‘What was that?’ asked Barnaby.
‘Our man,’ said Troy.
‘Ah, shit.’ The chief inspector’s shoulders slumped. ‘All right, run back and freeze.’
They studied the slim figure, gripping the handlebars of the stolen machine. The bike was half on the pavement, half on the road as the cyclist prepared to jump into the saddle. Even on hold and seen only from the back the gathering of muscular energy appeared formidable.
‘Same height as Jackson, same build,’ said Inspector Carter.
‘Of course it’s the same height and build!’ Angrily Barnaby pushed back his chair. ‘It’s the same bloody man.’
‘Shall we blow the picture up, chief?’ asked Sergeant Brierley.
‘Might as well, though I can’t see anything coming of it.’
‘If only he’d been facing the other way,’ said DS Griggs. Adding, ‘That bastard’s got the luck of the devil.’
‘It’ll run out sooner or later,’ said Barnaby. ‘Everybody’s does. Even the devil’s.’
Louise had not mentioned the hospital visit to her brother. She had not intended deliberately to conceal this but remembered that, during their earlier conversation, the subject of Ann’s attack had immediately led to an eruption of anger quickly followed by a diatribe against the police for their continual persecution of Jax. Now the time when she could have naturally mentioned it (she had arrived home eight hours ago) had long passed.
She had answered the lunchtime news appeal, though. Rung the number given from a box outside the post office in the Market Square and described the cyclist without saying that she recognised who he was. She couldn’t bring herself to do that, even anonymously. And as she was not prepared to follow up and identify him personally - partially out of fear for her own safety but mainly because of the pain it would cause Val - any such admission would be pointless. She was rather ashamed of this, her memory of the time spent in the intensive care unit was raw and painful, and Louise knew that if Ann died she would speak out whatever the cost. But of course what she really longed for was for Ann to recover and be able to tell the police herself who had attacked her.
This understanding led to an anxious few moments when Louise wondered if Jax might make his way to the hospital to make sure Ann did not recover. There seemed to be nothing to stop him. No guard outside her door, no member of staff inside. All very well to say, as the staff nurse had, that someone was nearly always there. It only needed a moment, when the someone was not there, for vital plugs to be snatched from their sockets and Ann’s life to drain helplessly away. And, as the police presumably thought her the victim of a random attack, they would see no need for protection. Louise told herself she was being melodramatic. Too many movies - a scene from The Godfather came to mind - but the image would not fade.
She rang the hospital. She had intended to do so anyway to hear how the operation had gone but there was little for her comfort. The operation had been straightforward. Mrs Lawrence had not come round yet from the anaesthetic. There had been no visitors.
A sudden coolness in the air rather than any sound told her the front door had opened and been closed. Her brother came slowly into the room. He nodded silently then threw himself down in a scarlet velvet armchair shaped like a vast shell.
Louise was used to seeing him return from the garage flat wearing a mingled expression of joy and pain and walking as though half his bones had been mangled. It was a relief to see him looking pretty much as normal. Or as normal as he ever looked these days.
‘How are things over there?’
‘Jax has moved into the Rectory pro tem.’ The disappointment had been keen. He had not been able even to touch the boy. ‘He’s taking care of Lionel.’
Louise felt a sudden deep pang of apprehension. She knew she ought to stop there. Say ‘how kind’ and not attempt to delve deeper. But a terrible curiosity drew her on. She longed to know why Lionel had not visited his wife. Or even contacted the hospital.
‘He must be pretty upset. Lionel, I mean.’
‘Distraught, poor chap. Doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going.’
‘Has he been to see her?’
‘Oh, yes. They went this morning.’
‘They?’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Sorry. I just thought ... Ann being so ... usually more than one visitor ...’
As her tongue floundered over the words, Louise’s heart beat a little faster. By asking a question to which she already knew the answer, she had taken the single step from honesty to trickery. She stared at her brother with dismay. They had never played these sorts of games. He stared back, his glance at first speculative then thickening into suspicion.
‘Someone has to drive Lionel. That’s all I meant by “they”.’
‘Oh, yes. Sorry. I didn’t think.’
‘What’s behind all this?’
‘Nothing. Just making conversation.’
‘No you’re not.’ He was on the verge of becoming angry. Louise tried to work out how best to extricate herself. Perhaps if she said she was tired and going to bed, he’d simply shrug and let go. With the old Val, there would have been no problem. But this new, damaged Val was so volatile, so ready to strike out blindly at real or imagined slights. And in this case he was right. She was not being straight with him and the suspicion was deserved. Wouldn’t it be better simply to tell him the truth?
‘I went to see Ann today.’
‘What?’
‘Around lunchtime.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I couldn’t. It was so awful, Val. Tubes and drips and machinery ... and poor Ann hardly there at all.’
‘Oh God, Lou.’
‘She’s dying, I know she is.’ Louise burst into a flood of tears. Val climbed out of the armchair, came over and put his arms round her as he had when she was a little girl. For a moment Louise allowed herself the comforting conceit that things were once more as they used to be. But then the longing for veracity, to have everything absolutely straight between them, drove her on.
‘They said ...’ She was crying so much she could hardly speak. ‘He hadn’t been to see her at all ...’
‘Who?’
‘Lionel.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Or even rung up.’
‘You talked to the wrong person. Reception changes all the time at these big places.’
‘This was the nurse at intensive care.’
Val withdrew then. First physically, the warm muscly flesh of his arms hardening until Louise felt she was being embraced by two curved planks of wood. Then disengaging his emotions.
‘I thought you’d stopped all this.’ Val’s voice was cold. He got up and moved away.
‘Val - don’t go!’
‘I thought you’d changed. That you’d begun to understand.’
‘I do,’ cried Louise.
‘Now you’re calling him a liar.’ He looked down at her with a detachment that was not entirely without sympathy. ‘I’ve asked Jax to come and live here, Louise. Whether you move out or not. You’ll just have to accept it.’
‘How can I accept something that makes you so unhappy?’
‘It’s not about being happy. It’s about being glad to be alive.’
After his sister had gone to bed and cried herself to sleep, Val sat near the window of his own room, gazing out at the great cedar tree in the driveway of the house opposite. Louise had wept so violently and for so long, he had thought she might make herself ill. Yet he did not go to her for he was unable to say what she longed to hear and knew his presence could only torment her further.