The planned transfer of Raymond from the BRI back to his flat, a few days later, was delayed, thanks to the unavailability of an ambulance. They had to wait for two hours with Raymond now fully dressed, sitting on his bed, looking up expectantly in his wheelchair, as soon as anyone came into the ward. His eagerness assured George that discharging his father was unquestionably the right thing to be doing. A porter finally informed them that the transport for his father was ready.
Raymond’s first reaction to the ambulance, which was a transport vehicle rather than an emergency response one, was to swirl his arms round in the air chaotically and make an awful whining noise.
‘Is he all right?’ asked Christine, who had become immediately alarmed at this bizarre display. She obviously thought he was having some sort of fit.
George seemed completely unconcerned by it, as he’d noted Raymond’s lopsided smile. He studied his father for a few moments, then said, ‘It’s not that kind of ambulance, Dad.’
Raymond let out a long groan. Even in his physical state it was obviously a comical one. At least to George.
‘He’s asking if the ambulance can put on its lights and sirens,’ George explained to Christine, who laughed, probably more out of relief than amusement.
Raymond had an almost childlike fascination with blues and twos. George couldn’t understand this. He absolutely hated it when either in a patrol car in pursuit, or with Josie in her car when she decided they needed sirens and lights. This was not only because he couldn’t stand the noise, but because the additional adrenalin the situation created, together with the lights and the noise, conspired to make her drive like a maniac. At times she had looked over at her passenger, only to see him curled up against the door, his eyes closed so tight they were just a mass of wrinkles and his fingers in his ears. He looked like a child wilfully making a point of not listening to his parent, while being told off. On one occasion he’d actually insisted on her pulling over, mid-pursuit, to let him out of the car. When she pointed out that he was supposed to be her backup, he argued that he would be of little use in that situation, as she well knew. On several of these occasions she’d asked him why he’d bothered becoming a policeman in the first place, if he couldn’t provide backup. He took this question very seriously and after a few moments’ consideration replied that his strengths as a police officer lay elsewhere. Something she found she couldn’t really argue with.
Then there was the occasion where she’d tipped up on Raymond’s birthday one year, announcing that she was taking him out for a spin. George thought nothing of this as he watched them drive away from his father’s flat. That was until they’d reached the end of the road and turned onto the main thoroughfare, whereupon the blue lights in her radiator cover and on the back window started flashing and the siren blared out as they disappeared. George couldn’t believe that she’d answered a call with his father in the car. When Ottey told him there had been no call, that it was just Raymond’s birthday treat, he couldn’t work out which he thought was worse. Taking a call with a civilian in the car or taking his father for a joyride complete with lights and sirens. Raymond was, of course, completely thrilled. ‘Best birthday ever!’ he’d announced when stepping out of the car with all the maturity of a thirteen-year-old.
The transfer of patient to residence went smoothly. Raymond didn’t want to go to his bedroom, he’d explained to George on the journey over. George was concerned about this. How would his father be comfortable in the living room? If he sat on the sofa, it would be difficult getting him in and out of it. The answer was waiting for them in the middle of the sitting room. There, in pride of place, like some geriatric velour-covered throne, was a hideous mustard-coloured reclining armchair, complete with remote control.
‘What is that?’ asked George as the ambulance men got his father into it.
‘He bought it off eBay while he was in hospital. It arrived yesterday,’ his mother told him.
Raymond was thrilled with his purchase. He grabbed the remote control and the chair launched into action. It moved up and leaned so far upright and forward it was about to tip him out. The two paramedics dived in to stop Raymond being spilled onto the floor. One of them took the remote control and managed to get Raymond back into a sitting position. They then left and Raymond insisted on giving his ex-wife and son a full demonstration of all the chair’s features. He demonstrated its massage function, how it would go halfway back in a reclined position to watch TV and then fully back in a completely horizontal position. But then he couldn’t get it back up. No matter how hard he or George tried, pushing all of the buttons on the remote, they couldn’t get the chair back to a sitting position. He was stuck. At that point both Christine and Raymond burst into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. She was shrieking with hilarity, tears streaming down her face, as Raymond hit the side of the chair with his good arm to express his amusement. George stood there, completely straight-faced, staring at the pair of them, trying to understand why they were failing to realise the seriousness of the situation.
His phone vibrated. It was Michael Swift. George took the call.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked, hearing the chaos in the background. When George explained the situation Swift ended the call by saying, ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Half an hour later the giant frame of Michael Swift picked Raymond up out of the chair. He seemed like a small child in comparison to the six-foot eight frame of the forensic investigator. Swift was wearing one of his long, sweeping black capes and so it was that the district nurse, who was on her first visit, walked into the flat to seemingly witness her patient being gathered up by a giant undertaker and carried into the bedroom.
George made them all a cup of tea as the nurse sat with Christine and Raymond in the bedroom and they talked about various practicalities of looking after Raymond.
Swift had the results of the analysis of the foreign object found in Ed Squire’s wound and replayed them to George back in the living room.
‘It’s paper,’ he informed him.
‘Can you ascertain what kind of paper?’ George asked.
‘Nope. But I do have a theory,’ he said, bringing out his phone. He brought up a picture of Ed Squire’s desk from the crime scene.
‘If you remember, the stuff on top of the desk was disturbed with some of it spilled onto the floor,’ he said.
George studied the photograph.
‘There was no altercation, we’ve determined. So, I think the weapon was on the desk and the killer grabbed it in the moment they decided to kill Squire.’
George considered this possibility.
‘The shape and depth of the wound suggests it was a blade about six inches long with a sharp tip and blunt sides,’ Swift went on.
‘A letter opener,’ George suggested.
‘Exactly,’ replied Swift, beaming with satisfaction, pleased that Cross had come to the same conclusion as he. Then a realisation hit him. ‘Now we have to find the bloody thing.’
‘If it was on the desk as you suggest,’ George pointed out.
‘As the evidence suggests,’ Swift countered.
‘As your interpretation of the evidence suggests. If correct, it would imply that he was killed on the spur of the moment. That it was not the killer’s intention when he or she arrived.’
The district nurse left, happy that everything seemed in place for Raymond’s care. The two men finished their tea to discover that after the exertions of the day, Raymond was now sleeping.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ George said to Christine.
‘Of course. I’ll call you in the morning to let you know how he is,’ she replied.
‘In the evening. I’ll bring takeout.’
‘There’s no need,’ she said.
‘It’s Wednesday,’ he informed her.
‘Oh yes. Of course. He’d like that,’ she said, remembering their weekly ritual.
‘I know,’ said George and left.
He got into Swift’s SUV. He hadn’t asked for a lift but often in these situations felt that his need to be taken home was obvious enough not to require a request. As Swift started the car up he turned to George.
‘Thank goodness for Christine,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ asked George.
‘Well, if she wasn’t here, what would you do? Presumably Raymond would still be in hospital. But even then, when he was discharged, who would look after him?’ he replied, pulling out from the kerb. George thought for a moment.
‘Could you stop the car?’ he said. Swift did so and George got out. He walked back to the flat and let himself in. He found his mother sitting next to his father, reading a book. He stopped in the doorway as she looked up.
‘Everything all right, George?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. Then, ‘Thank you.’ After which he nodded his head as if satisfied that sounded sufficient and left.