Dying to Write (22 page)

‘Would it make it any better if you were there in the hospital with him?' I asked at last. ‘After all, someone'll be guarding him. Couldn't it be you?'

I waited a long time for the answer. At last it came, so low I could hardly hear her.

‘No. I couldn't cope with it, the waiting. All those lights and bleeps and things. Give me the bloody creeps. No,' she said, straightening up, ‘what I will do is escort you to your room, ma'am, and then report back to Chris. OK?' She saluted ironically.

‘I'm supposed to be having breakfast with him,' I observed, as she locked the door behind us.

‘What, tomorrow? Bloody hell, our Soph, it's half ten already.'

A warm shower convinced me the best way to ease all the mysterious aches would be a mild jog. Nothing very far, and nothing very fast. I wore a tracksuit so if anyone intercepted me they would assume I was merely protecting my lacerations from public display.

The most level stretches of path lie through the old ornamental gardens, now long since overgrown, but flattened, even scythed in places, by the team searching for Kate. I started very slowly, wincing not so much at the cuts on my feet as the gravel rash which flexed with my knees. But if I concentrated on my breathing, perhaps I would be all right.

The last thing I wanted this morning was company. Anyone's. Somewhere deep down I knew I'd have to submit to Chris's suggestion that I have a minder. This might be the last chance I had to be on my own. The question was, should I stay here, like Courtney a bait, or should I settle for becoming a refugee in my own home?

The pain was easing a little: I speeded up. I shouldn't even be out on my own. I knew that too. I'd shaken off Tina by saying I was going to get my bag from the stables. I would eventually, of course. I would just have to hope I didn't have an attack of asthma while I was out.

And then I saw another jogger. Except this one was a runner – vest, shorts, proper shoes and an impressive turn of speed. And a very beautiful body. He saw me from the far end of a long straight path and lifted a hand in greeting. If I speeded up we should meet by a long-dry fountain.

The decision whether to flit or stay was made as soon as I saw the expression on Hugh's face.

For some reason we didn't, as I'd hoped, run straight into each other's arms. Instead we turned, he to his left, me to my right, and we fell into step. He dropped his speed sharply; I increased mine a little. We were heading towards the summerhouse.

Then we slowed down. His hand felt for mine. We ran hand in hand, laughing like children. So there was no need to talk.

Three thick planks were nailed across the summerhouse door. In any case, as I said between kisses, the place would no doubt be crawling with woodlice and spiders. Literally.

‘And Eyre House will be crawling with police. Literally,' he replied. He unzipped and removed my top: we would lie on that.

He made each part of my body feel desirable, kissing it, stroking it. My fingers found muscle and bone to explore, to cherish. I pressed my hands to his buttocks. Yes, I wanted him as much as he wanted me. And then I went sane. Panting, half-crying, but sane. And so did he. He patted his shorts, then spread his hands comically.

No pockets to carry condoms.

I had pockets but no condoms either. That, at least, could be remedied the next time we ran together. Meanwhile, we slowly gathered ourselves together and jogged sedately back to the house.

There was no sign of Chris when I popped my head into the stables to ask for my bag. I'd asked Hugh to wait outside for me: I didn't wish to hurt Chris any more than I had to. He agreed, after an extravagant kiss. Ian, who'd been sitting quietly at a far desk, got up as I came in. He unlocked a cabinet and passed me my bag, grudging as if he'd had to pay for it himself.

‘Just check the contents, please, miss.'

‘Miss!' I must be in his bad books for something. He'd tell me, sooner or later. I took the bag and tipped it on to a corner of Chris's table. Purse, comb, credit-card holder, asthma spray, a dishevelled tampon, several felt pens, a red white-board marker and three tissues. A lipstick emerged from the rest of the detritus and insinuated itself under Chris's computer.

I giggled.

Dourly, Ian bent and poked with a pencil. At last the lipstick rolled towards me and I fielded it.

‘Nice throw,' he said grudgingly. ‘Last night. Saved a couple of our lads. Your dad would've been proud of you.'

I nodded. Dad had never subscribed to the theory that girl's can't throw. I'd practised and practised till I could throw down the stumps from square leg. But I preferred life at cover point. More to aim at – a wicket in profile is rather too challenging.

