Death Before Time (26 page)
His network on full song now, Marcus rang Tom later in the afternoon with the low-down he’d gleaned on the junta.
“First Patricia Matlock. She’s up for a junior minister’s post in the next re-shuffle and the grapevine suggests that any new scandal in her constituency would dish her.”
“Which gives her a motive.”
“It does,” Marcus agreed, “But does it for two years ago, when – if you’re right - this must have been set up?”
“I don’t see why not. You’re the one who made the crack about ambitious, politicians.”
“Hmm, all right. Next, Nigel Fleming …”
It seemed that the General Manager’s contract finished at the end of the year and, by mutual agreement, was not being renewed. It was rumoured he was going to for a management post in Lisco’s, the supermarket chain.
“Bit of a comedown, isn’t it?” said Tom. “A management post in a supermarket, after being top honcho here?”
“A management post with a salary of 250 grand instead of the 120 he’s on now.”
“Ah …”
“So I don’t imagine a new scandal is what he wants either.”
“No,” said Tom, scribbling.
“George Woodvine is up for a K in the next honours list when his period of office finishes.”
“A
K
… Now that
is
a bauble of some pulchritude, isn’t it?”
“Have you been at that dictionary again?”
“Yeah. Is he really worth a knighthood?”
“He already had an MBE for various services,” Marcus said; “he was a chief magistrate, President of the Wiltshire Conservation Trust and Chairman of Governors of the local comprehensive.
“The Chairmanship of the Health Trust is the jewel in his crown, so to speak. He’s also got plenty of money and friends in high places.”
“What sort of high places?”
“Governmental.”
“Would that be political or administrative?”
“Both, but mainly civil service.”
Tom drew a box round Woodvine’s name and connected it to another with a £ sign and the word
clout
in it. “What about Fitzpatrick?”
The Original Irish Joke, it seemed, wasn’t up for anything, except perhaps the order of the boot. He was generally regarded as a waste of time and space and would certainly be the first to go in any new scandal.
“However,” Marcus said, “He’s got money of his own as well, so maybe it wouldn’t bother him too much.”
“How much? Money, I mean …”
“He’s said to be comfortable.”
“How comfortable?”
“Comfortably comfortable.”
Tom repeated the money box sign for Fitzpatrick. “That changes things, doesn’t it?”
“In what way?”
“Well, we thought that Woodvine had the weakest motive and Fitzpatrick one of the strongest. Now, it’s the other way round.”
“Only if you think a K’s as strong a motive as Fleming’s supermarket job, or Hawkins’ ministerial post. And whereas
comfortable
might be fine for you and me …”
“Mm,“ Tom mused … “It’s funny, isn’t it, the way some people collect a reputation. Everybody seems to think Fitzpatrick is a complete tosser, but when I was with him an hour ago, I thought he was as sharp as …” He searched for a word …
“Greek Chardonay?”
“I had something more intellectual in mind.“
“Ah, but people with money are like that sometimes, aren’t they? Clever but unambitious, even lazy.”
*
Nigel Fleming had been tempted to refuse to see Tom at all when Marcus first rang him, but then he’d sensed Marcus’ own clout and reluctantly agreed.
He’d been tempted to cancel the appointment after Patricia had rung him the day before and told him what it was all about, but then thought better of it.
Now, as he watched from his window Tom smoking a cheroot outside his irritation bubbled over –
the
bloody
gall
of
it
… they’d sent someone who wasn’t even properly dressed …
So when his secretary rang through to say that Tom had arrived, he made him wait for a quarter of an hour.
His feelings were not soothed by Tom’s explanation of his presence.
He said coldly, “Why are you telling me all this now?”
“Because as I explained, Dr Armitage and Sister St John’s deaths –“
“I mean, why wasn’t I informed earlier about these allegations of Dr Callan’s?”
“Because we didn’t give much credence to them. If we raised the alarm over every story we – “
“Are you saying that you do give credence to them now?”
