Concealment (30 page)

Yes—it was obvious now. Greg had killed Isabelle to save his deal…

And I was way, way too woozy—he’d spiked my drink.

I saw in shocking clarity how this would play out. He’d help me back to my room—witnesses would testify as to how drunk I’d been. And he’d run me a bath and let the water lap over me—leaving me to drown in the tub—a tragedy involving a drunken and unstable woman. I pictured him at the inquest in his pinstripe suit, white shirt and shiny black shoes. He’d describe how he’d pleaded for me to get help, how distraught I’d been, how he’d hated to leave me. But his heavily pregnant wife was home alone. He’d wipe a little tear from his eye and everyone would agree that he’d done everything possible, more than could reasonably have been expected, for a crazy ex-spouse. Death by misadventure—case closed. I’d be eliminated—permanently.

Well, I was damned if I’d let him do it.

There was no time for analysis. I had to get out and quick—before whatever he’d drugged me with took full effect. Already my eyelids felt heavy…

I grabbed his car keys, hoofed it down to the hotel car park and clambered into his precious Ferrari. I reversed into a pillar before clipping the edge of the ramp at the exit, but who cared. As I floored the accelerator, the car set off shrieking like a banshee.

***

I’d gone a few hundred metres when the wailing siren and flashing blue lights started up behind me. Shit—everyone after me. Faster, faster…

How’d they found me? They couldn’t be everywhere after all.

I slowed too late for the rapidly approaching roundabout, misjudged my position and caught the edge of it with my rear offside tyre. The car rocked and snaked and bounced off the barrier at the roadside. They were gaining on me. For future reference, a powerful car is pretty useless when driven badly.

Concentrate, must concentrate… Must lose them….

At the next roundabout I swung the car off to the left, back towards the other airport terminals. I cursed this poxy Ferrari with a mind of its own. Still the blue lights and siren dogged me.

Another bloody roundabout…

Knickers inside out…

I screwed up my eyes against the bright light and tried to sit up, but without success. Clearly, a herd of wild elephants had stampeded over my comatose body during the night.

Gradually I focussed on a white-coated woman at the foot of my bed.

‘Where am I?’

This unoriginal question was justified in the circumstances. At that point I recalled nothing since my spectacular exit from the Sofitel car park.

‘Hillingdon Hospital near Heathrow. You’ve been in an accident.’

Now I remembered
why
I’d been in such a hurry to leave the Sofitel.

‘Oh God—Greg. He mustn’t find me.’

‘Don’t worry.’ She placed a reassuring hand on my arm. ‘Everything will be OK.’

That’s what Greg had said.

‘How are you?’

‘Terrible. Am I badly hurt?’

‘Surprisingly little, given you rolled the car. There’s plenty of bruising, bump on the head, a gash on your leg, some minor grazing to your chest from the seatbelt, but nothing too drastic.’

As the memories flooded back, I felt compelled to explain the danger I was in.

‘Greg, my ex-husband is after me. He’s killed once—he’ll do it again… They’re all out to kill me, my client, my boss. My friend betrayed me—she might try to kill me too…’

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ she said in a soothing voice. ‘The police said they’d be along to talk to you later this morning.’

I didn’t find this particularly heartening, as I recalled Carmody’s chum Darren’s involvement.

‘No—no—you mustn’t leave them alone with me. The police are out to get me too.’

‘Hardly surprising in the circumstances.’

I got it. To her, I was not the victim of a massive conspiracy, but another drunk driver who’d come to grief.

‘You think I messed up, don’t you?’

‘It’s not our place to judge.’ Her tone seemed chilly and disapproving. ‘You didn’t kill yourself or anyone else at any rate, so you can thank your lucky stars.’

Luck didn’t come into it. Death, even if it had come hanging upside down in a drunken car wreck with my inside-out knickers, would have been a doddle compared to survival. Today would have dawned and the world would have continued without me. And who would care?

Not Greg—I should have let him do his damnedest anyway. Not Lisa, not my mother, not Smithies.

Ah yes, bloody Smithies. How tragic that poor Amy should have ended up like this, and for the avoidance of doubt we must put in place procedures to avoid this from happening in future. With a company wreath and some faux soul-searching, he would hastily reassemble the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle. Lisa would find someone else to chew up and spit out. Greg would slither off scot-free, and nobody would do a damned thing about the activities at JJ, or those corrupt ex-policemen. And my mother would happily rot in her own filth.

