Harry hated hospitals. Yes, he knew they were good places, where wonderful work was done, where some lives began and others were saved. But he hated the echo of footsteps as they slapped the tiles of those echoing, sterile corridors, hated the stench of antiseptic scouring his sinuses, hated most of all the fear wasting the faces of those who waited for a word from the doctor. Reason and logic had nothing to do with it. For him, hospitals were places of pain, places where everyone suffered and too many died.
If only Wayne would stop pacing up and down, clicking his tongue every couple of minutes as he consulted his watch. Even when he sat down for a moment, he fidgeted like a child, crackling the pages of tonight’s Echo or leaflets explaining how to spot the signs of a heart attack or a stroke. But Harry and Carmel owed Wayne so much. If he hadn’t ventured into the basement of John Newton House to collect his car, chances were that Jim would already be dead and gone.
‘Carmel’s a long time,’ Wayne muttered.
‘She’ll be waiting for news.’
The surgeon was operating on Jim in the Neurosurgical Unit. No word yet about his chances of pulling through. Harry had called Carmel as soon as Wayne had rung off, but on arriving at the hospital he’d only seen her for a couple of minutes before she rushed away to be with her man. Harry had never seen a woman’s appearance change so much in the space of a few short hours. Terror and despair had washed away the joie de vivre of the morning, leaving her as shrunken and gaunt as a patient in a wheelchair they’d passed outside the cancer ward.
‘Don’t you think,’ Wayne said, ‘that hospitals are like prisons? I mean, you just feel desperate to escape. Last time I was in one of these places, all I could think of was when I might get out. I felt like a lifer, ticking the days off, one by one. Do you know what I mean?’
Harry nodded.
‘It’s no good.’ Wayne put his head in his hands. ‘I can’t help blaming myself. If only I’d turned up ten minutes earlier.’
Harry ground his teeth. ‘Thank God you turned up at all. Was his body…hidden from sight?’
Wayne breathed heavily. He stared at the ceiling, making a visible effort to concentrate. ‘I saw him lying in one of the marked spaces for cars. Whether he’d been dumped there or managed to crawl, I can’t say for sure. A few spots of blood led from the main lift shaft, but I didn’t notice them when I first reached the basement. I was late for a meeting with a prospective client, my head was buzzing with business stuff. I ran straight to my car, and as I drove past the bays on the other side of the lifts, something caught my eye. Someone spread out on the ground in the shape of a star. I didn’t realise it was Jim, I thought some tramp had sneaked into the car park and then collapsed in a drunken stupor. I slammed on the brake and jumped out to see how he was. When I recognised Jim and saw that gaping wound in the back of his head…I mean, it obviously wasn’t an accident.’
‘Was he conscious?’
‘I knelt beside him and felt for a pulse. The faintest flicker. I spoke to him, begged him to hang on. All he could manage was a muffled groan.’
‘He didn’t say anything?’
Wayne shook his head. He gnawed at his lower lip, trying to contain himself.
‘Not a word.’
‘Did you see the weapon?’
‘Tell you the truth, I didn’t hunt for it. The first thing that went through my mind was: suppose whoever did this is still here? Frankly, I almost pissed myself.’
Harry could imagine. He’d always thought of Wayne as deeply shallow, but it must have cost the man something to admit that.
‘I couldn’t hear a sound, just the clanking of a lift on the floors above. Nobody was in the basement, and nobody else came down. It’s always deserted. Only a handful of people park their cars under the building, since it’s not fully let.’
‘So you dialled 999?’
‘I stepped outside, to get a better signal. Poked my head round the door very warily, I can tell you, but I didn’t see anything suspicious. The path from John Newton House runs behind a wall to the Strand. Whoever hit Jim could have made a dash for it and never been seen. I rang for an ambulance first, then the police. After that I called you, then Victor. We’d spoken barely ten minutes before. I dropped by at the desk to let him know we had a flood in the bathroom…shit, this puts leaking taps into perspective.’
‘Victor was on duty?’
Wayne puffed out his cheeks. ‘If that’s what you call chatting with his mate Barney.’
‘Barney was there too?’
