by Helen Oliver
Kerridge said, “Okay, let’s look at what you can organize, where the rest are concerned.”
“I’ve had a few thoughts,” Hammond said. “DC Nolan could visit Russell Sykes and his mother. Nolan was in touch with Morris earlier in the case.”
Kerridge made a note, ticked a box. Together they discussed others: those on the Incident Team as well as on the periphery. Kerridge printed out a list and handed it across.
She watched Hammond check it. “Any additional thoughts?”
“As well as Nolan for Sykes and Morris,” he said, “I’d suggest he follows up Jez and Martina Hemsworth.”
Kerridge looked at her notes. “Could Nolan not see Dylan Beck at the same time?”
Hammond shook his head. “Not unless he wants a slap, or worse, from Martina.” Better to leave Beck to DC Akpata.” He thought for a few moments. “Akpata, too, for Angie Marsh, and Susan Jukes at the hospital?”
Kerridge said, “I’ll do that.”
Hammond said, “Thank you.” Was this to be top woman talking to top woman?
Kerridge said, “And what about you?”
“I’ll arrange a meeting with Lucy Parsons and her father and brother.” He took a breath. “I’ll talk to Diana Bloom.”
*
Drinking tea in the kitchen at Wychwood, Hammond thought Diana Bloom’s looks had suffered: her skin had lost its bloom and the lines each side of her mouth had deepened. She seemed ready to talk. “Helping with Leo is the only thing saving my sanity.”
Hammond broke his biscuit. “Youngsters in a family can be a reason to carry on.”
“I keep thinking,” she said, “of the hundreds of families who have to keep going when something like this hits them. Reading accounts in the newspapers, you don’t often think of the suffering behind the scenes.” She swallowed a mouthful of tea. “I hardly dare ask. How is Detective Sergeant Burns?”
Hammond eased his neck. “We heard this morning that tests are looking hopeful.”
Diana Bloom’s cup scraped in its saucer. Tears refused to be blinked away. “How could I not have known my own daughter?”
Hammond put out a hand. “Would you consider counselling?”
“I’d consider anything.”
At the sound of Lucy and Leo at the back door, she looked up quickly and, while Hammond went to the back lobby, pulled kitchen paper from a roll and dabbed at her face.
A voice said, “Hello?”
Hammond pulled open the door. “Hi, Lucy.”
“Hello, I thought it was your car.” She leaned into the buggy, lifted Leo out and called, “Can you come and take him, Diana? He’s driving me bonkers.”
Diana hurried towards her. “Bonkers? How ridiculous. Come here, little man.”
Hammond stroked Leo’s head. “I must be off. Talk another time, Lucy? Your dad will be in touch. I thought we’d have a short meeting at his office.”
“Okay.” Lucy watched Diana heading for the stairs with Leo. “I’ll see you out.”
Reaching the front door, her pretty face contorted. “Why did Harriet kill Mum? She was her friend, her best friend. How could she do that?” She fell silent for a moment. “Is she mad? Do you think she’s mad?”
“I believe it’s madness of a kind.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I feel so sorry for Diana. What must it be like for her?”
“Very hard indeed,” Hammond said. “She’s going to need you and Leo. And you’ll both need her.”
Pulling open the door, he said, “I’ll be in touch about meeting in Leeds. But in the meantime, if you ever want to talk, I’m here.”
56
Hammond scrolled down the document. Sean Briscow’s death by stabbing on the Lockwell Estate looked cut and dried. Just a bugger that a series of prolonged No Comment interviews with Ged Sparks had wasted everyone’s time. It would sort itself out in time; but time and money were at a premium, and Kerridge was putting her own particular kind of pressure on everyone concerned with the case.
His mobile buzzed. Greg’s name came up on the display and Hammond’s diaphragm did its squeeze-box impression. “Hi Greg.” He paused for a split second. “Anything to report?”
“The sister on the ward called. They’re hoping to start bringing Cally round.”
“Start? What does that mean?”
“Apparently it doesn’t happen all at once. They reduce the sedation gradually - can be days, and keep an eye on what’s happening.”
“It’s good news, though.”
“It’s not bad news.”
Greg being Greg, any situation had its right to a glass half-empty. Perhaps it was the safer view to take. If things went wrong you’d been warned. Hammond asked, “When are you going to hear more?”
“They’ll let me know when I can go in. Seems like she’ll still be virtually unconscious, but it can be good to talk to her about everyday stuff.” He paused. “She might have been having bad dreams. Hallucinations, I’m not sure. Anything familiar might help. I’ll keep in touch.”
“Thanks. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“Yeah.”
Hammond hesitated for a second. “All right if I visit?”
“Sure.”
*
Hammond supposed they must all, to a degree, be feeling the same: that the long summer days were interminable, waiting for Cally to surface into consciousness.
It didn’t take Emma Webb long to realize that Greg had difficulties, and to sense that when the DCI came in, an atmosphere of calm filled the space around her patient.
Calculations were made daily, and the sedation reduced. Miss Webb warned it might not all be plain-sailing. She admitted it wasn’t unusual for a patient to become confused between the real and the imaginary: of which some situations might be unpleasant, even frightening.
Hammond let the nursing sister know that Cally had been especially fond of Kylie; that he thought the young DC’s voice could be reassuring.
Prior to Kylie’s first visit, Cally had appeared to be trying to break out of her drugged prison. Though not without pain. When she spoke, indistinctly, for the first time, she clenched her fists when approached by a friendly nurse. Miss Webb believed there may have been something about the nurse that reminded Cally of a bad experience. It wasn’t uncommon, she said. A member of staff, poor thing, could be unnerved if they appeared to be a would-be attacker.
Akpata proved to be a perfect visitor, and at 21.00 hours, twelve days after Harriet Bloom’s attempt on her life, Cally opened her eyes and murmured, “Kylie, good to see you.”
Heart thudding, Kylie put out a hand, took Cally’s and said, “Good to see you, too.”
Akpata asked the sister if she would call Hammond. The sister picked up the phone, dialled and handed it to Kylie. “You tell him, and he can let her husband know.”
Tears caught in her throat. “Sir, DS Burns has come round. She recognized me.” She hesitated. “Our prayers have been answered.”
“God – that’s wonderful, Kylie.”
“Shall I say you’ll be coming to see her, sir?”
“Don’t say anything for the moment. I need to make a few calls.”
*
To the onlooker, Hammond climbing the stone flights of stairs would have appeared confident, a man with a purpose. Not a man whose heart threatened to fill his throat.
Outside the door to Room 3 he stopped for a moment. Looked through the glass panel at the bed and its paraphernalia. He pushed the door gently, changed places with the nurse, and walked over to Cally.
He touched the sheet, but not too near the hand with a canula.
She half opened her eyes. Whispered something.
“Hello, you,” he said, and leaned a little closer, “say that again?”
“Kettle Kaffe.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Helen Oliver is the author’s pen name in order to distinguish it from her work for radio and television.
Commissions for BBC Radio 4 consis
t of Afternoon Plays and a Morning Serial. Television commissions include work on drama series for Carlton and Granada TV, and audio cassettes — Rita Sullivan and Ken Barlow — for Coronation Street’s ‘In Their Own Words’.
Her black comedy, ‘A Bit of Royal Albert’ won Best Production in a North Yorkshire amateur drama festival and was selected as one of the best six one-act amateur plays of the year at the Buxton Opera House.
Enjoying crime, in the purely innocent sense, Helen felt the time had come to create her own police team, DCI Steve Hammond and DS Cally Burns — who took ‘Therapeutic Death’ into their own hands. She hopes you like them and enjoy her novel.