“No, I’m not saying that.” Pause. “Not necessarily. But we do have to look into them, especially in view of the deaths.”
“Isn’t that the job of the police?”
“Not in this case, no. They’re not looking for anyone else in connection with the deaths, and they’re not interested in Dr Callan’s story.”
“But you are?”
“We have to be, it’s our function.”
Fleming stared back at him a moment more, then said, “All right, what do you want to know?”
Protest
registered
… thought Tom. He said, “I’d like to go back, to the St James’ crisis and the junta you set up to deal with it.”
“Why? What relevance does that have?” Patricia had told him about the J-word, and he ignored it.
Tom patiently explained why he needed to understand the background and Fleming briefly and factually described the setting up of the committee and its subsequent actions. His account didn’t differ much from those of the others.
Tom said, “Whose idea was it to sell St James’ and use the money to build a new hospital?”
“Mine, originally. I have contacts in the construction industry and I put them to use.”
“So you’d done all your sums and were about to spend twenty million on a new hospital, and then St James’ was listed. Hadn’t it ever occurred to you it might be?”
“It most certainly had not – it’s a hideous building.”
“Granted,” said Tom, who’d seen it. “But the Euro conversion, surely you knew about that?”
“We did, although the actual cost was a huge shock to us. Even so, it wouldn’t have been a problem but for the Grade II listing.”
“So you were in trouble?”
“We were at risk of a considerable overspend.”
“Which following the St James’ scandal, would have been something of an embarrassment?”
“We wanted to avoid it, if possible.”
“Whose idea was it to employ Philip Armitage?”
“Fitzpatrick’s,” Fleming said. Then: “I know you spoke to him this morning and I imagine he’s told you that I showed him a journal article by Armitage. And so I did. At the time, we were all searching for ideas and that was one of many.”
“How did
you
come to see the article?”
“By coming across it in the journal, I imagine.”
“It was published in
Community
Care
, which isn’t the most widely known of journals. I was wondering how this particular article came to your attention.”
Fleming shrugged. “The Trust takes all journals that might have relevance to our work.”
“The Trust didn’t take
Community
Care
, not at that time, anyway. I’ve checked.”
“Then I don’t know…” Or care, his expression added - “We’re always leaving articles and such like on each other’s desks and I can only assume that’s what happened here.”
“Didn’t anyone say anything to you about it later, ask what you thought of it?”
“Not that I can remember.”
After a pause, Tom said, “I imagine that the last thing you want now is another scandal.”
“You imagine correctly.” He paused. “Before you came here this morning, I had no reason to think there would be. Are you telling me now that there is?”
Tom took his time answering and Fleming felt his gorge rise again ... “The only answer I can give you,” Tom said at last, “Is that I don’t know.
“As I told you earlier, it was only at Dr Callan’s insistence that we investigated this matter as thoroughly as we have. We haven’t found any hard evidence to back up his story.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that, at any rate.”
“However, he still doesn’t accept this and intends to make his allegations public at the inquest.”
“But surely, he won’t be taken seriously?”
“Oh, I’m sure the other witnesses such as Dr Singh, Dr Tate and Dr Stones will do their best to refute him, but …” Another pregnant pause … “He does claim to have more evidence.”
Fleming asked quietly, “And does he? Have more evidence, I mean.”
Another breath … “Well, the only evidence we know about is the statistics and the doctored aerosol device I mentioned earlier. On their own, they’re refutable, but – “ He shrugged … “It all depends on what this further evidence is. Since he refuses to tell us, we have no way of knowing.”
“So you’re saying that he might?”
“Yes,” agreed Tom. “He might.”
*
When he got back, Tom ordered a pot of coffee, sat down and thought.
Then, before starting on a tabulation of everything he’d heard, he wrote each of their names down and tried to think of a word or phrase that summed each one up.
Matlock.
Coquettish
with
Hauteur
.
Woodvine.
Bonhomie
with
Bullshit
.
Fitzpatrick.
Bullshit
with
Bonhomie
.
Fleming. Fleming…
Imperious
?
