‘Bastard,’ Ilie said, but not until he was well out of earshot. It was one word he didn’t have to look up, Fraser reflected.
He was looking something up now, though. He pointed at himself and said, ‘Mech-anic.’ Then at Petru. ‘Boulder.’
Fraser was wondering dimly whether this was a reference to Petru’s bravery or to Peter the rock of the Church when Ilie mimed bricklaying.
‘Ah, a builder.’
‘Da! Yes. Bil-der.’ He pointed at Fraser interrogatively. ‘You?’
Fraser took the dictionary from him and looked up doctor, for which the Romanian word was – doctor.
‘Doctor,’ he said. ‘Medic.’
The two Romanians looked at each other. Petru said something which Ilie answered in a sharp burst of Romanian. Petru shrugged again – it seemed to be his favourite gesture.
Fraser started making up his bed on the top bunk to cover the moment. The blankets were grey and rather coarse and the sheets looked like linen, although it was more likely to be rough cotton, he reflected. He hadn’t made up an old-fashioned bed since he’d left home, and now it was especially awkward because he had to reach up and over to do it. He’d just about finished when a fist pounded on the door and a mocking voice intoned, ‘Dinner is served, gentlemen.’
The two Romanians obviously knew what this meant. They stubbed their cigarettes, got up and stuffed their baccy pouches into their jeans. Fraser wasn’t hungry, but decided he might as well go with them.
In the corridor, it seemed as though the whole wing was on the move as prisoners streamed out of their cells, some in jeans, some in prison garb. Fraser went with the crowd, keeping close to Ilie and Petru. At the moment, they were the nearest thing he had to friends… discounting Jones, that is, he thought wryly.
They turned into a large dining area and joined a queue. Fraser looked round. He’d subconsciously expected long, school-type benches, but instead there were ranks of tables and chairs for four. Ahead was an army-style canteen where men in chefs’ hats served food across a stainless steel counter.
The queue shuffled slowly forward. Ilie and Petru picked up trays and plastic cutlery. On offer were fried fish, stew with dumplings, vegetable curry and rice, chips, baked potatoes and cabbage. The Romanians had stew and chips. Fraser took stew, potatoes and cabbage.
All the tables near the windows were taken. They sat at one near the middle of the room.
The stew was surprisingly good and Fraser had just realised how hungry he was when his shoulder was nudged, sharply. He looked round to see two big, swarthy men, one of whom indicated with a gesture of his head that he should move to another table. He hesitated, anger fighting with prudence…
‘No,’ Ilie said softly.
The other spoke quickly in Romanian. Petru answered, his voice hard. The other made a mouth and moved on.
Petru winked at Fraser, then pointed to his plate and said, ‘Good.’
Fraser nodded and smiled as the thought struck him that this was probably was better than anything they’d had in Romania.
When they’d finished, they took their trays to a stacking point, then Fraser followed them to a common room. It was thick with smoke and men crowded round a TV in one corner. A clock on the wall said it was nearly seven. Fraser touched Ilie’s arm and mimed a phone.
‘Ah, telefon…’ He pointed to the door and indicated right.
‘Thanks.’ He nodded to both of them, raised a hand and went out.
A warder gave him more directions and he followed the corridor round to find a queue of about twenty people waiting for two phones.
Nothing for it, so he joined them.
He thought about his cell mates, their rapid talk in the cell when they realised he was a doctor, the way they’d moved their compatriots on in the canteen… Maybe they thought he was worth cultivating, might be useful to them in some way… He glanced down at the phonecard in his hand. It was for thirty units, that would never last a week, surely—
‘Get a fucken move on,’ a voice called. ‘Yeah, you!’
A rodent-like man in prison garb said a few hurried words into the phone and hung up. The queue moved forward and Fraser reflected that maybe it might last the week after all…
A quarter of an hour later, it was his turn. With shaking fingers, he pushed in the card and keyed in the numbers. Heard it ringing… There was no privacy, not even the spurious comfort of a perspex shell, but at least the gum-chewing man behind him hung back a little.
