Death of a Stranger (15 page)

“So I saw. Thank you, Clare. I'm sure she'll be happy to see you.''

“
You
sound happy, Anna. There's a note in your voice.''

“I am.''

Anna stroked her stomach as she hurried out to her car, then tried to ridicule the absurd thought that a new life could be inaugurated to order. It was a glorious morning, the pale diffusion of mature summer sun the sort that warmed the bones without burning the skin. According to the radio it was shining all over the British Isles, and the Glaswegian temperature was expected to reach twenty degrees Celsius by lunchtime.

She was glad, though, Anna realised as she drove down Grange Road and turned into the narrow lane just short of the entrance to the practice, where a deep embrasure in the pavement at the side of the building amounted to a small car-park, to be leaving her adopted home for no more than a week, even though she was taking with her the chief treasure it had yielded.

“Portrait of a workaholic,'' John Coquelin chided her gently as they met in Reception.

“Can't be, John. I'm late. And I've no list of my own this morning. But I'll help where I can and I'll enjoy handing that cat back to its owner. And thanking everyone for being so accommodating. I'll be away, now, most of next week.''

“Anna! Brian thinks you should be away the whole of it.''

“He does indeed!'' Brian boomed, appearing white-coated from the working area.

“Thanks, but Tim will be going back to work as soon as we get home, so I expect I'll want to. Now, make the most of me, for three hours I'm at everyone's disposal.''

Tim had found himself immediately busy on his arrival at the station, and when his mother rang mid-morning to tell him Simon hadn't come to see her as expected, and wasn't at the hotel, he reacted with a sense of irritation he found hard to suppress.

“So what do you expect me to do about it, Mother?''

“Not to snap at me for a start, Tim!''

“I'm sorry. It's just that there's turning out to be a lot of business this morning, and you know I need to finish by noon.''

“You shouldn't have gone in this morning. Sometimes you're a little bit too worthy, darling.''

“And Anna?''

“And too literal. But I'm worried about Simon. He was talking about going undercover at the Golden Rose.''

“So that's probably where he still is.'' Tim looked out at his tree, a sudden fear making him force the nonchalance which a moment earlier had been a reflex. “Try not to worry, Mother. I'm sure we'll find him there with you when we come to say goodbye.'' He hesitated. “Were you thinking there was something I could do?''

He heard her sigh. “I was thinking you could help me not to be so worried by telling me not to be so silly. And you've done it. Thank you, darling.''

“Oh, Mother … I'm sure he'll be all right.''

“Yes, Tim. Goodbye.''

Still with his eyes fixed on the tree, Tim got up and walked over to the window, his fear growing that Shaw had done a bunk. Fear for his mother, and for himself … For himself disappointment, Tim realised in surprise. If Simon Shaw was a phoney and had run out on his mother and her obvious affection for him, he, Tim, would be disappointed in him as well as concerned for his mother. He had been wary of Shaw from the start, and after the attack with the car he had wondered if he was concerned in it, but some part of him had gone on wanting to like the man.

Tim turned from the window with a shrug, telling himself that his mother had to have learned by now to cope with sexual setbacks, and that he knew far too little about Simon Shaw to make any assumptions about him, good or bad, or be affected by what might be the imminent discovery that he was a louse.

The only thing that should be concerning him, Tim told himself with a return of the irritation he somehow found welcome, was the fact that if Shaw had failed to appear by the time he and Anna were due to leave Guernsey their second attempt at a honeymoon would be flawed even if it managed to go ahead: worrying about his mother, neither of them could be the carefree and mutually absorbed couple a honeymoon should engender.

He was grateful for the arrival of his Sergeant Mahy, to fill him in about the morning's unprecedented discovery by an early morning patrol: a dead body carrying no means of identification.

“Sit down, Ted, and tell me about it. Another cup for the sergeant, please,'' he asked the constable arriving with a pot of coffee, relieved to find his irritation turning into amusement: his usual single cup had been upgraded, no doubt as a delicate send-off gesture. “All I've heard so far is that it's a male with not a single clue on him as to his identity.''

