The lingering smell of food permeated the lift and the corridors as he was being taken down to the fourth floor, though what they would be cooking at ten past nine in the morning, Paget had no idea. His stomach rumbled in response, but the last thing he wanted was solid food—not while his throat felt as it did.
They’d removed the breathing tube the day before. His throat felt raw, and swallowing took an act of faith, but apart from that, and a dull throbbing in his head, there was little pain. His neck was bandaged, there was a dressing on his head, and he had to be careful when he moved, but he considered himself lucky to be alive.
The neurologist had arrived shortly after that. He was a short, thickset man by the name of DeWitt who hummed softly to himself as he checked Paget’s vision and reflexes.
“You’re very fortunate that the blow to the head didn’t do more damage to your skull,” he told Paget. “But you will have to be extremely careful. That lump you can feel on the back of your head
will go down fairly quickly, and the wound will heal, but it may take some time for the effects of the intracranial haematomas—broken blood vessels putting pressure on the brain—to subside. We could relieve some of the pressure surgically, but I prefer the less invasive techniques, which appear to be working in your case.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
DeWitt hesitated. “According to the scan, the damage isn’t all that extensive, nor would I call it serious, but it is in a sensitive area, so I think the less probing we do the better. Drugs have proved to be effective in cases such as yours, and as I said, they appear to be doing their job. It may take a little longer, but provided you are careful and don’t do anything foolish, I think it is the preferred course of action. However, I should warn you that you could experience a variety of sensations during the healing process, and we will be monitoring you very carefully. In addition, I want you to keep this pad beside your bed and jot down anything unusual: sharp pain, blurred vision, hallucinations, odd sounds, smells, abrupt changes in temperature—in fact, anything out of the ordinary. And don’t be afraid to push your panic button and let the nurse know if you start to feel faint or experience sharp pain. That’s why they’re here. Perhaps you have experienced some of these sensations already?”
Smells. Hallucinations. The smell of burning flesh, and Jill’s charred body. Paget almost nodded, but checked himself. Those selfsame images had haunted him following Jill’s death, and he had wound up in a psychiatric ward on that occasion.
“Just the odd dream,” he said, dismissing it as of little consequence, “but there is a blank spot in my memory. I’ve been trying to remember what happened, and I can’t. Is that completely lost to me, or will it come back in time? The other thing is, I can’t seem to stay awake for long.”
“You’re bound to feel weak, and you will sleep a lot for the next while,” DeWitt told him. “As for your memory, it will improve, but it’s impossible to say how much you will remember. You have to give
it time. Good God, man, what do you expect after surviving an attack like that? You lost an enormous amount of blood, and even though you’ve had a transfusion, it will take time to get your blood levels back up to where they should be. You can’t force these things, so be patient.”
“Which leads me to my next question: when can I expect to get out of here?”
“You’re to be moved to the fourth floor later this morning,” DeWitt told him, “and you’ll probably be there for five or six days at least. But when you do go home, you must continue to rest.”
Paget grimaced at the thought. “How long before I can return to work?”
“Impossible to say at this stage, but I think you will have to let me be the judge of that. After you do leave hospital, I want to see you once a week until I’m satisfied that there are no residual effects. We can talk about returning to work then.” DeWitt stopped Paget with an impatient gesture as he saw the protest forming on his lips. “It would be very foolish to return to work too soon,” he warned sternly. “But, speaking of your work, Superintendent Alcott has been champing at the bit to talk to you, so I’ve told him he can come in this afternoon, but I’ve warned him not to stay too long.”
Once Paget was transferred to his new bed, Andrea, in her capacity as registrar, visited him briefly, then turned him over to the house officer, a doctor by the name of Winfield. There was a flurry of activity and questions for about half an hour; then suddenly all was quiet and he was left alone. Whether by design or sheer good luck, he had a private room—with a uniformed PC stationed outside his door.
He lay back against his pillows, eyes closed, exhausted—annoyed with himself for feeling so weak. He’d felt quite good before the move from the ICU, but suddenly it was as if someone had pulled the plug and drained his energy away. He opened his eyes and looked at his watch, squinting. The face was blurred. The top of his head felt numb, and he could hear strange noises in his ears. He
squinted harder and the watch split into two, now blurred even more. Paget felt a prickle of sweat across his brow. He closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again.
Nine fifty-three. There it was, as plain as day.
The numbness passed; the noises faded. He felt very tired, but was almost afraid to close his eyes again.
He thought of Andrea. She’d told him that he’d first regained consciousness more than a week ago, but he’d lost all sense of time. He did remember waking to find her sitting beside his bed, but he had no idea when that was. “Welcome back,” she’d said quietly. “You had us worried for a while, Neil. How do you feel?”
