by Carol Smith
Across the road the bell was already announcing Evensong. Beth glanced at Imogen—surely not that late already—and then at Gus and mumbled something about supper. Duncan said he had evening surgery and must be on his way. He offered Sally a lift, then mouthed a kiss at Beth and promised to catch up with her later.
Beth wanted to help clear up.
“Don’t be absurd,” said Vivienne. “After all you’ve done already, are you crazy?”
She was as thrilled as Georgy with the room’s new look, every trace of her unfulfilled dream obliterated by a sparkling new beginning.
“Don’t forget your basket,” she called but Beth told her to hang on to it.
“There’s heaps left,” she said, “which I certainly don’t need. Give it to the creative one, the poor little starving artist who never gets time to eat.”
Beth and Imogen finally departed, leaving just Vivienne and Georgy to clear up, but they didn’t care. As they washed paint rollers and swept floors in the haze of early-evening sun, they laughed and chatted and reveled in their new adventure. Everyone had worked so hard and Georgy was aching all over but when they had finally finished and she said good-bye, she still felt quite wonderful, on a high of anticipation about the future.
She grabbed a cab and threw herself into it, picnic basket in hand. It was a little after ten and she reckoned she’d earned an early night.
• • •
The house was dark but she could see by the streetlamp where to stick her key. She had grown fairly lax about using all those locks and figured, in a city as safe as this, one was sufficient. That was how much she was acclimatizing; imagine even contemplating that in New York! Her single concession to security was to leave a light burning when she was likely to be back late, but this morning she had set off early so a light would have been self-defeating. Besides, the house was adequately protected and there was nothing worth stealing, apart from her cameras, which she normally lugged around with her anyway.
She reached for the switch but nothing happened. Which meant the bulb must have gone and, right now, she couldn’t recall where the Hunters kept their spares. So she fumbled her way like a blind person along the hall to the top of the basement stairs and tried that switch instead. Nothing. The house remained in darkness. A fuse must have blown, which was a nuisance but not the end of the world. And at least the kitchen had gas.
Still clutching her basket, she felt her way carefully down the stairs, glad now of the slightly twee guiding rope which at least stopped her breaking her neck in the impenetrable darkness. She didn’t even bother with the bottom switch; just shoved open the kitchen door and went in. Dim light from the garden restored her bearings and she was just feeling for the kitchen switch when there was a sudden whoosh of movement from behind and something hit her very hard in the middle of her back, knocking her to the floor.
Georgy lay there, stunned, as two more blows caught her in fast succession, in the kidneys and again in the back. Ah, come on, she thought wearily, at this time of night this is more than a joke. It was only when she tasted blood that she knew she had been stabbed.
And passed out.
Part
Five
Chapter Forty-one
Emmanuel Kirsch was even more handsome than his photos admitted. He rose and offered Beth his hand as she was shown into Georgy’s room. He was immaculately groomed and smelled of lemon aftershave but his eyes were bloodshot from fatigue and distress, and her heart went out to him. Absentee father he might be but this he did not deserve. She liked him immediately; he was her kind of man. Strong but humane, driven but centered. No wonder poor Georgy was so fucked up. With this man as her role model, what chance had she ever had?
Poor Georgy indeed. Her bony figure lay supine under the sheet, as flat and defeated as a corpse. We have been here before, thought Beth, only last time it was only her appendix. Back in St. Anthony’s, this time in a private room, not six months since they had all first met, yet nothing appeared to have changed. The corridors still reeked of a subtle mix of cabbage and medication, the lifts were slow and unreliable, and Beth found herself greeting several of the nurses as she headed for the third floor.
Emmanuel pulled out a chair for Beth, then resumed his own at the bedside. He wanted to hold the thin little hand but an intravenous drip prevented that, so he had to make do with just stroking her forehead. Georgy’s pulse was barely visible but a heart monitor attached to her chest with suction pads recorded a beat that was shallow but steady. She was holding her own, but only just. It was a miracle, they said, that she had survived at all.
Beth had brought flowers, blue irises mixed with white stephanotis, which she laid now on the vacant chair with a feeling of hopelessness. What was the point if the patient was barely conscious? The spirit of cheerful optimism that had pervaded Florence Ward in what now seemed like the good old days was missing entirely from this bleak, cell-like room. How precious life is and how quickly we forget, thought Beth.
Sixteen times he had stabbed her. How could anyone suffer an attack like that and still survive? Particularly someone as slight and undernourished as Georgy. And what sort of an animal carried that much hate in his heart?
“Do they know what happened?” asked Beth in a low voice, since Emmanuel didn’t appear inclined to speak.
He grunted.
“It’s not clear. Seems she came home late, let herself in in the usual way, and someone jumped her at the foot of the stairs as she walked into the kitchen. Got her from behind, the coward, so she won’t be able to identify him even if she does come around . . .” His voice faltered and broke and he blew his nose hard.
“Besides, it was dark. The light bulbs had all been removed.”
“How very odd.”