‘And Chris,' he added. ‘Very impressed. Bet he hasn't told you.'

This was an extraordinary speech for Ian. It showed emotion. I smiled.

‘He's a good copper, young Chris,' Ian said. ‘Takes his job very seriously. Doesn't like anyone to get hurt. He's really upset about that young coloured kid.'

‘Any news?' I asked quickly.

‘Still critical. But no worse. And they think he's making an effort himself.'

‘Visitors?'

‘Next of kin only.'

‘You'll let me know when he can have friends?' And I'd tell Tina. There's be none of the conventional future of roses round the door and two point four children for them, not if I knew Courtney, but maybe learning this would help Tina. And they might become friends.

‘Look here, my girl, one of these days you'll listen to what people say to you. That Courtney – he's a common criminal and a queer to boot. You go and bloody throw yourself at him and you'll be sorry, see if you won't. And there's one of the best lads I've ever come across eating his heart out for you – you should be ashamed!'

‘Ian, I –'

‘Look at the way you played around with that Yank this spring.'

I told myself not to react, not to get angry. I made myself concentrate on my breathing, not on Ian's words. Dour, phlegmatic Ian, dressing me down like an errant daughter.

‘Ian, listen.'

‘No, you listen to me. You just think what you're throwing away.'

‘I'm not throwing anything away. Courtney is gay: you've just said it. He's a friend – well, hardly more than an acquaintance.
You
're a friend – I think.'

He didn't laugh, just stared at me, baffled, angry.

‘If I ended up in hospital, you'd visit me. Or I might visit you – smuggle in some sherry, perhaps.'

Still no response – and, come to think of it, why was I trying to appease him? Perhaps because I knew he was trying to make life better for Chris, a young man whose rapid promotion he could have resented, but didn't, because in a way he saw him as a son. Or perhaps because deep down he reminded me of my own father, now irresponsibly retired with a woman I loathed to the naffest bit of Spain you could imagine.

And then Ian's face cleared a little. ‘Bet you'd bring Cyprus.'

‘I bloody wouldn't. Not after those lessons you gave me. Wouldn't bloody dare.'

‘No need for language. This Matt character, Sophie – what d'you make of him, then?'

I pulled a face. ‘You'll never guess: I like him too. He and Hugh nannied me last night.'

‘Don't forget,' said Ian, ‘that protection works two ways. You may have thought he was protecting you, but all the time you were protecting him.'

‘From what?'

‘Just have to wait and see, won't we? But don't get too fond of him, will you, Sophie? You stick to young Chris.'

I smiled disingenuously. And then, just as I was leaving, I had an idea: ‘Ian, any chance you could get a minion to phone Agnes? I'm wondering if she took away some asthma tablets of mine when she left. No, I don't want them back, I just want to know. And Chris might be interested to hear, too.'

That would clinch it, of course. It did. He picked up the phone himself, running his finger down a list as he did so. I grinned, and backed out.

Hugh was nowhere to be seen when I emerged. I felt as deflated as if someone had hit my stomach. Couldn't the man wait five minutes? Didn't we have things to say to each other?

But he was a tutor. He might be working even now. And how would he feel about an interruption? How would I feel in similar circumstances? I walked slowly back to my room, nodding to the two officers on duty. The room was as I'd left it. After my jog I ought to shower again – maybe that was what Hugh was doing, making himself civilised. But I'd write a short note for him, remarking on Ian's loquacity and inviting some sort of response, before I did so.

My note began by asking what the hell had been so bloody important. Not the most tactful of starts. But then I didn't feel tactful. I felt angry. If I'd sung in the shower to keep Chris waiting, I could do it for Hugh. Extra loud.

And then I heard voices arguing outside my door. I opened it as one of the constables stretched out his hand to knock.

‘This gentleman says you'll want to see him, miss.'

Hugh, changed into jeans and sweatshirt, was looking thunderous.

‘Thank you, officer,' I said coolly. ‘OK, Hugh, come in.' My tone wasn't tender. I'd been stood up. But at least he was here.

