Читать книгу Angels of Mourning - John Pritchard - Страница 17

Chapter 10

The long, heavy blade came up slowly, and caught the light – reflecting it sharply back at me. I managed not to flinch. Taking another sip of strong tea, I kept my eyes on the screen; even when Nick leaned over the back of the sofa to stroke my hair, running his hand down inside my dressing gown collar.

‘Sure you’re up to tonight?’ he asked quietly.

I nodded – absorbed in the news conference; watching the solemn-faced man hold the machete gingerly up by its handle and tip. The spokesman beside him looked grimly back into the cameras.

‘We believe a weapon similar to this was used: a machete, or possibly a butcher’s knife of some description …’

‘Jesus, what their wives must be going through,’ Nick murmured. His fingers tightened to a stop on my shoulder; then resumed their gentle squeezing. I drank again, the mug held tight in both my hands. Still peering warily over the rim.

‘… the actual weapon?’

‘No, the weapon used has not been recovered as yet,’ the policeman responded heavily. ‘Our conclusions have been drawn from the pathologist’s report. All three victims died from severe lacerations compatible with …’ His mouth kept on going through the motions; his strained face told it differently. Behind the formal language – the forced dispassion – I glimpsed his pent-up anger and disgust; the effort of keeping it inside him turned him white.

Two coppers killed in the line of duty: gutted like fish in a busy, British hospital. The atmosphere under the TV lights was tripwire-taut. We could almost feel it seeping out into the room.

Even if I hadn’t seen the carnage for myself, the shock would still have numbed me. Partly because the police we take for granted aren’t supposed to get killed: it breaks the rules. And partly – of course – because of Nick. To judge by the photos they’d shown, both men had been his age. Imagining his sheepish mug-shot in their place was far too easy.

When I’d finally emerged from my hiding place last night, the floor had been alive with stunned policemen; dark uniforms offsetting bleached, tight faces. The ones I ran into by the stairwell established who I was as politely as their outrage would allow, and ushered me along. I was finally nodded out through the front doors at nearly half-past ten, leaving the hospital lowering behind me.

Night castle. Black fortress. Staring after me with its hundred blazing eyes …

The reporters on TV were demanding theories. The spokesman spread his hands.

‘We can confirm that the hospital patient was in police custody. We believe the murderer or murderers were primarily interested in him …’

‘… Is it true he was a terrorist suspect … ?’

‘I cannot comment on that at this time …’

‘Thank Christ he wasn’t in with you,’ Nick said softly; from the tone of his voice, he was as unnerved on my behalf as I was on his. This sort of horror in hospitals was against the rules as well. Was out of order.

He didn’t know the half of it.

The next item of news came on, and at last I leaned my head back. His face was close to mine, and full of concern. I smiled faintly.

‘I’ll be okay tonight, don’t worry. Been looking forward to it …’

‘Just ring when you’re ready to come away from there.’

‘No, don’t wait up. I’ll call a cab …’

‘You ring me, right.’ His hand closed firmly on my shoulder. ‘Please, Rachel. There’s some bad bastards around at the moment.’

I wouldn’t dispute that, either. The murders at our hospital had made such a splash (sorry: wrong word) on the evening news that other items had been pushed aside; but as I’d listened to GLR while doing my cooking this afternoon, the local news had provided a grisly little snippet of its own. A prostitute found hanged in a bedsit near King’s Cross. The police didn’t reckon it was suicide.

And whoever had done it had used piano wire.

We could have done without that detail; the very thought set my teeth on edge. Learning that the body had hung undiscovered for several days didn’t help, either. Maybe she was already dead and dangling when I’d made my abortive recce of the area. Maybe I’d passed quite close, and never known it …

‘What time’s your friend coming?’ Nick asked, straightening up. I glanced at my watch. Nearly six-fifteen.

‘Seven.’ Which was plenty of time. I’d had my bath already; washed and dried my hair. Now I could spend ages deciding what I was going to wear.

