Dreams to Die For (56 page)

Cindy had been waiting anxiously in a side room that the hospital staff had offered for her exclusive use. She had been warned the operation was likely to be lengthy and that she may not be able to see Gordon for several hours. She was desperately tired, exhausted, but her concern for Gordon was keeping her awake and alert. A look in the mirror showed the extent of her anguish, but also revealed to her that she was badly in need of a shower and a change of clothes. The events of the morning, which seemed a distant memory now, had prevented her from using any make-up and she irrationally told herself that she had to look good for when Gordon opened his eyes. She started to cry again. She was often breaking into small bursts of uncontrollable crying and wondered if she had been wise in refusing any medication. She realised she ought to tell someone about the morning, about Donaldson, but she could not face doing so. Not yet. All she could think about now was Gordon, though she knew she must sometime consider her own health and also tell the authorities what had happened.

“Oh God” she sighed. “I can't, I just can't,” and she started crying once more.

Images of Gordon flashed in front of her, a miscellany of intense and varied recollections. She saw his smile, his voice, their times together. She sobbed as she remembered how really happy they had all been less than twenty-four hours earlier when she and Paulette performed their mock striptease. Her thoughts reflected on Gordon's tenderness, his always gentle but sometimes urgent love-making, his thoughtful consideration of her such that he ensured she always gained as much pleasure from it as did he. She saw him standing at the dam gate, relaxed, dressed in jeans or his favourite mole skin trousers and a jumper, awaiting his next band of students just as he had for her when she first went to Mealag. She began to cry again and a nurse appeared asking if she needed anything. Cindy shook her head. Unwilling to reveal the events of the morning, she asked simply if there was anywhere she could take a shower and borrow a comb.

“Come with me. I know just the place.”

Cindy followed and they entered a large room, beautifully equipped with a bed, television and its own en-suite bathroom.

“We have a few of these for private patients, but you can use it. You will find shampoos and even a small make-up kit including comb.”

“That's so kind of you, but I will be happy to pay. It's no problem”

“No need, but anyway we can talk later. If you need anything just ring the buzzer or come and see me. I'm only down the corridor.”

“Is there any news of Gordon?”

“No. He is still in theatre. I will let you know as soon as he comes out.”

Cindy showered. Refreshed, she sat in the chair and was trying to focus on reading a glossy magazine. She found it hard to concentrate and had just put the book to one side when there was a knock on the door. Several police were surrounding Paulette and Dean, with others stationed along the corridor. Cindy was overjoyed to see her friends and invited them in.

“I am just so sorry. It's all my fault, Cindy. I shall never forgive myself.” Paulette was full of remorse.

“It wasn't your fault, Paulette. If it had been Gordon on that plane coming down the steps I would have done the same. Please, don't blame yourself.”

“You are so kind, Cindy, a true friend. I have told Dean how brave you were you this morning, and how you kept that monster away from me.”

“That must have been terrifying. I learnt a bit about that on the plane, from the woman,” Assiter added.

They spent several more minutes whilst he repeated to Cindy what he had already told Paulette about events on the aircraft and the conversation he had engaged in with Fadyar.

“Extraordinary thing to do,” said Assiter. “I am amazed she didn't kill me. Paulette tells me that her instructions were to kill me if the kidnap attempt failed.”

“Yes, she mentioned something similar to that at the lodge this morning. She would be bound to create world headlines had she done so.” Cindy was glad to have the diversion of conversation.

“How would you assess her, Cindy? Was she for real?” Assiter asked.

“I'm not sure I understand quite what you are driving at Dean, but she saved our lives when she didn't have to. She put herself and her mission in danger to prevent something she found abhorrent. I will always be grateful to her for that. Yes, she was ‘for real' as you put it. I think she was a very genuine person and I believed her story regarding her parents killing in Iraq.”

“What's that then, Paulette, you haven't told me this?” Assiter asked questioningly.

“Dean, you and I have not stopped speaking about today's events. There simply has not been time for everything. Look, Cindy and I can talk to you later about all that. For the moment, we must think only of Gordon.”

