And None Shall Sleep (12 page)

‘But Nurse Richards told us he had no money to use it.'

O'Sullivan looked pleased with himself. ‘I lent him some,' he said. ‘I could tell he wasn't short of a bob or two. I knew I'd get it back, with interest. I lent him five twenty-pence pieces. Although I don't suppose I'll get it back at all now.'

Mike's breath was quickening. ‘Who did he call?'

The nurse leaned back and folded his arms. ‘Now how should I know?' Then he winked at Joanna. “To be sure, I didn't listen all the way through. All I heard was a couple of words. He said something was wild.' He grinned. ‘You know – wild, man?'

Joanna frowned. ‘Wild?'

‘I would have heard more,' he said, ‘if that bloody bitch of a staff nurse hadn't got me cleaning up some shit.' He gave Joanna a sly look. ‘And there's another mystery that's never been cleared up.' He stopped and leered at Joanna. ‘I'll bet she didn't tell you anything about that poor bastard who fell out of the window. Last year.'

‘She did mention that she'd had some trouble last year –'

‘It was her was on duty that night,' O'Sullivan said with feeling.

Joanna drummed her fingers impatiently on the desk. ‘I don't really think this is relevant; she said sharply.

‘Oh, don't you?' O'Sullivan's eyes were cruel. ‘I have an idea you're probably wrong there. And the enquiry don't know the half of it. But they needn't think I'll be the one to tell them.' His eyes met Joanna's and he gave a quick wink. ‘She must have moved the chair, you know.'

‘Sorry? Which chair?' Joanna asked, confused now.

‘Frost's,' O'Sullivan said disdainfully. ‘Michael Frost's.'

And for some reason they both listened.

‘The window that that bloody madman Frost fell out of was more than six feet from the floor,' he said. ‘How did he get up there? Especially on the medication he was on. He would have been like a bloody zombie. He couldn't have climbed six inches from the floor, let alone six feet. And I'm telling you this, there was no chair there – not by the window he was supposed to have jumped from. So how the hell did he get up there? Enquiries,' he finished disgustedly. Askin' all the wrong questions, they are.'

Joanna gave in. After a quick gesture at Mike she asked, ‘Who exactly is Frost?'

‘Was.' O'Sullivan was excited now. ‘Or, to put it another bloody way, He Is No Longer With Us. He's dead. She sat on the bed for a bloody hour, leavin' me to do all the damned work. And that was that.'

They stared at him and he gave a smirk. ‘The cow didn't tell you, did she?'

They shook their heads. ‘Staff Nurse Prince,' he said rudely. ‘No. This Selkirk business is not the first bit of trouble she's had. It was about a year or so ago she was on night duty. Michael Frost was a patient.' He grinned. ‘Sorry, a depressed patient. She thought she could play the part of God and the Virgin Mary rolled into one. Only something went wrong. He dived out of the window. Dead.' His blue eyes met Joanna's confidently. ‘Bit of a coincidence, don't you think? Two patients, two violent deaths, one nurse.'

‘O'Sullivan,' Joanna said. ‘We aren't here to discuss what happened to Michael Frost. We're investigating the abduction and murder of Jonathan Selkirk.'

‘Maybe they're connected,' the Irishman said, tapping the side of his nose in an age-old gesture. ‘And I don't suppose that bitch of a Staff Nurse told you the half of it, did she?'

Mike stood up.

‘The family sent letters to the hospital. Nasty letters. You see, Frost had a sister. And she was very upset about it. Now, if you've got any sense,' he said, ‘you'll be looking into all that.' He stood up and leaned towards her. His thin face was deeply scored with spite.

‘The trouble with witnesses like that,' Joanna said when O'Sullivan had finally gone, ‘is that you never know how much is truth, how much is spite and how much pure bloody fiction.'

Mike agreed. ‘Are you going to look into this Michael Frost business?'

Joanna thought for a moment. ‘Well,' she said finally. ‘If I'm to be taken off Jonathan Selkirk's little hole in the head I suppose I might as well do a little research of my own into this “unfortunate happening at the hospital”.' She looked at him. ‘But I don't honestly think the two incidents are connected. I'm sure it's coincidence that Yolande Prince was on duty during them both.' She stopped. ‘I have no suspicions of her at all. And the moment the RCS have finished with their part of the case I'm going to find out who footed the bill for Selkirk's picnic in Gallows Wood.'

