I tossed and turned for most of the night. We were currently experiencing a high-pressure front, causing the weather to become hot and sticky; at least, that was the excuse I gave myself for not being able to turn off my mind. It was worse when I opened the windows: it was so damned humid I could feel the perspiration literally dripping from me; I couldn’t believe I was seriously longing for it to rain!
My mind kept going back to forensics and the clues the perpetrator had accidentally left us. That something at the back of my brain that had been nagging me for some time just wouldn’t go away. I got up and made myself a hot chocolate, then thought of a cigarette. I even went as far as searching the flat for an old packet, but there was nothing. Then I thought of an all-night garage; they would have some ciggies. My craving had become so desperate that I was just about to get dressed when a flash of lightening lit up the kitchen window, followed by a loud crack of thunder. I felt like bursting into tears. Everything was going wrong. Once again I tried to sleep, but my mind still refused to switch off.
“Oh, fuck it!” I shouted out loud, deciding I would get dressed anyway. I would be more useful at the station than moping around here trying to cope with my frustration.
I left the flat in a heavy downpour, thinking: “So much for the high pressure!” and followed my customary route to the station. I don’t know what it was but something instinctive made me change direction and head towards Ashworth House. I hadn’t even been thinking of Connie at the time.
I pulled up outside the residence and asked myself: “Now what?” Other than a small porch light the house was in complete darkness and shrouded in torrential rain; it was actually bouncing off the paving stones. I checked my watch; it was 2.45 in the morning. They would think I was crazy if I knocked on the door at this hour. Sighing, and regretting my impulsiveness, I decided to leave. It was then that I saw – or, at least, I thought I saw – a flashlight going on and off by the side garden. Ever the policewoman, I got out of the car, let myself in through the front gate and made my way silently to the side of the house. I couldn’t see a damned thing it was so dark; the rain was beginning to ease a little but I could still feel it trickling down my neck. I was uncomfortable and beginning to think I had made a mistake when I felt a blow to my head. I fell against the wall of the house, dizzy and in pain, when the second blow came. I felt myself losing consciousness, at the same time as I slid down the wall and onto the ground. Just before I passed out completely someone kicked me viciously in the ribs.
When I came round it was still dark. My head was throbbing, my ribs hurt, and I seemed to be lying in a pool of water. At least, I thought it was water until I placed my hand in it and discovered it was blood. I groaned aloud; it was my blood. What the hell had happened? I crawled round to the front of the house and fell against the doorbell. It rang for ages before the lights came on and the door opened. It was Steve; I thought he looked very silly in his pyjamas and dressing gown.
He put the porch light on and gasped, “Angie? What the bloody hell’s going on?” Then he must have seen the blood. “Jesus! You’re hurt.”
“You’ll go far in the police,” I thought, as he took hold of my arm and helped me into the house. I was on the point of laughing at my own joke when I collapsed again. In the distance I heard him calling for Sheila. That was the last I remember. I came round briefly in an ambulance strapped to a gurney, and I recall both Steve and Connie were there; one of them was holding my hand, and I remember hoping it wasn’t Steve!
When I eventually came to I was in a hospital bed, a swathe of bandages around my throbbing head and ribs, which felt as if they were on fire. Connie was sitting at the side of the bed. She looked as if she had been crying half the night. I tried to reach out and take her hand, but almost screamed with the pain in my side where I had been kicked.
“What the hell happened?” I managed to croak.
“We don’t know for sure,” she said tearfully. “Steve opened the door for you and you collapsed in a pool of blood. Someone hit you on the back of the head, and then must have kicked you while you were on the ground. Steve found some footprints in the side garden. After he called Inspector Kewell he rang forensics – they’re sending someone down this morning. What were you doing there, Angie? It was the middle of the night.”
I groaned again. “Get me a glass of water and I’ll tell you.” There was a pitcher on the bedside table. It was all I could do to lean my head against the side of the bed and take a sip.
“How long have I been here?”
“About four hours. It’s just gone seven. If you feel up to talking I’d like to know what happened. Why would a burglar hit you like that? He could have killed you. And why would he want to break into this place? There’s nothing worth nicking anyway.”
“I don’t honestly know. I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to get dressed and go into work, when some instinct made me change direction and go to Ashworth House. Don’t ask me why, Connie, because I haven’t a clue; in fact, I suspected you might have something to do with it. Did you? ...Have anything to do with it?”
Her eyes opened wide in shock. “Me? How could I be involved?”
I tried to smile, but gave it up as a bad job. “Forever the innocent! Anyway, I was sitting outside, feeling very foolish, when I saw a light at the side of the house. I’m sure it was a torch. I went to investigate, but whoever it was must have heard me because he – I suppose it could have been a ‘she’, but I doubt it – whacked me round the head. That’s pretty well it, really.” I managed to lift my head a fraction to see Connie’s face. “Are you sure you had nothing to do with bringing me to Ashworth House?”
