At least he’d cut down on his cologne. She didn’t touch the second glass but excused herself, saying she had a long drive. It was a cue for everyone to go. She left, with Brandon and Lewis, as Harry went to the gents. Waving goodbye, she headed for her Mini. She dug in her pockets for her keys, then in her handbag. She swore: she was sure she’d had them in her hand when she went into the pub. Certain now that she must have left them on the counter, she went back in as everyone drove off.
Langton was still sitting at the bar, resting his head in his hands. She looked around the stool she’d been sitting on, then saw the keys on the floor. She picked them up and glanced over to him; he didn’t seem to notice she had returned. She was about to walk away, when something made her change her mind. Going up to him, she touched him lightly on his back.
‘Dropped my keys,’ she said.
He raised his head and turned to face her. He looked terrible.
‘You all right?’
‘No. My leg’s stiffened up.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t get off the bloody stool.’
‘Well, let me help you. Lean on me.’
He placed one arm around her shoulders as she bent forwards, grimacing in agony as he tried to ease himself into a standing position. She could hardly take the weight of him, and almost toppled over.
She looked to the landlord and gasped, ‘Could you give me a hand?’
With his help, they got Langton standing and, with one either side of him, he walked very slowly to the door.
‘This is getting to be a nightly ritual,’ the landlord joked, as he helped Langton and Anna out into the car park.
Together, they got him into the passenger seat of her Mini, pushing it as far back as it would go, with a lot of moans and groans from Langton. He directed her a short distance across the car park and into a road of terraced houses. The end house was the small Bed and Breakfast.
Anna had a hard time helping him out to stand upright; again, he needed to lean heavily on her shoulders to walk up the path. He fumbled for his keys and passed them to her. Anna opened the front door as he leaned against the doorframe.
‘Okay, I can make it from here. I’m on the ground floor.’
Anna ignored him and continued to prop him up until they reached his bedroom door.
He grinned and made shushing sounds. ‘Don’t let the old biddy hear; we’re not allowed company!’
The room was old-fashioned, with a large dressing table, heavy oak wardrobe and awful flowered carpet. The bed was a single, with a candlewick bedspread. His clothes and shoes were strewn around the room, and beside the bed were files and old newspapers.
She got him to sit on the bed and removed his shoes and socks; he took off his own jacket, chucking it across the bed to land on a wicker chair. He loosened his tie. His face became red with exertion as he tried to undo his shirt buttons.
Anna looked around for some pyjamas, but couldn’t see any. He flopped back onto the pillows. On the bedside table were a couple of empty whisky bottles and an array of pill bottles and containers.
‘Do you need to take any of these?’ she asked, looking over them.
‘No, I’ll sleep now.’ He offered his hand, and she clasped it. ‘Sorry about this; no need to mention it to anyone, okay?’
‘As if I would,’ she said.
Still he clasped her hand. ‘You okay to drive home?’ he asked.
She shook her head, smiling. She found it farcical that he was concerned about her. ‘One glass of wine!’
Eventually, he released his hold of her hand.
She suggested he take a shower and get into bed but he laughed, saying there was only the shared bathroom and no way was he going to get up.
‘Just leave me, let me sleep it off.’
She bent forwards, wanting to kiss him. She still cared deeply about him, and it hurt to see him so crumpled. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
He gave a half-smile. ‘I’ll be okay, just need to crash out.’
By the time she had folded his clothes and tidied up the room, he was asleep. She switched on the small lamp by his bed and took a long look at him. In the half-light, the face she had loved so much seemed grey. Even in sleep, it was etched with pain. It was distressing: she felt as if she was looking at a shell of what he had been, thinner and more gaunt than ever. She suspected he wasn’t eating properly, and the overflowing ashtrays she’d tipped in the bin were proof that he had not given up smoking as he had been warned to.
It was late by the time Anna got home. She hadn’t eaten, but she was now too tired. She crawled into her clean fresh sheets, but sleep didn’t come easily: she was unable to stop thinking about Langton.
In theory, she knew that his health issue should be made known, but no way could she make out a report, detailing that DCI Langton should be given leave of absence because he was dependent on alcohol and painkillers to get through the day.
She was surprised when her alarm rang; she’d fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep, leaving the bedside light on.
Operation Eagle was to swing into action mid-afternoon. This would give the team time to co-ordinate all the different cases. Anna arrived at half-past eight; the incident room was already a hive of activity. Just as she reached her desk, Langton’s office door banged open. She could hardly believe her eyes.
He strode in, wearing a smart suit and fresh shirt, his energy level at top notch. He clapped his hands.
‘Joseph Sickert has been traced. He’s in Westminster Hospital. He walked into Casualty and collapsed; he’s on a life-support machine.’
He gestured for Anna and Mike Lewis to accompany him. It was doubtful Sickert was going to last long; his blood disease had reached crisis level and his organs were failing.
As they drove out, with sirens blasting, Langton turned to face Anna and Mike in the rear seat. ‘Bloody unbelievable. We’ve got one dying prisoner being flown in, now we’ve got another bugger at death’s door.’
‘How bad is he?’ Lewis asked.
‘Dying; liver and kidney failure. He’s on a dialysis machine but they have said it’s only a matter of time. His heart’s giving out as well, bastard!’
If Langton had pains in his leg, it didn’t show as he marched along the hospital corridor. They were met by a battery of doctors and nurses, who did not feel the patient could be interviewed.
Langton let rip. In no uncertain terms, he set out the reasons why it was imperative. He brought up the dead child, the skull at the bungalow; they wanted to question him and they should be given access, whether he was dying or not.
‘Just keep him alive long enough for me to talk to him, that’s all I ask.’ Langton faced down the doctor, almost daring him to argue.
The young doctor was shaking; he said that his responsibility was to his patient. Langton almost pinned him against the wall.
‘That animal you are so intent on saving butchered a two-year-old toddler — cut off her head, all right? Now, ultimately, I don’t give a fuck if he lives or dies — all I want is ten minutes with him.’ He didn’t shout; it was more unnerving as he kept his voice low, but he was so angry, he was frightening.
Langton insisted on speaking to anyone with the authority to allow him access to Sickert. Lewis raised his eyebrows at Anna, but she turned away, refusing to be drawn into approving or disapproving of Langton’s actions.
After fifteen minutes, they were given permission to be taken to the Intensive Care Unit.
As they followed two nurses, Langton turned to Lewis. ‘Fucking brilliant, isn’t it? Illegal immigrant, murderer — and look at the way they are treating him — like he was royalty! This is where our taxes go. How much do you think it’s costing to keep this son of a bitch alive?’