Under Orders (28 page)

‘Which leg?’ she asked.

‘Can’t you tell?’

‘Both of them hurt.’

‘They had to take a piece of vein out of your left leg to repair the artery in your right, which was damaged by the bullet.’

‘Clever stuff,’ she said, smiling. There was nothing wrong with her brain.

The nurse returned with a couple of pills for her to take. ‘These will only be any good if you can keep them down so only a little water.’

‘But I’m so thirsty,’ said Marina.

‘Just little sips,’ said the nurse bossily, ‘or you’ll bring them up again and it’ll be worse than ever.’

Marina pulled a face and winked at me as the nurse poured
a thimbleful of water into a glass and gave it to her to take the pills.

We waited in silence for her to leave, then laughed.

I marvelled at how a human being can be at death’s door one day and then seemingly fine and dandy the next. All to do with the need for oxygen to make things happen, and the blood supply to deliver it around the body. Cut off the current and the bulb goes out. Turn it on again and the light shines brightly. Only it’s not that simple with a brain. Once off, it stays off, because the brain also controls the switch.

‘I’ll go and get the others,’ I said.

‘What am I wearing?’ said Marina, trying to sit up a little to look down at the off-white regulation-issue hospital nightgown.

‘They’re not going to worry about what you’re wearing,’ I said.

‘Well, I do,’ she said. ‘And what’s my hair like?’

‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘You’re beautiful.’

In truth, she appeared washed out and tired with the two lines of stitches from last week still prominent in her face. But, all things considered, she looked great.

I went to fetch Rosie, Charles and Jenny. They came in and gathered round Marina’s bed, fussing over her and being equally astonished at how quickly she was mending.

The bossy nurse reappeared. ‘Only two visitors at a time,’ she said.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘They won’t be long.’

I stood back by the window and looked at Marina. I had been badly frightened at how close I had come to losing her. Fear, relief, desperate fear again and finally overwhelming relief – the emotional rollercoaster of the last twenty hours had left me mentally exhausted and physically drained.

Now I began to notice a subtle change in me. The feeling of wellbeing and joy at finding that Marina would fully recover was slowly ebbing away and being replaced by a growing anger. I was annoyed with myself, of course, for not having taken the previous warning even more seriously than we had. But this was a mere bagatelle compared to the fury that was rising in me towards the person, or persons, responsible for this.

Mr Pandita arrived, wreathed in smiles.

I found that I had consciously to relax my right hand to shake his. I had been clenching my fist together so hard that my fingernails had been digging into the flesh.

‘I see she’s doing fine,’ he said. ‘But don’t tire her out too much.’

‘Hello,’ said Marina. ‘I assume we’ve met.’

‘Yes, sorry. I’m Mr Pandita and I’m the consultant general surgeon here. I operated on your leg.’

‘So it’s your fault I bloody hurt so much?’ said Marina.

‘Not all mine,’ he said. ‘You were pretty badly hurt when I first saw you.’

‘Yes,’ said Marina, suitably admonished. ‘Well, thank you.’

Mr Pandita nodded then turned to me. ‘I think she should stay here for a while longer. That leg needs to be rested in order to allow the graft to heal. I don’t want her back on the table with a rupture or an aneurysm. You were lucky, young lady,’ he said to Marina. ‘The bullet missed your knee and your femur. A couple of days’ bed-rest here where you can be monitored and then you should be ready to go home.’

Luck is relative, I thought. Marina had been unlucky to be shot in the first place and unlucky that the bullet had torn open an artery, but prompt action by Rosie, first-rate medical care,
and her own strong constitution had won the day, not luck.

Mr Pandita ushered all of us away to allow Marina to rest.

‘Come back later,’ he said to me. ‘Give her at least a couple of hours to sleep.’

Rosie went back to work and Charles took Jenny off to lunch. I had urged him to stay with Jenny in London for a few days.

‘But why?’ he’d said.

‘Where you live is common knowledge,’ I’d replied. ‘And I don’t want you to get any visits from a gun-toting motorcyclist.’

‘Oh!’ he’d said. ‘Well, perhaps for a day or two. Or I could stay at my club.’

