Читать книгу No One Is Sacrosanct - David Balaam - Страница 7

Christine's flight was at 6.45pm and it was now just after 4.00pm. No time to visit Crane today in Scarborough. Christine took a taxi to the airport, re-booked a flight for the same time the next day, and then faced the trickier conversation – calling her husband to explain why she won't be home tonight. She decided to check-in at the airport hotel before calling home. Clive took it better than she had expected. He knew her well, having worked with her on the Marcus Hartmann case. If she had a new lead then nothing was going to stop her.

Next, she called Bell Street Police Station. “May I speak to Michael Flynn, please. Yes, my name is Margaret Flynn, his cousin from Derry.”

After what seemed for ages, a familiar voice was on the line. “Aunty, what a nice surprise. . .”

“Flynn, it's Christine Ling. Don’t let on who you are speaking to. I need a favour.”

***

“You know, I’ve only ever taken two sickies off in all the time I have been in the force. Once when my mum died in 1998, and once when England beat Germany 5-1 in the 2001 World Cup qualifier in Munich. Now you ask me to drive you to Scarbrough to see DCI Crane. What the hell is going on, ma’am.”

By the time they passed Hartlepool, about halfway, DS Flynn was fully in the picture. “So much for your retirement then.”

“Michael, I don’t plan to be over here after today. I just want to check out something with Crane, and hope DCI Dallimore will do the rest.”

“And pigs might fly . . .”

“What do you mean? Isn't he reliable?

“He's OK, but . . . well, he’s more interested in becoming a Chief. Sucks up to the bosses. I.T. mad and a workaholic.”

Christine laughed. “I think he will do just fine. And why are you still a DS? You could have made DI by now.”

Now Flynn laughed. “Not my priority. I like being where I am; In the middle. You learn a lot more being lower down the ladder than at the top if you get my meaning.” Christine did and admired the man for his principles. During the rest of the journey, DS Flynn bought Christine up-to-date with everyone in the office, and what happened to her team, so by the time they arrived in Scarborough her head was spinning with unwanted information.

Scarborough on a bad day, like any east coast resort, would be miserable. Luckily they drove in brilliant sunshine all the way down the A64, arriving around 11.30 am. Christine had not called ahead so there was a fifty/fifty chance this was a wasted journey, but her ‘gut feeling’ was whispering to her, and she always listened.

Green Shores Nursing Home is a large rambling Victorian building covering three floors, with extensive gardens. The receptionist was a young east European woman who spoke English with a slight accent. “How may I help you?” she asked with a practiced smile.

As Christine explained who she was there to see, the young woman’s face morphed into one of extreme unease. “Please take a seat, madam. I will find the duty manager.”

Christine did not sit but paced the reception area wondering why the receptionist’s face had turned pale. A few moments later a smartly dressed woman came to introduce herself. “I am Dorothy Chambers. How may I help you?”

Christine repeated her request.

“Mr Crane is extremely ill. He had a stroke you know.” The woman said assertively.

“I am aware of that, but has he not made any progress . . . with physiotherapy, or whatever it is you treat him with.” Christine asked, determined not to be stone-walled. “I have come a long way to see my former boss and friend, and I would just like a few moments with him,” she pleaded.

Ms Chambers hesitated momentarily, and Christine knew she had won. “OK, but just a short time. He will not recognize you and he has never recovered his speech, even though he has had extensive speech therapy.”

Christine followed the woman to the second floor and was ushered into a large high ceiling room, with panoramic windows overlooking the Golden Bay. “I like to think he enjoys the view.” The woman said respectfully. Crane was seated facing the window, head to one side; his left arm hanging limp. Although it was warm, he was dressed in a heavy navy cardigan with a shawl around his shoulders.

Chambers pulled up a high-backed comfortable chair for Christine. “I’ll leave you for a while,” she said, still wondering why this was only the third visitor she had seen since his arrival two years ago.