Beth longed to be able to touch him but resisted. They were strangers and she dared not intrude on his terrible suffering. With a visible effort he pulled himself together and went back to gently stroking his daughter’s delicate head.
“How did he get in? Do they know?”
That house was pretty secure, as she recalled, with its spyhole and row of Banham locks. She also knew there were burglar locks on all the windows as well as an alarm. She had always kidded Georgy about the paranoia of New Yorkers. How wrong could you get?
We don’t get crime like that in London, she remembered teasing Georgy. Certainly not in a respectable yuppie area like Fulham. What’s wrong with your friends that they’re so nervous? Even where I live you can leave your windows open at night, and we’re just around the corner from Little Africa.
How futile it all was, how depressing. Beth felt like weeping but took a firm grip on herself. No point in adding to the general gloom; Emmanuel Kirsch needed all the support he could get, and, besides, she was not the sort to buckle in a crisis. And she had meant what she said, more or less. In all the years she had lived in London, she had always felt totally safe and relaxed about walking the streets at any time of the day or night. Beth was very much a city animal. Perversely, it was the countryside that made her nervous. She even allowed Imogen to walk home alone at certain times, provided she was careful and didn’t take any foolish risks.
Paranoia breeds aggression, she had told her. If you look a barking dog straight in the eye and show you are not afraid, it won’t bite you. Street-smart, that was what Imogen was learning to be, but what was the use of all that wisdom when you found yourself confronted by a maniac with a knife? Or, as in Georgy’s case, not even confronted: the monster had caught her unawares from behind. What sort of a coward could behave like that?
“There’s no sign of a forced entry,” said Emmanuel. “Whoever it was apparently had a key. I’ve not been over there yet but the police seem to be doing their job. There was no damage, nothing appears to have been stolen, and the only abnormality was the removal of the bulbs.”
“Then it was premeditated.”
“So it would appear.”
Now who would want to harm poor old Georgy? True
, with her uncertain temper and mercurial mood swings, she was not always the easiest of companions, but that surely was no reason to want to kill her. The fact that she was virtually a stranger in this town reduced considerably the list of likely suspects. Presumably the police were investigating every lead, but goodness knows where they would even start.
“Maybe it was a case of mistaken identity,” said Beth. “Someone, perhaps, with a grudge against Josh Hunter? He’s constantly on the move, traveling the world in the course of his work. Who knows what he gets up to, we’ve not even met him. Or maybe it was just a lunatic on the loose who picked on Georgy at random.”
There was nothing she could say that made any real sense; she just couldn’t bear to look into this man’s face and see his suffering. They both fell silent and watched Georgy breathe while Beth racked her brains for anything at all that might help. As it was, she was only here on sufferance. The police had called and requested her presence. Outside in the corridor sat a uniformed officer. Pretty soon they would doubtless be asking her questions. If only she could come up with anything at all that might help.
It was almost by accident that Georgy had survived at all. Her attacker had left in a hurry and mistakenly activated the burglar alarm which had, eventually, alerted an irritated neighbor. They had found Georgy in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor. Had it not been for that one error, she would most certainly have bled to death. As it was, they got her to hospital just in time for a massive transfusion, and even now it was touch and go that she would ever regain consciousness.
“So he planned it meticulously, then boobed at the last minute.”
It was ghastly, quite beyond belief; something out of the newspapers, not real, everyday life. Beth found herself growing quite faint with shock and put her head in her hands to assuage the blood thumping at her temples. A strong, warm hand took hold of her arm, and when he spoke, the deep voice had softened.
“Go lie down,” he said. “I’m sure they can find you a bed somewhere in a place like this. You’ve had a terrible shock and it’s bound to catch up with you. You’ve been a good friend, I know that. I won’t forget it.”
Beth took great gulps of air, then slowly raised her head. Her face was streaming, her neck and hands felt clammy, and there was an urgent ache in the pit of her stomach.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m fine. Don’t go bothering about me when you’ve got Georgy lying here in this state.”
Then: “How did they know to call me?” So many questions.
“Easy,” said Emmanuel. “There’s a pad beside the phone with just a few personal numbers on it. Yours was one. The police are very thorough.”
The next visitor through the door was Gus, pale and unshaven and looking distinctly under the weather. Beth gave a great sigh of relief and launched herself into the safety of his arms. There were occasions when husbands had their uses, even discarded ones. She introduced him to Emmanuel and the two men shook hands gravely. Then, seeing the strain and fatigue on Beth’s face, Gus suggested she go home and lie down.
“I’ll just check with the policeman outside,” he said. “But I can’t see why he should mind. You’re not exactly on the wanted list, I would think, and they know how to find you if they need you. Run along home to the infant and I’ll take over here. I promise I’ll call you if there’s any change.”
Beth glanced at Emmanuel for approval and he nodded and patted her shoulder.
“Go. There’s nothing you can do. It was good of you to come.”
But she didn’t go home, she drove straight to the surgery, and when he saw the look on her face, Duncan made his excuses and closed up shop. He led her into the seclusion of the X-ray room and took her in his arms.
“What’s up? You look terrible.”