I was determined to enjoy myself tonight; leave all my cares behind me. If that meant drinking lots of wine, then well and good, but I had other reserves to draw on too. Like a nurse’s ability to distance herself from dreadful things she’s had to deal with. And – after all I’d been through three years ago – a survivor’s resolve to keep on going forward.

Besides, for me the war was over. Surely. I’d done all that Razoxane had asked of me; it wasn’t my fault that someone got there first.

… someone looking for me …

Her dry, remembered words made my stomach lurch; but that was pure reflex. I was out of it now. Whatever she might be pitting her wits against this time, it was no concern of mine.

So it was curiosity as much as anything that made me ask if there’d been any progress with the Kentish Town fire-bombing.

Nick shrugged. I’d wandered through to watch him prepare his supper; ever ambitious, he was doing beans on toast.

‘Nothing definite, not yet. The bloke who got savaged by the dogs is the only one who can say anything, and he’s still pretty shocked. Not making much sense at the moment …’

He paused to add what seemed a suicidal amount of West Indian Hot Pepper Sauce to the beans; then glanced back over his shoulder.

‘One word that keeps coming up is “Wiking”, apparently.’

‘What, with a W?’

‘Yep; it’s a bit confused … But there’s an offshoot of the BNP round there who call themselves the Vikings … silly buggers … and the gentleman was coloured. So we’ve pulled a few of them in for questioning.’

That threw a new light on things. I straightened hopefully up from where I’d been leaning against the wall. ‘And the others – the people in the house. Were they black too?’

‘No; all white. But we thought we’d give these bastards a going over anyway.’ He grinned and turned back to his beans; not seeing the flicker of hope on my face snuffed out again.

Someone looking for me.

Wiking.

I shook the words right out of my head, and went hastily upstairs to choose my clothes.

Not wanting to get too giggly (or go to sleep), I’d decided to take it easy with the wine. Just a glass or two of white, to keep me cheerful. But halfway through my third or fourth, I just thought, belatedly, sod it; and let Murdoch top me up again.

It was going well, though: I was glad I’d come. The house, up in New Barnet, was lovely – wide white rooms, deep carpets and the sort of chairs you could doze off in. Mrs Murdoch – Emma, she insisted – had prepared a delicious hot-and-cold buffet, to which we added our various contributions; Michelle and I helped her lay it all out on the long dining table. Going back through to the lounge, I’d glimpsed two young kids peering down at me through the banisters at the top of the stairs. Grinning, I gave them a little wave. The little girl returned it shyly; her brother stayed politely serious. Already very much his father’s son, I mused.

Still smiling, I thought of Sandra, who I hadn’t been able to visit for a while. I hoped she’d be safely home soon as well; and that I’d have a chance to say goodbye before she went.

With the ice pretty much broken by the warmth of our welcome, the evening unfolded smoothly. We ate, drank and talked at length and leisure. Sitting on the lounge carpet, next to a hi-fi system as imposing as some of the life-support equipment we worked with, I felt like someone snapped out of a trance, brought back to the land of the living. In the midst of this cheerful gathering, the dread of the past few days seemed quite unreal, like something I’d dreamed. Even the ghastly sights of yesterday were wholly dislocated from the here and now. Madness, terrorism, murder: it was all sealed off as safely as the night beyond the curtained picture windows.

Maybe people coming out of schizophrenic episodes felt just like this.

I took another sip of cold, sweet wine. The background music – something light and classical – blended softly with the conversations round the room; the readouts on the CD player beside me rose and fell like biorhythms.

Most of the team had made it tonight; those who’d drawn the short straw to cover the Late and Night shifts would be guaranteed their place next Christmas. I was quite sorry Jean wasn’t here: her deadpan anecdotes were always a treat.

I wouldn’t have minded watching her tease Lucy, either.

That was me being bitchy, but I couldn’t help it. Looking across at Lucy now, I almost instinctively found fault: saw sulkiness in her smile, heard smugness in her voice. And knew this was going to get addictive if I didn’t watch out …

‘You’re very quiet tonight, Rachel,’ Emma Murdoch said lightly, easing into the unoccupied chair behind me. I glanced back at her with a smile, relieved at the distraction.