I had inwardly laughed at his dilemma. The Army & Navy Club had much more attraction for Charles. It had a decent bar for a start. Jenny was always complaining about the amount of whisky he drank so he was unlikely to get much of it at her place. They had decided to discuss it over some lunch.

Suddenly I felt quite lonely as I walked back across Westminster Bridge in the watery March sunshine. I called into the betting shop on Victoria Street but my friend from before, Gerry Noble, wasn’t there. Perhaps I was too early for him. I was disappointed and I hung around for a while in the hope he might turn up. He didn’t, so I asked one of the staff behind the counter if they knew if he was coming.

‘Gerry Noble?’ said the man. ‘I don’t know their names. I take their bloody money not their life histories.’

‘A big guy. Wears a Manchester United shirt,’ I persisted.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘they could all wear bloody leotards for all I’d notice. As I said, I’m only interested in their money.’

Clearly, he enjoyed his work and I was wasting my time.

Instead I continued my walk back to Ebury Street and then busied myself clearing up.

So how could Juliet Burns afford to have a wardrobe full of designer clothes with shoes to match?

I was mulling over this little teaser when my mobile phone rang.

‘Mr Halley?’ said a voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Superintendent Aldridge here,’ said the voice.

‘How can I help you?’ I asked.

‘Glad to hear that Miss Meer is making steady progress,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Miss van der Meer is awake and doing fine this morning.’ I emphasised the ‘van der’ and there was a moment’s pause while he took stock.

‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Excellent news.’

‘Are you still providing her with a guard?’ I asked him.

‘We are, but I don’t really think it’s necessary.’

‘How so?’ I said.

‘The gunman clearly didn’t mean to kill her in the first place as he shot her in the leg. He was obviously trying only to wound her. In a way, she was very unlucky to be so close to dying. If you wanted to kill someone, you wouldn’t try to sever their femoral artery. Much too chancy. So I don’t really believe that she is in any danger in the hospital. And there’s also that card you left for me. I don’t think “next time” means the following day. I’m afraid the guard will be withdrawn this afternoon at the change of shift.’

Reluctantly, I agreed with his assessment.

‘Did you get any fingerprints off the card?’

‘It’s still with forensics but they weren’t very hopeful. The card appears clean but they are still testing the envelope.’

‘Is there anything you need from me?’ I asked him.

‘Not at the moment. But be sure to let me know if you think of anything.’

‘So what do you do now?’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Where are you going to send your task force to find this gunman?’

‘I don’t have a task force,’ he said. ‘This wasn’t a murder and I have limited resources.’

‘But it was a shooting in broad daylight in a London street.’

‘Mr Halley, have you any idea how many shootings take place every day in London streets?’

‘No.’

‘Well, it would surprise you. There’s about one shooting a day that results in injury or death. And there’s a gun crime somewhere in London on average every five or six hours. There were more than a dozen armed robberies last week in the Met area alone, and there’s a murder at least every second day.’ He paused for effect. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘If Miss
van der
Meer had died I might have had a few officers in a team to help find the gunman. Thankfully, she didn’t, so I don’t get the resources. We are too busy trying to catch some other poor sod’s killer.’

‘But it may be the same person who killed Huw Walker,’ I said.

‘Who?’

‘The jockey at Cheltenham.’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I’ll give Gloucestershire police a call.’

‘Ask for Chief Inspector Carlisle,’ I said, but he too was busy with another case. A child killer had more fascination for the media than the death of a ‘crooked’ jockey.

‘Right,’ he said, and disconnected.

I’d better investigate this myself, then.

Marina was sitting up in bed looking much better when I returned to see her at four thirty. I had brought with me a suitcase of things for her but I needn’t have bothered.

She was already wearing a pretty pink nightdress and a matching cotton dressing gown. Her hair was clean and neat and she had applied some makeup. And, I noticed, the stitches had been removed from her eyebrow and lip.

‘You look wonderful,’ I said, giving her a kiss. ‘Where did you get the nightie?’

‘Rosie had it sent over from Rigby and Peller. Isn’t she fantastic?’

‘Absolutely,’ I agreed, sitting down on the chair beside the bed. Rosie was beating herself up unnecessarily for allowing Marina to get shot. It wasn’t her fault and no one but she thought so.

