Chapter Twenty-Five

The following day, I had a reflective journey to work. It would have been pointless to rail at Stephenson and her team for their incompetence, but I wanted to scream with frustration. If I was supposed to be alert and on my toes all the time, why shouldn’t other people? How on earth could the police have let Malpass squat under their very eyes? No wonder he’d been able to keep an eye on our activities! All things considered it was fortunate that morning that no one changed lanes selfishly or tried to overtake: he might have found a latter-day Boadicea kicking in his lights.

Perhaps Richard sensed my tension: when I went to report the latest development he produced coffee and chocolate biscuits without even asking. He spoke idly about the roads, a leak in the biology lab ceiling – and then we heard screams.

We nearly collided in the doorway, but I was out first, banging at the lift button. When nothing happened, I yelled, ‘Call Security! Then use the lift. I’m on my way down.’

A security guard soon joined me outside. It didn’t take long to see what was happening; a group of yobs had found a patch of relatively virgin snow and also found someone to roll in it. The girl was white and shaking by the time the man had collared one of the ring-leaders, and burst into tears as I helped her to her feet.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Course it bloody hurts! It’s bloody freezing me – me you-know-what.’

‘What have they done to you?’

She didn’t answer for a moment, more concerned with the arrival of two patrol cars and a panda. Thank goodness for Security. ‘I don’t want them men to know. It’s – it’s women’s business, like.’

I scraped some snow from the back of her neck. As far as I could see down her coat her sweatshirt was wet. I undid her collar: the front was soaking too.

‘Did they put snow up your legs?’

She nodded.

‘I’ll make sure there’s a WPC,’ I said. ‘They’re really good – I promise.’

And then she gripped my wrist. ‘They won’t want it to go to court, will they?’

‘They’ve got the bloke that did it. They’ll soon get his mates.’

‘Ah, but there’s others where they came from. And the Bill won’t be here every day I come this way, will they?’ She was shaking again.

At last the police were with us, and I looked for someone sympathetic. I found an avuncular man, who might have had daughters the woman’s age.

‘Assault,’ I said. ‘And I’d reckon it was indecent.’

And then I registered two more facts. There was no sign of Richard; and a paramedic unit was hurtling through the car park. I started to run. I remembered all too clearly his shortness of breath, his grey face. Not Richard, not a heart attack. Please, God.

‘Is he OK? He’s a friend of mine!’

But they were too busy to bother with me.

No one spoke to anyone that day without asking for news of him. At last, I couldn’t bear the official silence any longer, and I phoned the Principal.

‘Forgive me, Sophie, but I must tell you I think you are over-reacting.’

‘Mr Worrall, there are some two hundred and fifty people in this college who respect and care for Richard. We all of us need to know.’

‘I will ask Personnel to phone the hospital and put a notice on the Staff board.’

‘I think I can manage that myself, thank you very much.’

Casualty were happy to tell me that Mr Jeffreys hadn’t had a coronary incident, but was under observation for gallstones. I could visit him later if I wanted.

I wanted.

When I saw him from the ward door, his face unguarded, Richard was wan and miserable. He wheeled to face me as soon as he heard my voice: it was difficult to work out his reaction. But I found myself shaking hands with him and leaving my hand in his long enough for it to become a clasp. Then the conversation turned to prosaic matters: keys, burglar alarms, pyjamas. I’d drop a suitcase before heading off to the meeting of the Midshire Symphony Orchestra’s Friendly Society, of which I was a trustee: why did it have to be this evening?

Andy obviously couldn’t wait to leave. Although the police had told him to stay put until all the i’s had been dotted, his bag stood ready-packed by the front door. Of the man himself there was no sign. I picked up some books, my Discman and a variety of CDs to keep Richard entertained. I’d just locked the house when I remembered I’d still got Chris’s little spray in my bag: I fished it out. Might as well put it back now. But I was cutting it fine if I wanted to pick up Richard’s stuff, so I slipped it in my pocket. I’d better ignore the message on my answering machine, too. I’d phone whoever it was when I got back: the meeting shouldn’t finish very late.

Richard’s house seemed gloomier than I remembered it. Sheila had taken all her house-plants and a lot of books, and it no longer seemed inhabited. I gathered his clothes, uneasy at rifling through other people’s drawers, albeit by invitation. His socks seemed pathetically small for such a solid man. I could find nothing better than a Tesco’s carrier to put them in.

I resumed my journey. Nowhere to park, of course: it’s all very well having these mega-hospitals, but the planners never seem to remember the elementary principle that people have to get there and that public transport has never quite recovered from being de-regulated. Another car and I circled endlessly until a Mini sidled out of a child-sized space. Since my rival was a big Vauxhall and I was in my little Renault, there was no contest. But he stayed in the aisle, as if he hoped I’d change my mind.

The curtains round Richard’s bed were closed. I assumed tact in the face of bedpans was in order and hovered a little way off.

‘He’s been taken bad,’ said a voice; it belonged to the occupant of the bed I was hovering near. ‘Your dad’s been taken real bad. Oxygen.’

‘Oxygen?

‘Giving him oxygen. Look.’ He nodded downwards.

