No Escape (17 page)

“She might have drowned.”

“I know,” Jane said, miserably. “I think she must have been trying to get out of the bath when the full action of the stuff overtook her. Or else she fell over on account of it.”

“Perhaps she'll be able to tell us when she wakes up,” Garrod said.

Jane was silent. When would that be? she wondered, She was desperately tired, herself. Was Garrod going to wait until Mary did come round? All night, if need be?

“You may as well give me the rest of the beads, now,” the superintendent said.

Jane found an old envelope and poured them into it. She was glad to be rid of them.

Fortified by coffee, but still resentful that his night's rest had been destroyed by these nosey parkers, Garrod kept the vigil until at three in the morning Mary began to stir. In half an hour she was sufficiently herself to understand what had happened and to describe her own part in it.

“It was like a blanket coming down over my head,” she said. “Worse than a fog. There was a feeling of weight. I knew what had happened. I was terrified of going off in the water. I tried to get out of the bath, but I slipped.”

“As we thought,” said Garrod.

He did not question her for long. He was anxious to go home and secure the rest of the night for sleep. So he merely warned Jane once more about unwanted sleuthing and turned to the door.

“She only ate a bit of one,” Jane said, seeing him out. “At that rate a whole one might have killed her.”

“Let that be an additional warning,” Garrod said, maddeningly. “Burgess was an addict, on this evidence. Her dose would have been stepped up a lot. Dangerous drugs are what that means—
dangerous
.”

“I'm sorry,” said Jane, now almost in tears at the thought of her friend's recent peril.

Garrod relented. She was a very nice girl, doing a worthwhile job, working with those who thought little of personal danger or discomfort in their job.

“Heard anything from Gerald Stone?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. I was going to report to you only this business of the beads—”

She described her encounter with Gerry, his injury and its treatment.

“So you've made a date with him?”

“Yes. Day after tomorrow. I mean tomorrow—evening. I would have told you today in any case.”

Garrod nodded. He believed her.

“What about that other one? The young fellow with the beard? Heard from him, too?”

Jane laughed suddenly. She was beginning to feel lightheaded from fatigue and excess of emotional crisis.

“Not a sausage!” she said, still laughing. “I've waited around for him yesterday and today. He never really looked like being any use.”

“Tried ringing up?”

“Today. No answer.”

“Did I have his phone number?”

“Can't remember. I can give it you if you like.”

“Please.”

At last the superintendent was gone. Jane shut the door after him and leaned against it for a minute, too tired to move. But Mary called out to her and she staggered away to answer the call.

“Be an angel and get me some water,” Mary said. “I've got a frightful thirst and I'm not too steady on my feet yet.”

In the street below, Garrod's man, with feelings of envy and resentment, watched the superintendent's car drive away.

On the other side of the road a passer-by, who was loitering there, increased his pace until he was running swiftly. He slowed down at the main road and began to walk fast. At an all-night café he stopped and went in for a snack.

“Over there in the corner,” the proprieter said, pointing.

The man sidled between empty tables to make his report.

Jane went to the hospital early the next morning and, having changed into her white coat in a wholly empty department, left it again and went up to Alexandra Ward. She was not altogether surprised to find Tim Long in Sister's room.

“The pair of you!” exclaimed Sister. “Why don't you leave it to the police?”

“That's what they keep saying,” Jane complained.

“You'll find yourselves had up for obstruction,” Sister warned her.

“You were telling me about Mrs Winthrop,” Tim interrupted. “I'd like to ask her a few questions myself if I may.”

“I don't know that you can. She's very ill. I don't think she'll last the day out, myself. Her bronchitis this autumn has been too much for her heart, now she's over seventy.”

“Then tell Miss Wheelan what the night nurse told you.”

Sister turned to Jane.

“It was one night when Mrs Winthrop was coughing more than usual. Nurse took her the pills and the inhalant, but she said they weren't doing her any good. Which was a fact. Nurse encouraged her to try them again because she was likely to disturb the whole ward and particularly the patients near her. There was Sheila Burgess on one side and a gastric case on the other. And Mrs Winthrop said, ‘The girl won't be disturbed. She's got her own remedy.' So Nurse asked her what she meant and she said, ‘That girl eats her beads. I've seen her take one off the string and pop it in her mouth.' ”

Jane nodded.

“Just as we thought. They aren't beads at all. They're pills.”

“I've told Sister,” Tim said.

Sister nodded and went on, “Well, Nurse thought the old dear was rambling, but she decided to keep her eyes open. She noticed that the string of poppets round Sheila's neck was getting shorter every day.”

“Why on earth didn't she report it?” exclaimed Jane. “We could have followed it up before she left.”

“There was in fact a short reference to it in Nurse's report,” Sister explained. “Badly put, so that it seemed to be just something Mrs Winthrop had said.”

“Pity. When did you sort it out?”

“Not till after you were here yesterday with the string the parents gave you. I went over her notes again and the ward reports. They haven't been filed in Records yet, in case Superintendent Garrod wants to see them again.”

Jane looked at her watch.

“I'll be late!” she said, astonished to find that half an hour had passed since she arrived at the hospital. She fled, found a lift about to descend and dashed into it, closely followed by Tim.

“What about this evening?” he asked, as they reached the bottom and moved away towards the Out-Patient Department.

“I think I ought to stay with Mary,” Jane answered. “She wasn't too good this morning. Scared as much as anything, I think.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Sorry, I've got a date with the man, Stone. Gerry.”

She made a face of disgust as she said his name.

“Why on earth—?”

“Police orders. There, I shouldn't have told you! Mr Garrod said—”

“To hell with Mr Bloody Garrod! You're not a volunteer policewoman. He's no right—”

“I
did
volunteer,” she said, gently.

Tim was silenced.

