Almost Love (41 page)

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Juliet Armstrong called for two ambulances.

“If one of the men escaped how do you know he won’t come back, perhaps with others?” Alex asked fearfully.

“It’s unlikely. But if he does, this house is now being guarded by a squad of armed police. As I said, you’re quite safe now. I’m going to make you some tea. I want you to stay here until the ambulance comes. I don’t think it’s good for you to try to move too far. Sergeant Harrison will stay here with you.” She indicated the policeman who had accompanied her. He was still standing in the doorway. He was holding his gun at his side. He grinned at Alex. She tried to smile back.

Juliet did not add that she wanted to protect Alex from the scene of carnage in the kitchen. The man who had failed to escape had lost quite a lot of blood before she had applied a tourniquet. Oliver’s body was lying outstretched on the floor in the position in which he had died, his torso reduced to a bloody pulp.

Juliet returned with the tea and Alex thirstily devoured a cup of it. It was stiff with sugar. She still felt weak, but the hit from the sweet tea helped to dispel her apathy. She hoped that Juliet would be able to answer some of her questions.

“How did you find me? This is Oliver’s house, isn’t it? I’ve never been here before, but I know that it’s right out in the fen beyond Gosberton Clough, miles from anywhere. Was Oliver some kind of suspect?”

“No, no at all,” said Juliet, remembering with some irony Tim’s conviction that Oliver was a man in whom they could place absolute trust. “I haven’t been here before, either, but Mr Sparham is known to us. As you are already aware, he’s been helping with the McRae enquiry. We thought he might be able to help further when you went missing, so we tried to call him. There was no reply. When I’d called him before, an answering machine had kicked in when he was out. This time there was nothing, as if the phone had been disconnected. Not a cause for concern in itself, but when reports came in of a white van speeding through Gosberton, I decided to investigate further. An extra armed response unit had just reported for duty at the police station, so I asked if they could escort me. Were you abducted by someone in a white van?”

“Yes, but Oliver wasn’t involved in that, though I saw him earlier today. He was waiting when I was brought here. It was difficult for me to be able to tell whether he had helped to kidnap me or not. He seemed to have a very strained relationship with the people who took me; yet he wasn’t exactly being held prisoner either. He did tell me that to try to escape would be futile. He seemed to be talking about himself as well as me. He tried to protect me as far as he could. He set me free for a while when we were alone. Who are these people? Do you know?”

“We’re beginning to get some idea. We think that there are two sets of people involved, the members of a right-wing political group and an Eastern European drugs ring. The drugs ring seems to be funding the political group, but we’re not sure why. It must be in return for something. They’re also providing the armed men, but we’ve only just begun to understand why the political group wants to use violence.”

“When Oliver and I were here on our own he mentioned that he’d belonged to an extremist group when he was young and that however much he might try to refute them and their ideas, he would never be able to escape from them. It all sounded a bit far-fetched to me.”

“It probably wasn’t, if he was talking about the group that I’m thinking of. It’s called The Ymir. Have you heard of it?”

“No,” said Alex. “But I think that I know why Oliver was interested in it. One of his ancestors was Jacob Sparham. There’s a portrait of him on the wall over there.” She pointed to the engraving. “He was a Victorian polymath. He belonged to the Archaeological Society. He travelled abroad a lot, and brought back various artefacts that he donated. Curiosities, a lot of them, and tourist junk. He wrote extensively in
Fenland Notes and Queries
– it was a quasi-learned journal that published the thoughts and exploits of gentlemen dilettantes. As a matter of fact, I was looking for the set of journals belonging to his period earlier today and I couldn’t find them. I mentioned it to Francis Codd, one of our oldest members. He told me that Jacob Sparham had written some extremely right-wing interpretations of Darwin. I think that’s where Oliver’s political interest came from. He said as much, in fact.”

“What about Edmund Baker? Did he show right-wing tendencies, too?”

“No, not at all.”

Chapter Sixty

Tim’s mobile announced another text message: “We can see that you haven’t left. I’m sorry that you aren’t taking us seriously at all. That is a mistake.”

What happened next sped by with the rapidity of a dream in which Superintendent Thornton and his instructions played no part. The front door, still brightly illuminated by the police beam, opened and a figure well known to at least two of those watching stumbled out and almost fell down the two front steps; the next moment it was engulfed in flames, rolling and writhing in fitful agony.

