Angel of Death (10 page)

‘We aren’t sure, but it could be. He certainly ransacked your flat, I’m afraid. We won’t know if anything was taken until you’ve been able to check the flat yourself, but we have a feeling nothing at all is missing. The obvious things are all still there – the television, the microwave, the musical equipment. Burglars usually take stuff like that. Easy to carry, and then to sell.’

‘Did Mum see him?’

‘Apparently not. She opened the front door but before she could switch on the light somebody started hitting her on the head.’

‘Oh, poor Mum! She must have been terrified. I shouldn’t have suggested she should go to my flat. That was stupid of me, but I didn’t think . . . it never entered my head that she could be in danger.’

‘Obviously, why should it? But she was lucky – he left the front door open and one of your neighbours walked past and saw her, and called the emergency service. A Miss Neville?’

‘Oh, Janet, yes,’ Miranda said absently. ‘We aren’t friends, but we do say hello, and talk about the weather, now and then.’

‘Well, your mother may owe a big debt to Miss Neville. Had she lain there all night she might have developed hypothermia. Older people do, even in warm weather, especially with a head wound. Miss Neville didn’t recognise her, and, knowing you were in hospital she had no idea what your mother was doing in your flat, so as well as asking for an ambulance she talked to us, and since I’m dealing with your case the word reached me. I didn’t want to disturb your sleep in the middle of the night, which is why I’m here now.’

‘You’ve seen my mother?’

‘I’ve just come from seeing her. And she seems fine to me. But I don’t think she should return to your flat. I’ve advised her to go home, to Dorset, in fact. That would be wisest.’

Miranda took a sharp breath. ‘You think she might be attacked again?’

‘Highly unlikely, but it is better to be safe than sorry.’

Closing her eyes, she asked, ‘Have you found . . . anything, yet?’

‘In your flat? I told you, it had been thoroughly searched – he had been through all the drawers and cupboards and thrown stuff about, I’m afraid, all over the floor. Deliberate destruction, I’d say, there’s no reason to make such a mess, but he might be trying to scare you off, warn you against talking to us.’

‘I didn’t mean my flat – I meant have you found . . . her, yet?’

He grimaced. ‘Not yet, but then – where do we look? She could be buried anywhere. We’re still searching his father’s place, but we haven’t found anything, and it’s my opinion that that’s the last place he would put her, knowing you witnessed what happened.’

She nodded. ‘I see what you mean. Yes. And it would mean that Terry knew, was involved – which I can’t believe. You don’t know him, but he’s really a very nice man, I simply can’t imagine him getting mixed up with murder and . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

They stared at each other. Neil nodded slowly. ‘And these attacks on you and your mother? You don’t believe Terry Finnigan would do anything like that?’

‘No. Do you?’

He didn’t answer. ‘I must go. I’ll keep in touch. Oh, and I’ll ask the ward sister if you can visit your mother this morning.’ Drawing back the curtains he walked away. She saw him go into the ward sister’s glass-walled office at the far end of the ward, watched them talking, saw the sister nodding.

Half an hour later Nurse Embry came along with a wheelchair and helped her climb out of bed.

‘Going for an x-ray?’ Joan Patterson asked, eyes glinting with curiosity.

‘No,’ the nurse said, amused, deftly enfolding Miranda into a dressing gown before putting a much-washed hospital rug over her knees.

‘She isn’t going home, is she?’

‘No.’ Nurse Embry began wheeling Miranda towards the swing doors, leaving Joan Patterson seething with frustration.

‘What ward is my mother on?’ Miranda asked as they turned into the corridor.

‘Mary Leeman. It’s an observation ward, mostly head injuries; patients don’t stay long, they’re only in for a night or two but they need to be watched carefully so there are always plenty of nurses on the ward. I worked on it myself last winter. I didn’t like it much. You don’t get to know the patients – they come in and go out like on a conveyor belt.’

She pushed the wheelchair along another corridor and through more swing doors into a glass-walled waiting room.

‘I’ll leave you here for a minute while I check with Sister that they’re ready for you. She’s a tartar. She’ll bite my head off if I just barge in there without warning.’ She picked up a few magazines from the table in the middle of the room and dropped them on to Miranda’s lap. ‘Here you are, these will keep you occupied while I’m gone.’