She hesitated, looking at me thoughtfully for a moment before she answered. “All I can say, Angie, is that if I did then it was another of those subconscious things. I do know I was dreaming I was in danger.” She laughed nervously. “So no change there then! And, if you came into the dream – well, I don’t remember if you did. Who do you think it was? A burglar?”
“I honestly don’t know, Connie,” I said wearily. God, I felt really drained; my head throbbed like hell, and my eyes were beginning to turn over. “Could we talk later? Do you mind, sweetheart?”
I didn’t catch her reply – I was already drifting off again.
When I awoke there was a less welcome figure sitting by the bed: none other than Inspector Kewell.
“Oh. You’re awake,” he said. When it came to stating the obvious he was a class act.
“Hi, Frank.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Shitty. How do you think?”
He leant forward in his chair. “Angie, what the hell were you doing alone at Ashworth House at that time in the morning? And why didn’t you call for back-up before checking out a burglary in progress?”
I sighed. The questions were reasonable enough, and I supposed that, with hindsight, I had been pretty stupid. But by now I had some well-rehearsed answers.
“I went over to check out the additional security arrangements. And I didn’t realise it was a potential burglary; I assumed it was one of our lads wandering round the gardens. So I just went in to make contact.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Frank. Really. I’m not altogether stupid, you know. And, now I’ve had time to think about it, I’m not convinced either that it was your average burglar. From my experience, those people tend not to be violent. Certainly not to the extent this guy was. Besides, he’d have to be pretty thick not to know there’s nothing worth nicking in a halfway house.”
He tightened his lips in disapproval. “So, what do you think he was after?”
“I honestly don’t know. He could have been a burglar; on the other hand he could have been after Connie. Anyway, it’s as well I was there; the security was almost non-existent.”
He grunted in reply, then said, “I think that’s a bit far-fetched; how could anyone possibly know she was there?” He held up his hands defensively. “Okay, okay – I’ll have someone look into it; but if you ask me it’s a waste of time. I’ll pass it on to your Sergeant Durning – he seems a competent chap.”
“I can handle it, Frank.”
“Not from where I’m sitting you can’t. I’ve spoken to the doctor and you’ve got pretty bad concussion, aside from a fractured rib and severe bruising. They want you stay here for the next two or three days.”
“What about you? Can’t you look after it?”
“Afraid not. I’m on my way to Manchester, remember. I was due to go there yesterday but Jim couldn’t arrange it.” He checked his watch. “I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Did forensics find anything?”
“Yes; a smudged footprint, which must have been a result of your disturbing whoever it was. I doubt it will tell us much - but we should have some more details later today. If there’s anything positive I’ll get Conway to call and see you. Oh, and Jim sends his best. He says to tell you he’ll be across later. Now, I really have to go, Angie; I’ve got a train to catch. Take care, you hear?”
“Bye, Frank. And thanks for coming. Enjoy Manchester.”
A whole procession of people came in and out following Frank’s departure: nurses easing my pillows; a maid nearly blasting my head off with a vacuum cleaner; someone asking me about lunch, which I thought was a bloody silly question given the state I was in; and finally a doctor, except that he looked far too young to be a doctor. He took hold of my hand and checked my pulse, followed by the routine of a blood pressure machine. Finally, he got around to asking me how I felt.
I managed to bite back the sarcasm. “Christ!” I thought. “What an insane question.”
“I have a very bad headache and my ribs are throbbing.”
“Yes, well, that’s understandable after what you’ve been through. You were lucky, in one sense, not to have suffered a skull fracture given the force of the blow you received. As it is you have severe concussion, and one of your ribs has a crack fracture.”
He leant forward and shone a torch into my eyes. Next, he held out a finger in front of me. “Try to follow this, will you?”
He moved it from side to side. I followed it okay; the only problem was there were two of them instead of the one. I told him the truth.
“We’ll give you something for the headache, but there isn’t a lot we can do about the concussion, other than rest and observation.”
“Can I leave now? I have a lot to do.”
He frowned, as if he were talking to a moron. “You’re not going anywhere for the next three days, young lady…”
“Not so much of the ‘young’; you’re no older than I am.”
“Concussion can be very dangerous,” he said, ignoring my interruption. “Sometimes the patient can develop blood clots in the brain, especially if they don’t rest. Is that what you want, Miss Crossley?”
I seriously thought of telling him to fuck off, but quickly decided it wouldn’t be in my best interests. So I merely said, meekly, “No; of course not, doctor. I’ll be a good girl – I promise.”
At least that made him smile. He almost looked human.