“Lyle!” Before Tim could react, Tom Tarrant dashed forwards into the light, screaming and crying as he ran to the gates, which he succeeded in opening. They had not been locked. Pulling his jacket off, he desperately flapped at the flames, before a shot rang out and he cried once and fell.

Tim ran forward too, forgetful of his own safety, but was overtaken by three roaring armoured vehicles, the first of which rammed the partially-open gate and smashed it aside. Dark figures poured out and burst through the door in seconds, disappearing inside with incredible speed. Tim covered the ground faster than he had ever run, with Andy and Gary close behind him. Together, they worked with hastily-removed jackets and body armour to extinguish the flames, though it was clear that Lyle was already beyond help. Other officers, catching up, were tending to Tom Tarrant, who was alive but appeared to be badly hurt. There was blood on his sleeve and his usually rather flaccid face was etched, gaunt and pinched, in the lights of the vehicles. He stared ahead dully as if he had been hypnotised.

“Mr Tarrant! Tom! Talk to me!” Andy Carstairs had turned away from the gruesome body on the step to where he would perhaps be more useful.

Tom took a long moment to register Andy’s presence.

“I think you’re suffering from shock,” said Andy. “Take my coat. An ambulance will be here any minute.” As he spoke, emergency vehicles, both ambulances and fire engines, with sirens blaring, sped up the road.

Only a few minutes afterwards, Sergeant Jubb and several of his colleagues emerged. They were walking with four captives, each handcuffed. Three of the men were poorly dressed and looked as if they had been sleeping rough. The fourth was Guy Maichment. Tim made to step forward as Guy was marched towards an armoured vehicle, then changed his mind. He had nothing to say to the man.

He was suddenly filled with alarm. Where were the children? Had they survived?

Sergeant Jubb had broken away from his colleagues and was walking briskly towards him.

“The kids!” said Tim. “Where are they?”

Sergeant Jubb grinned broadly.

“Relax!” he said. “They’d all been shut in the annexe – the sick bay that Mr Tarrant described. The fire escape had been chained and, from the fuel cans by the only internal door, it looks as if they intended to burn them and their carers all together in there. It didn’t work, did it? And your Mr Maichment is all in one piece for your gov’nor.”

Chapter Sixty-One

Still wearing a hospital gown covered by a drab housecoat provided by the WRVS, Alex walked slowly through the hospital corridors to the ward to which Tom had been taken after his operation. Although she felt fuzzy with the combined effects of shock and the tranquillisers that she had been prescribed, she had refused her own ward sister’s kindly offer of a wheelchair with a nurse to push it. She didn’t want to alarm Tom more than she had to. Besides, to succumb to such pandering would have made her feel a fraud. Shock hardly counted as a proper illness; it certainly was not to be compared with gunshot wounds and burns.

She longed to meet Tom yet was fearful, almost shy, of seeing him. She didn’t know the extent of his injuries or how much they might have disfigured him. That her enquiries had been met by the nurses with reassurances but no detailed information did not fill her with confidence.

She didn’t know what they would talk about or whether he was angry with her. It was possible that he might not agree to see her. She remembered the comment that she had made to Carolyn when they’d met in the tapas restaurant: that, if Tom felt betrayed, he was quite capable of turning heel and just walking away. She hoped that she was wrong and that he would be able to show more compassion than this. She hoped that he hadn’t found out about Edmund. Above all, Alex hoped fervently that, like herself, he would want to put the nightmarish events of the past two weeks behind him and that what they had suffered would bring them closer together. Even to herself, this sounded like too much of a women’s magazine kind of ending.

She didn’t know how much Tom had been told about the circumstances of her disappearance and subsequent rescue. She doubted that she could have done anything to prevent the kidnapping, but he might not believe that. Instinct told her that not only had he guessed that she had had an affair with Edmund – he had hinted as much on several occasions – but that, in the course of trying to find her, he had also stumbled on evidence that proved it. She could think of no other reason why he would have wanted to visit Edmund after she’d disappeared. Both Juliet Armstrong and Carolyn had told her of this visit. It was because Edmund had not been at home and Tom had instead met PC Cooper that he had joined the police at Herrick House and endangered his own life. Indirectly, she was responsible for his injuries.

