She pushed the torch away and her teeth gleamed momentarily as she smiled. "It was fun while it lasted, McLoughlin, but I did tell you not to try and change me."
She was gone so fast that even his torch beam couldn't follow her.
15
He let her go and set off back to his car. He knew that if he went after her, her windows would be locked. He felt regret and relief in equal measure, like the suicide playing Russian roulette who hears the hammer click against an empty chamber. The Station was lousy with women wanting to console him. To hold a loaded gun to his temple by seeking his consolation with her was madness. He swiped in angry frustration at the branches of a tree and ripped the flesh on the side of his hand. He sucked the blood and swore profusely. He was in a mess, and he knew it. He needed a drink.
An owl screeched. Somewhere, far away, he thought he heard voices. He turned his head to listen but the silence only thickened about him. He shrugged and walked on, and it came again, a thread of sound, insubstantial-imagined? The skin on his scalp prickled uneasily. Damn the woman, he thought. If he went back, she would laugh at him.
He was cursing himself for a fool by the time he reached the terrace. He had seen no one, the house was in darkness and Anne was obviously already tucked up in bed. He flashed his torch across the flagstones and lit up her half-opened French window. With a frown, he walked over to it and shone his torch round the interior. He found her almost immediately. He thought she was asleep until he saw the blood glistening in her velvet cap of hair.
After the first paralysing moment of shock, he set to with such speed that time became elastic. In ten seconds he had worked up a sweat mat would be rare after an hour's strenuous effort. His torch beam found a table lamp which he switched on as he sank to his knees beside the crumpled heap of clothes. He felt for a pulse in her neck, couldn't find one; laid his head on her chest, no heartbeat. With one fluid movement he rolled the tiny body over, shoved a hand under her neck, pinched her nostrils closed and began mouth-to-mouth respiration. He needed help. The part of his brain that wasn't directly concerned with the resuscitation directed him backwards, drawing the lifeless body with him, feeling with his feet for the table with the bronze statuette. He found it. While he continued the regular in-flows of air, he gave a vicious backward kick and sent the heavy bronze smashing through the plate-glass window. The glass exploded outwards on to the terrace, shattering the silence of the night and sending Benson and Hedges into a frenzy of alarm in another part of the house. He realised with a sense of desperation that he was getting no response. Her face was grey, her lips blue. He placed the heel of his right hand over her breast bone and with the heel of his left hand pressed down, rocking forward, arms straight. While his mouth was free, he shouted for help. After five compressions, he gave her another mouth-to-mouth respiration, before returning to the heart massage. As he rocked forward on the third compression, he saw Jonathan press his fingers against the colourless neck and feel for the pulse.
"Give her another breath," said Jonathan. "There's a very faint pulse. My bag, Mum. It's in the hall."
McLOughlin breathed again into her lungs and, this time, when he turned his head to look at her chest it fluttered weakly. "Keep going," said Jonathan, "one breath every five seconds until she's breathing normally. You're doing great." He took his bag from a white-faced Phoebe. "Get some blankets," he told her. "Hot-water bottles, anything to keep her warm. And get an ambulance." He took out his stethoscope, pulled open Anne's shirt and listened for the heartbeat. "Brilliant," he said warmly. "It's weak, but there." He pinched her cheek and watched with relief as the sluggish blood tinged it faintly pink. Her breathing began to take on a regular rhythm. Gently, he pushed McLoughlin off. "OK," he said. "I think she's under her own steam now. We'll put her in the recovery position." With the Sergeant's help he pulled her arm across her midriff, then rolled her on to her front, turning her face gently to one side and bending her nearest arm and leg at the elbow and knee. Her breathing was slow but even. She muttered something into the carpet and opened her eyes.
"Hey, McLoughlin," she said distinctly before giving a huge yawn and falling asleep.
Mclaughlin's face was running with sweat. He sat back and wiped it with his shirt sleeve. "Can't you give her something?"
"Nothing to give. I'm not qualified yet. Don't worry. She's doing all right."
McLoughlin pointed to the bloody hair. "She may have a fractured skull."
Phoebe had come in quietly with a pile of blankets which she spread over the prone figure. She popped her own hot-water bottle at the feet. "Diana's on the phone for an ambulance. Jane's run down to wake Fred and get the gates open." She squatted by Anne's head. "Is she going to be all right?"
"I don't-" Jonathan began.
"Your daughter's outside?" McLoughlin interrupted, staggering to his feet.
Phoebe stared at him. "She's gone to the Lodge. They're not on the phone."
"Is anyone with her?"
Phoebe's face turned pale. "No."
"Jesus!" swore McLoughlin, thrusting past her. "Ring the police for God's sake, get some cars up here. I don't want to tackle a bloody maniac on my own." He shouted back to them as he ran down Anne's corridor: "Tell them someone's tried to murder your friend and may have a go at your daughter. Tell them to get a fucking move on."
He ran past Diana and burst out of the front door, his sweat turning ice-cold in the night air. It was four hundred yards to the gates and he reckoned Jane was a couple of minutes ahead of him. He set off at a blistering pace. Two minutes was an eternity to kill a woman, he thought, when a second was all it needed to smash an unsuspecting skull. The drive was in pitch darkness with the overhanging trees and bushes blocking out even the weak light of a shrouded moon. He swore at himself for not bringing his torch as he blundered unseeingly into the stinging branches at the edge of the way. He set off again, this time using the crown of the road for his guide, eyes straining to adjust themselves to the night. It was several seconds before he realised that the bobbing yellow pinpoint in the distance ahead of him was a torch beam. The drive had straightened out.
"Jane!" he yelled. "Stop! Wait there." He pounded on.
The torch swung round to point in his direction. The beam wobbled as if the hand that held it was unsteady.
"I'm a police officer," he called, his lungs straining. "Stay there."
He slowed to a walk as he approached her, hands held placatingly in front of him, chest heaving. The torchlight, wavering frantically now, danced across his face and dazzled him. He fished for his warrant card in his trouser pocket, holding it in front of him like a talisman. With a groan he put his hands on his knees, bent forward and whooped for breath.
"What's the m-matter?" she stammered in a shrill, frightened voice.
"Nothing," he said, straightening. "I didn't think you should come alone, that's all. Could you shine the torch on the ground? You're blinding me."
"Sorry." She dropped her hand to her side and he saw she was wearing a dressing-gown and carpet slippers.
"Let's go," he suggested. "It can't be far now. Shall I take the torch?"
She passed it to him and he caught a brief glimpse of her in its gleam as he turned to light the way ahead. She was like a bloodless ghost, white-faced and insubstantial with a cloud of dark hair. She looked absolutely terrified.
"Please don't be frightened. Your mother knows me," he said inadequately as they went on. "She agreed I should come after you." They could see the black mass of the Lodge in the distance.
She tried to speak but it was a second or two before the sound came. "I could hear b-breathing," she wobbled out.