‘Where the hell –?' we yelled, simultaneously. And then laughed. But his face clouded immediately.

‘They've taken Matt,' he said. ‘I saw them driving him away. Questioning, they say.'

‘Who?'

‘The police, of course.'

‘Where've they taken him?'

Hugh smiled grimly. ‘Rose Road, of course. What are you going to do about it?'

‘Me?'

‘You. OK, me too.'

‘First of all we must find him a lawyer,' I said.

‘The man I used yesterday seemed to work quite well. We'll go and roust him out.'

‘We?'

He grinned. ‘I take it you'd like a lift?'

This time I played it almost as punctiliously as Chris would have wanted. I told the constables in the corridor that I was leaving with Hugh. I told Ian I was leaving with Hugh. I left a large notice on Chris's noticeboard that I was leaving with Hugh. And I left with Hugh.

Not quite straight away.

I didn't waste time changing – he'd have to put up with me in a slightly sweaty tracksuit, which didn't worry me since he'd have been quite happy for me to be a lot sweatier with no clothes on.

We ran to his car, slamming the doors behind us and feeling suitably urgent. But I was tense for another reason. I could feel he was too. We eyed each other sideways. And then we kissed. Then, as he started the engine, he reached for my right hand with his left. The clasp felt like a promise.

It was impossible to make a fast exit from the grounds, of course. But the police kept the press from being too much of a nuisance, and, as we turned right into the lane leading to the main road, one of the constables gave us a sketchy wave. It might even have been a salute, given Hugh's car. New this month – like Kate's, it had the latest registration letter. This one had clocked 2,134 miles, however.

About a mile from the gate, Hugh slowed and stopped. Four or five people were gathered round a Transit van, which sprawled at an uncomfortable angle across the tarmac and tilted towards the hedge. It looked as if the driver had pulled out from a gate on the far side of the lane and thought the verge on the nearside was solid enough to bear the van's weight during an awkward left turn. Unfortunately for him, lurking under the long grass was a ditch, in which his offside front wheel was now trapped.

Hugh swore under his breath and applied the handbrake. ‘I'd better go and help,' he said. ‘We can't get round him, after all, and an extra pair of hands may help. Hey, what d'you think you're doing?'

‘Helping too.'

‘For Christ's sake, Sophie –'

‘As you said, we can't move until he does. And I could try to reverse it out while everyone else pushes and pulls.'

I half expected him to insist on locking me in the car. Perhaps I half wanted him to. But instead we walked together and joined forces with the other good Samaritans.

The smell from the clutch convinced me that if anyone was going to finish burning it out it ought to be the van driver. I didn't want that on my conscience. So I was hovering on the far side, searching for a hold that wouldn't hurt my fingers, when a couple more vehicles arrived. One was another heavy van: the driver offered a tow, if anyone could produce a rope.

‘I've got one in my boot,' said Hugh, jogging off to fetch it.

And then the occupants of the car strolled up. Two of them, one either side of me. I sketched a smile, and then felt less sure. They were Japanese. And I didn't like the way they smiled back.

I followed the line of their gaze. Their gun was so small no one else noticed it. A hand covering my face prevented my screaming but permitted me to breathe. And they walked with me back to their gun-metal Mercedes without anyone giving them another glance.

I had to admit, they did a very neat job.

Then they helped, rather than pushed, me into the back seat. A man already occupying the back passed me my seat belt.

‘We wish to talk to you, not hurt you, Mrs Compton.'

Since he too held a gun, I chose not to argue.

The car reversed into a gateway.

As we sped away from Hugh, I tried to make sense of the feelings that chased through my brain. There was anger. A lot of fear. An irritating but irrepressible regret that I'd not phoned Kenji back – I kept forgetting what had stopped me. And a great desire – perhaps Kate had shared it too – to scream that I was Sophie Rivers, not Mrs Compton.

They'd discover soon enough, anyway. I was a foot too short, for one thing. And since I hadn't phoned Kenji I wouldn't have a clue what they wanted her for so there'd be no stringing them along even if I wanted to. Perhaps now I was shaking less I should try telling them. It would make sense – before we hit the motorway, or the maze of Birmingham's suburbs.