The Celibate Mouse

by Hockley, Diana

  ‘Thirsty,’ he heard his voice croak piteously. Green light. The words popped into his mind. He didn’t realise he’d spoken aloud.

  ‘A green light? Have you remembered something?’ Hardgreaves’ face lit up. ‘We’ll let them know! Someone’ll bring some tea, John, just a sip and then you’ll sleep again.’

  The doctor raced out of the room and spoke urgently to the young police constable who returned to the room. ‘Senior, have you remembered something?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘I don’t know.’ John’s headache throbbed menacingly, but he knew this was important. ‘I think ... it just popped into my head. Green light.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll phone it in.’

  The young constable shot out the door and the nurses came back. Within seconds, John’s head was gently lifted and a plastic spout placed in his mouth. The beaker tilted and warm, sweet tea dribbled onto his parched tongue.

  ‘Thank God someone had some common sense,’ he thought, sucking hard on the spout. Tea poured into his mouth, overflowing onto his chin. ‘No, John, don’t try to drink too fast, mate,’ you’ll drown!’ A cloth dabbed it up and the beaker was withdrawn.

  The notion came into his mind that although he didn’t know anything about himself, a cup of tea was a great comfort. Who was the dark-haired woman? Was she his wife? He knew he was in hospital, but where?

  ***

  Friday: late afternoon.

  John appreciated the attention which they lavished on him and tried to reciprocate, but the one thing they wanted of him, he couldn’t give: answers to the questions they asked. Especially those of the man called Maguire. He answered as best he could, but the Detective Inspector was disappointed. Officialise came out of his own mouth, each carefully worded phrase sounding as though he was addressing court. Where had that come from? ‘Perhaps I really am a copper.’

  The eager light in their eyes showed him how much his memory mattered, but for the life of him, John couldn’t remember the events leading to his accident. They’d told him he’d run off the road on the way to Ipswich to see someone and it had not been an accident.

  ‘Can you remember leaving home?’

  ‘Try to visualise the road, the bends in the road. Just close your eyes and let your mind flow.’

  When it became apparent he was distressed by their persistence, the exhortations changed.

  ‘Relax. It’ll come to you.’ But they couldn’t disguise the anxiety in their eyes. Instinctively, he knew something terrible had happened. He realised he was under guard, or being protected, but didn’t dare ask which.

  A uniformed police officer, a Senior Sergeant, walked into the room. ‘How’re you feeling?’ he asked. John acknowledged he’d been better. ‘You had an accident in your Land Rover, Monday night on the Ipswich Road, at Cord Creek.’

  ‘They told me,’ John muttered irritably.

  ‘You came off the road, and someone hit you with a tyre lever.’ Being protected then.

  Green light. The words flickered into his mind again and then vanished. Tears of frustration pooled in his eyes. Senior Sergeant Harris twitched a handful of tissues out of the box on the side-table and pushed them gently into his senior constable’s hand. John raised the wad and awkwardly wiped his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, I know you want the answers, George, but I can’t think ... this head ...’ George? Where had that come from? He couldn’t remember his own name for more than a few seconds unless someone told him. He shuffled his feet carefully, wincing as his ankle throbbed. Something constricted it. A bandage? Why? Oh, the accident.

  ‘Don’t worry, mate. Just take it easy and get some rest.’

  ‘How much rest do they think I need?’ He muttered ‘thanks’ politely, and waited for–George–to follow up with more questions, but the Senior Sergeant left after assuring him they’d protect him and work it out.

  Work what out? Protect him. Niglets of fear squirled in his gut. What did he have to be afraid of? Or who? Again something stirred deep in his mind, then vanished.

  The dark-haired woman was blessedly absent. She’d hovered over his bed, getting in the way of the nursing staff, until they threatened to send her home. After that, she retired to a corner of the room and glared at everyone. John tried not to meet her pleading eyes.

  He’d finally heard someone call her ‘Nola,’ and refer to her as his wife. His wife? That old woman? He glanced down at his hands. Callused, tough fingers, broad hands, one encumbered by a needle and tube strapped into it. He raised his free arm, examining the corded muscles, tanned and faintly freckled.