The only other occupant of the waiting room was a man; out of the corner of her eye Miranda noted that he was expensively dressed; a beautifully cut suit, a crisp white shirt, a dark red silk tie and what she suspected were handmade shoes on his feet. He turned his head to glance at her and Miranda hurriedly looked down, embarrassed at being caught staring; she began to turn the pages of the top magazine, a glossy monthly which she saw was a year old. Odd how reading out-of-date magazines was somehow more riveting than reading the latest editions. She soon became absorbed in an article, which was why she didn’t notice the other magazines sliding slowly floorwards.

By the time she did realise what was happening it was too late. The magazines plummeted, pages fluttering.

The other occupant of the waiting room got up and came to help her.

‘Sorry, stupid of me,’ Miranda mumbled, very flushed. He might think she had dropped them deliberately, to get his attention.

He put the magazines back on her lap, then sat down on a chair right next to her and smiled. He had dazzling white teeth, a golden tan, which looked wonderful with his thick, curly, blond hair and bright blue eyes.

‘Which ward are you in?’

She couldn’t remember the name and made flustered noises, finally saying, ‘I’m visiting my mother in Mary Leeman ward.’

‘What is she in here for?’

‘A head injury, but they say she’ll be OK. Are you visiting someone?’

‘My wife.’ He sighed. ‘She’s pregnant, but has to be very careful. She’s had two miscarriages already. So she’s in here for observation. The same ward as your mother. I’m worried about Pan; she gets so scared, afraid she’s going to lose this baby, too. They would like her to spend the next six months in bed here, but I’ve just started a new job, at a hotel in Greece, I can’t stay on in London, and Pan won’t stay here without me.’

‘There must be good hospitals in Greece, though, where she can be taken care of?’

‘Yes, of course. But Pan wants to be in her own home.’

‘I can sympathise with her. I’m sure I would feel the same. She has an unusual name – Pan. Is it short for something?’

‘Pandora.’ He smiled at her. ‘Her father had a weird sense of humour. He always said, women cause most of the trouble in the world. Greece is still very much a male-orientated country although some women have gained more freedoms over the past twenty years. There’s an old Greek story about how trouble first got into the world. It tells you a lot about the way Greek men think. Trouble is supposed to have been shut up in a box. It was released by a woman, called Pandora.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard that story, but it’s just a myth, isn’t it?’

‘Greek men take it seriously. Even Socrates had a nagging wife, you know.’

‘Did he? Maybe that’s why he was always out of the house talking to young men! Does your wife like her name?’

‘She laughs about it, but she prefers to be called Pan. It’s shorter, and sounds quite modern, although, of course, it was also the name of one of the Greek gods. Pan, the god of nature.’

‘Are you Greek?’ He certainly didn’t sound it, and his colouring made her suspect he wasn’t Greek but he obviously knew a lot about the country.

‘No, I’m English.’ He held out his hand. ‘Charles Leigh.’

Miranda took his hand, saying her name.

‘Miranda,’ he repeated. ‘Now that is a lovely name, and
The Tempest
is my favourite Shakespearean play. Of course, my wife is Greek, although she speaks English. She spent several years at an English school.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Her father wanted her to speak good English – it helps in their business. He owned the hotel I’m going to run, and a majority of their guests are English. I met my wife when she was over here, on a training course, run by the hotel chain I work for.’

‘But she’s delicate?’

‘No, on the contrary. She plays a lot of sport, is very active. She’s a perfectly healthy girl, she just has a problem staying pregnant.’

Sympathetically, Miranda said, ‘What a pity, it must be very worrying for both of you.’

‘That’s an understatement. It’s a nightmare. I’d be happy to adopt, I hate to watch her going through this, but she wants to have a baby of her own.’ He grimaced. ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I’m burdening you with all this – there’s something about hospitals that gets you talking about things you wouldn’t normally mention!’

Nurse Embry came bustling back. ‘Ward sister says she’s ready for you, now.’ She smiled at the man. ‘Mr Leigh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sister asked me to tell you to come in, too.’

She began to wheel Miranda out into the corridor and Charles Leigh followed them.

‘Well, I hope you find your mother well, Miranda,’ he said, holding open the ward door for them.

‘Thanks, and I hope your wife is fine, too.’

He was a very attractive man, but under that smooth tan she saw pallor and his eyes had a veiled desperation in them. She was sorry for him, and his wife. How did anyone cope with such a situation?