She had been told that although a bed in intensive care had been reserved for Tom there had been no need to use it. That at least sounded positive. He had been taken to a small ward for overnight observation.

She seemed to have been wandering the hospital corridors for hours when eventually she succeeded in finding Tom’s ward. She tried to push against the swing door. Immediately it was pulled open from inside the ward. A nurse emerged.

“Are you lost, love?” she said. “I’ve got a patient in here who is very poorly. He needs quiet. Which ward are you on? I’ll show you the way back.” The woman was kindly and well-meaning, but still patronising. Despite her fatigue and the tranquillisers, Alex bristled. She told herself to be polite.

“I’m not lost. I was told that my husband was here.”

“What’s his name? As I’ve said, there’s only one patient in this ward. He’s post-operative and must not be disturbed.”

“It’s Tom. Tom Tarrant.”

The nurse looked doubtful. “Who sent you here? Were you involved in the incident as well?”

“No, I wasn’t. I was admitted because . . . it was a separate incident. Dr Singh sent a message to me. He told me that Tom had had his operation and that I’d be able to see him now.”

“If Dr Singh said so . . . I thought that Mr Tarrant was to have no visitors until tomorrow, but he’s awake now. He’s very sleepy still. I’ll ask him if he feels up to seeing you.”

Alex nodded and waited nervously. She told herself that it was ridiculous to feel so scared.

The nurse returned.

“He says he’d like to see you. He can’t speak very well and he’s extremely tired. I don’t think you should stay for more than five minutes.”

The ward was half in darkness. It was lit only by the anglepoise lamp that stood on the nurse’s desk. The three beds nearest the door were empty. The curtains of the fourth had been three-quarters drawn. A small gap had been left. The nurse gestured.

“There he is.”

The nurse looked in and then went to sit at her desk. Alex was aware that she was still being discreetly watched. She pushed back the curtain a little further. Tom was stretched on his back, his head and shoulders propped high against a bank of pillows. His chest was bandaged and his arm resting in a sling. He was wired up to a machine and a drip had been attached to his left arm. A dressing obscured part of his face, but his eyes and mouth weren’t covered. His eyes were not closed but drooping shut, as if he were about to fall asleep. He looked ineffably sad and small, somehow. Not the big, untidy, slightly overweight man to whom she had been married for more than ten years.

He seemed not to know that she was there. He was more badly hurt than she’d expected.

She moved closer to the top of the bed. His hand was protruding from the bandages. She wanted to take it in her own, to kiss it, but she was afraid of hurting or startling him. She was outside his range of vision now. She stood beside him, weeping.

Tom’s head jerked up from his chest. The rushing tears had taken her by surprise. She could not cry silently. She bit deep into her lip. She didn’t want to distress Tom. She was afraid of being ejected by the nurse.

Tom tried to turn his head so that he could see who was there.

“Alex?” he mumbled. His voice was dry and rasping. She could barely make out the word.

“Tom,” she replied in a low tremulous voice. “Tom.” She touched his fingers lightly, her tears raining down on them.

“Alex, you’re here! No one knew . . .”

“Don’t try to talk.” She gripped the fingers more tightly. She saw that Tom’s eyes had also filled with tears.

There was no chair in Tom’s cubicle. Alex urgently needed to sit down. It would require more strength than she possessed to go back to the nurse and ask for one; in any case, she wouldn’t leave Tom until she had to. She half-collapsed on to his bed, balancing on the very edge of it so that she wouldn’t hurt him.

“Alex.”

“Don’t talk.”

“I want to.”

She had to lean her head close to his in order to be able to hear.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the rasping voice becoming more ragged as he struggled to enunciate the words. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t trust you. And so happy to have you back.”

So that would be her cross. To have inspired a trust in Tom that she hadn’t earned. She knew that she would not disillusion him by telling him the truth. That would be the coward’s way out. She was lucky to have this second chance, flawed though it would always be by the knowledge of her own transgression. Ever afterwards, she would look back upon those days with Edmund as having belonged to an enchanted time. He had been a sorcerer, albeit a drab one, who had played upon her vanity. How could she have persuaded herself, even briefly, that their false lie-filled liaison had ever approximated to love?