“Not a single clue that can help here and now, Tim. There's a couple of labels in his clothes: three M and S and another no one here recognises. Scope there for longer-term investigation, of course. Forensics have hardly started, but there's a camera on a cord round the neck. Open, with no film in it. I didn't need to be told that his chest and stomach had been mashed into a hedge.''

“So you've seen him?''
Another hit-and-run
. Tim found himself suddenly out of breath.

“Yes. I'm afraid it's one I'll remember.'' DS Mahy took a gulp of coffee, as Tim noted absently that his usual ruddy complexion was comparatively pale.

“Ted …'' He wanted to walk over to the window, get closer to his tree, but he didn't think his legs would carry him and he remained in his chair. “ Was he young?''

“Yes. Lean and fit, too. Crying shame. That anyone …''

“Yes. Ted …''

“You all right, Tim?''

“I'm not sure. Did he … Was he very fair?''

Ted stared, putting his coffee cup back on its saucer without drinking. “ He was. How d'you—''

“Was he close to the Golden Rose?''

DS Mahy considered. “Route de Glycine … Yes, he must have been. My God, Tim, d'you—''

“I know who it is, yes.'' Tim got up then, steadying himself against his desk. “Take me to the mortuary, will you, Ted? Now, this minute.''

“But sir …''

“Now.'' “The post-mortem may have started,'' Ted said warily, as he turned into the hospital grounds. “But you can still—''

“Wherever he is, I have to see him.''

To his absurd sensation of relief, the body was still in its cold box. Before the sheet was drawn back Tim had no doubt whose face he would see. But the shock of confirmation was still so intense that for a moment his head swam and he let his strong stocky sergeant take his weight.

“Sir …'' The sergeant put an arm round Tim's shoulders.

“Don't you recognise him, Ted?'' Tim asked dreamily. “ Don't you recognise Simon Shaw? You met him at my wedding.''

“Yes … Dear God, Tim, I can see now. But he doesn't—''

“Look like himself. No.'' Tim leaned forward and closed the blue eyes, staring in astonishment at the ceiling striplight. Simon hadn't had much colour but he had been tanned, and the pallor now of his skin transformed the handsome face which death had already diminished. But the face was undamaged, and Tim was shudderingly thankful that the sheet still covered the body below the shoulders.

“This is the body of Simon Shaw, a visitor from London. I'll let you have particulars,'' he told the attendant correctly before turning away with his sergeant's support, and staggering like a drunk along the corridor.

Ted pushed him into a wayside chair, but Tim immediately straggled back to his feet. “My mother … I have to go and tell her. Be my crutch to the Victoria wing, Ted, and then go and ring the airport and tell them Anna and I won't be on the four o'clock plane to Glasgow. Oh, God, make it a men's room first.''

He managed to get to one before being sick. After that, and a few minutes on the lavatory seat with his head between his knees, he was able to walk through the hospital unassisted.

It felt like the hardest thing he had ever had to do. So hard, he was desperately hoping that Anna had arrived so that he could tell her first, and secure her back-up for when he told his mother. When they reached the Vic wing he asked Reception to ring his mother's room and, if his wife was there, call her out on a piece of business.

She was there. When she saw his face she crouched in front of the chair where Ted had put him.

“Oh, God, Tim, what is it?''

“It's Simon. His body was found this morning. Crushed into the hedge outside the Golden Rose. A car again.''

What he couldn't understand was his own sense of grief, almost as strong as his terror of what the news would do to his mother. Grief for the waste of a young, healthy life was natural, but what he was feeling was more than that, it was grief for Simon Shaw.

“I've asked Ted to cancel our flight. I'm sorry I didn't ask you first, darling, but it seemed—''

“Of course. I'll cancel everything else after … Oh, Tim, how are we going to do it?''

“By telling her. Straight out. That's how
I'd
prefer it. No gradual realisation, ghastly slow sinking in. Tell her, and then be there.''