  ‘How old am I?’ he wondered. He plucked the neck of the white hospital gown back, tucked his chin down and peered inside. Grey chest hairs?

  ‘Well, black and grey. Perhaps Nola is old enough to be my wife ... or me her husband ... ‘

  He closed his eyes, the better to shut out the world, information overload, un-remembered wives, green lights, coppers ...

  And he slept again.

  CHAPTER 31

  Back To the Drawing Board

  The Killer

  Friday: noon.

  The information filtered slowly into his hysterical mind, that now conscious, John Glenwood would talk. Fear squeezed his chest. Was he having a heart attack?

  He took deep breaths to calm down and respond coherently to the informant, an ex-girlfriend who worked at the hospital. Impatience surged through him as she waffled on about other matters, unaware of being used.

  After speaking with her, he went to the china cabinet, took out an exquisite crystal glass and poured a generous belt of whisky. He switched on the stereo and selected Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto, inserted the CD, pressed the play button and settled himself into an armchair to think.

  Spare time during the day was a rare treat and he planned to make the most of the time. A sick relative necessitated Gloria’s absence for at least 24 hours, an unexpected bonus. ‘But no more smashing things ... you’ve got to get a grip.’ She’s not completely stupid.

  Three things to cope with, Susan Prescott who remained a nuisance, and something which occurred to him minutes ago and caused him to fear he might be losing his focus. Connie said that Edna had kept a diary all her life. ‘I need to get to the cottage before Daniella and Libby clear it out. They’ll be preparing for the wake this afternoon, I’ll slip over there then.’’

  Satisfied, he turned his thoughts to the urgent problem of John Glenwood. Terror wreathed through his mind, constricted his throat and nestled in his stomach. He had to save himself by finding a way to avert disaster. Another attempt on the senior constable would be difficult, but not impossible, even with security doubled. How had the man managed to survive the massive dose of insulin? Someone must have worked out what it was and taken the appropriate action. ‘All that trouble for nothing,’ the killer muttered resentfully, thinking of the effort taken to start the diversion and get into the hospital without being seen.

  He couldn’t go back to the hospital. One glimpse of him might be enough to remind Glenwood of their appointment the night he was run off the road. The tyre lever, scrubbed, bleached, boiled in water and stowed in the safest place of all–the boot of the killer’s car. He remained confident that not a speck of blood or hair remained to be discovered by a forensic team.

  He searched his mind to come up with a new plan, but an hour passed before a sure-fire way of killing the senior constable occurred. How to implement the idea? His plan needed to be put into effect immediately, before Glenwood regained his memory. The first part was simple. Drive to the next suburb after dark, step over a low front fence and cut a small branch off a tree which grew just inside an elderly couple’s yard. They were deaf and had no dog to alert them to an intruder.

  The second part involved a packet which a previous girlfriend left in his office after she’d run screaming with rage during the fight a year ago, which he’d manipulated in order to end their relationship. She wouldn’t come back for the box now, but if she did, it could ea
sily have been discarded. So sorry.

  The third action was the hard one. How to put the plan into operation? The locks on the outside entrances to the hospital would have been changed after the attack on the two police officers. Entering through the boardroom was no longer an option, so how to do it? And the man was being guarded around the clock.

  Think. Keep calm.

  He changed the CD and leaned back in his chair, allowing more glorious music of Mozart to cleanse his mind of all but solving the problem at hand.

  Minutes later he thought of the perfect solution.

  CHAPTER 32

  The Stalker

  Daniella Winslow

  Friday: mid afternoon.

  ‘Daniella! We haven’t got enough chairs. You’ll have to borrow some from the Cultural Centre. No wait, they’ll charge us for them. Get yourself over to Edna’s and count how many she has in the shed. You can call the carrying company to pick them up.’

  By tomorrow? Daniella sighed. Ferna was doing what she did best–bullying. All the lounge room furniture was moved onto the back verandah. ‘We don’t want anyone sitting down, they must circulate!’ she’d announced. Then she changed her mind and they had to move some pieces back in. ‘Her Majesty has realised there’s no throne for her to sit on,’ someone hissed, as they struggled with a particularly massive armchair.