‘Frances…?’ It was her voice. ‘How are you, hen? How’re you feeling?’
‘I’m all right, darling – what about you? Is it awful?’
‘I’ll survive, I feel better already just for hearing you…’ He told her about Ilie and Petru and she told him about Tom’s visit.
‘At least he’s doing something, Fraser.’
‘Time’s up, mate,’ came a voice from behind him.
‘Gotta go, love,’ he said. ‘Same time tomorrow, love you.’
‘Love you too, Fraser…’
He walked away as the gum-chewing man took his place; her voice was still in his ears and he wanted to sink down somewhere with his face in his hands, but that was one thing you couldn’t do here…
Keep moving, to loiter is to be conspicuous.
He clenched his teeth on his misery and kept moving.
A sign for a bog – might be worth trying to go now, avoid having to use that thing in the cell.
As he turned into it, the smells of ammonia, shit and disinfectant greeted his nostrils and—
Another feckin’ queue…
He joined it. Shuffled slowly forward. A warder stood watching. He went into a cubicle and shut the door – half-door, rather. It shielded the top of the pan and his midriff from view, but not his feet or head.
He dropped his trousers and sat down. The seat was warm. A con shuffled past, not looking at him, but the invasion of this most basic of privacies made his guts seize up. He gave it a minute, then gave up.
‘You’ll get used to it, mate,’ the screw said as he went past him over to the basin.
In the corridor, the screws were shouting for lock-up. Back in the cell, Petru lay on his bed, smoking and listening to a radio. Ilie looked up from his dictionary.
‘Chest?’ he said.
‘Chest?’ repeated Fraser, wondering for a moment if it could be an enquiry as to whether the smoke was bothering him.
Ilie pointed at the word in the dictionary – chess – then pointed at Fraser, ‘You?’
‘All right, Ilie,’ he said with a smile. ‘Why not?’
Ilie brought out a board and set the pieces with incredible speed, then gave Fraser white and indicated for him to start. Fraser absent-mindedly pushed a pawn forward two squares, his mind still full of Frances. About five minutes later, he realised he’d been mated.
‘Bluidy hell!’
They started again and this time he tried to concentrate more and succeeded in delaying defeat for a quarter of an hour. Ilie’s technique was simple: Blitzkrieg. He moved all his major pieces out immediately and commenced slaughter.
‘Another,’ Fraser said grimly.
This time, he thought out his strategy and the game lasted nearly an hour, although Ilie beat him in the end. They shook hands, grinning.
Lights out was at ten. Fraser self-consciously squirmed into his pyjamas, anxious for a moment lest his earlier optimism might be misplaced, but the Romanians ignored him. They slept naked, he noticed.
He thought he’d have difficulty sleeping and he was right. He lay between the rough sheets thinking about Frances, about Jones and the questions he might be asking. He thought about Leo, about how much he’d like half an hour alone with him to put a few questions of his own…
Petru began snoring. Ilie hadn’t been kidding, it was like the foghorn he’d once heard off the Mull of Kintyre.
After a while, he got out of bed and, in the dim light of the security lamp, found some loo paper to chew up and u
se as ear plugs. He was just wondering whether or not to give Petru a shake when Ilie woke up, reached over and gave him a shove that knocked him a foot sideways. It didn’t wake him, but the snoring stopped.
It started again a few minutes later, but the ear plugs muffled the sound enough for Fraser to drift into a state of semi-consciousness that eventually led to oblivion.
*
After he’d seen Frances, Tom rang Mary Templeton, who said he could come round to her house in an hour, so he decided to go and have a look at the scene of the murder. He found it in the A–Z, then, on impulse, drove to Fraser’s house first.
It was a semi in a fairly modern estate and didn’t have much character, unless you counted the still visible tyre slashes across the lawns and gardens where Fraser had done his runner.
Must have pleased the neighbours.
