‘William. I’m Kim van Zyl. I’m a friend of Alex’s. My husband’s in this hospital too. I’m very sorry about what happened to your wife.’
William opened his mouth as if about to berate her as well, but Kim’s smile, warm, sympathetic, reassuring, stopped him.
‘Do you want Alex and me to take the children down to the café for a drink?’ she said. ‘Perhaps it would be good to be alone for a moment. I’ll bring them back in half an hour.’
William looked at Phoebe and Robbie and at Kim, and nodded.
‘Are you OK?’ Kim said as she and Calder led the two children through the corridors by the hand.
‘Physically, yes,’ Calder said. ‘But William’s right. He’s bloody well right. It was my fault. First Todd and now Annie.’
‘Hey, I know Todd wasn’t your fault,’ Kim said sternly. ‘And you had no way of knowing there was a bomb in that car. If anyone should feel guilty, it’s me for getting you involved in the first place.’
‘It should have been me,’ Calder said. ‘It should bloody well have been me. I wish it had been me.’
With her free hand, the one that wasn’t gripped tightly by Phoebe, Kim touched Calder’s arm.
They bought the children a cup of hot chocolate each, and then a man and a woman approached them: DI Banks and DC Wardle. They ushered Calder to another table away from Phoebe and Robbie to ask some questions.
At first Calder answered them dully. He explained where the car was parked, how he was the usual driver, how he had suggested his sister drive it to the village. Then DI Banks asked the obvious question. Had he any idea who had planted the bomb?
‘It has to be the same person who planted the bomb in the Yak, doesn’t it?’ Calder said.
‘We can’t be sure of that,’ Banks said. ‘At least not until our forensic people have had a chance to look at the evidence.’
Calder stared at her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I do know who blew up my sister. Or at least I know who arranged it, even if I don’t know if they planted the bomb themselves.’
Inspector Banks’s hazel eyes studied his face carefully. ‘Yes?’
Calder paused to think it all through. But there wasn’t really very much to figure out. ‘Cornelius van Zyl. Or his son, Edwin van Zyl. Or both of them.’
Banks’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you have any evidence?’
‘You find the evidence,’ Calder said. ‘It’s your job. And do it before anyone else gets blown up.’
Banks smiled sympathetically. ‘It is our job, and we will. But it would help us do that if you could tell us what makes you so sure Cornelius van Zyl is responsible.’
So Calder told her all about the dinner with the van Zyl family and how vehemently Cornelius had opposed Kim’s desire to find out what had happened to Martha van Zyl all those years ago.
Banks listened. Wardle took notes. When they had finished they moved over to where Kim was talking gently to Calder’s nephew and niece. As they asked Kim questions, Calder did his best to chat to Phoebe and Robbie, but all the time his thoughts were with their mother, in the operating theatre fighting for her life.
Calder barely held it together over that long day. Mid-afternoon they transferred Anne from the operating theatre to intensive care. The doctors spoke to William rather than Calder, so Calder didn’t get the details, but two things were clear: firstly, Anne would live; secondly, they had amputated her left leg above the knee. They weren’t sure whether they would have to remove the right one as well.
Calder found the atmosphere in the hospital intolerable. Part of it was the hostility from William, part of it was the feeling of total powerlessness, of being unable to do anything but ask the medical staff stupid questions. Most of it was the guilt.
He decided to leave. Kim offered to come with him, but Calder said that would make things worse. She looked offended and Calder knew that she had made the offer from the best of motives, but he also knew that spending time with her would pile on the guilt. He had called his father, he had had no choice. He had explained that Anne’s injuries were a result of a bomb, not an accident. And his father said he would be down the next morning. That would be very difficult to face.
He took a taxi from the hospital straight home. Police tape surrounded his house and men and women in white forensic overalls were peering at the wreckage of the blackened Maserati. It brought home to Calder how lucky Anne was to have been thrown clear. It appeared that she had left the door open when she had turned on the ignition, presumably in case she needed to summon him to explain how something worked. Whatever the reason, it was a miracle. Had she strapped herself in and shut the door, she would have burned alive. If she hadn’t been killed instantly, of course.
A policeman ushered him along a marked path to his front door and another asked for his permission to pick over all his possessions inside and out. He wanted to get away from all the people. He also needed a drink. The decanter was empty, but he found a bottle of whisky in a cupboard; twelve-year-old Laphroaig his father had given him for his last birthday. A fine single malt meant to be sipped, not gulped. Tough. He met the sympathetic smile of the policeman guarding the crime scene with a curt nod and headed out into the marshes in front of the house, clutching the bottle in his right hand.
He walked fast. Although it was May, and the sun had been shining, there had been a breeze blowing from the east all day that had kept the air cool. Calder strode rapidly along the path towards the sea, ignoring the stares of other walkers. He headed for a quiet hollow in the sand near a creek, out of sight of the footpaths. He sat down, opened the bottle and took a long pull. The liquid burned the back of his throat and a moment later the lining of his empty stomach. The pain felt good. He took another swig.
He stared out over the creek and the sea and heaved a couple of deep breaths. He had to empty his mind, get a grip, control the screams inside his head. He focused on a solitary sailing boat half a mile away that had just rounded a headland and was aiming for the main creek to Hanham Staithe. The breeze had dropped and the boat, a ketch with a tan sail, was making slow progress. The sand in front of Calder was alive with small birds scurrying this way and that among the shells. All around was urgent twittering and chattering, and also the occasional clear cry of a curlew which he could hear but not see. A few feet from the water’s edge was a band of clear white scum. As he stared harder he realized that it was in fact a pile of tiny white baby crabs, thousands of them, maybe millions, all dead. No wonder the birds were having such a great time.
Anne with no legs. No. Another pull of whisky. Look at the headland, actually an island of sand and grass cut off from the mainland at high tide. The boat was now making better progress, but would have to tack once more to make the creek. He felt air on his cheeks, the breeze had got up again. He could see the sailing boat accelerate.
Anne with no legs. Anne’s face, scarred and bloody and in pain. William’s face, full of hostility, more than that, hate.
More whisky.
Would Anne hate him too? Would she ever forgive him? Could William cope with two boisterous children and an invalid wife? He would have to give up his job. Had they enough money to get by? Would their marriage stand it?
Phoebe crying. Robbie being brave. More whisky.
William blaming him. Rationally, Calder knew his brother-in-law was talking crap. It was pure bad luck that Anne had got into the Maserati, rather than him. But that wasn’t really William’s point. William’s point was that Calder took stupid risks. That even when he hurt himself he hurt his family as well. But this time he had hurt his sister directly, and to William that was unforgivable. Calder had taken risks all his life: be it rock climbing when he was a boy, diving head first into trouble on the rugby field, flying Tornados in the RAF, staking millions in the City, or... or what? Asking the van Zyls difficult questions.