‘A policeman did come to see me this morning,’ said Marina. ‘He asked me if I could describe the man who shot me.’

‘And can you?’ I asked.

‘No, not really. It all happened so fast. I remember him looking at a map and beckoning me over to him. He was wearing black leathers and a black helmet, you know, one of
those with a full front and a dark visor. That’s why I couldn’t see his face. That’s about it.’

‘Are you sure it was a man?’

‘You think it might have been a woman?’

‘It’s possible,’ I said.

‘No.’ She paused. ‘I’m pretty good when it comes to spotting women, even if they’re wearing motorcycling leathers.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. It was a man. If it had been a woman I would have looked at her bottom.’

‘What for?’ I said.

‘To see if it was smaller than mine. Silly boy.’

‘Do you do that all the time?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘All women do it.’

And I thought I was the one who looked at women’s bottoms.

‘What else did the policeman say?’ I asked.

‘He asked if I would recognise the motorbike.’ She laughed. ‘I told him it had two wheels but that didn’t seem to help. I don’t know what type it was. I wouldn’t know if I’d had all day to examine it.’

‘But it was blue,’ I said. I didn’t know.

‘No, it wasn’t,’ she said. She stopped with her mouth open. She closed it. ‘It was red. How funny, I didn’t remember before.’ She paused for quite a while. ‘It also had a big red fuel tank with yellow flashes down the side. And the rider had more yellow bits on his trousers, along his thighs.’

‘Could you draw the shape of the yellow flashes?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘They were like lightning bolts.’

‘Good girl,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you some paper and a pencil.’

I went off in search of them and eventually managed to
borrow a pad and pen from the nursing station. Marina set to work and had soon produced some drawings of the lightning type flashes on the fuel tank and on the motorcyclist’s leather trousers.

Just as she finished, a nurse came in and told me it was time to go. ‘The patient must get some rest,’ she said, and stood in the open doorway waiting for me to leave.

‘See you tomorrow, my love,’ I said to Marina, giving her a kiss.

‘OK,’ she said, yawning. She did look tired but so much better than yesterday.

I made my way down to the exit. What a difference a day makes. I didn’t notice anyone at the hospital reception desk who was desperately looking for the Intensive Care Unit as I had been just over twenty-fours hours ago. But then I wouldn’t. A crisis doesn’t make you grow a second head or anything; the turmoil is on the inside. Invisible.

When I had been riding, Saturday morning had always been a ‘work day’ in Andrew Woodward’s yard and I assumed that nothing would have changed. On a ‘work day’ the horses would do ‘work’. A large string of them would be out on the exercise grounds early, galloping hard to increase their stamina and speed. Preparing a horse for racing was all about developing stamina and speed. High protein oats, minerals and oils are transformed into strong, firm muscle through regular and demanding training gallops.

First lot in the Woodward stable had always gone out at half past seven sharp. Horses need to be made ready with saddles and bridles, with protective bandages on their lower legs, and
with their coats and tails brushed. There was much to do for the trainer and his assistants prior to the ‘mount up’ order being given; at ten past seven they would be busy and preoccupied with the horses and the stable staff.

Which is why, on Saturday morning at ten past seven precisely, I let myself in through the front door of Juliet Burns’s tiny cottage.

Lambourn is set in a hollow of the Berkshire Downs, appropriately close to the Bronze Age White Horse figure carved into a chalk hill at Uffington. Locally, and for good reason, the area is known as The Valley of the Racehorse. At about two thousand, there are almost as many racehorses living in the village as there are people. And the majority of the human residents earn their living either directly or indirectly from their equine neighbours.

I wasn’t sure what made a village into a town but, if any village deserved it, it was Lambourn. Not many villages I knew had at least a dozen shops, several restaurants, two fish-and-chip bars, four pubs, a leisure centre and a fully equipped hospital, even if it was only for the horses. But still no town hall.

There was only one betting shop. In spite of a roaring trade, it apparently wasn’t very profitable. There were too many winners.

I had lived here myself for five years during my racing career and my face was almost as well known in this community as Saddam Hussein’s was in Baghdad. If I were ever to take up burglary as a career, the one place I would not choose to start would be Lambourn.