Pompous
?
Arrogant
? All of these, certainly at first, although not so much latterly …
He smoked a cheroot while he thought about it, twiddled his thumbs and then called Marcus.
“Well, I’ve seen them all now.”
“And sown the seeds of doubt?”
“Yes. I’ve got no idea which of them it is, though.”
“But?”
“How did you know there was a
but
?”
“Because I know you.”
“All right, there is a
but
.” He tried to pull his thoughts together. “It’s just that I’m finding it hard to believe either that the motives you found out about are strong enough, or, now I’ve met them, that any of them have got the sheer balls for something of this scale ... ”
“So you’re thinking it’s none of them, or all of them, or what?”
“No, I still think it’s one of them,
but
… “ He took a breath … “Could there be someone else beyond that?”
“Wheels without wheels, you mean?”
“Yeah … oh, don’t tell me, you’d already thought of it - you
had
, hadn’t you?”
Marcus took his time answering.
“You know how it is at meetings,” he said at last, “People say all sorts of things, things that are obviously meant to be taken as a joke, but then afterwards, you wonder: joke or kite? Maybe, they’re not sure either … anyway, I’ve been aware lately of one or two people saying that if we go on living longer and filling up the care homes and hospitals the way we are now, then we’ll have no choice soon but to start bumping a few off. That sort of thing.”
“And what you’re wondering,” Tom said softly, “Is whether someone decided to take it seriously and try an experiment?”
“Exactly.”
“Any idea who?”
“Possibly.”
With which answer Tom had to be satisfied.
Fraser, more or less incarcerated at Mary’s, was bored stiff. He was also, although he and Mary were very fond of each other, conscious of the fact that guests, like fish, tend to go off after a few days.
He had to get out for both their sakes, so he phoned Tom and asked if it was all right to go to his own house to pick up the post.
“Mm … not sure about that,“ Tom said.
“They might have sent me a note or something … “
“Can you get in the back without being seen?”
“Easy.”
“All right. In and out, don’t hang around and don’t let yourself be seen from the front.”
It was a relief just to be outside again. The sun was shining, so he dropped the hood, savouring the feel of even the city air on his face.
He parked in the road at the back of his house, slipped down the alley and climbed over the gate into his garden.
He’d already knelt down to pick up the letters in the hall when he heard the board creak upstairs. Not very loudly, but he knew that floorboard – it was in the main bedroom, between the bed and the door and always made that noise if you trod on it …
And the book by the phone had been moved, he saw as he rose to his feet …
Get
out
,
quick
…
Not
too
quick
,
don’t
let
them
know
that
you
know
…
He was moving now, walking as fast as he could without seeming to hurry … back along the hall, though the kitchen, listening…
No sound.
Through the back door, pull it shut, across the lawn to the gate ...
What
if
there
was
someone
on
the
other
side
?
No, they wouldn’t have had time – would they? He slid back the bolt, slipped the latch, eased the gate open … nothing.
He ran lightly back up the alley to the car - phone Tom now?
But they could already be out looking for him ...
He got into the car, started up and drove to the junction, turned left. Mirror … nothing, he’d beaten them – then a dark saloon pulled out …
But cars pull out all the time. He turned right, accelerated … and just as he thought he was clear, it reappeared …
Got to lose him but make it seem accidental.
He drove to the city centre. With the hood down, he felt completely exposed – it would be so easy for anyone in a car to stop beside him and lean over with a gun … he kept glancing in the mirror, but the dark saloon always stayed two or three cars behind.
It wasn’t until he was in Broad Quay that he got his chance – a light on amber he could jump and leave his tail stranded behind the more law abiding citizens. Round past the cathedral, up Park Street, then left up a side road toward the Cabot Tower … he found a large van and tucked the MG behind it. Double yellows, but so what? He phoned Tom.
“Are you sure you’ve lost them?” Tom asked.
“Sure as I can be.”