They were in a far worse plight than she was, despite the fear she felt all the time. She couldn’t imagine how you coped with their problem. The grief and apprehension must be overwhelming.

Nurse Embry pushed her over to a bed at the far end, by a high window, in which her mother lay, her head bandaged and her face very pale.

‘Mum.’ Miranda was stricken, staring at her, feeling very guilty. It was all her fault. If she hadn’t sent her mother to stay at the flat it wouldn’t have happened. It should have occurred to her that whoever had tried to kill her might go to her flat and try again.

‘It looks worse than it is,’ Dorothy quickly said, seeing her expression. ‘Now, don’t be taking any notice of these bandages, the nurses were just practising on me, that’s my opinion. I haven’t any serious injuries, just a few grazes and bruises. And a great big lump like an egg! They’ve x-rayed my head but they said there was no brain damage, no internal injuries. They’re only keeping me in for a night in case I turn out to have concussion.’

‘But you’re having headaches, Nurse Embry told me.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s only natural, after being thumped on the head. But a headache won’t kill me.’ Dorothy searched her face anxiously. ‘Miranda, that nice policeman says I should go home when they let me out, not go back to your flat.’

‘Yes, he’s right, I think you should, too.’

Her mother burst out, ‘What is going on here, Miranda? Why did someone burgle your flat? What’s this all about? You haven’t told me the whole story, have you? There’s something behind all this.’

Miranda sighed. ‘Yes. You see, I . . . saw . . . something, somebody was killed, and I was the only witness. And the murderer is trying to kill me, well, the police think so, and it is beginning to look like that.’

‘The hit and run . . . that was deliberate? He wanted to kill you?’ Dorothy looked aghast.

‘Yes, Neil thinks so. Sergeant Maddrell, that is. Some witnesses thought he drove straight at me. Of course, it could all be a mistake, but after you walked in on this burglary I don’t think so. It’s too much of a coincidence.’

Her mother groaned. ‘Miranda, you can’t go back to that flat, either. I must have been attacked in mistake for you – and next time it could be you walking in and being beaten over the head, and that time you could die. You could come to me, but the police think he searched my bag, so now he’ll know my address. It might not be safe for you to come down to Dorset.’

‘It might not be safe for you, either. Maybe you shouldn’t go back there. They might know your address, might come looking for you.’

‘Why should they? I don’t know a thing; it wasn’t me who saw a murder.’ Dorothy paused, staring at her. ‘What exactly did you see?’

Miranda hesitated. ‘It might be better if I don’t tell you. What you don’t know, you can’t be forced to tell them.’

‘Maybe you’re right. But I’m going home anyway. I’ll feel safer in my own home. And I’ll get someone to stay with me.’ Dorothy chewed her little finger thoughtfully, then her face cleared. ‘Freddy. He’s a retired policeman – you know, you met him last time you came. A big chap with a ginger moustache. The funny thing is, the hair on his head is brown, not ginger. Odd that. But I’ll feel safe having him in the house. Tough as shoe leather, he’ll make sure nothing happens to me.’

‘Isn’t he the one who proposed at Christmas?’

‘And a couple of times since! I like him a lot, but I’m still not ready to give up my independence. I’ll ring him before I leave here, make sure he can come. But I’m still worried about you. You can’t stay in London, or at my house. You can’t stay indoors all the time, can you? But if you go out you’ll be vulnerable. He might get hold of a gun next time. If he’s serious about killing you. Do you really think he is?’

Miranda nodded. ‘It is beginning to look like it. I’ll have to think of somewhere to go.’

‘Abroad would be safest, and don’t tell anyone where you’re going! Not even me!’

Miranda let her gaze wander around the ward at the other patients. ‘Abroad, yes – but where, that’s the question?’

On the other side of the ward she noted Charles Leigh sitting beside a bed in which a really beautiful girl lay. A girl with hair like black silk, a smooth, golden skin and slanting dark eyes.

Dorothy saw her looking at them and said quietly, ‘She’s in here for tests. Poor girl, she keeps losing her babies and they’re trying to find out why. I had a long chat while we were both in the x-ray department. She’s foreign, I couldn’t make out whether she had said her name was Pam or . . . well, it sounded like Pan but that’s ridiculous.’