“Yes, my dear, of course. But for what it is worth I, too, think she was genuine and very courageous. She died for her principles, but actually those were not terrorism. Her beliefs could have been Muslim, Christian, Buddhist or all of them. I think, paradoxically, she believed in the sanctity of life and the right of people across the world to live their life as they want to, not as others wish it. She abhorred evil and wrongdoing. That is why she saved you this morning, even though it might have put her mission to capture me at risk.”

They chatted for a while longer, but with no news of Gordon forthcoming Paulette offered to stay with Cindy, for at least a few hours.

“Dean, darling. Cindy must be exhausted, I know I am. I think we need to rest up here now, just us two girls.”

“Sure, of course. How thoughtless of me. I'm so sorry Cindy. The police have booked me and Paulette into a hotel in the town, so I will go there now. Call me if there is any news, will you?”

Cindy agreed she would, as she kissed Assiter's cheek at the door.

Paulette was a necessary tower of strength to Cindy. She organised food and asked the police to urgently obtain some clothes of Cindy's and hers from Mealag Lodge which arrived two hours later. Importantly she told the police and the hospital about their ordeal at the lodge. The police agreed to take a full statement later, but the hospital persuaded Cindy that she ought to be examined and a blood test taken. Although unpleasant, it helped to take Cindy's mind away from dwelling on Gordon. Later, Paulette made numerous telephone calls and again enlisted the police help to contact Sandy MacLean, finally catching up with him at his sister-in-law's house. After briefly talking to him, Paulette passed the phone over to Cindy. He explained that in the confusion at the end of the siege he was whisked away by the police. He tried to get back to Mealag but it had already been sealed off and no one was being allowed to enter under any circumstances.

“Crawling with the blue shirts,” was how Sandy described it. “They were also at the garages and the boats. Arc lights set up everywhere, looked like a damn pop concert.”

He spoke for over half an hour with Cindy. It took up more time, temporarily slightly easing her angst.

As the hours passed by and midnight approached, tiredness overcame them both. Cindy lay on the bed, shut her sore, reddened eyes and was shortly joined by Paulette who comfortingly put her arm over her friends shoulder.

At three in the morning there was a slight knock at the door. Blearily, the two women woke as a doctor in a crisp, white knee-length coat entered the room.

“Mrs Crossland?” he enquired looking at both.

“Yes, that's me.” Cindy replied. The doctor glanced at Paulette, then back towards Cindy's pained face.

“It's all right, Doctor. This is my friend. It's about Gordon, isn't it? How is he?”

“He has had major surgery and he remains in a very grave condition. The bullet entered his right side and struck his spinal column where it caused severe injury. It then deviated upwards and came to rest in his neck, below his ear. Another bullet entered his side causing a lot of bleeding but, essentially, that is a flesh wound and not life threatening. He is out of theatre but the next few hours will be critical. His body has received a tremendous shock and we are having to maintain the life support systems.”

“Oh my God,” said Cindy, dropping to her knees sobbing. Paulette rushed to comfort her and slowly Cindy rose from the floor.

“What are his chances, Doctor, of pulling through this?” Cindy enquired.

“I would be lying to you if I did not say that we are very concerned. He is stable at the moment and sedated. We shall have to keep him that way for some while on the Intensive Care Unit. We may know a little more by morning.”

“Can I see him? Please.” Cindy pleaded.

“Of course. You can sit by him but I would advise against many visitors. In fact, ideally, probably only you, but if your friend would like to pop in now and then, I'm sure that would be fine.”

Cindy was stunned and dazed. She had heard what the surgeon had told her, but did not wish to comprehend its significance.

“I'll go now if I may.”

“Certainly. I will inform the ICU staff. Follow me and I will show you where he is.”

Cindy opened the door and saw Gordon lying in the bed. He was surrounded with an array of electronic equipment, tubes, three drips and breathing apparatus. The steady beat of the machines, interspersed with irregular high-pitched beeps served only to remind her of the gravity of Gordon's condition. She drew up a chair and sat beside him as the doctor withdrew from the room. Paulette sensed Cindy wanted to be alone and also left.

When she had gone, Cindy broke down, “You stupid, stupid man. Why did we have to do all that? I told you not to,” but she was not really angry. She knew that Gordon had felt compelled to help his friend but he was now paying a terrible price. She felt under the sheets for his hand and held it softly. “You held my hand once and saved me,” she whispered. “I just hope I can do the same for you now.”

