Authors: Dick Francis
‘No,’ I said. ‘Sorry. Many thanks for showing me around.’
And, oh yes, by the way, could I have a hair, please?
I followed him to the door and could see no convenient blond hairs lying on his dark sweater, and none helpfully sticking up from his head just waiting to be plucked out. This wasn’t as easy as Marina had suggested, especially one-handed.
We stopped in the doorway.
‘I see you’re on the front page of
The Pump
today,’ he said.
I hoped he couldn’t see the sweat that broke out on my forehead.
‘So I saw,’ I replied, trying to keep my voice as normal as possible.
‘Are you having any luck with your investigation?’ he said.
‘I’m making steady progress,’ I lied.
‘Well, I hope you get to the bottom of it. I liked Huw Walker.’
‘How well did you know him?’ I asked.
Suddenly it was his turn to have a sweaty brow. ‘Not very well. We spoke a few times.’
‘What about?’ I asked.
‘Nothing much. About his chances, you know, in passing.’
‘It’s not very sensible for a man in your position to be asking jockeys about their chances in races, is it?’
He was beginning to get rattled. ‘There was nothing in it, I assure you.’
I wasn’t convinced that I could take his assurances at face value.
I applied more pressure. ‘Are the Jockey Club aware that you ask jockeys about their chances in races?’
‘Now look here, Halley, what are you accusing me of?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘It was
you
who told me that you had talked to Huw Walker about his chances.’
‘I think you ought to go now,’ he said.
He didn’t hold out his hand. I looked into his eyes and could see no further than his retinas. Whatever he was thinking, he was keeping it to himself.
I wanted to ask him what he had been doing last Friday evening around eight o’clock. I wanted to know if he had scratch marks on his neck beneath the high roll collar of his sweater. And I wanted to know if he had ever owned a .38 revolver.
Instead, I rode the lift down and went away.
Back at Ebury Street, I parked the car in the garage. Instead of going straight up to my flat, I walked to the sandwich bar on the corner to get myself a late lunch of smoked salmon on brown bread with a salad.
I was paying across the counter when my mobile rang.
‘Hello,’ I said, trying to juggle my lunch, the change and the telephone in my one real hand.
A breathless voice at the other end of the line said, ‘Is that you, Sid?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, then with rising foreboding, ‘Rosie? What is it?’
‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘Marina’s been shot.’
‘What?’ I said numbly, dropping my change.
‘Marina’s been shot,’ Rosie repeated.
I went cold and stopped feeling my legs.
‘Where?’
‘Here, on the pavement outside the Institute.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘where on her body?’
‘In her leg.’
Thank God, I thought, she’s going to be all right.
‘Where is she now?’ I asked.
‘Here, by the ambulance,’ said Rosie. ‘They’re desperately working on her on the pavement. Oh God, there’s so much blood. It’s everywhere.’
Maybe my relief was premature. My skin felt clammy.
‘Rosie,’ I said urgently, ‘go and ask the ambulancemen which hospital they’ll be taking her to.’
I could hear her asking.
‘St Thomas’s,’ she said.
‘Go with her. I’m on my way there.’
She hung up. I looked at my phone in disbelief. This can’t be happening. But it was.
Nature has evolved a mechanism for dealing with fear, or hurt. Adrenalin floods into the bloodstream and hence throughout the body. Muscles are primed to perform, to run, to jump, to escape the danger, to flee from the source of the fear. I could feel the energy coursing round my body. I had felt it all too often before when lying injured on the turf after a bad fall. The desire to run was great. Sometimes, when injured, the urge to flee was so overpowering that injuries could be forgotten. There were well-documented incidents of people who had been horribly maimed in explosions running away from the scene on legs from which the feet had been blown clean away.
Now, in the sandwich bar, this adrenalin rush had me turning back and forth not knowing if I was picking up my lunch or retrieving my dropped change or what. For quite a few wasted seconds I was completely disorientated.
‘Are you all right, mate?’ asked the man behind the counter.
‘Fine,’ I croaked, hardly able to unclench my teeth.
I stumbled out of the shop and fairly sprinted back to my car. I pressed the button that opened the garage and yelled at the slowly opening gate to hurry up.