From there, he drove to Connie’s, taking the route he assumed Fraser would have taken. It took him nearly twenty minutes, but he was sure it would be considerably less for someone who knew the way.
Connie Flint’s house was in a wide, leafy suburb, and was several indices removed from Fraser’s. He negotiated the drive and parked next to the SOC van that was there. A man came out of the house almost immediately and Tom showed him his ID.
‘I’m surprised to find any of you lot still here,’ he said.
‘Just clearing up.’
‘Did you hear me arriving from in there?’ Tom asked.
‘Your car does have rather a distinctive note,’ the man said, nodding at the Cooper.
‘Would you have heard a quieter car?’
‘Couldn’t tell you, mate.’
Tom told him he was going to have a look round and the man shrugged and said, ‘Sure.’
He looked at the steps where Fraser said he’d found the stick and then at the chequered hall inside. The position of the body was still marked out.
‘It’s not as if there’s anyone here to disturb,’ the man said, as though to explain his tardiness.
Tom nodded, then went inside to look at the phone and desk that Callan had suggested Leo Farleigh was so interested in. Nothing there grabbed his attention, so he went outside and followed the gravelled drive round to the back of the house, where there was certainly plenty of room to park a car out of sight.
He returned slowly to the front.
‘Do me a favour?’ he asked the SOC man.
‘Depends what it is.’
‘Drive your van round to the back, switch off, then start up again and drive back.’
‘Sure.’
Standing where the body had been with the door just ajar, Tom heard him start the engine, but nothing more until he reappeared again in the hall. He then asked him to reverse back down to the road, and return slowly to the house. The man agreed, but not quite so readily.
This time, Tom could just make out the crunch of tyres on gravel as he drew up. But would I have heard it if I’d just found a body and wasn’t listening for it…?
He thanked the SOC man and left. In the tree-lined street, he stopped.
A car wouldn’t have to drive far along it to be out of sight, he thought, so it was possible for Leo to have left the house, Fraser to have arrived and Leo to have then returned, without them being aware of each other – although Leo would have known someone was there as soon as he saw Fraser’s car… Wouldn’t he have then driven off again? No, because for all he knew, he’d have been heard and/or seen arriving.
The same applied if he’d been parked round the back when Fraser arrived. Whichever (if either), his only safe course would be to pretend that he’d only just arrived…
Witnesses? Tom looked up and down the street – most of the houses were out of sight and it wasn’t the kind of neighbourhood with a lot of pedestrian traffic, so it wasn’t altogether surprising the police hadn’t found any.
He checked Mary Templeton’s address again, found it on his A–Z and was there in ten minutes.
‘Mr Jones? Do come in,’
She was a homely woman with a comfortable figure, a blue rinse and a face with a clear resemblance to Frances’. She had the same town-and-country accent, only more pronounced.
If you want to know how your wife’ll turn out, Tom thought, paraphrasing Oscar, all you have to do is look at her mother…
She took him through to a rather pedestrian sitting-room and offered him tea, which he declined.
She sat down nervously on the edge of a chair, then, before Tom could say anything, said in a voice that trembled slightly, ‘Mrs Croft told me you might be able to help Fraser.’
Tom suddenly saw a woman whose daughter was gravely ill, and whose prospective son-in-law was charged with murder, and felt a flush of shame at his derogatory thoughts.
‘The operative word is might,’ he said gently.
‘How can I help?’ she said firmly.
‘By telling me about last weekend,’ Tom told her.
Her story tallied with the others. Frances had phoned her at about ten to make the arrangement, and Fraser had phoned at a little after eleven to ask if she had arrived. ‘I told him she was just arriving and asked if he wanted to speak to her, but he didn’t want her to think he was spying on her.’
They’d chatted, had lunch and, later, gone to the shops. When they’d got back, Frances had been too exhausted to drive and they’d tried to ring Fraser.
‘We were just beginning to get worried when he called us.’
‘Who actually answered the phone?’ Tom asked.
‘I did.’