Mike's eyes warmed as he watched her. ‘Glad to see you're not going to give up, Jo,' he said.

She frowned. ‘Definitely not. But O'Sullivan did say one thing that interested me,' she said. ‘He mentioned the name Wilde. The name of Selkirk's partner.'

‘Perhaps we'd better pay him a visit.'

‘Not now.' She glanced at her watch. ‘Mike, drop me off at the cottage, will you? I'm going to be late.'

She was late. The smell of scorched food greeted her as she opened the front door.

She found Matthew in the kitchen. ‘Sorry,' she said. ‘I'm so sorry.'

‘You might have rung, Joanna,' he said peevishly and she knew he was angry.

‘I really am sorry.' She sighed. ‘I've actually had a pig of a day' ‘She opened the oven door and looked at the dried- up lasagne. ‘Mmmm,' she said.

‘It was quite nice an hour ago, Joanna,' he said severely. She put her good arm around his neck. ‘We could get a take-away,' she suggested.

‘It isn't so bad that we have to abandon it.' He was laughing now. It was one of the many things she loved about Matthew. He was never in poor humour for long. He grinned.

‘I've been listening to the news,' he said. ‘And I didn't hear about any arrest yet.'

He spooned some of the lasagne on to plates and carried them through with a large bowl of salad as she told him her news.

‘So the Regional Crime Squad are poised to swoop,' she concluded gloomily. One of the most intriguing cases ever to hit the Moorlands and the bloody RCS have to dip their paws in.'

He commiserated with her while they ate and when they had finished he cleared away and filled their glasses. Then he handed her a square box, prettily wrapped in white paper with shiny red love hearts and a huge red bow.

‘For you,' he said. ‘To cheer you up.'

‘I can't open it, Matthew,' she said, stupidly excited like a child on Christmas morning. ‘Not with this thing on my arm.'

‘Let me.' He ripped off the paper and she saw the box.

Matthew's face was tense. ‘I knew as soon as you were out of plaster you'd be back on your bike. I just want you to be safe, Joanna, and your old one was damaged in the accident. If you hadn't been wearing it ...'

‘All right, all right,' she said hastily. ‘Don't go into all the gory details. I know. I had a close shave. I'll be more careful in future.'

‘No, you won't,' Matthew said soberly. ‘I've seen the way you tear around on your bike.' There was a touch of grim humour in his eyes. ‘It's the speed you enjoy – and the danger. Your accident was inevitable. It was simply a matter of when, and how badly you'd be hurt.'

‘Matthew.'

He put his arm around her and drew her close to him.

‘There's no point telling daredevils like you to be careful.' He tapped the shell of the helmet. ‘All I can do is buy you safety gear.'

She was silent. There was so much that he was avoiding saying, but it chastened her all the same. He wasn't reminding her that he had left a wife, a home, a child for her and that in return she had given him nothing. She wasn't even careful of her own safety, and her job invariably won priorities. But he had said nothing. It was only on occasions like this that she was reminded of it all. And the knowledge dragged guilt in its wake, like a heavy ball and chain. With Matthew came responsibilities and commitment. It could never be a free, pure love because its price had been too high. A sudden flash came to her, remembered from her childhood, of an elderly, maiden aunt pointing out a divorced man walking with his new wife, arm in arm, staring into each other's eyes, their steps jaunty. ‘Happiness can never be bought with misery,' her aunt had said grimly. ‘Think of the poor wife.' Joanna's round, child's eyes had absorbed the couple's apparent contentment and she had doubted what she had seen. When she recalled the scene later on that night she seemed to remember the couple's faces were sad and their steps slow. Now she looked at Matthew with that exact trace of sadness and shivered.

She felt agitated and cornered. ‘Matthew,' she said softly.

He was watching her with that steady, quizzical look that made his face appear thin. He was waiting for her to give him her time, her affection, her commitment.

‘Matthew,' she said again, awkwardly.

He stroked her hair. ‘I couldn't bear to lose you,' he said, and then in an abrupt change of subject he picked up the helmet. ‘Come here. Let's try it for size.'