“Trouble is, your car’s rather conspicuous, isn’t it?” He thought for a moment, then, “Phone Mary now, tell her to bolt her back door, put the chain on the front and not let in anyone she doesn’t know.”
“You think she’s in danger?”
“Very unlikely, it’s just a precaution. Do it now and phone me back.”
Mary was not amused.
“Fraser, what is going on?” she demanded as soon as he’d said his piece. “Is this connected with Tom?”
“I promise I’ll explain soon,” he said, “Please, just do as I ask.”
He rang off and was about to ring Tom again when he became aware of a shadow behind him … He jerked round – it was a traffic warden …
“You can’t park there,” she said.
“No, sorry … can I just make a phone call please? It’s very urgent.“
“Sure,” she smiled, “But if you do, you’ll get a ticket.”
It was almost worth it, but he didn’t want to attract attention …
“Is there anywhere near I can park?”
She sucked on her teeth, shaking her head … “Difficult at this time. And not really my problem,” she added.
He drove off.
If he stopped anywhere near, she’d get him … if he kept driving, his tail could pick him up again –
His mobile rang. Probably Tom. He kept driving.
Another side street. He found a place at the end, still a yellow line, but hopefully far enough away. He phoned Tom again.
“I think you’d better come to me,” Tom said.
“What if they pick me up again?”
“Could you recognise the car if you saw it?”
“I … think so.”
“Only think?”
“I’m fairly sure.”
“All right. Have you got a map?”
He found it. Tom said, “Don’t use the motorway. Can you see the A-road that goes to Wansborough from quite near the centre?”
“Yes - Oh, God … ”
“What?”
It was the traffic warden, she’d spotted his car and was walking purposefully towards him … “I’m on my way,” he said.
He took off before she could reach him.
He had to stop to check the map again, but then found the road quite easily. No sign of his tail. It took an hour and a half to get to Tom’s hotel.
“So there’s absolutely no doubt in your mind that someone was actually in your house?” Tom said as he handed him a coffee.
“None whatever. I wasn’t expecting anyone so soon ... ”
“Neither was I, or I wouldn’t have let you go.”
“Presumably, it lets Fleming out – they must have been put onto me before you spoke to him.”
“No, I’m certain one of the others had already told him, so he could have set it up yesterday.”
After a pause, Fraser said, “D’you have any idea yet? Who it is?”
“Not really.”
“Not
really
?”
“Maybe the shade of a suspicion, but nothing more.” Fraser pressed him, but he refused to say anything else.
“So what do we do now?” he asked.
“We wait. Sooner or later, one of them is going to contact you.”
“Then what?”
“Depends on what they say.”
Fraser drank some of his coffee. He said, “You think it was the people who killed Helen who were in my house?”
“Probably.”
“Does that mean they’re out to kill me?”
Tom thought for a moment. “I
hadn’t
thought so - not yet, anyway … I thought they’d try and change your mind first, or maybe discredit you in some way. But the fact they were in your house does make me wonder ... ”
He phoned Marcus and Jo to let them know what was happening. Jo asked if there was anything she could do, but Tom said he couldn’t think of anything. After that, while he went out to buy Fraser a toothbrush and a few other basics, Fraser phoned his house to check for messages, and then Mary to try and put her mind at ease.
Tom came back and they began the waiting.
After dinner, in the bar, Fraser said, “D’you have to do much of this?”
Tom glanced down at his beer. “Drinking?”
Fraser grinned. “No, waiting around for something to happen.”
Tom grinned back. “Quite a bit.”
“How did you get into this?” Fraser asked, genuinely curious, and Tom told him how he’d joined the army to get away from his family, then the police, where a bad marriage had wrecked his career ...
“So when Marcus offered me this, I jumped at it.”
“Ever regretted it?”
“Never.”
The next day, Saturday, Fraser read every section of the paper, swam in the hotel pool, read a book from the hotel library, played chess with Tom (who won) and watched a mediocre film on TV. There were calls from his mother and Rob, but not the one they were waiting for.
