken.
Willow was shocked but at the same time extremely interested that her idle suggestion had produced such a strong reaction. Marigold stood up, belted her Burberry firmly around her waist and picked up her large handbag.
‘Thank you for the coffee. I understand why you feel the need to do something useful, but, believe me, this is not it. You’ll only cause trouble and get nowhere. Concentrate on your baby and on controlling your feelings and you’ll use your energies to much better effect. Goodbye.’
Willow stood up and held out her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Marigold shook it briefly. Having liked her, Willow found that she did not want to part without some kindness between them.
‘It’s none of my business,’ she said quietly, ‘but quite frankly I can’t imagine what he saw in Mary-Jane Roguely after knowing a woman like you.’
Marigold bit her lip and turned away. She did not look back as she walked fast between the pale wood tables and their red-seated stools.
Willow was left with her mind buzzing. If there was one thing clear to her it was that she would have to get back to Dowting’s and question the nurses about who might have loved Marigold enough to want to take revenge on her behalf for the way Alex Ringstead had treated her.
When Willow got back to the mews house she was completely distracted from the investigation by the sound of voices coming from the drawing-room. As she dropped her keys on to the pewter plate on the hall table, Mrs Rusham emerged from the drawing-room with an empty tray in her hands. Her face lightened as she saw Willow.
‘Oh, I am glad you’re back. Robert’s here on his way home from school and also Miss Gnatche.’
‘Gnatche?’ said Willow in complete surprise. ‘Emma Gnatche?’
Mrs Rusham nodded.
‘Good heavens. How nice!’
Willow had not seen Emma for nearly three years, not from her own choice but because Emma had withdrawn herself after a short affair with Richard Crescent had gone badly wrong. Willow had missed her guilelessly entertaining company but had not wanted to cause any trouble or make what had obviously been a painful episode any worse. At first she had simply waited for Emma to contact her when she had recovered her usual high spirits. Later Willow had become so taken up with her marriage to Tom and then her pregnancy that she had almost forgotten Emma and their old friendship.
‘I haven’t let them go up to the nursery, although they both wanted to see Lucinda,’ Mrs Rusham was saying. ‘She’s asleep at the moment and I don’t think she should be disturbed.’
‘Very wise. I’ll go in and see them.’
Remembering Emma’s debutante girlishness, Willow was slightly surprised to hear that she and Rob were deep in a lively conversation. Tempted to eavesdrop and find out what they could possibly be talking about so animatedly, Willow made herself behave properly and pushed open the drawing-room door. Both her visitors stopped talking at once and got to their feet. Waving at Rob, Willow went to kiss Emma.
‘What a lovely and unexpected treat! It’s been ages. How are you and what’s been happening to you?’
Emma, who had returned the kiss with warmth, said: ‘I’m absolutely blooming, thanks, in spite of having finals in four weeks’ time. I hope you don’t mind my coming, but when I saw the notice about Lucinda in The Times I just couldn’t stay away. I think it’s the most glorious piece of news I’ve heard in years.’
Willow found herself laughing in delight. She had forgotten Emma’s warmth and instant affection, which had been distorted the last time they met by her guilt over the break-up with Richard Crescent.
‘Finals already?’ said Willow with admiration. ‘Goodness me, it’s been a long time. Have you been enjoying university? I must say that you look terrific on it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Emma, sitting
down again.
Willow noticed that Emma’s familiar velvet hairband and pearls had gone and with them the self-satisfied drawl that she must have picked up from her family. She looked much older than the three years’absence warranted and, to Willow’s eyes, more attractive. Her fair hair had been cut short around her head, showing off the good bones of her face, and she looked much more alive than she ever had in the old days. There was a new maturity about her blue eyes, too, as though she had seen and understood a great deal that had escaped her in the past.
Remembering Rob at last, Willow turned to explain to him how she had come to know Emma.
‘I know,’ he said before she had got very far. ‘She’s been telling me all about it. You met her when the minister of your department was murdered on Clapham Common and you didn’t stop her helping with your enquiries then, even though she was only a year older than I am now.’