“Yes. Oh, you're right. Come on. She was anxious when I left, afraid something had happened to prevent our departure.''

“I'll leave you now then, sir.''

“Yes, Ted. Thank you.'' Tim could see in his sergeant's face relief at the presence of Anna. “ I'll never forget how you've helped me today. I'll see you later, I want to be at the centre of this particular investigation.''

“Could someone cancel the chits and tickets in here, please, Ted?'' Anna held out the travel folder already tucked into the large bag she had been going to take to Scotland. DS Mahy took it silently, with a nod, and walked quickly away after an anxious glance at Tim.

His mother was in her chair but straining towards the door, her face tight with anxiety. Even when she saw them it scarcely relaxed, to Tim's relief. At least she was on the way to the truth.

“Darling, thank goodness! So what was all that about, Anna? Tim, Simon still hasn't appeared, and now the Duke tell me his bed wasn't slept in. I'm sure something terrible has happened to him!''

If only she was! But she had given him his start. “It has, Mother.'' He went and knelt at her feet, taking her hand. “ Simon was found dead early this morning. He'd been hit by a car in the lane outside the Golden Rose.''

For a moment she sat still, staring at him, her face expressionless. Then, it seemed to Tim in slow motion, it contorted, the eyes widening, the upper lip arching, the nostrils flaring. As the lower lip dropped there came from the widening mouth a scream so grievously piercing Tim had to restrain his hand from clamping across the ear-splitting void.

After a lifetime the scream subsided to a moan, and his mother took her hand from his and fastened her arms across her chest before starting to sway backwards and forwards.

“Lorna. Hush, Lorna.'' Anna was round the back of the chair, fondling Lorna's shoulders, pressing her cheek into Lorna's hair. “He wouldn't want this.''

“He would, he would.'' It was a mumble, but that was what Tim thought she had said.

“No,'' he told her. “ No one would.'' He twisted up towards the hovering nurse, seeing vaguely that the doorway seemed to be crowded with other members of the hospital staff. “ Bring a doctor, will you?''

When a doctor arrived a minute or so later, Lorna was still swaying and keening. He put a needle into her unresisting arm, and ordered her transfer to her bed.

“I hope it won't put her out completely,'' Tim murmured to him when she was resettled, stroking her forehead as her head thrashed from side to side. “ If it does, when she wakes it'll be worse for her than ever.''

“It's only a strong sedative. She's gone into shock, that's why she isn't trying to deny what you've told her, ask you any questions. When she comes out of it she'll panic and shouldn't be alone. Can you stay with her?''

“Of course.''

They both stayed, one each side of the bed, and at the end of an hour Lorna appeared to relax. But almost instantly she shot upright, grabbing a hand of each of them and turning from one to the other with a desperate face.

“Tim! For God's sake tell me it isn't true! Not Simon!''

“It is true, Mother. Simon was run down by a car in the night, in the lane outside the Golden Rose. He would have died instantly. He wouldn't have suffered.''

“But he shouldn't have died at all. Not
Simon
. Oh, God, how could you have let that happen? How could you?''

To the enormous relief of both Tim and Anna, Lorna burst into a storm of weeping. She wept for a long time, the bed shaking with the force of her grief. The violence of her reaction to the news of Shaw's death had frightened Tim as well as amazed him, but his fear subsided with her weeping, and he found his irritation coming back. What had happened to his mother's native stoicism? She had had numberless encounters over the years with men of all ages and conditions – he had always reluctantly known that he had seen no more than the tip of the iceberg – so how could she be so devastated, in her sixth decade, by the death of a toyboy? He felt ashamed for her. And of her, he realised, then was ashamed of himself for the reaction even while wishing that the hospital staff could be kept in ignorance of what had so shattered their patient.

But that was hardly possible. Other members of the police force would soon be at her bedside, not to hold her hand but to question her about her boyfriend's state of mind, what he had said, what his intentions for the previous evening had been and so on and so on … In one flash, Tim saw the whole dreary stretch of the investigation in front of them, a long dry road bordered by desert.