The only item of interest was that someone had called on Mary asking for him. Polite and charming, Mary said, told her he was a colleague from Wansborough, but didn’t leave a name.
“What did you tell him?”
“Only that I didn’t know where you were.”
He was about six feet, well built and mid thirties, but she couldn’t remember anything about his face, except that it was “ordinary”.
By Monday, and he and Tom were beginning to invade each other’s nasal spaces. The inquest, on Thursday, was drawing nearer …
“Yeah, but what happens if they
don’t
phone?” Fraser demanded.
Tom swallowed and bit off the retort he was about to make. “I thought they would by now,” he admitted. “If they don’t by tomorrow, I’ll think of a way of stirring them up.”
“How?”
“I said I’d think about it, OK?”
Jo rang again. “D’you want me to come down?” she asked when Tom told her how things were.
“It might help actually,” Tom said slowly, “Might get Fraser off my back, anyway.”
She joined them twenty minutes later.
“What worries me,” she said after they’d brought her up to date, “Is that they don’t want to talk to Fraser, they just want to kill him. Thus, the men at his house.”
“Even if that were true,” Tom said quickly, “Which I
don’t
believe, they’ve got to find him first.”
“They will, if they look here.”
“They still think he’s in Bristol, that’s where they’ll be looking.”
“As long as they don’t go back to Mary,” Fraser said.
“Does she know you’re here?” Jo asked him.
He shook his head. “
My
worry is that they’d try and get at me through her …”
“They won’t,” said Tom.
“How d’you know that?”
“Because it would give them away – Ray, I’m talking about. He, she, wants to
hide
the fact of the euthanasia, and that would confirm it.”
“I wish I could be so sure …”
“C’mon Fraser,” said Jo, “Didn’t you say this place has got a pool? Give Mary a ring, and then we’ll go for a swim …”
Tom found them later that afternoon and took them to his room.
“I’ve just had an interesting phone call,” he said. “One of the people I wanted to speak to at Southampton had left the hospital without leaving any forwarding address. Also changed her name, which didn’t help – anyway, we’ve traced her to Bournemouth, but she won’t speak to me on my own. Doesn’t trust men, apparently.”
“Can’t really blame her there,” murmured Jo.
“But she will talk to you, Jo. I said we’d meet her at seven, so we’d better get going.”
Fraser said, “What if they contact me while you’re away?”
“Stall them and phone me.”
“And if they want to meet?”
“Agree, but stall. Say you’ve got something else on you’ll have to rearrange, then call me. Don’t,
whatever
you do tell them you’re here – “
Fraser let out a snort. “What d’you take me for?”
“OK, sorry ... ”
“When’ll you be back?”
“Depends … say two hours to get there and find the place, an hour with her – say around ten.”
Five minutes later, they were gone.
Fraser mooched around, then rang Mary again, and then his mother. He checked the messages on his land line – nothing.
To try and work off his frustrations, he went down to the gym for an hour, and then to the swimming pool again, where he swam alternate lengths on the surface and underwater until he was exhausted.
A touch of cramp suggested he’d overdone it, so he showered and went to dinner.
It wasn’t until he was on his way back up that he realised he hadn’t taken his mobile with him. It was ringing as he unlocked his door …
“Fraser? It’s Patrick,” the voice in the ear piece said … electricity crawled over his head and down his neck ... “You’re a hard man to get hold of, are you back at home now?”
“No, I’m staying with a friend - in Bristol.”
“Ah.” Pause. “Listen, Fraser, I know it’s late, but is there any chance you could you come and see me tonight? It really is important,” he added.
“Why tonight?” Fraser asked, trying to keep his voice level.
“If we left it till tomorrow, it would have to be at the Trust with the others and I’d really rather not.”
Don’t
seem
too
eager
… “What’s it about, Patrick?”
“Well, to be honest with you, I’ve been put up to it by the others – “
“What others?”
“George, Patricia and Nigel – but the point is, I’ve been thinking all weekend about what Mr Jones told me, and there are some things that really bother me.”