“Thanks a bunch.”
Leaning her head against his chest and inhaling the comforting nursery smells of starched linen and good clean soap, she told him the grim news. Here with Duncan, she began to feel human again. Outside she could hear an insistent phone but he let it ring. Vanessa had knocked off early, as she did so often, but no matter how serious Duncan was about his work, it seemed Beth took priority. She was grateful. She had known him hardly any time at all but now she never wanted to leave the shelter of his arms. Morning surgery was over at one so he took her around the corner to the pub.
“Who could possibly do a thing like that?” she asked him over a beer. “And why? Georgy can be a pain at times but she’s basically harmless. Besides, you don’t try to kill someone just because they irritate you.”
“Unless you’re a raving lunatic.”
She started to cry, helplessly, ashamed at her own vulnerability. Duncan put an arm around her and waited till she had control of herself again.
“The Catherine thing was quite bad enough, but this is immeasurably worse. What’s going on, what’s happening to all our friends? We seem to have strayed into some sort of ghastly B movie. I can’t bear it.”
The blue of Duncan’s eyes matched his denim shirt—but this was not the time to be thinking frivolous thoughts.
“We were all together on Sunday,” he said thoughtfully. “Then we all left separately except for Georgy. And that was the night it happened. Perhaps someone followed her home.”
“I’ll talk to Viv,” said Beth. “See what time she left and how she traveled. Anything like that might help, though no doubt the police have already thought of it.
“I think I’ll drop over and see her,” she said on reflection. “Just in case she hasn’t heard.”
Normally nothing in the world could prevail upon Beth to visit Oliver’s house unannounced but this was different; this was an emergency. And, knowing how strongly Vivienne had taken to Georgy, it was likely to be extra dreadful news for her.
Vivienne did know and had taken to her room in shock. Dorabella let Beth in and showed her upstairs to the drawing room where, after a brief wait, Vivienne joined her, ghostly pale, wearing only a plain toweling wrap.
“I still can’t take it in,” she said, pouring them each a hefty drink. “It’s too terrible for words. Who could have done it?”
“And why?” said Beth.
“A burglar, no doubt. High on drugs and desperate enough to try anything for a fix.”
“Maybe. But I’m positive the police will sort it out,” said Beth. “Try not to worry. Georgy will recover, you’ll see. She’s a tough little thing and fit as a flea. Look at all that heavy equipment she lugs around and the hours she spends, outside in all weathers, just doing her job.”
But Vivienne would not be comforted. What was it about her life these days that everything she touched seemed headed for disaster? She went back upstairs to cry, aware she was wallowing in self-pity but for once unable to stop herself. And, come to that, where was Oliver just when she needed him most?
• • •
The close was blocked by a couple of squad cars so Beth had to park outside a neighbor’s house. As she pushed aside the wicket gate, she saw that her front door was open, and Imogen came crying from the house and flung herself into her mother’s arms.
“What on earth’s going on?” asked Beth, soothing Imogen and looking up at two solemn policemen standing in her doorway.
“Mrs. Hardy?” asked one of them, proffering his ID. “I’m afraid we are going to have to ask you to accompany us to the station.”
“Mum, Mum,” shrieked Imogen in panic. “They’re arresting you!”
“Nonsense,” said Beth, smiling conspiratorially at the officers, who did not react. “You’ve been watching too much TV. I’ll just ring Jane and have her pick you up, then we’ll be off. Though it would be a great deal easier if we could do it here,” she added. “There’s not a lot I can tell you, I’m afraid.”
The more senior of the policemen led her into the house, out of earshot of her sobbing daughter. In the kitchen another two men were hard at work, going minutely through her things with rubber-gloved fingers and dusting some of her
kitchen equipment with what looked suspiciously like fingerprint powder.
“Now hang on a moment . . .” For the first time, Beth was alarmed.
“I’m afraid, Mrs. Hardy, that we’re going to have to take you in.” It did sound like a corny line from a police soap but he wasn’t joking.
“You see,” he said, licking his pencil just like they did on the telly, and opening up his notebook, “the knife that was used to attack Miss Kirsch came from this kitchen.”
“What?”
Beth’s eyes flew to the knife block on the dresser but now its contents were spread across the table, neatly in order of size. And indeed, her largest Sabatier steel, the one she used for jointing poultry, was missing.
“When did you last see it?” asked the policeman.
“Don’t know,” said Beth, suddenly speechless. “Oh, sometime last week, I suppose, when I had them all out to give them a good sharpening.”
Chapter Forty-two
All hell broke loose when they heard the news, and Beth’s entire cavalry came riding to her rescue. That’s the great thing about friends, she thought with quiet satisfaction, when she saw them all standing there. They do come through when a girl’s in trouble. Gus, as was fitting for an ex-husband, escorted her from the clink. Duncan, the newest contender, stepped forward and took her in his arms in a display of solidarity, and even Richard Brooke and his cronies were there, standing grinning beside his ancient Jaguar, thoroughly enjoying the lunacy of the moment while also keeping a wary eye out for Beth.