  Her formerly willing helpers, members of the regional Country Women’s Association, were wilting and looking for places to hide. Not easy with Ferna patrolling the house and grounds for shirkers. In one aspect Ferna and the CWA ladies were united: the Australian flag should be draped over Edna’s casket. Arthur announced they were talking a lot of rot and suggested they use the white lace bedspread from one of the guest suites. This was greeted with such scorn that he retired to consider his position.

  Daniella sighed again. ‘Best to get this over with,’ she muttered. On the way to her car, she caught sight of Genevieve peering out of an upstairs window. Even from below, Daniella could see the cat’s mouth opening and closing with piteous yowls. ‘I know just how you feel, old girl,’ she muttered, hoping she wouldn’t be around for the drama when Arthur discovered his cat relegated to the attic.

  Edna Robinson’s cottage already wore the abandoned air of an unloved home. Libby pronounced the building unfit for human habitation–the colours were all wrong–and refused to move in until it was completely refurbished. If it wasn’t, she’d sell. However, on being advised that her inheritance was conditional on her keeping the property, she’d begun a tantrum, which was abandoned when, out of the corner of her eye, she’d spotted a doubtful look in the eye of her fiancé. Daniella reckoned Libby ought to be damned lucky she’d been given the place, because the little cow never saved a cent.

  The shed where the chairs were stored stood a short distance from the house. Daniella put her shoulder to the door. It creaked open and stuff stacked against it fell over, sending dust motes dancing in the golden glow of the afternoon sun. A large quantity of harness, caked with dust and stiff from disuse, dangled from hooks on the walls, alongside some implements of agriculture–hoes, rakes, mattocks and a rather vicious-looking axe.

  A mouse streaked down a pair of blackened hames and dived into the straw, which poked out of an ancient draughthorse collar. She shuddered, making a mental note to ring the historical museum committee and invite them to come and take what they thought they might be able to restore.

  An old spring cart stood in one corner, shafts tied up to keep level the load of pumpkins, harvested for winter stock food. Daniella thought she would ask Penelope Harlow if she wanted the vegetables for her cattle and sheep. Not for the first time, Daniella felt that being the executor of Edna’s Estate had knobs on it. There seemed to be a thousand-and-one things to do, but she cheered up considerably when she remembered the provision of a $5000 fee for the Executor.

  She advanced into the building, holding a handkerchief over the lower half of her face to prevent the dust penetrating her nostrils. An ancient Austin car was crammed beside the spring cart. Curious, she went close and peered inside. A huge carpet snake slept coiled on the tattered back seat. Panting with fright, she stumbled away from the vehicle, pressing a hand to her pounding heart. She knew the snake wouldn’t hurt her, but she cast nervous glances over her shoulder as she scuttled across the shed to where the light aluminium chairs were stacked.

  It was getting late. Sighing with frustration, she took out her mobile and rang the local carriers to ask them to collect and transport the chairs to Arthur’s stronghold. The Estate would pay. After a short but triumphant scuffle with the manager, he agreed the truck would arrive shortly. She didn’t want to know his definition of ‘shortly,’ but when she advised him the chairs were for Edna’s wake, he assured her the truck was practically on its way. Scared of Ferna, I expect, she thought, with vicious pleasure.

  She was about to leave, when she noticed something square, covered by a tarpaulin. She edged nearer, hoping the carpet python’s partner hadn’t chosen to roost under the cover, took a deep breath and pulled up the corner. Neatly stacked underneath were four ammunition boxes. Daniella couldn’t remember seeing them before, but their squat military appearance, with connotations of war and death, made her uncomfortable.

  She unclipped the catch on the top one and slowly lifted the lid. Her heart sank. Exercise books crammed the box. About to close it, curiosity overcame her indifference. She picked one off the top and opened it.

  The writing had the appearance of the forerunner of the beautiful Gothic script which Edna had used as long as Daniella knew her. The margins were decorated with painted flowers.

  16 March 1939

  Today Mummy took us to town to get ribbons for our school hats. I was bored and tried to sneak away to buy sweeties, but Grace told on me, so I missed out and have to make do with the old ribbons. I’ll get her for that!