“Better for seeing you,” he remembered saying, before drifting off to sleep again. Later, possibly days later, they’d talked, but he couldn’t remember what was said. But he did recall the feeling. It was as if there had been a wall of glass between them, and he remembered trying hard to find a way around it, but he couldn’t stay awake. And when he did open his eyes again, Andrea had gone.
“I can’t say I’m looking forward to visiting Paget tomorrow,” Tregalles told Audrey on Sunday night as they were getting ready for bed. “Well, what I mean is, I’m glad he’s on the mend, but it’s going to be hard to face him with the case being at a standstill.”
Audrey pulled the duvet up under her chin. “And you think he’ll blame you?” she said.
“He probably won’t say that,” Tregalles said as he slid down beside her, “but he’ll be thinking it. I mean, I would if I was in his place. I’d be lying there expecting to hear that whoever had attacked me was behind bars by now, but all we can tell him is that, apart from Marshall, we haven’t got a clue.”
“But isn’t that why you want to talk to him? I mean, he might be able to tell you exactly what happened—even tell you who did it—so why are you so worried?”
Tregalles sighed. “It’s just that I feel I’ve let him down.”
Audrey propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at her husband. “What else could you have done, then?” she demanded.
“That’s just it. I don’t know. Len and I have been over it time and time again, but there are no leads, nothing, except for Marshall, and the more I think about that, the less I’m inclined to believe he had anything to do with it. We certainly have no proof.”
“Well, it’s no good lying there stewing about it, is it?” she said in her practical way. “What you need is something to take your mind off it.” She leaned down and kissed him. It was meant to be a peck, but her husband curled an arm around her and drew her to him. “Like what?” he asked softly, nuzzling her neck. He pressed closer, but Audrey gasped and pulled away.
“Your hands are ice cold,” she accused.
“Cold hands, warm heart,” he chuckled, and reached for her again. “Why don’t you warm them up for me?”
It was clear by the look on their faces that both Alcott and Tregalles were disappointed, as was Paget, that there had been so little in the way of progress in finding his attacker. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but the last thing I remember is Regan backing her car out and disappearing round the corner. After that, nothing.”
“You’ve no idea who might have done this to you?” said Alcott.
“Absolutely none, and believe me, I’ve done nothing else but think about it this last couple of days.”
“You’ve received no threats?”
“Not.”
“Money troubles? Anything like that?”
“No.”
Tregalles spoke up. “We’ve been on to your old division in the Met to ask if anyone you put away when you were there has been released recently. Someone who threatened you when they were sent down, perhaps? Any ideas, sir?”
“None that I ever took seriously. Threats like that are usually made in the heat of the moment; they’re rarely followed up.”
Tregalles said, “No doubt they’re busy, but we’ve had nothing back from Brompton as of noon today. I was wondering if you could give us the name of someone who might stir them up a bit.”
Paget closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillows. “I suppose you could contact my old boss, Superintendent Bob McKenzie,” he said. “But from what you tell me, this chap Marshall seems to be the more likely suspect.”
“I’m not so sure about that, sir,” Tregalles began, but a glance from Alcott silenced him.
“That’s a point on which we disagree,” said Alcott bluntly, “but it does lead me to another question. I’m sorry I have to ask this, especially when you’re in this condition, but it has to be dealt with. Are you and Regan having an affair?”
“An affair?” Paget’s eyes flew open. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Her husband seems to think you are,” Alcott countered, “and from what we’ve been told, she was waiting for someone by the door that night. Then you came along and the two of you left together. Had you arranged to meet her there?”
“Of course not. As a matter of fact, I thought she’d gone home. I was surprised to see she hadn’t left.”
Alcott eyed Paget for a long moment. “So,” he said softly, “if there is nothing going on between the two of you, how do you explain the fact that Regan has been up here every day, asking about you?”
Tregalles glanced at his superior. This was the first he’d heard about it—if it was true. And then the penny dropped. Of course! Alcott must have checked the log the PCs kept of everyone who had asked to see the DCI—something he should have done himself. He groaned inwardly, and hoped that Alcott wouldn’t realize that he hadn’t done the same.
Paget’s eyes were steady on Alcott’s face as he replied. “I suggest
you ask Regan,” he said. “I wasn’t aware that she had been asking about me, but you might tell her I appreciate the thought.”
Alcott grunted. “You say that Regan was waiting at the door when you came downstairs. Did she offer any explanation?”
Paget thought about that. “Not that I remember.”
“She didn’t say anything about her husband hanging about outside?”
“No.”
“Well, he was. He was outside, watching for her to come out. He’s been stalking her ever since she left him a month or so ago.”
“We can’t be sure of that, sir,” Tregalles put in quietly. “Even Regan admitted she can’t be sure that he was there, and we still have the problem of the second person.”
“Second person?” Paget looked from one to the other for an explanation.