There were a lot of feet by Richard’s bed. I sat hard on his neighbour’s chair. ‘How bad? Heart?’

‘You’ll have to speak up, me duck.’

‘Heart?’

‘No! Me bronicals.’

‘That man – is it his heart?’ I had spoken loud enough to wake the dead and a head popped out from the curtains, which were then pushed aside a couple of feet. A spotty male face peered at me. ‘Richard says, if you’re Sophie, tell her he’s all right. Asthma.’

‘Is that all?’ I was on my feet and through the curtain.

‘Been neglecting myself a bit,’ Richard said, pulling down an oxygen mask. ‘I’m fine,’ he insisted, although he palpably wasn’t.

‘Obviously,’ I nodded. ‘Never do things by half, do you, Richard? A master of bathos, to boot. Two heart attacks in one day and neither’s genuine.’

He started to chuckle.

‘I’m surprised you didn’t fall and break a couple of bones while you were about it. No, you’re not supposed to laugh – go on, have a bit more air. I’ll hang on until you can tell me how you want them to run William Murdock in your absence.’

The Vauxhall was packed in the aisle when I got back, but there was no sign of the driver. At least he hadn’t blocked me in, though a couple of other drivers were hanging round cursing.

Moseley next. And although there were plenty of opportunites for anyone to overtake, the car that had followed me from the car park stuck with me all the way to Aberlene’s, where the meeting was to be held. I half-expected the driver to stop and make some derogatory, chauvinistic comment about my driving, but he went straight past.

Shrugging, I rang Aberlene’s doorbell. The next three hours were dedicated to finding new trustees for the Friendly Society. The most recent nominations hadn’t been the most felicitous choices: they were awaiting trial for fraud, though happily not, as it happened, against us.

The meeting over, I’d got as far as the traffic lights in Moseley when I realised I was being tailed again. Some of Chris’s mates in Traffic, no doubt. Well, good for them. This time I’d really irritate them by doing a precise twenty-nine miles an hour. There was a satisfactory tailback by the time I’d reached the Russell Road Island.

Everyone else had overtaken me by Edgbaston Cricket Ground, but the tail remained where it was. By now I was really peeved. I stabbed into third, and felt the car surge. The Montego behind me surged too: in fact, he gained on me. I floored the throttle.

He couldn’t be going to overtake here! Not here, where the road was narrow – there wasn’t even a pavement – and twisting along the high wall of the golf course boundary.

He was.

OK. I could handle him. I braked hard, so hard I thought for a moment he might ram me.

But he didn’t ram. He cut in front of me so sharply I had to brake to a standstill, to the accompaniment of a nasty scraping noise from my nearside. Then he accelerated hard away. What the hell—? I got out to look at the damage, taking the torch I keep in the glovebox, but I was shaking so much the circle of light jiggled and danced. And then the spread of light got bigger. A car, approaching fast, my side of the road. Heading fast for my car. My legs.

And nowhere to run except that solid wall.

I was on the Renault’s bonnet before I knew it, scrabbling desperately on what had been immaculate paint. Could I risk looking back? Yes, it was the Montego. He’d been round the island. All I had to throw was my torch as the driver lunged out of the door: pity it wasn’t bigger and heavier. Big as his baseball bat.

On the roof now, teetering and slipping. I grabbed at the wall, and heaved. Out of training. My arms and shoulders screamed.

The area was wooded: no fairways just here. While the lying snow gave me light, it covered roots and hollows. If I didn’t break my leg first he might break his. I could hear if not see the Club House – someone must be having mammoth shindig. Perhaps they’d save me some booze. Perhaps they’d save me full-stop.

He was closer. Very close. Heavy breaths.

As I ran and swerved something banged repeatedly against my hip. I closed my hand on it briefly: Chris’s spray. But the brief reassurance cost me concentration. My right ankle twisted and I was down, crashing hard on my arm and shoulder. He was nearly on me! I rolled, like they do in the movies, and grabbed at the spray. Holding it as if it were a gun with a huge recoil I waited until I could see his eyes. And let rip.

Why hadn’t I noticed the balaclava? OK, he was choking nicely, but once he got the balaclava off perhaps he’d strip off the irritant too. And it was only a small aerosol …

No point in hanging around. Get to the noise, to the people. My arm was too weak to give me proper leverage, but I was up again, trying to hold it with the left hand while I ran. Yes! People behind big windows. The door? I’d never been to the place, I wasn’t the golf club type, I’d no idea how to get in.

And he was moving again.

A terrace. A terrace, with empty glasses on the steps. No one there now. No one, except him and me. I banged the window: they waved back. All as happy as newts.

A door. And then he was on me. No baseball bat, but he’d seen the glasses. A pint beer glass, the sort with a handle – he smashed the side off against the wall. A little shield for him, with a good grip. Nothing for me to throw. Nothing to hide behind.

A scream. And another. Mine. I could scream till he got my throat. Kick my shoe off. Watch it break the window. All those men in dinner jackets. All old, all frail, but enough. Not to catch him. But to make him turn tail.

And rich enough to offer me a choice of malts while we waited for the police.