I drove as quickly as I could to St Thomas’s Hospital, which is on the other side of the Thames from the Houses of Parliament. ‘Quickly’ is a relative term in London traffic. I screamed at tourists outside Buckingham Palace to get out of the way, and cursed queues of taxis in Birdcage Walk. Bus lanes are for buses, and sometimes for taxis too, but not for cars. I charged along the bus lane on Westminster Bridge and didn’t care if I got a ticket.
In spite of two jumped traffic lights and numerous near misses, I made it unscathed to the hospital’s casualty entrance. I pulled the car on to the pavement and got out.
‘You can’t leave it there,’ said a well-meaning soul walking past.
‘Watch,’ I said, locking the doors. ‘It’s an emergency.’
‘They’ll tow it away,’ he said.
Let them, I thought. I wasn’t going to waste time finding a parking meter.
Oh God, please let Marina be OK. I hadn’t prayed since I was a child but I did so now.
Please God, let Marina be all right.
I ran into the Accident and Emergency Department and found a line of six people at the reception desk.
I grabbed a passing nurse. ‘Please,’ I said, ‘where’s Marina van der Meer?’
‘Is she a patient?’ asked the nurse in an east European accent.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She was on her way here from Lincoln’s Inn Fields, by ambulance.’
‘Ambulance cases come in over there,’ she said, pointing over her shoulder.
‘Thanks.’ I ran in the direction she had indicated, towards some closed double doors.
My progress was blocked by a large young man in a navy blue jersey. ‘Hospital Security’ was written on each shoulder.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, ‘can I help you?’
‘Marina van der Meer?’ I said, trying to get past him.
He sidestepped to block my way. ‘No,’ he said, ‘my name’s Tony. Now what’s yours?’
I looked at his face. He wasn’t exactly smiling.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’m trying to find Marina van der Meer. She was being brought here by ambulance.’
‘An emergency?’ he asked.
‘Yes, yes,’ I said, ‘she’s been shot.’
‘Where?’ he asked.
‘In the leg.’
‘No, where was she shot?’
‘In the leg,’ I said again.
‘No,’ he repeated, ‘where in London was she shot?’
‘Lincoln’s Inn Fields,’ I said. What on earth does it matter? I thought.
‘She may have gone to Guy’s,’ he said.
‘The ambulance men said they were bringing her here.’
‘You just wait here a moment, Mr… what did you say your name was?’
‘Halley,’ I said. ‘Sid Halley.’
‘You just wait here a moment and I’ll see. Members of the public aren’t allowed in this section – unless they come by ambulance, of course.’ He almost laughed. I didn’t.
He disappeared through the double doors and let them swing back together. I pushed one open and looked through. There was not much to see. The corridor stretched ahead for about ten yards and met another corridor in a T-junction. The walls were painted in two tones, the upper half cream and the lower blue. Perversely, it reminded me of the corridors in my primary school in Liverpool.
Tony, the friendly security guard, reappeared from the left and strode towards me. ‘No one of that name has been admitted,’ he said.
There was a clatter behind him and a trolley surrounded by medical staff was wheeled quickly by from right to left. I only had a glimpse of the person on it and I couldn’t tell if it was Marina. Then a dazed-looking Rosie came into view.
‘Rosie,’ I shouted. She didn’t hear.
Tony, the guard, started to say something but I pushed past him and ran down the corridor.
‘Oi!’ he shouted. ‘You can’t go in there.’
But I had already turned the corner.
‘Rosie,’ I shouted again.
She turned. ‘Oh Sid, thank God you’re here!’ She was crying and seemed to be in a state of near-collapse.
‘Where’s Marina?’ I asked urgently.
‘In there,’ she said, looking at some doors on the right.
There was a glass circular window and, with trepidation, I looked through.
Marina lay very still on a trolley with about six people rush-Ing around her. There were two bags of blood on poles with plastic tubes running to needles on the backs of each of her hands. I could see a pool of blood down near the foot of the trolley – it was as though the blood was going straight through her.
‘What are you two doing here?’ asked a voice.
I turned to see a stern-looking nurse in a blue uniform with what appeared to be a green dishcloth on her head.
‘You’ll have to go back to the waiting room,’ she said.