“We believe you were attacked by two people,” Tregalles explained, and went on to tell Paget about the broken hasp on the shed, and the theory that at least one man had been waiting there for Paget to appear. “We think one of them hit you from behind, and it was the other one who …” He stopped, not wanting to come right out and say, “cut your throat.” “Are you sure you don’t remember any of that, sir?”
Paget shook his head. “Sorry, Tregalles, but it’s a complete blank. But if Regan’s husband was stalking her as she claims, it would explain why she was so nervous when we left the building. I could feel her trembling as she hung on to my arm.”
Alcott’s eyebrows shot up. “She was holding your arm?”
“It was dark, and it was treacherous underfoot,” said Paget, visibly annoyed by Alcott’s question. “There was mud all over the place, and she was wearing high-heeled shoes.” He closed his eyes again. “You can check with her if you like, and—”
“Sorry, gentlemen, but Mr. Paget must have his rest.” No one had noticed the nurse approach until she was standing there at the foot of the bed.
“But we’ve only been here—”
“Quite long enough,” the nurse said firmly. “Mr. Paget only came down from ICU this morning. Perhaps tomorrow?”
“Perhaps,” Alcott said ungraciously as he moved away.
Tregalles touched Paget’s arm. “Glad to see you on the mend, sir, and Audrey said to wish you the best.”
Paget reached out and gripped his sergeant’s hand. “Thank her for me,” he said. He lowered his voice. “And don’t let Alcott bully you into his way of thinking. If you think you have a better idea, follow it through. He gets a bit carried away at times, and he needs someone to hold him back.”
He saw the steely look in the nurse’s eye, and raised his hands in mock surrender. “He’s going,” he assured her, and settled back on his pillows. He wanted to think about everything he’d heard today, and try once more to remember what had happened out there behind the station.
He closed his eyes—and promptly fell asleep.
“Drop me off at New Street,” Alcott told Tregalles as they left the hospital. “I have a meeting with Chief Superintendent Brock. He wants to hear what Paget had to say.” He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. “And he is not going to be pleased when I tell him Paget claims to remember nothing of the attack,” he said softly, and blew a cloud of smoke into the air.
“Claims to remember nothing?” Tregalles echoed, batting smoke away with his open hand.
Alcott shrugged. “We have to consider the possibility that Paget knows his attacker, but doesn’t want to say who it was. Or,” he continued as Tregalles started to object, “he really doesn’t remember, but might in time. The trouble is, we can’t afford to wait for that to happen—if it ever does.”
“But if he does know who attacked him, why wouldn’t he tell us?”
Alcott shook his head impatiently. “For any number of reasons,” he said testily. “Face it, Tregalles. Sergeant Regan is a very attractive woman, and Paget’s wife has been dead now for what—four years or more? And if it was Marshall who went after him, Paget’s not likely to admit that to us, is he? Having an affair with one of his staff? Attacked by a jealous husband? Not something he’d want everyone to know, is it?”
Tregalles drew in his breath. “I think I would know if something like that was going on,” he said stiffly. “And I can assure you that I don’t—sir.”
Alcott shook his head again. “I’m simply pointing out that you should not allow yourself to be blinded by some sort of personal loyalty to the man,” he said wearily. “Granted, DCI Paget has a fine record, but he’s not a bloody automaton, even if he acts like one most of the time. He’s flesh and blood. Regan is quite open about her admiration for him, and I suspect that Paget is a very lonely man. It can happen, so don’t dismiss it out of hand. Whoever attacked Paget that night meant to kill him. It was no chance encounter, believe me. They knew him, knew who they were waiting for, and I believe that Paget may know who they are. Whether or not this loss of memory is genuine, I don’t know, but mark my words, Tregalles, there is a link. So put someone on it. Find out if the two of them have been seen together outside office hours. If it turns out there is nothing to it, fine, no harm’s been done. In other words, Sergeant, I want to be damned sure we’ve covered every possibility. Have you ever been to his house?”
“No, sir, I can’t say I have, but—”
“Neither have I,” Alcott cut in, “and neither has anyone else as far as I know. So, what does he do in his spare time? Put some pressure on Regan. Put pressure on the housekeeper. If anything has been going on, chances are she would know about it, but she may be
keeping quiet out of loyalty to Paget. I want answers, Tregalles, so get cracking.” Alcott slipped off his seat belt as the car drew in to the kerb.
“No need to wait,” he said as he got out. “I’ll walk back.” Alcott paused only long enough to grind his cigarette beneath his heel before entering the building. Morgan Brock did not allow smoking in Head Office.
But instead of returning to Charter Lane, Tregalles drove back to the hospital, where he returned to the fourth floor and examined the PC’s log. Alcott was right, Regan had been there every day, enquiring about Paget’s condition. But then again, so had Grace Lovett.