The minutes and hours passed without Cindy once releasing his hand from hers. Paulette came in briefly a couple of times and brought in a coffee. Busy, pleasant nurses entered and checked Gordon every fifteen minutes and were constantly monitoring the equipment from room 275 on the console of their centrally placed desk within the ICU. Cindy spoke to Gordon about her plans for them both when he was out of hospital and how she would look after him whilst he recovered his strength. She talked of Mealag and the dam, and she started chatting to him about when they might next go to the villa – but it was a one-sided conversation. Gordon's laboured breathing was the only sound that emanated from the bed, though Cindy felt he had slightly squeezed her hand when she mentioned the underground bombing.

Although well past daybreak, Cindy was almost asleep in her chair when she was awoken from her slumber by a constant high-pitched tone, accompanied almost instantly by a rapid intermittent alarm sounding in the room. Nurses and doctors rushed in and moved Cindy aside. A doctor gave Gordon another injection and started resuscitation whilst the paddles of the crash trolley were prepared. The medical team tried to resuscitate Gordon three times. Twenty minutes after the alarm was triggered, the doctor slowly stood up and took a small torch from his breast pocket. In turn, he lifted each of Gordon's eyelids and shone the piercing light into them. As he turned off the torch he glanced at the clock, immediately calling out the time and pronounced him dead. Cindy, the tears flowing down her cheeks, went to the bed and placed her arms around Gordon hugging him tightly, not wanting to let him go, crying loudly.

“I am truly very sorry. We did all we could,” the doctor said, but his words went unheard.

At the time of its purchase, Gordon had issued instructions to his small property company that the cottage should always be made available for Cindy if ever she needed it and was never to be sold whilst she was alive. As she gradually came to terms with her grief, the cottage had proved of immense benefit as she slowly began immersing herself again in the garden, pruning and clearing, but she found more difficult the routine household tasks. She thought constantly of Gordon. She was frequently being reminded of him and the awful events of that September day: the correspondence, the funeral, her own final negative blood test report, and even the songs she would hear on her radio. The days seemed interminably long and she was unable to concentrate on any of her unfinished articles. Evenings were spent sitting alone and usually ended with her crying herself to sleep on the sofa. She rarely spoke to anyone, though she had kept in touch with Paulette. She had had a very brief conversation with Alan, who expressed his relief that she was unharmed in the terrorist incident itself, and his horror and revulsion at the assault upon her by Donaldson. He had sounded genuinely remorseful when he apologised for not listening to her warnings about him.

Now, on a damp, dark November morning, two months since the horrible events leading to Gordon's death, the cold mist clung to the bare branches of the trees and Cindy was picking up the dying twigs of the pruned perennial bushes and gathering the annuals she had dug up. Her thoughts were on Mealag Lodge. She knew she had to visit it again. She had not returned there after Gordon's death, nor even after the service of commemoration and cremation which was the last time she had seen the MacLeans. Gordon had no surviving relatives, or at least none that anyone knew of, his parents having died many years before and he being an only child. No uncles nor aunts seemed to exist and certainly no relative made contact with either Gordon's solicitors nor came to the service which was attended by Dean and Paulette, the MacLeans, some estate workers, Dimitrius and his family from Monemvasia and several business friends. Chief Inspector Keith Maythorp and Area Inspector John Curry represented the police. Cindy had been given Gordon's ashes and she knew that she must take them to Mealag Lodge and bury or scatter them there. As she was pondering when to go, her telephone rang and she ran inside to answer it.

“Mrs Crossland?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry to bother you, Detective Chief Superintendent Ritson speaking. It has now been some while since we last spoke and I was wondering when we could have another chat.”

In the immediate aftermath of the terrible events in the Scottish hills, Cindy had given statements about the Donaldson assault and about the kidnapping to a number of different police officers of which Ritson had been the most senior. As the weeks passed, she had forgotten that he had said he would in all probability need to re-interview her dependent upon what his subsequent enquiries revealed about the plot and those who perpetrated it, and so she was startled to hear his voice.

“Oh. Yes. I'd forgotten you said you might want to speak to me again. What about tomorrow?” she asked.

“Saturday? Well, I suppose so if that is convenient to you,” he replied, “about eleven?”

