‘Yes. I’ll cover for you. Penny Yewdall is in as well, enough plain clothes if anything develops, and we have your mobile phone number. Swannell is still on leave, but it’s enough.’
‘Yes.’ Brunnie stood. ‘I’ll walk round there, quicker than taking a car, no place to park anyway. But what have I done?’
Harry Vicary knocked gently on the yellow door of the house at the far end of Albert Road, Leyton, E10. An elderly lady opened the door, silver-haired, floral dress, hands twisted with arthritis. ‘Mrs North?’ Vicary took off his hat and replaced it again.
‘Yes.’ Her voice was shaking with apprehension.
‘Police.’ Vicary smiled. ‘Don’t be alarmed.’
‘Ah.’ Mrs North relaxed and smiled.
Vicary produced his identity card. ‘I understand you have a daughter, Pauline.’
‘I did.’
‘Oh. . I am sorry.’
‘No, no. . still alive.’ Mrs North smiled. ‘She’s Mrs South now.’
‘You’re joking,’ Vicary grinned.
‘I kid you not, young man. The jokes they made at the wedding reception, about compass needles spinning round until North became South. . Go North, young man. . I can’t remember them all, but one telegram after the other had some crack in it about points of the compass. The best man was the groom’s brother but they managed to find an usher called West and another called Eastman — it became a theme of the wedding.’
‘How amusing.’
‘Yes. She did well; her husband is a good man and she has two lovely children.’
‘I am pleased to hear it. I really would like to speak to her. She has nothing to worry about; I need to pick her brains.’
‘She’s not in trouble?’
‘No. I just need information.’
‘Alright. . well if you don’t mind, I’ll phone her and ask her to contact you.’
‘Of course.’ Vicary handed her his calling card.
Mrs North read the card. ‘Detective Inspector Vicary. That’s quite a high rank.’
‘Not really. It’s quite modest.’
‘Can I tell her what it is about?’
‘Yes, I don’t see why not, it’s in connection with Rosemary Halkier.’
‘Oh. . Rose. . she disappeared.’
‘Yes.’
‘Has she been found?’
‘Well, let’s just say that there has been a significant development. If you could invite your daughter Pauline to phone me at her earliest convenience?’
‘I will. . yes, I will. I’ll phone her right away; she doesn’t work. I mean, she’s not employed during the day, she keeps house when she is not needed for supply teaching and that’s sufficient work for any woman. . but if she isn’t at home now, she’ll be out somewhere close by. . at the shops or something.’
‘I see.’
‘She lives in Mill Hill. Well, I’ll phone her. Will you be going direct to Scotland Yard, sir?’
‘No. . no. . I have another call to make first.’
Vicary walked home. He was anxious to get there, but he did not want to lessen the impact of the cold caring policy. He reached his house and let himself in. His wife was on her hands and knees cleaning the vomit from the carpet with her head wrapped in a towel. Clearly she had washed herself first. She looked at him and then avoided eye contact. After a period of silence he asked, ‘Is there any more? I found the bottles under the eaves. You know we made an agreement. So, is there any more?’
‘In the garden.’ She spoke with clear difficulty. Even from the distance he stood from her, he could smell her searing breath. ‘Behind the shed.’
Vicary walked to the kitchen and out into the back garden. He looked behind the garden shed and found a metal bucket covered with a generous amount of sacking. Neither the bucket, which was shiny and new, nor the sacking, which was old and worn, had he seen before. He took the sacking from the bucket and exposed three more bottles of gin contained within the bucket. He opened each bottle, and holding it away from him and with his head turned from it, lest he got a whiff which he would find difficulty in resisting, he emptied the contents on to the ground. Holding the bottles as far from him as he could, he took them into the kitchen and rinsed each one clear of any trace of alcohol. He then placed them in a plastic bin liner, and went back outside and picked up the screw tops from each bottle, and those too he rinsed and put in the bin liner, which he secured with a firm knot at the top.
He stood silently in the kitchen wondering if he should make his wife a cup of strong black coffee, but he decided against it. He said not a word, and walked out of the house carrying the bin liner with him, which he would place in the first waste bin he came across.
Cold caring.
DC Frank Brunnie walked into the front entrance of the Westminster Hospital and enquired at the reception desk as to the whereabouts of patient J.J. Dunwoodie. Following the directions given, he took the stairs, rather than the ease of the lift, to the given floor, and walked along the corridor, which had a light-fawn coloured floor and cream-painted walls, busy nurses scurrying about and aloof doctors who moved more leisurely, but who were equally serious in their attitude. It had that distinct smell which Brunnie could never analyse. It smelt. . just like a hospital. He saw a police constable sitting on a chair outside a private room. The constable stood defensively as Brunnie approached him. ‘Help you, sir?’ he asked coldly.
‘Alright — ’ Brunnie showed the constable his ID — ‘I’m in the club.’
‘Oh. . sorry, sir, didn’t recognize you.’ He was young, early twenties Brunnie guessed.
‘No worries. What happened?’
‘Don’t know a right lot, sir.’ The constable spoke with a distinct Lancashire accent; a young man taking the opportunity through his employment to live in London for a few years, as do many teachers and other public and civil servants, before returning to the provinces and their roots, where housing is affordable. ‘I am told not to allow anyone in except hospital staff and the interested officer, sir.’
‘Who is?’
‘DC Meadows, Kilburn nick, sir.’
‘I see. DC Meadows. .’ Brunnie committed the name and workplace to memory, noting that he knew a Meadows once — the name would be easy to remember because of it. ‘I’ll take a drive over to Kilburn.’ He nodded to the door. ‘How is he. . the patient?’
‘Unconscious, sir, all wired up like I don’t know what. I think he was worked over and left for dead, so I heard, but I wasn’t told that. I’m just here to make sure no one goes in apart from those what should go in, those what has a right to go in, sir.’
‘Someone wanted him dead?’
‘Sounds like, sir.’
‘He must be in a bad way.’
‘Not moving. . and I heard one of the doctors say that it was a miracle he was still alive and that he must have a right strong will to live, but he’s a long way to go before he’s out of danger.’
‘That was said?’
‘Yes, sir, the doctor was explaining the situation to the nursing team and I was standing there in the background, like, but I heard him say that. This must be more than a random attack in the street, otherwise I would not be here to protect him, would I?’
‘Probably not. DC Meadows of Kilburn nick, you say?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Harry Vicary easily found the call centre. It still occupied the same premises as it did when Rosemary Halkier was employed therein, and still had the same business name. He pushed open the glass front door of the building and walked across deep carpeting to the reception desk. The receptionist’s smile was broad, with teeth that could sell toothpaste, and, like an air hostess who does not want to be flying again so soon, utterly disingenuous. She wore loud scarlet lipstick and had her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Police.’ Vicary showed the young woman his ID. The reception area smelled powerfully of air freshener and polish, so much so that Vicary felt overwhelmed. The absence of even a plant in a pot did not surprise him.
‘Oh. .’
‘I would like to talk to a senior person. . the manager. . the personnel officer, someone who can tell me about staff here, long-serving staff.’