Top Of The Shop
Page 7
something was not right and Martin had suffered a setback, Hadley thought.
She returned and, very obviously on edge, sat down where she had been earlier. “Someone will collect you in just a moment,” she said; almost instantly a well dressed young man appeared, running, in a corridor. “Mr Hadley?” he asked, skidding to a halt. Receiving a nod he asked Hadley to follow him.
Hadley was led to a private office where, just a minute later, he was joined by a man of his own, near-retirement, age. “I'm sorry to keep you waiting,” the newcomer said, “my name is David Cartwright and I am the hospital's senior administrator, in effect the managing director. I have to tell you that when the nursing staff checked on Mr Harrison at eight o'clock this morning, to administer the first of his daily drugs, he was not in his room. The hospital was immediately searched but he was not found in the building. The grounds were searched too, but Mr Harrison had, it became clear to us, left the premises. We did discover that some clothes were missing as well. The police were called in as soon as we realised what had happened and they mounted an immediate search of the area. I am afraid that it is my painful duty to tell you that Mr Harrison was found several miles away: he had simply walked into a lake and either drowned or died of exposure. A post mortem examination will determine the exact physical cause, but his mind was still in such disarray that it's impossible to be sure what he believed he was doing.” He paused, briefly, looking at the floor. “We think, though, he fully intended to take his own life.”
There was nothing Hadley could say. Cartwright stood and laid a hand on Hadley's shoulder, saying only, “I'm so very sorry” as he left Hadley alone in that little room.
Driving home, slowly, later that evening Hadley's mind drifted to images of Martin when he had happy and apparently carefree, to Agnetta seeming to adore her husband, to the house, the cars.
Now Agnetta was, well, who knew where? And Martin was cold on a slab in a dark mortuary.
Arriving at his town house Hadley parked on the opposite side of the street still with an image of Martin's body lying, wet and weed-covered, on a mortuary table. He got out of his car, took a step towards his house then turned and pressed the button on his key fob to lock his car. He neither saw nor heard the Volvo that hit him, bounced over his body and left him dead in the street.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Les Broad is originally from the deep south eastern corner of England but insists that at least a quarter of him - the left arm, perhaps including the shoulder - is by historical accident Welsh. He says that his affection for the written word has its roots in a schooldays French lesson one wet winter Wednesday: that lesson included an introduction to the writing of Albert Camus and it has been but a short step, accomplished in a mere four decades, from that point to becoming a writer himself.
His first love might be science fiction, albeit the sub-class of the genre that he calls 'believable sci-fi', but he has on occasion wandered into other areas: some have been generous enough to say they enjoyed these forays.
The point has been reached in his life where, whenever he is passed by a big, slow-moving, black, estate car, he asserts that he actually feels quite jealous of whoever is lying down in the back. If, therefore, he is to attain his ambition of being an answer to a crossword clue in one of the better Sunday newspapers he really needs you and all your friends to buy copies of his books! That is, the other ones, the ones you have to pay for.
Until the point arrives where he actually gets his ride in that big black car he expects to carry on living in North Wales, where his life is dominated by a wife and lamenting the loss of his border collie bitch.