“Sorry, I had forgotten it was Saturday tomorrow,” said Cindy. “The days seem all the same to me now, I forget which day it is most of the time. Are you sure it is convenient to you?”

“No problem at all. See you tomorrow, then.” Ritson rang off.

As she returned to the garden she wondered just what was so important as to merit such a high-ranking officer from London to visit her on a Saturday.

The following day, exactly as her hall clock struck eleven, Ritson arrived and rang the bell. Cindy invited him inside and they sat in her small, cosy lounge. After exchanging pleasantries and enquiring as to how she was getting, along Cindy brought in some coffee and biscuits. Now they were both more relaxed, Ritson brought the conversation around to the main point of his visit.

“Mrs Crossland, we have obviously been investigating all the circumstances regarding the plot that ultimately led to the tragic death of Mr Truscott and I do have some unanswered questions, more akin to loose ends, that I should like your help upon if you feel up to it.” Cindy nodded and he continued.

“We have a statement from Mrs Assiter wherein she describes the moment that the female terrorist, let us call her Fadyar, attacked the man Donaldson. Evidently, Fadyar knew your name. Mrs Assiter is positive Fadyar called you Mrs Crossland. Have you any idea why she should recognise you?”

“Did she? Yes, I think she did call my name at least once. I really can't remember it clearly, but I believe she did. She knew Paulette too, of course, as Mrs Assiter.”

“Quite so. But Mrs Assiter thought the woman terrorist was surprised to see you.” He left it for Cindy to decide if it was a question or a statement of fact.

When Cindy did not respond, Ritson added, “As if she wasn't expecting to, and of course if that is right, that she did not expect to see you, why should she know your name?”

“Well, I can only guess that she had done her homework pretty thoroughly on Dean and Gordon. If she had, she probably knew who I was.”

“Mmmm. But then she would not have been surprised, would she? When she saw you in the kitchen,” he probed gently but firmly.

Cindy shrugged her shoulders, “I've no idea. Is it important?” she asked somewhat impatiently.

Ritson did not answer but instead decided to change tack.

“How are you getting along? Perhaps there are questions you would like to ask me. If I can help I will.” Ritson was anxious to put Cindy at ease. The probing could start again in a minute.

“No, not really. Of course I have hundreds of questions, but none of them matter anymore. Only one is important to me. Why Gordon, why Gordon? He was such a lovely man.” She started to cry.

Ritson offered a handkerchief, but Cindy declined and wiped away her tears with a tissue hastily pulled from a box on the table.

“Thanks, I'll be fine in a minute.”

“How are you finding life back in Worcestershire? I presume you have some friends you can see? Didn't you used to live not far away in the Cotswolds?”

For the first time since her return, she momentarily thought of Don and the gun dogs and wondered what they had been up to. The club had not entered her traumatised mind and she resolved to try and summon the courage to make contact again.

“Er, yes, I suppose so, but I haven't felt up to doing much visiting.” Cindy answered despondently.

“What about your ex-husband, is he still living in Stillwood?”

Cindy replied instantly, “Oh yes. Well, he was the last time we spoke as he hadn't been able to sell it. Although he has the house there he spends most of his time in London and the South East and only comes to Red Gables on the occasional week-end. He has found someone else and seems very happy. When the news broke about what had happened he was obviously very concerned and supportive, but I haven't seen or spoken to him recently.”

Ritson pondered carefully about his next question and a silence filled the air for several seconds before he spoke.

“Were you aware that the funds used to finance the kidnap terror plot were deposited and later withdrawn from his bank?”

Cindy's face fell. “What? Are you saying Alan's bank was involved?”

Then the realisation hit her –
the female terrorist
. No wonder she recognised Cindy and that she, Cindy, found her vaguely familiar. It was the same woman who had visited Alan at home the previous year. Cindy was instantly alarmed at where Ritson's easy style questions were leading. Alan was a lot of things but he was not a terrorist, nor would he ever be involved with terrorism.

“Yes, quite heavily involved. Is it possible you may have met the female, Fadyar, previously? She may have called herself Halima Chalthoum, or possibly Yasmin Hasan.”

Cindy's heart was thumping. This was dangerous territory. She had lost one person very, very dear to her and she was not going to stand idly by whilst someone with whom she had been in love with in the past was being implicated of aiding the plot. She just knew that Alan was innocent, but also strongly suspected that any admission of a meeting would be really bad for him.

