The policeman explained the situation and relayed the membership number on the bracelet while Solly’s eyes scanned the room, taking in the mess on the wall, the fallen tray and the ioniser on the shelf above the bed. He frowned suddenly, wishing that Rosie were here to tell them what might have happened to the man lying across the bed.
Solly’s eyes returned to the black box above the bed. ‘See that?’ he pointed it out to Lorimer. ‘My sister used one of these for her pet hair allergy. Could he have had some sort of asthma attack?’
‘Check his things,’ Lorimer replied, still listening to the voice at the other end of the line.
‘What do we want?’ Solly spoke almost to himself as he moved across the room. ‘A medical card of some kind?’ He bent down to retrieve a jacket that had fallen from the back of a chair. Lorimer’s face darkened as he listened to the voice on the emergency line. ‘OK. I’ll try my best but for God’s sake get a move on.’ He clicked shut the mobile.
‘We’ve to look for an pre-loaded adrenaline kit. It’s like the sort of pen that diabetics carry around. They say he should have one wherever he goes so it won’t be far away. Looks like he’s suffering an anaphylactic shock.’ Lorimer said. ‘Let’s see if there’s anything in here or that poor beggar hasn’t a chance,’ he said, glancing down at the man on the bed as he rummaged in the bedside drawer.
‘Bingo!’ Lorimer breathed out in relief as he held up the sealed kit.
The psychologist looked away as Lorimer administered the drug. He focused instead on the arm drooping from the sheets, its clenched fist brushing the floor. Obscured at first by the corner of the duvet, Chris Hunter’s motionless hand was closed around a Christmas card.
Solly bent down, his fingers prising the card from the unconscious man’s grasp. His foot pushed against the bed linen revealing a torn envelope. Smoothing out the creases of the Christmas card Solly opened it. Inside was a photograph of a young girl smiling out from the crumpled gloss. He read the sloping handwriting, nodding to himself.
‘What d’you make of this?’ he began to say, then both men turned their heads as the sound of feet came racing up the stairs.
‘Thank God!’ Lorimer breathed as the paramedic crew arrived at the bedroom door, stretcher and oxygen at the ready. ‘Here,’ Lorimer handed over the empty adrenaline pen. ‘I gave him this just before you arrived.’
‘Might help. How long has he been in a coma?’ one of the paramedics asked.
Lorimer shook his head, his mouth a grim line. ‘We don’t know. He was supposed to be meeting me an hour ago and didn’t turn up. God knows how long he’s been like this.’
‘OK. We’ve got the rest of his details from the Medicalert database. Come on, fella, let’s get you out of here.’
The two men watched as Chris Hunter was gently lifted away from his bed. His body, wrapped in double cellular blankets and strapped onto the stretcher, looked ominously still as it was carried out of the flat by the paramedics.
‘Think he’ll make it?’ Lorimer asked them.
‘Maybe. Depends if he responds to that shot you gave him,’ one of the crew replied.
Lorimer turned back to see Solly by the window. The psychologist was examining a Christmas card that he’d picked up from the floor. Had it fallen from the window ledge? There were several others there in a row. Curious, Lorimer moved towards the window and looked over Solly’s shoulder
‘That’s Tina Quentin-Jones,’ he said, seeing the photograph that had been stuck inside the card.
‘See what she’s written,’ Solly showed him. There, under Season’s Greetings were the words, From your new wee sister, with love, Tina. December 22nd. Happy Christmas.
Lorimer’s mind spun with sudden possibilities. He turned to face Solly. ‘What else could she have given him?’
Once more he recalled her desperate expression at Karen’s funeral. Did Tina Quentin-Jones imagine that Chris Hunter had killed her mother?
‘Could she have deliberately given him something to bring on this reaction?’
‘Somebody did,’ Solly pointed to the porridge congealing on the skirting board. ‘Who else lives here?’
‘Simon Corrigan, but he …’ Lorimer paused. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said slowly, letting his gaze fall to the window ledge. He picked up one card after another until he came to the one he was looking for.
‘What does this tell you?’ Lorimer held it up for the psychologist to see. ‘Not the sort of message you’d write to your mate, is it?’ Solomon read the message on the card, his face serious as the implication sank in. Then he looked up.
‘Where is he, then? Why’s Corrigan not here if he’s expressing his undying love to Christopher Hunter?’ Solly asked.
Suddenly Carl Bekaert’s words came back to Lorimer. ‘Love. It’s not a dirty word?’
‘Love. You just said it. That’s what it’s all about,’ Lorimer stared at Solly.
‘That’s what it’s been about from the beginning, only we couldn’t see it.’ For a moment there was a triumphant spark in his eye then his expression changed.
‘No. Oh, dear God, no.’ Lorimer’s eyes flicked from one Christmas card to the other. ‘He’s gone after the girl. Quick, let’s get out of here.’
As the flames began their ascent of the heavily embossed wallpaper, Tina struggled to free her hands from their bonds. She could still hear Simon in the lounge, the sound of a glass clinking against a bottle. Suddenly it reminded her of her father and his nightly tipples.
Dad. Where was he supposed to be this morning? She couldn’t remember. Was it a theatre day? or was he doing rounds? Tina couldn’t remember. They’d had an awful row the other night, and she’d said some cutting things. If only she could take them all back now, unsay them.
She whimpered as the fire whooshed upwards, the wallpaper dissolving into its yellow tongues. He’d never get to hear her say that she really loved him; that he was her dad and that was all that really mattered. The girl struggled harder, a sudden urge to live, to fight against this terror forcing the adrenalin through her veins.
From her twisted position at the foot of the stairs Tina could hear the musician as he moved about her home. She heard the door of the stereo cabinet opening and the clunk of Simon’s glass as he laid it down. What on earth was he doing now?
Her answer came moments later as the final movement of Tchaikovsky’s ‘1812 Overture’ crashed at top volume through the rooms. He was mad. The man was totally insane, listening to Tchaikovsky and drinking whisky as he burnt down her house.
If only she could reach the front door again! The panic button was at waist height, next to the chain that was hardly ever used, she thought, crazy tears filling her eyes.
Tina crawled towards the foot of the stairs. The fire had got a hold of the carpet between where she was now and the door. She’d have to roll her body through the lines of flames if she were to make it.
The pain shot through her legs as she inched down, elbows taking her weight.
The thump as her body landed on the floor made her stop, head craned to see if her attacker had heard, but the music had evidently drowned out the noise. She could see his back to her as he drank down her father’s whisky, one arm conducting the unseen orchestra. Heart thudding, Tina grasped at hope. At least the cigarette lighter was laid aside for the moment.
With a jerk Tina rolled over the line of flame, her head bursting with the effort. Would her dressing gown catch fire? Or would she smother the flames? She could smell the burning carpet beneath her even as her body felt the heat.
Hardly daring to look, Tina forced herself against the corner of the wall beside the door, her spine protesting as she wrenched her body upright. The strain on her wrists and ankles made her wobble dangerously.