Chapter 50
Ewen tried to grope through the darkness but couldn’t free his left hand. The noise of the car accident, like someone destroying a drum kit, was stuck on loop. He yanked his left arm again. Hopeless, wrist pinned. An acidic smell forced him to probe his memory. Not diesel. Nor petrol. Convinced he knew the smell, he kept sniffing. Until sniffing turned to blinking, and a bright, unfamiliar, sterile white wall came into view.
Flat on his back in bed.
Yep, he now understood the smell; hospital disinfectant. His nakedness beneath his gown added to a floating sensation. To ground himself, he rolled right for a look around and jarred his left arm and wrist. He rolled left. Left hand cuffed to the bed. He wrenched the chain. Metal clanged.
The door to his private room opened and a baby-faced police constable stuck his head in. He quickly pulled it back and disappeared.
A female nurse wearing a light-blue uniform entered the room. Maori, carrying the kilos. Ewen rattled the cuff like a butler ringing a bell, ready for a response.
“Don’t injure yourself,” she said with a melodic voice. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Why am I here?”
“Car accident.”
He rattled the handcuff again. “Who did I hit, the bloody Prime Minister?”
“I’m merely here to check on you. No doubt the police will answer any questions.”
“About what?”
“I can’t say.”
“Nobody gets chained up for a car accident.”
“I think there’s more involved,” she said, walking away.
“What, actually?”
She disappeared through the doorway.
“What!”
The police officer stepped back into the room.
“What have I done?”
“Obviously, something wrong.”
Ewen raised his free palm. “Fill me in.”
“The doctor will soon talk to you, followed by the drug squad.”
“Drug squad. What, did I leave a joint in the ashtray?”
The cop left the room.
Ewen ran his free hand through his hair. Bristles only. “Shit.” He slumped back.
As always, the smell of hospital bleach trapped him in childhood. As an eight-year old, a bungled appendix operation had forced him to spend an extra four days in the ward with a nurse sticking a needle into an arse cheek every four hours. He’d hated needles ever since—wouldn’t dream of using one.
He absently scanned the ceiling, and rolled his head right. On the bedside table was a marble, a multi-coloured tombola, embedded in Blu Tack on the tabletop.
He shuffled his bum across and stretched his free hand in an attempt to touch it. No go. Knuckles elongated, he fretted with his fingers, straining to within a centimetre, feeling the stretch all the way to his ear. He grunted and tried to jump the bed across, desperate to wrap his fist round the little glass ball. He screamed into the exertion. The bed clanged and bucked. Emotions crashed past any anger straight into hate. Most for Francis. A little for himself: he’d been played. He’d become the fool.
The cop and a female with a stethoscope round her neck rushed in.
“Whoa, boy,” she said, pressing him at arm’s length. And with the officer’s help, she pinned Ewen to the bed. “You need to take it easy.”
“Who left that?” asked Ewen, looking sideways at the tombola, his chest heaving.
The doctor, a redhead, flat nose, milky, freckled skin asked, “What?”
“The marble. Has Francis Hogmyre been in this room? At the orphanage he was the marble champion.”
The cop and doctor exchanged puzzled glances.
“You’ve been in a car accident, Ewen. You’ve suffered concussion. You have also been delusional and disoriented. But you’re safe now. You just need to rest.”
“But the marble. Why is it here?”
“It is unusual…I guess someone found it on you and thought it was your lucky charm or something.”
“Well, it’s not. Someone placed it there. I’ll ask again, has Francis Hogmyre been here?”
Two men in open-neck shirts walked in and introduced themselves. Detective Sergeant Christian Nesbit, a Caucasian. The other, indigenous, carrying a camera stand, Detective Constable Lance Absalom. The uniformed cop disappeared.
“I’m afraid your friend Mr Hogmyre will not be able to help you,” said Nesbit, tilting his bowling pin torso forward.
Stale tobacco smoke oozing from his clothes smelt as acrid as paint stripper.
“No one’s listening to me. Was−he−here?”
Nesbit sported a bald crown compensated by a bushy black moustache. “Trust me,” he said, “this is the last place he’d show up.” He turned to the doctor. “How is he? All good for a few questions?”
“Thirty minutes. I need him resting again.” She left.
Absalom set his smart phone upon the stand at the foot of the bed. The guy wore jeans and a checked shirt over soft coffee skin. As clean cut as a country and western singer.
“I’ll read you your rights, Ewen,” said Nesbit. “And I hope you can answer a few questions. Detective Absalom will record.”
“Are you ready for questions?” Ewen shot back.
“Do you understand your rights?”
“Everything except chained to a hospital bed. So don’t even bother turning the fucking camera on.”
“Two kilos of smack. We should be talking prison chains.”
“Excuse me. It was only one kilo. And I didn’t snort it, I snapped it.”
“And at the start, we did wonder how you’d obtained the photo for that article?”
“I’ve gone over this bullshit with you blokes before. I blindfolded myself at the unit and waited for a pick up. No faces. No location.”
“Want a squiz at the search warrant?” asked Nesbit offhandedly.
“Why would I want to look at a friggen search warrant? Whatever premises you’ve raided has nothing to do with me.”
“Sure? Unit one, twenty-six Government Place Perth?”
Ewen sat up. The cuffs clinked. “My place?”
“Unless you’ve changed address.”
“And what did you find?”
“Two kilos of heroin.”
“Bullshit. I know nothing about it.”
“A little bit hard to prove. Especially seeing both kilos displayed your favourite emblem, the red dragon.”
Celty. Ewen instantly dismissed the idea and pointed to the bedside table instead. “See the marble? That’s Francis Hogmyre. He’s the person you should talk to—” A thought exploded into shards; the currency trade. The heroin—a plant—he’d beat it. Maybe. But not the currency trade. “Can I borrow a phone?”
“We’ll get around to that.”
“I need the internet. You don’t understand… there is something that might tie into the heroin.”
The detectives kept quiet, and eyed one another.
“Please. Google Swiss franc…rally.”
“You’re suspected of trafficking and you’re main concern is currency?”
“Trust me, it’s tied in. Please.”
Absalom fingered his phone. “Well suck me off. Rally. Twelve per cent. How did you know?”
Ewen slumped back and closed his eyes. “I didn’t.”