‘Was she?’ Willow was astonished when she remembered that Emma had already worked for the minister as a temporary secretary not long before he was murdered. ‘Yes, I suppose she was.’
‘And you let her help again on some of your other cases.’
‘So I did,’ said Willow, remembering how well they had got on in spite of her suppressed jealousy at the easiness of Emma’s life. Willow had been irritated, too, by many of Emma’s inherited assumptions and by her cheerful conviction that she had the freedom of Willow’s flat whenever she wanted it. No one had ever had that in those days. Looking back, Willow was surprised – and retrospectively grateful – that Emma had continued to be so affectionate in the face of several rebuffs.
‘But girls mature much earlier than boys do,’ Emma was saying as she grinned at Rob. He laughed back at her with a cheerfulness that surprised Willow.
‘I can see I’ll have to keep an eye on Lucinda in that case to stop her getting too big for her boots,’ said Rob. ‘How is she, Willow?’
‘Very well, but getting to be a bit noisy at night. She’s got a way to go yet, Rob. Although she’s already noticing and liking your mobile. It was an inspired present.’
Turning to explain the mobile to Emma, Willow felt frustrated. Fond of both of them, she would have enjoyed talking to either, but the mixture was difficult.
As though she understood, Emma said: ‘I’m going to have to go soon, alas. I’ve promised to meet my tutor to explain why my last three essays have been below the standard she thinks I ought to reach.’ She made a face and shuddered. ‘I’d better get on, but I couldn’t resist dropping in to see if you were here. Finding Mrs Rusham was such fun. May I come again? I don’t want to lose you for a second time.’
‘That would be nice. Shall we fix a time?’ They agreed that Emma would return the next day just after lunch. Willow escorted her out into the hall and thanked her for coming, adding: ‘Are you really meeting your tutor?’
‘In fact, yes, but I’d have gone anyway,’ Emma said in a low voice. ‘It was silly of me to come without warning. I hadn’t somehow thought that you might be entertaining a schoolboy.’
Willow laughed. ‘I’ve changed almost as much as you clearly have.’
‘Yes. Ironic really, isn’t it?’
‘Why?’
‘You sent me away to university to turn me into a real person, didn’t you?’
‘Did I really? It was remarkably arrogant if I did. I’m sorry, Emma.’
‘Don’t be.’ Emma touched Willow’s wrist. ‘It’s the best thing that could’ve happened to me. I’ll tell you all about it when I come back. What about you? Are you happy?’
At that impossible question, Willow stood in silence. She saw consternation in Emma’s big eyes and tried to answer.
‘In most ways,’ she said. ‘But I am a bit up and down at the moment. I don’t quite know …’
‘It was a silly thing to ask, particularly when you must still be rather fragile after the birth and all that. I’m sorry.’ Emma swung her scratched leather shoulder bag over her arm. ‘See you tomorrow. ’Bye.’
‘’Bye.’ Willow shut the front door and leaned against it, wishing she had not been faced with that particular question. It seemed almost as threatening as Lucinda’s existence. Then she went back to Rob, who stayed for dinner and tried to pump Tom for more news of the ambulance crews and what they might or might not have done to protect their alleged racket from Mr Ringstead’s interference. Tom parried his questions with jokes and drove him back to his aunt’s house in Stockwell as soon as they had all finished eating.
Chapter Twelve
Trapped in a nightmare, Willow felt as though her life was being sucked out of her. Someone was holding Lucinda out of her reach, dangling her over a deep chasm. Willow was too weak to help, but she knew that if she did not make a proper effort Lucinda would be dropped in the chasm and die. There was danger all around. Willow could not move.
Fighting her way out from under the duvet to rescue her baby, Willow felt only air. She opened her eyes. A stripe of moonlight split the curtains, letting her see the familiar shapes and patterns of her own bedroom. For a moment all she could feel was relief that the horror had been nothing more than a nightmare.
Then she realised that the sheet underneath her was wet. She flung back the duvet and saw blood, a lot of it. When she got out of bed her legs wouldn’t hold her up and, dizzy and faint, she fell heavily on to the floor.
‘What is it?’ said Tom roughly. He sat up, pushing both hands through his hair. Then he saw the bed. ‘Will? Where are you?’