“I’ll be outside if you need me, ma’am,” Flynn said, at which Christine nodded.

She sat facing her old boss, and let a tear run down her cheek. This was not the man she knew. “What happened to you, Mike?” She whispered. She reached over and took his right hand to squeeze gently, not knowing if he could feel the same tingling sensation she was feeling. It was not the first time she had held a hand and talked calmly and caringly to someone. She had done this several times during her career at a crime scene whilst waiting for the emergency services. Those times, however, were different. The person in question was attended to and hopefully survived their injuries, or they died. Mike Crane was different. He was neither alive nor dead. Just suspended in time. Locked in a world he could not control or cry out for help from. Christine picked up a towel from the side of his chair and wiped some dribble from his lips, fighting back another tear. As she held the towel to his lips they started to quiver. He had been staring blankly at the blue horizon, but when Christine looked at the window herself, she realized he could see her reflection in it, as she saw his. “He knows I am here,” she told herself. She turned her chair closer, towards his, and their eyes met.

His lips were still quivering, but his vacant expression did not change. “Mike, can you hear me?” Christine asked optimistically, knowing full well the answer. “I married Clive Moran, but you knew that. We moved to France and adopted two beautiful twin girls from Hong Kong . . . my dear friend Mandy died recently, you met her once . . .” She stopped mid-sentence. With his lips trembling faster she leant closer until her ear was almost touching his mouth.

“Answer . . . stoke . . .”

She barely made out the words.

“Stoke . . . what is stoke, Mike? What answer?”

Then, suddenly, without warning his right hand lashed out and gripped her wrist with such strength she gave out a muffled scream. “Answer . . . Stoke . . . Mandeville.” He released his grip as quickly as he had grasped her, and his head flopped back and his eyes glazed over, lost again in his worldly prison.

Christine stared at this broken man, trying to make herself remember what he had said . . . what he had said . . . ‘answer . . . Stoke Mandeville’.

Christine went to stand but faltered, feeling faint at the realization of these words and what they meant. Her friend . . . her dead friend, Mandy Silver must have told Crane what Graham King had found out about the coded text . . . Answer: Stoke Mandeville.

‘Christ! Were Mandy and Graham killed for this?’ She looked at Mike Crane for more answers but none were there. Who can she trust now, and what does Stoke Mandeville have to do with Peter Dunfold?

Christine Ling left the nursing home without saying goodbye to anyone. She did not want to say anything about Crane talking. She needed to have a meeting with Peter Dunfold, then stopped and remembered. She was no longer a DCI.

“Are you OK, ma’am, you looked a little shocked.” Mike Flynn asked, concerned for his old boss as she settled herself in the passenger seat. “How was DCI Crane?”

“As expected, Mike. No response from him at all.”

***

Mike Flynn dropped Christine off at the airport with a few hours to spare before her flight. Enough time to call Dallimore. “Martin, I need you to look at the autopsy reports for Ms Silver and Mr King. I saw DCI Crane today and he told me what Mandy had told him.”

“Which was?” Dallimore asked.

“I can’t tell you yet, Martin. I think they were killed because they knew something.”

“In that case, Christine, haven’t you just put your life in danger.”

***

Christine drove the thirty-minute journey to Seclin, a small village south of Lille, hoping her girls had not yet gone to bed. It was after nine o’clock, but she was sure Clive would allow them to watch TV a little longer on this occasion. They ran into her arms as soon as she opened the door. “I have missed you, my angels,” she said, hugging them close. “And what about me?” Clive asked, putting his arms around her waist.

She turned to kiss him. “Of course. More than anything,” she whispered.

When the girls were asleep, and she and Clive had eaten, she told him everything that had happened in the last forty-eight hours. He didn’t say a word until she had finished.

“Dallimore was right. You may have put yourself in danger. Let him handle it from herein, Christine. You have your life to live, and family to look after.” He said sympathetically.

“I know, I know. But why do I have the feeling Marcus Hartmann is still haunting me.”