“Where's he taking you?” he said at last. They had reached the X-ray Department and Jane's heart sank at the sight of a dozen patients lined up on the benches.

“I don't know. A restaurant, I suppose. A meal. I shall refuse anything else.”

“I should damn well hope so. Ring me when you get back. I'm still on duty here. I could have slipped out for an hour, but not for trailing you.”

“Don't you dare! Tomorrow or any time. I can look after myself!”

“Famous last words,” said Tim and left her.

Garrod's investigations had been going on in a routine, not very productive manner, only interrupted by the preliminary hearing of the inquest on Sheila Burgess which was adjourned after medical evidence of the cause of death. Multiple injuries, haemorrhage and shock, the postmortem report stated. The injuries were listed in order of severity. They were consistent with a fall from a moving train. There was no evidence of any injury inflicted before the fall.

There never would be any to show if she'd been pushed, Garrod decided. And the same applied to her fall into the river. Two jumps by a suicide or two thrusts by a murderer's hand. A girl driven to desperation, or a girl trying to fight her way out of a vile organisation that had captured her, body and soul? Perhaps neither. Then what had she really intended?

Garrod turned to the reports that had come in. He had caused inquiries to be made at the cluster of houseboats near Hammersmith Bridge. Some were delapidated; some in moderate repair and used at weekends. A few were permanently occupied. It was from the owners of these that Garrod's men discovered the various uses to which the others were put. But ownership was more difficult. However, some sort of description was available in most cases and at the first weekend after Sheila's death Garrod went to the river himself. One of the weekend owners answered to the description of Ronald Bream's partner, Giles Winter. This man had not been present when Garrod had visited the photographer's shop on the day of the train accident, nor had he figured in either of Bream's previous convictions.

Remembering, with sardonic mirth, the well-developed muscles displayed in the blue film, Garrod hailed the dirty-white cabin cruiser by name and when Winter's head appeared in the wheelhouse called, “May I come aboard?”

“Who are you?” came the ungracious answer.

“A long-standing acquaintance of your partner,” Garrod answered.

Winter emerged fully on the deck, pushed overboard a rubber dinghy without sculls in it, and holding it by a long painter said, “If you climb over those three boats moored together I can float this over for you.”

Garrod did as he was told. Giles Winter gave the dinghy a smart push which sent it skimming over the gap between them, Garrod climbed in and was pulled over to the cabin cruiser. He stepped up on board.

“Aren't you a bit cut off here?” he asked mildly, when Winter had taken him down to the saloon.

“I only come at weekends,” the other answered. “Like to get away for a bit.”

“Don't you dry out at low tide?”

“Hardly ever. Perhaps at low water springs if they happen to come at a weekend. But I don't have to stay on board. I can go ashore for a few hours just before she takes the mud and stay away till she's on an even keel again. I can only remember having to do it once.”

He looked inquiringly at Garrod.

“Something about Ron?” he asked.

“Indirectly. I'm a police officer. Detective-Superintendent Garrod.”

“You could have said that before.” Winter's voice was controlled, but his mouth had a nasty twist, his face had grown pale and his eyes, cold and steady, were full of hate.

“So I could. But I thought you would prefer me not to shout it out for the people on the other boats to hear.”

“Considerate—hell! Get on with what you want.”

“I want to know if Sheila Burgess was on board here before she fell into the river two weeks ago.”

Giles Winter stared. Then he said, slowly, “I wouldn't know. I was at the studio that evening, helping Ron.”

“You mean both you and Bream had nothing to do with the—accident?”

“That's right. You think quick, don't you?”

“Cut the sarcasm, Winter. Waste of time. Can you tell me who else was likely to be here that night?”

“No. I can't.”

“Or won't?”

“Please yourself.”

Garrod, who had not expected much co-operation from the man before him, shrugged lightly.

“O.K. It's only yourself you hurt. Mind if I have a look round?”

“Please yourself,” Winter repeated and turning away, lit himself a thin cheroot and, still with face averted, began to hum a popular tune.

Garrod's tour of inspection was brief. He was able to establish that the cruiser was used, as Winter had said, for weekend or other short stays. The galley was in working order, reasonably clean. There was ample crockery for four to six people, with wine glasses of various sizes for many more than six. There were a few basic stores; very little fresh food. Of the six bunks only two were made up with sheets. The others had blankets folded and stores on top of them. The engine was a powerful one; well maintained and apparently in running order.

“You take the boat out sometimes, do you?” Garrod asked, reappearing in the cabin to find Winter in the same lounging position as before.

“Up river in the summer, yes.”

“And in the autumn and winter? Like now?”

“Depends.”

“What on?”

“The weather, chiefly.”

Garrod went off again, moving round the decks, looking at the anchor, its chain, the mooring chains fixed to buoys fore and aft, the old tyres used as fenders, the unscrubbed boards and peeling paint. Smartness was not a feature of this vessel, he noted, but she was in perfect working order.

When he had completed his inspection Garrod went back into the cabin once again and repeated his question about Sheila and any probable companion she might have had with her on the night of her rescue from drowning.

“What's it supposed to have to do with me?” Winter said at last, in an angry voice. “She could have been anywhere when she dropped in the drink. Who says she came on board here? How'd she do it?”

“If she had someone with her?”

“If she'd had anyone with her she wouldn't have got round to the suicide attempt,” Winter exploded. “Make it out how you damn well like. I'm not interested.”

Garrod ignored the outburst.

“We have information,” he said, quietly, “that a man and woman were on this boat early that evening. They were seen to come on board. They were heard arguing. At least the woman was heard to raise her voice.”

“I suppose this inventive chap told you he heard a scream and a splash?”

“Unfortunately no.”

“Whoever they were you don't know it was Sheila, do you? Or who was with her, if anyone?”