This could be it; Tolson deciding he had to justify his position.
Or, he realised with a faint sense of foreboding that passed as quickly as it came, it could be the nocturnal hoaxer again. Well/he'd soon be dealt with: Fuck off, you bastard, I'm far too busy to waste time listening to your asthmatic wheezings.
Peter's fingers closed over the handset, lifted it off its cradle and killed the laboured ringing.
It could be Mr Hughes: Gavin's not well. I'd be glad if you could fetch him home.
But he had to stop speculating and find out who it was.
'Peter Fogg speaking.'
'Is that Mr Fogg of Hodre?'
That's right.'
This is Llanrhayader General Hospital Accident Unit here, Mr Fogg.'
'Yes . . . ?' A sense of apprehension knotted Peter's stomach, trying to figure out a hundred reasons in a split second why they should be phoning him.
Tm afraid we have some bad news for you, Mr Fogg—'
His mulch of intestines was compressed into something the size of a golf ball and twice as hard.
'Your wife's been in a car accident, Mr Fogg. I'm afraid she's suffered multiple injuries and is still in the operating theatre. She hasn't regained consciousness yet . . . '
Oh, Merciful God! How? Why? Surely you're mistaken. Not my Janie. I?$ impossible. I refuse to believe it!
On rare occasions, escalating panic can be transformed into numbing calm and logic as the brain processes its own tran-quilisers. And that was what happened to Peter Fogg in the blinding two or three seconds when he almost fainted. He started to go down into a dark abyss, then came straight back up.
Til be there as soon as I can.' He dropped the receiver back and started checking that he had the car keys in the pocket of his jeans. Llanrhayader The name was familiar; a large market town somewhere in the country. Brain and body had co-ordinated into ice-cold efficiency, enabling him to find the road atlas amidst the other books on the shelf and locate index and page in a matter of seconds.
Thirty miles. A B-road most of the way until it joined a main A-road about five miles from the town. What the hell was Janie doing out there? Probably some complex emergency ambulance coverage. But this was no time to challenge the inefficiencies of the system.
He slid behind the wheel of the Saab and thanked some unknown deity that the engine fired first time, then did a three-point turn that had the tyres spinning and showering mud up the hedge. Keep calm, you can't a/ford to kill yourself; Gavin. mil need you now more than ever. A dilemma as he slowed on the acute bend and prayed again that Ruskin wouldn't be around the corner in that battered old Land Rover: maybe he ought to call in at the school and pick up Gavin. No, a hospital accident unit was no place to take a young boy whose mother was ... He didn't dare try and think what the injuries might be. She wouldn't be in there if she wasn't one helluva a mess. No, leave the boy and phone Hughes from Llanrhayader; get him to break the news. Make some arrangements for Gavin to be looked after until he got back. Got to get there first.
The road was winding beyond Woodside, not so hilly, but he had to watch the bends as it followed a wide valley. The weak sunshine was making one last attempt to display the fading autumnal tints before the winter winds ruthlessly stripped the last of the leaves.
Suddenly he braked hard; a trailer-load of manure was being pulled by an old tractor with an upright exhaust that belched out clouds of black diesel fumes. No number plate in sight. As Peter blared his horn, he saw the driver trying to light a pipe and steer precariously with one hand at the same time so that the trailer veered out into the middle of the road. Driving without due care and attention; no rear registration plate, probably no front one either. The bastard ought to be reported. Peter flashed his lights. No reaction. Maybe the driver didn'r even have a mirror.
Another bend; down to 15 mph.
He took a chance: pulled out and accelerated hard. If you hit anything you might as well hit it hard, he reasoned. You stupid old hayseed bastard, you don't have a front number plate either. He was sweating as he pulled back in; he'd given up praying. If his number came up there was nothing he could do about it.
A clear road ahead. That cross-country run again; he'd lost time so he was trying to make it up until he hit the next obstacle. Sixty-five mph, and knocking hell out of the brake-shoes on the bends.
He glanced at his wrist-watch: five-past-twelve. The phone call had been an eternity ago; probably the watch had slopped.
A green signpost with yellow lettering: LLANRHAYADER 5 made Peter swing off to the left, his foot slammed right down on the throttle.
Llanrhayader was bigger than he had expected. Its long winding approach with grey stone buildings on one side of the road starkly contrasted with rows of red-brick council houses on the other. There was a level-crossing but the barriers were elevated, then a panda crossing with the lights just turning to red and some youths in ragged denims sauntering idly across the road, as if with deliberate arrogance: We hope your wife dies before you get there.
He shot forward with a screech of tyres as the amber light began flashing, then braked again less than a hundred yards further on. This time it was main traffic lights, a queue of a dozen or more vehicles with a large baker's van at the head which would slow the getaway.
A sudden thought threatened to bring back his panic: he'd found Llanrhayader—but where was the hospital? He was winding down the window to shout across to some pedestrians on the opposite pavement when he saw the white and black sign arrowed to the left: Accident Unit. A sense of relief sent a little shiver up his spine and knotted his stomach again. He looked at his watch again. Twelve-fifteen. It hadn't stopped after all.
His mouth was dry as he cut into the left-hand stream of traffic. He'd broken speed limits and other traffic regulations to make record time, but now he was within minutes of his destination, he somehow wished that he hadn't got there so soon. Because he was afraid to face stark reality.
The hospital was a combination of the old and the new; a long low extension had been built on to the existing grey stone austere edifice. A spacious area of black tarmac at the side was marked out into parking lots, and a thirty yard stretch in front of the main entrance bearing three foot capital letters screamed, AMBULANCES ONLY.
Peter didn't give a toss for ambulances or any other vehicles right then; he pulled up to the main steps and was out of the Saab almost before the engine had died. He hit the heavy glass doors at a run, not caring that he was starting to panic. Just cut the officialdom. Take me to my wife.
'Can I help you, sir?' A small dark-haired girl looked up from a window marked Reception., a half-smile but no expression of surprise on her pen features. Maybe, Peter thought, most husbands dashed in here like this when they got a crisis, call.
'My wife . . . ' His voice quavered. 'Injured. I got a call . . . '
'What name, sir?' A lilting local accent.
'Fogg. Jane. Mine's Peter.'
She consulted a clipboard. Oh, for fuck's sake cut out the red lapel She shook her head slowly. Peter clutched at the ledge. Through a red haze that he knew would terminate in a faint this time, he saw her lips starting to move. Ok God, no!
I'm sorry, sir . . . '
Peter felt his legs starting to go weak.
Tin sorry, sir, but nobody of that name has been admitted to Emergency today.'
This is crazy. You're mad! You're not doing your job properly. Somebody hasn't noted my wife's accident down. She could be dying whilst we're fucking about like this. 'You—you're mistaken. I got a call.'