  She snapped the book shut and threw it back into the top of the box, muttering, ‘Oh stuff, I don’t want to read the meanderings of a child.’

  What on earth would she do with them? She couldn’t bring herself to trawl through the pile, but deep down, understood this was because she feared answers to the questions she dared not ask. Flashes of brilliance were not part of Daniella’s mental makeup, but an idea seeped through. Briony Feldman! She could wade through them and then get rid of them. Daniella didn’t have a clue what Edna had written and didn’t care.

  She closed the shed door and marched briskly to her car, leaned on the side and punched Briony Feldman’s phone number into her mobile. ‘Ms Feldman? It’s Daniella Winslow here. How are you?’ Convention completed to the satisfaction of both parties, Daniella launched into the reason for the call. ‘So you see, Ms Feldman, you might find a lot of information for Arthur’s biography in the diaries,’ she finished, pleased with herself. The carrier’s could take the ammunition boxes when they collected the chairs.

  Having neatly disposed of the problem, she had nothing to do but wait for the carrier’s truck. Daniella glanced impatiently at her watch and settled herself into the one remaining chair on the verandah of the cottage. She would have been astonished if she’d realised an excited Briony Feldman could hardly wait to show the diaries to Susan Prescott.

  Daniella had been shocked by the murders for she was fond of Edna. She hadn’t associated with Jack since the early 1980s when, looking for Dutch courage to overcome the paralysing shyness with which she was afflicted, she’d drunk too much. This was why, in spite of the earlier episode with him at the family wedding, at fifteen, he’d managed to lure her into a horse float in the far corner of the racecourse during the local Cup. Fortunately, what happened then was almost clouded in alcohol.

  Pain, embarrassment and Jack’s threats dictated she could never tell. Twenty-one years later, his words occasionally echoed in her mind like poisoned knives. ‘If you ever tell anyone what happened, Danni, I’ll make sure your parents know you weren’t a virgin. That you were tonguing for it.’
>
  ‘That’s not true!’ she’d screamed.

  ‘But who are they going to believe? I only need to whisper in a few ears about how ‘talented’ you are in certain areas, and bingo! Everyone will believe it then, not just your parents!’

  When Jack married Penelope, Daniella tried to warn the girl she’d be taking on a lifetime of infidelity and betrayal, but Penelope either didn’t understand or chose not to. When the vicar asked if there was any reason why the wedding shouldn’t take place, Daniella pressed her bottom down on her hands so hard they stayed numb for the rest of the service.

  Over the years, she’d been tempted to tell many times, but having carved a sophisticated, respected reputation for herself as a leading member of the community, she couldn’t bring herself to face the resultant scandal. Daniella knew that, in spite of Jack’s acknowledged recreational pursuits, she would be lumped in with his “women” and disgrace would automatically follow. Eventually she had managed to bury the incident. Even her late husband hadn’t known. Tears came to her eyes, as his dear face swum out of her memory, for they loved each other right to the day his car blew a tyre and rolled on the way to town on the sharp turn at the Cord, many years previously.

  ‘And now John Glenwood’s come off the road at the same place,’ she thought, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. ‘But one thing’s for sure, I’d pin a medal on the person who shot that reptile, Jack.’ But Edna was a different ‘kettle of fish.’ If she knew who killed Edna ... Daniella’s fists clenched at her sides. She had to face it; someone she knew was a murderer.

  She stretched her legs out, admiring her new Gucci boots, regrettably dusty. At least she’d thought to wear thick, dark cord slacks, but wished she’d brought a cardigan. There was no sign of the carrier’s truck. Come on, hurry up, I’m cold and it’s getting late.

  So far, the family, apart from Euon Jellicott, the presiding solicitor, had taken no interest in the contents of the cottage, which Edna’s will stipulated were to go to anyone who wanted them. Ferna was heard to snort something about ‘stinking animals.’ Daniella arranged for a neighbour to keep an eye on the animals, which she would need to deal with once the funeral was over. She sighed again. Perhaps Penelope might help out with that too. At least Fat Albert scored a good home.