‘As usual. Victor grumbled about Lou skiving off, and being left to do everything on his own. Though the workload doesn’t stop him racing through books about CSIs.’ A harsh laugh. ‘Well, he has his own crime scene to contend with now. Right under his bloody feet.’
‘Too much to hope that either Victor or Barney saw anything suspicious? No one lurking around the doors to the car park?’
‘Are you serious? The security’s a joke.’ Wayne flushed as he fought to keep emotion in check. ‘You’d think that whoever set it up actually wanted to give intruders the run of the building. When I think of the rents they charge…’
‘Victor joined you in the basement while you waited for the emergency services to arrive?’
‘He took some persuading. I suppose he was terrified that whoever bashed Jim over the head might still be around. We left Barney at reception to keep an eye on the ground floor. Victor thought he’d said goodnight to Jim a quarter of an hour before I came back for help. The bastard who attacked Jim couldn’t have been long gone before I arrived on the scene.’
‘He’d gone out through the side door?’
‘Or even the exit for cars. It’s not overlooked. If the cameras had been working, it would have been different. As it is, anyone could have marched in or out. The chances of being spotted are minimal and once you’re outside, you can head off in any direction.’
‘You assume it was a man who hit Jim?’
Wayne stared. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘If Jim was hit with a brick or a cosh or an iron bar, it wouldn’t need a lot of strength.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Someone hiding behind the lift shaft might have jumped out and hit Jim the moment he stepped out into the car park. Before he had chance to turn round.’
‘Or had time to identify his attacker.’
Cogs whirred in Harry’s brain. ‘It would have been over in a matter of seconds…’
‘What’s up? You look as though…’
‘Nothing.’
It was a lie. A question had slunk into his head, like an unwelcome guest at a funeral.
What if the attacker meant to kill me?
It made no sense, he told himself as Carmel thanked Wayne Saxelby and said goodnight, this had nothing to do with that puerile nonsense about Midsummer’s Eve. Nobody who wanted to harm him would skulk down in the car park of John Newton House. He’d never once ventured into the basement, let alone brought his car there. There was no point, when he lived a few minutes’ walk away.
Carmel came over to him. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin’s bloom faded to grey.
‘You might as well go home.’
‘There’s nothing you can do.’
‘I can keep you company.’
She took hold of his right hand and squeezed it hard. ‘Thanks. But one of us needs to stay grounded.’
‘That’s you.’ He lifted his hands, placed them on her shoulders. ‘I’m here to make sure you don’t forget it.’
She leant forward, breathing hard, letting him bear her weight. Tears welled up in her eyes. Harry clenched his fist. Any moment now Carmel might break. He had to make sure she was strong for Jim, so that she could help him make it through the night.
‘He’ll never forgive you if you don’t look after the office. Till he’s fit and well again.’
‘Sylvia will take care of the office. I’d better call her, let her know what’s happened. You’ve spoken to the kids?’
‘They’re checking for flights.’ Jim’s children were students, each travelling the world, Thailand and South America. ‘They both want to come back and be with him.’
‘Shall I talk to them?’ Jim hadn’t said much, but Harry had once picked up a hint that the kids were unhappy about his relationship with Carmel. They thought it had come too soon after their mother’s death.
‘No, it’s my responsibility. We must stick together, for Jim’s sake.’ Carmel exhaled. ‘Harry, who would do such a terrible thing? To Jim, of all people?’
She didn’t say it, probably hadn’t even thought it, but he guessed what must be swirling around her subconscious. If disaster had befallen him rather than his partner, nobody would have been too surprised. He was accident-prone, famous for it. Jim was different.
‘I haven’t a clue,’ he said. ‘But I’ll find out. Promise.’
Sylvia was fighting back tears as he rang off. Carmel had been right. The woman’s devotion to Jim was even fiercer than he’d realised. To hear that he teetered on the brink between life and death was more than she could bear.
He hurried down the corridor to the small square room set aside for the families of patients with head injuries. There was a recess with tea and coffee making facilities and a cheap sofa. Through the inner door was an even tinier room equipped with a narrow bed for overnight vigils. A lavender scent made the place smell like a granny’s sitting room. A watercolour of Snowdonia hung on the wall, facing a dusty sofa with a floral pattern that might have been fashionable twenty years ago. A Bible squatted on a corner table. He sat down next to Carmel on the sofa and put his arm around her. She hadn’t changed out of the tight blouse she’d worn that morning. He felt her shoulder-bone and her soft flesh beneath the cotton. She was shivering.