‘I’m always quiet.’

‘Enjoying yourself, though.’

I nodded vigorously. ‘Very much, thanks. It was a gorgeous meal. And I love the house.’

‘It is nice, isn’t it? We’ve been here three or four years, now …’ She paused. ‘I’m glad it’s going well. John said you all needed the break. I hear your hospital’s … been quite busy recently.’

She said it carefully, trying to sound casual; but I could tell from the undertone in her voice what was really on her mind. As a former nurse, the thought of murder and mutilation in a hospital would have shaken her as much as anyone. But the fact that it was the hospital where her husband worked brought the horror right home onto her doorstep.

It suddenly felt like we were both sliding over a frozen black lake – spiralling in towards the thin ice at the centre. She didn’t want to talk or even think about what had happened, I guessed that much; yet still some fascination drew her in – and tugged me with her.

With an effort I steered the two of us back towards the bank.

‘Never stops, does it? But you’ll remember that …’

She took the opening gladly. ‘Don’t I just? My first job was on a really understaffed surgical unit, and it was absolute hell. And the discipline was still so strict, too, with Matron and all. Whereas nowadays …’

I gently mimicked her Yorkshire accent. ‘… nurses today don’t know they’re born, right?’

And smiling she broadened it herself. ‘Aye, lass. Sheer luxury these days. Now, when I were a nurse …’

We chatted on; stepping almost subconsciously back off the ice and onto solid ground. She reminded me of Judith, a Sister I’d worked with in my last job. I’d burned a lot of bridges when I’d moved, but the two of us still kept in touch. I owed her a letter, come to think of it.

Emma decided she’d better circulate, and moved on. I joined Sue in a raid on what remained of the desserts. ‘Okay?’ I asked her quietly as we made our selection, and she gave a quick, grateful nod. Coming back into the lounge with a piece of Black Forest, I joined the nearest conversation. And Jez glanced round with a smile.

‘How about you, Rachel? Would you prefer to be buried or cremated?’

Ouch.

People discuss the oddest things at parties, and that one caught me unprepared. For a moment I was out on the midnight lake again, and sensing the chilly depths beneath the ice. Then back on balance – with soft, firm carpet under my shoes.

I shrugged. ‘Dunno. Don’t really mind.’ I forked in a mouthful of gateau, and forced myself to chew. Rich chocolate and cherries – as tasteless on my tongue as cotton wool.

‘Any preferences about the send-off?’ Theresa asked brightly.

I thought about it, still chewing. Swallowed. Then shrugged again.

‘I wouldn’t want it to be all miserable. I mean … it’s not as if it’s the end of things or anything.’

‘And what would you want played?’ Jez wondered. ‘I’d quite like Jerusalem myself. Not that I’m religious or anything; I just like it.’

I thought again. ‘I’d like to have the Hymn of St Patrick, please. Or maybe Be Thou My Vision. I love those two. Old Irish hymns …’

He grinned delightedly, and nudged me in the ribs. ‘Bejesus, Rachel, ’tis the Catholic in ye.’

‘Shush!’ I elbowed him back. ‘No … I went on a trip to Ireland when I was in school, and we went to see Patrick’s shrine, and where he was buried and everything. There were some pilgrims singing his hymn by the graveside, and I found that really moving. Stayed with me for a long time afterwards.’ I shook my head. ‘Don’t knock it, Jez. It’s a beautiful country.’

I’d been twelve, but I still recalled it: standing on the very top of Slieve Patrick Hill with the wind in my hair. Overlooking the sea, with the hills of the Lake District seeming maybe twenty miles off; and nothing behind me but wide green fields, fading back into the haze of the oncoming rain.

That had been a special holiday; a memory I treasured. I still couldn’t marry up that countryside, those friendly people, with the violence and hatred we saw so often on the news. The mismatch just made it seem surreal. But now the killers and haters had met me face to face, like all my fears made flesh and blood.