‘But that’s Marina in there,’ I said, turning back to the window. If anything, the activity had intensified. One of the staff was putting a tube down her throat. Her face looked horribly grey.
‘I don’t care if it’s the Queen of Sheba,’ said the nurse. ‘You can’t stay here. You’ll be in the way.’ She mellowed. ‘Come on, I’ll show you where you can wait. You’ll be told what’s happening as soon as we know.’
Rosie and I allowed ourselves to be taken by the arms and
led down the corridor. We went round several corners and were shown into a room with ‘Family Waiting Room’ painted on the door.
‘Now stay here and someone will be along to see you.’
I mumbled ‘thank you’ but seemed to have lost control of my face. All I could see was the image of Marina so helpless and vulnerable on that trolley. ‘Please God, let her live.’
I sat down heavily on one of the chairs. I’d again lost control of my legs, too.
‘I’ll send someone in with a cup of tea,’ said the nurse. ‘Now, wait here.’
I nodded. I don’t think I could have moved even if I had wanted to. All I could think about was whether Marina was going to be all right. Rosie sat with her head in her hands. She had been awfully close to the action both on the pavement and in the ambulance.
After a few minutes a kindly woman in an apron brought us a cup of tea each. Strong, full of milk and with at least two sugars, just as I didn’t take it. Delicious.
‘What happened?’ I finally said to Rosie.
She looked up at me. Her eyes were red from crying and she had a hangdog expression.
‘I’m so sorry, Sid,’ she said. ‘We only went outside for a bit of air.’
‘It’s all right, Rosie. It wasn’t your fault.’
But I could see that she thought it was.
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘It was all so fast,’ she said. ‘We were going to walk once round the square, but had gone only a few yards when a motorcyclist drew up and sat there on his machine looking at a map. He beckoned us over to him, pointing at the map. I couldn’t
hear what he said due to the noise of the engine. Marina went across the pavement to him and he just shot her. I think the gun was under the map.’
‘Could you describe the motorcyclist?’ I asked her. ‘Would you be able to identify him again?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she replied slowly. He was wearing a crash helmet – you know, one of those ones that covers the whole face. That’s partly why I couldn’t hear what he said.’
‘How about the motorbike?’ I asked.
‘It was just… just a motorbike,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what type.’
She paused and I could tell she was replaying the scene in her mind.
‘At first I didn’t realise she had been shot. I mean, I didn’t hear a gunshot or anything. Marina doubled up and grabbed her knee and the motorcycle roared away. Then there was all the blood. It literally spurted out of her leg all over the place.’
I looked at her dark trousers and I could see that they were covered in Marina’s blood.
‘I did my best to stop it and screamed for someone to help. It seemed ages before the Institute’s security men ran out. They called the ambulance but that took ages to arrive, too.’
The door into the waiting room opened and I jumped up.
‘Are you with the girl that’s been shot?’ asked the head that appeared.
‘Yes,’ said Rosie and I together.
‘Good. Wait here, please.’ The head withdrew and the door closed.
I paced around the room. It took a huge effort not to run out of the door and back to the circular window.
‘Why don’t they come and tell us?’ I said. But I knew the
answer. They were busy doing their best. I prayed that their best was good enough.
‘She lost so much blood,’ said Rosie. ‘I held her leg in both my hands and squeezed hard to stop the blood but it oozed between my fingers and ran all over the pavement. It was horrible.’ She shuddered.
‘You did brilliantly, Rosie. Without you, she would have probably died there on the pavement. At least here she has a chance.’ I hoped so anyway.
The door reopened but it wasn’t a doctor that came in but a uniformed policeman.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said, nodding to each of us in turn, and showing us his warrant card. ‘Do either of you know the name of the young lady who was shot?’
‘Marina van der Meer,’ I said. ‘Do you know how she’s doing? I really need some news.’
‘The doctors are still working on her, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything further.’ He took a notebook out of his pocket. ‘How do you spell her name?’ he asked.
I told him and he wrote it down.
And her age? And he wrote that down, too.
‘And what is your name?’ he asked me.
I told him that as well. Come on, I thought, where’s the bloody doctor?
‘And you, madam?’
Rosie’s name went into the notebook along with our dates of birth, although why they were important, I couldn’t imagine.