She pulled herself up from the floor, pressing down on the edge of the bed as she tried to kneel upright.
‘I’m sorry, Tom, I …’
‘Don’t waste your energy, Will,’ he said, flinging himself out of bed and stubbing his toe agonisingly against the table. He gasped and then said as calmly as possible: ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get you straight back to Dowting’s.’
‘No ambulance.’ Willow could not waste the strength she needed to explain that she did not want a Dowting’s ambulance-driver to know that their house would be empty.
‘No,’ agreed Tom, who was thinking of other things. ‘At this time of night it’ll only take ten minutes by car.’
He was pulling a pair of jeans and a loose cotton sweater over his pyjamas as he spoke. When he had tied the laces of his trainers in double knots, he lifted Willow gently up from her slumped position by the bed and wrapped her dressing-gown around her shoulders.
‘We’ll have to take Lucinda,’ she said, feeling so ill and frightened that everything seemed too difficult for her. ‘But I don’t think I can walk on my own.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll get you down to the car and then come back for her. Hang on.’
Tom took her downstairs and left her lying on the back seat of the car with all the doors firmly locked, before running back into the house to fetch Lucinda. She screamed as he picked her out of her cot and dumped her unceremoniously in the Moses basket that stood waiting on the changing table. Grabbing a blanket, he tucked it round her and took the basket downstairs as quickly as he could. He ignored the burglar alarm but he did take the time to double-lock the front door behind him. He swung the basket into the back of the Volvo, locked the hatchback, and ran round to the driving-seat.
There was no traffic, and no pedestrians appeared to make him slow down. He averaged sixty miles an hour throughout the short drive across the river to Dowting’s and squealed to a halt in the empty carpark.
‘I’ll have to leave her in the back for a minute or two,’ he said, looking down at Willow’s face, which was as white and tense as his own. ‘But she’ll be safe. I’m sure she will.’
‘Hurry, though.’
Tom got Willow into the hospital foyer, saw a nurse striding along looking down at a clipboard, and shouted at her. Seeing Willow collapsing at his side, the nurse ran towards them. Three short questions elicited enough of the relevant facts for her to send Tom back to the car to fetch Lucinda.
It was only ten minutes before the nurs
e had Willow lying on a trolley with Doctor Kimmeridge examining her and a night nurse she did not know standing by to carry out his instructions.
‘I thought we’d seen the last of you,’ Kimmeridge said cheerfully as he shone a bright light between her legs.
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. This is easily dealt with. It’s a little bit of retained placenta.’
He saw that Willow was looking confused and added kindly: ‘The afterbirth did not separate completely from your womb. The bit that got left behind has now come away, and it’s left a raw patch on the lining of your womb, which is bleeding. It’s not dangerous now you’re here. We’ll deal with it and you’ll soon be comfortable again.’ He turned aside to give some orders to the nurse and then stayed with Willow, talking cheerfully until the nurse returned.
The sharp sting of a needle in her arm made Willow feel better. All the weakness was still there and much of the pain, but there was less fear. She knew that she was in the safest place she could possibly be, and she had no responsibility any longer, not even for Lucinda. Lying back with her muscles slackening, Willow smiled up at Doctor Kimmeridge.
‘Better?’ he said.
‘Much. Is there any sign of my husband?’
‘I’m here,’ Tom said from behind her. He came forwards and touched her arm. ‘That was awful.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. How is Lucinda?’
‘She’s fine. One of the nurses has got her and when they find you a bed they’ll wheel her cot in. She wasn’t even crying when they took her away. Oh, Will.’
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Kimmeridge kindly, ‘and chase up the bed. Don’t worry, either of you. Everything’s going to be fine.’
By nine o’clock the next morning, Willow had still not been given a bed. She was quite happy on her trolley, but Tom was pacing up and down the corridor, looking both ill and angry. He knew perfectly well that neither Kimmeridge nor any of the nurses could help; he also knew that Willow was safe where she was and that Lucinda was in good hands. But he could not bring himself to leave for Scotland Yard until they were together in one of the proper wards.
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