‘Sylvia will mind the shop tomorrow. Keep an eye on things until Jim is back.’
Carmel wriggled out of his grasp. She fished a tissue from her handbag and blew her nose loudly.
‘He won’t be coming back, Harry.’
‘Of course he will.’
‘No, he won’t. Not ever.’
She clutched at him and dissolved into misery. Her face was wet, her heart pounding. He felt sucked into a quagmire of sadness; the more he struggled, the harder it was to escape. He’d never had a child – a regret so deep-seated that he never acknowledged it – but this must be how a father might feel if his daughter plunged into disaster. An urge to keep her safe from harm, coupled with a sense of inadequacy as overwhelming as a tidal wave.
‘Jim will make it. Are you listening to me?’
A minute passed before she spoke and said, distinctly but without rancour, ‘You’re a fucking liar.’
‘The scan says his brain isn’t dead. The doctors are fighting for him, all he needs is time.’
‘They told me he has an extradural haematoma.’
Harry didn’t know how bad this was. Whenever stuff about hospitals or operations came up on TV, he made a grab for the remote control. He squeezed her hand.
‘It’s a blood clot, to you and me. They have to lift the flap of his skull to squeeze it out.’ She made a face. ‘The consultant in A&E said that before they put him to sleep, he was semi-conscious for a few minutes. But he was agitated and talking gibberish.’
‘Could he move his limbs?’
‘Yes, but there’s no telling the extent of his injuries. They’ve stuck a tube into his lungs, they were afraid he might swallow his tongue.’ She sucked in air. ‘I see it on their faces, Harry. The way they dodge the questions. He’s going to die.’
‘No.’ Losing Jim Crusoe was impossible. ‘They have to take it one step at a time. He’ll be OK, we must keep faith.’
The door opened and an acne-plagued police constable peered round it. His name was Cusden and Harry had seen him earlier, talking to Carmel and then a nurse. He kept fiddling with a hangnail. Harry felt sorry for him. Carmel was a serious player in the Police Authority. No young policeman would want to mess up in a case which meant so much to her.
‘Mr Devlin, can you spare a moment?’
Harry joined him out in the corridor. ‘Any more news?’
‘No trace of the person who attacked Mr Crusoe. But we’ve found the weapon. Stuffed into one of the mobile waste containers in the basement of the building. An iron bar.’
Harry flinched. ‘You can do a lot of damage with an iron bar.’
The DC fingered an angry red spot on his chin. ‘A glancing blow is all it took. Your partner’s lucky to be alive.’
‘Fingerprints on the bar?’
‘Looks as though it’s been wiped.’
‘A mugging gone wrong?’
‘Funny sort of mugger who leaves his victim’s gold watch and wallet full of cash and credit cards. Of course, he might have panicked, but…’
‘Any other leads?’
‘Nothing at the moment, sir. That’s where you come in. Ms Sutcliffe says you’ve received a number of threats yourself.’
‘There’s no way anyone could have mistaken Jim for me.’
‘You both work in the same office.’
‘But I never use the car park. Whoever threatened me knows a bit about my movements. If they were planning to attack me, the car park is the last place to choose. Especially when I was out of the city.’
‘You never know,’ Cusden said. ‘Shall we have a cup of tea while you tell me what’s been going on?’
Harry didn’t mention the call from Kay. It would only complicate the inquiry and make her situation worse. Whatever her situation might be. Tom Gunter had no reason to batter his partner and the attack wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. Jim was taller and broader, even after the slimming effect of life with Carmel. He dressed better, his stride was longer. Even from behind, even if you were psyching yourself up to beat out your victim’s brains, you could spot the difference in a nanosecond.
Besides, he didn’t want to believe that whoever had smashed Jim’s skull had intended that he, rather than Jim, should die. He dared not believe it. The guilt would be too much to bear.
DC Cusden didn’t seem impressed by the messages about Midsummer’s Eve. ‘In your line of business, you must come across plenty of oddballs.’
