‘When was this, sir?’
Richard Ainsley had almost forgotten Sergeant Troy, quietly taking notes. He studied his diary again and replied, ‘Wednesday the nineteenth.’ Then, turning back to Barnaby, ‘I’d made a note of the date should it arise during my meeting with her.’
‘So it was six altogether?’
‘That’s right. And she insisted on cash both times. Extremely worrying. I was so relieved to hear yesterday that she was bringing it all back.’
‘What?’
‘She rang in the morning, about ten thirty.’ Ainsley smiled, quietly pleased that he could bring about this consternation, even under such unhappy circumstances. He was only human. ‘I was to cancel the loan and she would be returning the cash that very afternoon. Oh.’
Oh indeed, thought Barnaby, watching the shock hit home.
‘Did the person who attacked her ...?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said the chief inspector. ‘When she said “all”, did you understand this to mean all she had borrowed or just the five thousand?’
‘Deary me. What a situation. We’ll never get it back. What will head office say?’
‘Mr Ainsley?’
‘Mm?’
‘Five or six?’
‘I don’t know. Oh, this is terrible. Terrible.’
Being economical with the truth had been an integral part of Louise’s life for so long it had been years since the fact had even registered. A huge proportion of her working day was spent lying. Not that she thought of it like that. After all, who in the financial world wasn’t doing it? Brokers, analysts, financial advisers - all prepared to conceal or misrepresent what they believed to be the true state of affairs while struggling to penetrate the false representations of others. So this latest small untruth, spoken earlier over the telephone to the reception desk at Stoke Mandeville, had caused her no trouble at all. Now she approached the reception area and gave her name.
‘Mrs Forbes?’
‘That’s right. I rang earlier.’
‘Ah, yes. Your sister’s on the third floor. Take the lift and I’ll let them know you’re coming.’ The receptionist, a pretty Asian woman, added, ‘I’m so sorry. Such a terrible thing to happen.’
‘Thank you.’
A staff nurse met Louise, said pretty much the same thing and led her along a long, silent corridor, her shoes squeaking on the rubbery surface. She opened a door at the very end and they went in.
Louise stopped in her tracks. Her heart gave a jerk then suddenly started to beat with furious speed. For no reason, she felt suddenly frightened. Ann lay quite motionless in a narrow iron bed. Precisely in the centre of the bed, Louise noticed. The same amount of space each side of her thin shoulders. You could do that, of course, when a person was deeply unconscious. Satisfy the human passion for order and balance.
The room was full of blue light. Machinery hummed, quite noisily. There were several computer screens, one of which had the shimmering green line, constantly peaking and subsiding, so familiar to viewers of hospital dramas.
There was a single bedside chair, rather office-like with a tweed seat and tubular chrome arms, but Louise did not sit down. She stood at the foot of the bed, staring. There were no what she would call signs of life. Louise had never seen a dead person but surely this was what they looked like. There was not the slightest trace of colour in Ann’s skin, what one could see of it. And no rise and fall of her breast. The taut, hospital-cornered sheet did not move. A needle in her arm led to a bottle suspended on a frame. A tube disappeared into her mouth and another depended from her nostrils.
In alarm, Louise turned to the nurse. ‘She’s not breathing.’
‘The ventilator does that for her. Have you spoken to Dr Miller?’
‘No.’ Louise felt her heart turn over. ‘Should I have?’
‘The brain scan showed a clot, I’m afraid. We’ll be operating later today.’
‘What chance is there—’
‘The very best chance. Mrs Lawrence is in good hands.’
Louise looked anxiously around the room. ‘Shouldn’t someone be here all the time?’
‘Someone is - almost all. And don’t worry, she’s monitored. The slightest change in breathing, heartbeat, pulse or blood pressure and the alarm goes off.’
Louise had brought some flowers from the Rectory garden. She had not asked permission, simply gone in with her secateurs and cut an armful of the things that Ann loved best. Hollyhocks, apricot and cream foxgloves, the last of some floppy pink roses with a powerful, musky scent. She did not as much as glance towards the house and no one came out to stop her.
When she had rung up to see how Ann was, Louise was told that only close relatives were allowed to visit. That meant Lionel, a man who lived in a self-centred world of his own and had probably never thought to take a flower at all, let alone his wife’s favourites.
Now, looking down at her friend, Louise saw how absurd and foolish her impulse had been. She had not fully understood how dangerously ill Ann was. Had imagined her coming round, maybe during her own visit, and, seeing the flowers, suddenly turning the corner. Or, unconscious, still being able to sense and recognise the heady fragrance of the roses she so lovingly cared for.
Stupid, stupid! Louise chided herself as she sat by the bed. She reached out, took Ann’s hand and almost dropped it. So cold and lifeless. And yet Ann was still there. Whatever it was that vanishes when a person dies, the essence of themselves, their ‘Ann-ness’ if you will, was still there.
Louise felt she should speak. For who was to say that Ann would not hear? She tried out various sentences in her mind but they all sounded pathetic. Death a whisper away and all she could think of were banal simplicities you could hear any day of the week on a television soap. ‘I’m here, Ann, it’s Louise. Can you hear me? We’re all thinking about you. Everyone is so sorry. They send their love. You’ll be all right.’ (This last surely the acme of wildly unrealistic optimism.)
In the end Louise said nothing. Just kissed Ann’s cheek, gently squeezed her hand and tried not to picture what lay under the tightly wound bandages.
Jax had done this. Fact. She had seen him running away. Well, racing away. But Val had said it wasn’t possible. That he had actually been with Jax when the crime occurred. It couldn’t be true. Yet surely he would not lie to cover for the man - not over something as terrible as this?
Was it possible she had been mistaken? Louise closed her eyes, re-imagined the moment when she had been about to open her car door, saw again the dark figure zooming up and flashing by. It had been very quick, a lightning flash. Yet she had been so sure.
Perhaps she had been thinking of Jax at the time. That was likely. These days she seemed to think of little else. Could she have superimposed his face on the speeding cyclist. The mind plays tricks, deluding and deceiving. We all believe what we want to believe.
A soft swish as the air-locked door was pushed open. A staff nurse smiled apologetically, explaining they needed to attend to Mrs Lawrence.
Louise moved away, indicating her flowers. ‘Please, could someone ...’
‘They’ll be put into water, don’t worry.’ Then, rather awkwardly, ‘We have notified Mr Lawrence of his wife’s condition. I wondered perhaps if there was some domestic ... well ... upset?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Louise’s expression was one of blank bewilderment.
‘Some reason why he hasn’t called to see her. Or even telephoned.’