‘This is important, Mrs Templeton,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘What exactly did he say to you? As near as you can remember.’
‘Well…’ She frowned as she thought. ‘He asked how Frances was and I told him, then he asked if she was there beside me, and when I said no, he – he told me what had happened.’
‘What had happened to Dr Flint, you mean?’
‘Yes. I was very shocked, of course, and when he said it would be better not to tell Frances, I agreed.’
‘Did he say why it would be better not to tell her?’
‘He didn’t have to, with Frances in such a fragile state.’
‘How did he sound – did he sound shocked himself?’
‘He sounded tired, empty. He’d been with the police for several hours,’ she added quickly.
‘How did he describe what had happened?’
‘I don’t understand what you mean…’
‘Did he say that Dr Flint had been murdered, or did he say that there’d been an accident?’
‘He said that she’d been killed and the police were treating it as suspicious.’
‘Did he tell you it was he who’d found the body?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Didn’t it occur to you then that he might be in trouble?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Did he speak to Frances?’
‘Yes, and he covered up remarkably well. She had no idea what had happened and was quite happy about spending the night here.’
Tom asked her about the next morning and she told him how Frances had come down tight-lipped and said she didn’t want any breakfast, and how when she’d tried persuading her, Frances had suddenly ‘flipped’, sweeping the breakfast things on to the floor, screaming and then collapsing in tears.
‘Has she ever shown any signs of doing anything like that before?’
‘No. Never. It must have been the drug. I’d had my doubts when Fraser first told me, but not after that, Mr Jones.’
‘You met Dr Flint, didn’t you, Mrs Templeton?’
‘Yes, and at first I thought how lucky Frances was to have someone like that to look after her…’ She broke down briefly, then recovered. ‘And I thought Fraser was wrong, both about her and the drug, but not now, Mr Jones, not now.’
‘D’you think he killed her?’
Her head came up sharply. ‘Not for one moment. I’ve come to like and respect Fraser a great deal and I don’t believe
it for a moment. The police are making a terrible mistake.’ She paused fractionally, said, ‘I thought you were trying to help him, Mr Jones.’
‘I’m trying to discover the truth.’
She said, ‘If you do that, then you’ll be helping him.’
15
Tom had just picked up the phone in his hotel room to bring Marcus up to date when he remembered Dr Weisman. He glanced at his watch – five thirty, which made it twelve thirty in New York. He found the number Fraser had given him and caught Weisman on his way to lunch.
‘Gee, I’m sorry to hear that…’ was his obviously sincere reaction to the news about Fraser. He went on to confirm everything Fraser had said about Alkovin.
‘People’re beginning to notice these side-effects over here now. I guess it’s only a matter of time before they take the stuff off the market.’
‘Won’t they just recommend using prophylactic antidepressants?’
‘I think the problems with this drug go deeper than that.’
‘In what way?’
Weisman hesitated. ‘Let’s just say its initial promise as a leukaemia treatment doesn’t look so bright now,’ he said at last.
Which wasn’t good news for poor Frances, Tom thought as he broke the connection and phoned Marcus.
‘I’ve fixed up interviews with Ian Saunders and Leo Farleigh for you tomorrow and the day after,’ Marcus told him.
‘Good. They didn’t make any difficulties, then?’
‘They made plenty. They were far too busy, they’d already spoken to the police and didn’t see why they should speak to you. I had to get quite heavy with them in the end.’
Tom smiled. Marcus’ usual method of ‘getting heavy’ was to inform his victims (in the most gentle of voices) that his next call would be to the top – in this case, either to the Trust general manager, or the managing director of Parc-Reed. He hadn’t had to carry out the threat very often.
‘So what times am I seeing them?’
‘Saunders first thing tomorrow, at nine. By the way, he’s also arranging for you to talk to Terry Stroud, the lab manager.’
‘Good, I’d been wondering about him. What about Farleigh?’
Bad Medicine- A Life for a Life; Bed of Nails; Going Viral Page 12