“Goodness no, Chief Superintendent. I am sure I should remember if I had met her and would have recognised her at Mealag if I had. It's been at least two years since I attended any of the bank's corporate entertainment things where sometimes wives or partners were invited. I can't recall her at any of those I did go to and she certainly never came to Red Gables or our flat in London, if that's what you thinking.”

“Are you quite sure, Mrs Crossland? It is very important.”

“Certain. I would remember. ”

A few minutes later Ritson left. He drove to Red Gables where he knew that Alan Crossland and a smart-looking woman were in residence, having had him tailed when he left his London bank early Friday afternoon. Ritson rang the bell and Crossland answered it.

“My word, it's you again, Superintendent. What brings you here to my home on a Saturday. It must be important. Come in.”

“If it's convenient Sir, perhaps we could just stroll around the front lawn. It will not take long.”

“As you wish. I'll just grab a coat.”

As they started to walk, Ritson explained that he had just finished an interview with Cindy.

“Our enquiries with regard to the bank's involvement, or more specifically your possible personal involvement, in the terrorist activities that led to the assault on Mealag Lodge are now at an end. That is unofficial. It will be made official in due course but as I was passing I just wanted to tell you face-to-face, and off the record, that you have been a very fortunate man.”

Crossland gulped, not quite knowing what to say.

“Well, thank you – I think. I appreciate you telling me, but at no time was I involved.”

“Sir, I never thought you were knowingly active in funding terrorism, but in my opinion your less than scrupulous actions made it possible to conceal the financing for the attack. Had you been totally truthful at the outset with me our enquiries may have not have been delayed, and it is just possible the terrible business of what happened in Scotland might have been averted. I cannot prove that of course, but I believe it. I also believe you and Mrs Crossland met the female ringleader here at your home or nearby, but you deny it. It is obvious from my enquiries into the plot that Fadyar Masri, or Halima Chalthoum as she was known to you, did know Mrs Crossland as she recognised her and called her by name as the attack unfolded. Despite her grief, Mrs Crossland is a very astute woman and I think – no, I'm certain – that to protect you she is also denying prior knowledge of the terrorist. I can do no more, but I do wish to warn you Mr Crossland. Either get out of banking or stick to the rules. This particular plot has cost a great many lives, probably as far back as your friend Styles. That should remain on your conscience.”

Alan was shaken but mightily relieved. He had been desperately worried for the last two months that Cindy might incriminate him ever since he learned Donaldson had failed. He had no worries now, though he was already realising how hard it was to live racked with the guilt of his own murderous and ill-conceived plot against Cindy.

“Thank you Superintendent, I appreciate all that you say. By the way, did you ever get to the bottom of what Donaldson was doing up there?” Crossland asked innocently.

“He had been following Mrs Crossland around for months, both before but particularly after you dismissed him. We know that much. We are also sure he knew nothing about the visiting American. It seems as though he was fanatically obsessive about your ex-wife and it was just pure coincidence that he was there at the time of the kidnap plot. I have no doubt the unexpected presence of the beautiful Mrs Assiter further inflamed him.”

“Cindy was always concerned about him, saying he gave her the creeps and was over familiar, but to my deep regret, I rather dismissed what she was saying as fanciful. If only I had taken more notice and got rid of him earlier.” Crossland reflected.

“He was clearly a dangerous psychopath and must have harboured his sexual fantasies regarding your wife for years, really off his head in my view. To get to Mrs Crossland and Mrs Assiter we believe he murdered at least two police officers. Anyway he suffered a horrible, lingering death. I don't know if you have been told, but he took hours to slowly drown in a peat bog. Serve the bastard right.” Ritson gave an unusual off-guarded reply.

“At last, something we agree on!” Crossland exclaimed as Ritson turned and walked away to his car.

Alan Crossland went inside and picked up the telephone. “Thank you, Cindy. Thank you.”

He then wrote his resignation letter and personally handed it to the chairman on Monday morning. He left the Hannet-Mar International Bank six months later with a tax paid net severance payment in excess of a million pounds and an inflation-proofed final salary pension of around half a million pounds a year. Chloe was finally persuaded to leave her teaching job and they spent the next two years travelling the world together.