‘I suppose so.’ Harry was tempted to add that some of them were police officers. ‘So you don’t think there’s a connection?’
‘Why wind you up with these messages and then batter your partner?’ A fair point. ‘What I’d really like to know is, who might have a grudge against Mr Crusoe?’
Harry frowned. The lad had to ask, but the idea that someone would wish to kill Jim was absurd. Wasn’t it? The man worked hard, he was respected by other lawyers, well liked by his staff. Even his relish for everything that, in Harry’s eyes, was mind-numbingly tedious – property law, probate work, profit and loss accounts – was admirable. Indispensable, actually.
But what if Carmel was right, what if Jim died? What would he do?
He banished the questions the moment they slid into his head, ashamed by the pang of selfishness at a time like this. All that mattered was getting Jim fit and well.
‘Was there something?’ Cusden pressed. ‘Dissatisfied client? Tempers can fray in legal disputes.’
‘He bought and sold buildings and looked after the estates of dead people.’
‘Nice work if you can get it. The deceased don’t make any fuss.’
‘Very few of his living clients complained, even about his bills. People came back to Jim, time and again, they liked dealing with him.’
I’m already talking in the past tense. Stop it. Think positive.
Cusden rubbed his eyes. He looked tired, out of his depth. ‘Um…I have to ask about his private life. Were there any…’
‘His wife died a fortnight before Christmas. Carmel came to the funeral, she used to work for us. She stayed in touch and one thing led to another.’
‘There hadn’t been anyone else?’
Years ago, Jim had had an affair. Moments of madness. His lover was a police officer. In the end, they’d gone their separate ways; the last Harry had heard, the woman had transferred to the north east. He was as sure as he could be that Jim’s wife had gone to her grave without finding out.
‘Nobody else.’
A woman passed them, pushing a trolley whose wheels squeaked on the floor tiles. Cusden cringed at the sound, or perhaps at the difficulty of deciding what to do next.
‘So nobody had a grudge against him through his legal practice, or his private life. Yet someone lay in wait for him under your offices and hit him so hard on the head that it’s touch and go whether he’ll make it through the night.’
Harry nodded. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘No.’ Cusden chewed at his nail. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me exactly where you were at the time of the attack?’
He still didn’t mention Kay, simply said that he’d planned to meet a prospective client and was obliged to keep her name confidential. Cusden didn’t like that and wasn’t mollified when Harry said that if the CCTV at Empire Dock wasn’t as useless as that at John Newton House, there would be evidence on film of his car in the queue for the Strand when Farmers4Justice blocked the road. Of course, it didn’t prove his innocence. He might have parked out of sight and hurried back to the office building, to hide in the basement until he had the chance to bash Jim over the head. For all Cusden knew, he might have lost the plot altogether and sent the Midsummer’s Eve messages to himself. Harry could only hope that they wouldn’t call in the psychiatrists. Even if they found no hint of homicidal tendencies, they were bound to have a field day.
He rejoined Carmel in the room for families of patients at death’s door. She was trembling and wouldn’t look him in the eye.
‘What’s the latest?’
‘They’ve removed the blood clot. The next forty eight-hours will be crucial.’
He squeezed her hand.
‘Harry, I don’t…I don’t know what to do. What if he pulls through and spends the rest of his life as a fucking vegetable?’
She dissolved again.
At four in the morning, Carmel said, ‘Go home. You’ll need to be up before long. Off to work.’
‘I don’t want to leave you here on your own.’
‘I’ll be fine. I’ve stopped feeling sorry for myself. For the moment, no guarantees long-term. Go back to your flat. You need to be at the office first thing. Taking charge.’
‘The office can take care of itself.’
‘No. You know what you have to do. It’s what Jim would want. No point both of us sitting here moping. He’d expect you to make yourself useful for once.’
‘I suppose he would.’
‘No suppose about it. In the nicest possible way, Harry, piss off.’
He stood up, dropped a kiss on her hair. ‘I’ll call you later.’
‘Look after Sylvia, will you? Losing Jim will crucify her.’
He paused at the door and wagged a finger in admonition. ‘We’re not going to lose him.’
She stared at the white-capped peak of Mount Snowdon on the wall, but didn’t say another word.