As Wendy guided her car round the hospital car park looking for a space, her head was filled with thoughts of what she might find inside.
Would Michael be conscious? Would he have tubes and lines sticking out of every orifice, just like last time? Surely not. He couldn't be as bad as he was last time. He wouldn't do that again. Three weeks in intensive care, his stomach pumped, his kidneys flushed, his face as grey as stone. Despite this, Michael showed no remorse and had made no attempt to turn his life around. This is what irritated Wendy the most. This was why she had seen her brother only a handful of times over the past few years. Wendy knew deep down that each time could well be the last.
As she traipsed up the unnecessarily long and winding disabled access ramp, last night's words rang in Wendy's ears.
I'm through with you, Michael. I don't want anything to do with you.
It was the only way I knew how to cope.
I'm through with you, Michael.
I'm trying! I swear to God I'm trying!
I'm through with you, Michael. I don't want anything to do with you.
I don't want anything to do with you.
The stench hit Wendy as soon as the automatic doors opened. It smelt of death and antiseptic. Wendy hated hospitals. The woman at the reception desk reminded her of a schoolteacher from a budget porn film, her dark-rimmed glasses perched on the edge of her nose, her suit blouse exposing far too much breast tissue for medically unstable patients to cope with. Tart. That might even be a health and safety issue.
The tart looked down her oh-so-perfect nose and informed Wendy that Michael was in bed number seven on the Egret ward. The tart's blunt manner led Wendy to believe that she knew exactly why Michael was in the ward. Look at her, coming in here to visit her worthless drug addict brother.
The nurse on the ward’s reception desk updated Wendy on her brother’s condition. He hadn’t overdosed as originally thought, but had instead drunk two bottles of cheap brandy and fumbled around with a packet of painkillers before calling the police. A cry for help, they said. His stomach had been pumped and they were holding him under observation until they could let him go.
As Wendy entered the Egret ward, she scanned the walls for a laminated placard displaying the number seven. Two elderly gentlemen in beds one and two were comparing their abdominal scars whilst a Jamaican lady snored loudly from bed five. Two beds closer to Wendy, in bed number seven, lay Michael.
Michael was awake and looking at Wendy like a small child who knew he had done something terribly wrong. The helpless look on his face shook her to the core. She cantered over to bed seven and hugged Michael.
‘Careful, sis. I've had all sorts of bloody lines and pumps hanging out of me. I'm a bit sore.’
‘Oh, Michael. Why did you do this? Why?’
‘Because I'm a fucking idiot, Wend. Because I couldn't cope with you leaving me again and I hated myself. I fucking hated myself.’
‘How could you be so selfish, Michael?’
‘Selfish? You want to talk to me about selfish? How many times have you come to visit me over the past few years, Wend? You're just as bad as dad was, devoting your entire life to the sodding police force and making everyone else take a back seat.’
Wendy bit her tongue. ‘Michael, I have to work to live. My job is very important to me and it involves a lot of hard work. You've not exactly made much effort with me, either.’
‘Is that the best you can do? You've seen me twice in eighteen months because your job involves a lot of work? Even dad used to be home to see us one or two nights a week.’
‘Stop comparing me to dad, Michael!’
‘Why the hell not? You're both the bloody same. All that matters is the police force and the rest of the world can go to hell.’
‘Michael, you really need to understand that we're on the same side here. You're not to blame for being here in this hospital bed. The people to blame are the scum who push drugs onto vulnerable people and get them hooked, the people who use their filthy drug money to feed organised crime. The people who think nothing of being a rapist or a murderer. They are the people I have a responsibility to bring down, Michael. We're fighting the same battle.’
‘I dunno, Wend. At the end of the day you're able to go home to your warm cosy little flat while I'm still out fighting on the streets. It's twenty-four seven for me, you know.’
‘So join me. Come and stay with me in my “warm, cosy little flat” and I'll look after you. No more drugs, no more dealers knocking on the door, no more temptation.’
‘What? Are you sure?’
Wendy almost regretted the offer as soon as she had made it. Was this really the right decision to be making? Getting involved in something like this could impact badly on her career. There it goes again – that word. Career. What does a career matter when your brother is dying slowly and painfully through a drug addiction? Wendy knew what she had to do.
‘I’m sure, Michael. At the end of the day, you're still my brother.’
As she left the Egret ward with the Jamaican woman still blissfully snoring away, Wendy was on an emotional high. She knew she was the right person to look after Michael and to aid his recovery. What's more, she felt increasingly confident about being able to get to the bottom of the murders in Mildenheath. She hadn't felt this good in ages.
Fumbling through her pockets for her car keys, Wendy pulled out a crumpled business card.
Robert Ludford ~ Chartered Accountant.
She took her mobile phone from her jacket pocket and dialled the number.
‘Hello, Robert?’
‘Yes. Is that you, Wendy?’
‘Yeah. Listen, I wanted to apologise for what I said on the phone earlier. I was out of order. I've been under a lot of stress recently and—’
‘It's fine, honestly. Apology accepted,’ Robert said. She could almost hear him smiling.
‘Thank you, Robert. Does the offer still stand?’
‘Dinner? Of course it does.’
‘Excellent. Shall we say tomorrow night?’
‘I’ll pick you up at eight.’