She put it on her head and Matthew tightened the strap beneath her chin. He kissed her. ‘It'll give me some peace of mind,' he said, ‘next time I hear you've surfaced in casualty.'

She took it off and laid it back in its box with a sigh. ‘How long will it be,' she said, ‘before I'm back on my bike?'

‘Be patient,' he urged. ‘Not long.' He watched her for a moment and she sensed his unease. ‘You haven't forgotten about tomorrow night, have you?'

She shook her head.

‘You don't mind, do you?'

She minded. She minded very much and he knew it. But he would always ask, maybe in the hope that one day her ‘no' would be the truth. ‘No,' she said.

They sat like a courting couple, talking and playing Mozart, punctuating the evening with soft, slow kisses that never quite boiled but simmered for hours, until the sound of the telephone shrilled into their peace and Colclough's weary voice told her someone called Pugh would be occupying her office from ten a.m. in the morning. Would she be good enough to clear the desk? Early.

Her temper was already roused by the time Mike picked her up in the morning.

‘Damn this bloody plaster,' she said furiously, slamming the door behind her.

He laughed. ‘What difference does the plaster make?'

‘Well, at least I could have pedalled off some of my aggression'. She glowered at him and then felt guilty for making him the butt of her ill humour. ‘Some puke from the Regional Crime Squad is taking over my office as well as my case,' she exploded. ‘Ten a.m. this morning. I'm to clear my desk.'

Mike raised his eyebrows.

‘Colclough,' she explained. ‘Rang last night, late.'

‘I see.' Mike was silent for a moment then, Perhaps,' he suggested, ‘you can work with this guy from the RCS.' He ducked when a withering glance was directed his way.

So Joanna's first hour at work that morning was spent hurling things into cupboards with as much force as she could muster limited to one hand.

Then she sat behind her new desk, in the main office area, muttering as ten o'clock approached.

Her mood was not improved when ‘the puke from the Regional Crime Squad' turned out to be a thin rod of a woman named Pugh, complete with stick-like legs, a sly face, pale eyes and a moustache. She walked in, stared around her, then homed in on Joanna. ‘Piercy,' she said sharply. ‘I'll have a word with you first. Bring your file with you?

It was a stormy detective who planted herself in front of her own desk while Pugh's pale eyes fixed on her unblinking.

‘This your office?' she asked first. Joanna nodded and Pugh turned around to stare at the view from the window. ‘Doesn't the brick wall irritate you?' she asked.

Joanna scowled. ‘It used to, at first. I used to think of it as a brick wall, leading nowhere ...'

‘And now?' Pugh asked curiously.

‘I know that brick wall well,' Joanna said quietly. ‘All the patterns, each brick, the way the rain trickles down, shadows when it's sunny. I've got used to it.'

Pugh shrugged before turning her attention to Selkirk's murder. It seemed she wanted to know everything about his injuries and mode of death but little about his family's lack of grief or any sort of motive. She gave Joanna a sharp, ugly look. ‘Those things don't concern me,' she said briskly.

‘It's the
modus operandi,
the weapon and the environment that I need to know about. Other details merely cloud the issue.'

Her eyes were still fixed on Joanna as she sat back and scratched her upper lip. ‘I wonder how he got Selkirk to walk along the corridor,' she mused. All Selkirk had to do was shout out and someone would have come running'

Joanna sat still, resentful, while Pugh rolled a pen between her fingers, frowning at the typewritten notes.

Then she looked up. ‘Quite good, Inspector Piercy. However, I can see that you and I are looking at this case from different angles. Aren't we?'

‘Are we?'

Pugh's bony hands were spread over the papers as though she were divining for something. ‘Photographs?' she snapped.

Joanna threw the forensic pictures on to the desk. ‘Here,' she said and the woman's nostrils twitched as she peered at them. For a while she said nothing but studied them closely up and down, growling and clearing her throat like an excited terrier.

Then she raised her head. ‘Well, at least you've got some decent pictures.' She conceded a second point. ‘Easy to see the position from which the victim was shot.'

Joanna looked at her with hostile eyes.

‘Have you the PM pictures?' Pugh asked. ‘I want to see the entrance wound.'