I was inconsequential—just like everyone else. And in attempting to outrun my enemies, I’d finally outrun myself.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to die—if I held my breath and wished hard enough.

‘
Egg—zackly.’

Oh shit—look who’s back.

‘
You can’t die,’
she said.
‘I have to grow up into someone better than you.’

Egocentric as ever. Didn’t she realise that if I died she died too? And good riddance.

I dozed on and off for a few hours. Nurses bustled in and out, but without engaging me. Then I heard a familiar voice talking to the nurse in the corridor.

Carmody.

Based on his facial expression, I concluded that he hadn’t seen the light and arrested Greg. But on the other hand, sending over a chief inspector for a motoring charge seemed like overkill—akin to a Pearson Malone audit partner attending a stocktake. But he was part of it, wasn’t he—the money laundering and all the rest? Though he couldn’t know that I was onto him, surely…? Still—better not to mention it, just in case…

‘Go on then,’ I said. ‘Get it over with—charge me with drunk driving and driving without insurance to add to the trumped up forgery charge.’

Carmody viewed me quizzically.

‘What makes you say the charge is trumped up?’

‘Under no circumstances would my mother report me to the police—it’s not in her nature.’

‘Apparently her neighbour insisted.’

Ah yes, of course. Once again I had underestimated the tenacity of Cynthia Hope.

‘I see.’

‘Anyway, even if you believed the charges were unreasonable, what on earth made you cut and run?’

‘I thought…’ I paused—it sounded stupid now. ‘I thought the detectives might be JJ and his crew impersonating policemen, after they failed to run me down.’

He shook his head, despairing at the drivel I was spouting.

‘And what about last night?’

‘Greg tried to kill me. And I’m
certain
he killed Isabelle. I had to escape—that’s why I was driving drunk. Why else would I be going like a bat out of hell in someone else’s car?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘So far, I’ve understood little of what you do. Still, you’ll have an opportunity to defend yourself at the appropriate time. Although I think it fair to warn you that Mr Kelly’s version of events is significantly at odds with yours.’

‘Well it would be, wouldn’t it—why would he own up to murder after so successfully framing his kid brother?’

I fancied that only Carmody’s innate professionalism prevented him from rolling his eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Amy, but I’m struggling here. First it was Ed Smithies, then the other night you accused JJ. And now it’s your ex-husband’s turn to be cast in the role of villain.’

‘This is different. Don’t you see? He killed Isabelle because she was investigating the racket at JJ Slate, and foolishly confided in him. He
needs
the company sale to Megabuilders to go ahead and he’ll go to any lengths…’

‘Can I stop you there,’ said Carmody. ‘Mr Kelly has been very compassionate, taking everything into account.’

Such as his crazy ex-wife totalling his Ferrari, I guessed.

‘Compassionate, my arse—he drugged my drink!’

‘I understand you drank at least four double gin and tonics.’

‘
Only
four.’

‘That’s a fair amount of alcohol for someone of your body weight—it would easily put you over the limit for driving.’

‘But that’s irrelevant.’

‘With respect—it’s highly relevant, because you got in the car and drove.’

‘IT WAS AN EMERGENCY,’ I shouted.

He sighed.

‘Mr Kelly tells us you were extremely agitated. If you hadn’t bolted, he would have sought medical attention for you. He’s been worried about you, as Ed Smithies confirmed.’

‘Bloody Smithies,’ I said. ‘He’s in this somewhere too.’

Another barely repressed eye roll.

‘Now—you can’t have it both ways.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s called paranoia,’ he said.

‘Oh well. You’re going to charge me anyway, so why don’t you get on with it?’

‘I’m not allowed to charge you while you’re in hospital.’

‘OK then—interview me, or whatever.’

‘Later—for now I must inform you that we took a blood sample last night.’

‘And you can do that without my permission?’

‘Yes—leaving it until you came round wasn’t an option. But we do require your consent to analyse the sample.’

‘Can I say no?’

‘You can—but you’ll be committing an offence.’

‘You go right ahead,’ I said. ‘And I’d suggest you test the sample for drugs at the same time, then you’ll realise I’m telling the truth. But I
must
make a statement.’

‘As I said, we’ll be inviting you down to the station in due course.’

‘There is nothing I can do—
nothing
!’ I shouted. ‘Why don’t you at least check Greg’s bloody alibi for the night of Isabelle’s murder! Don’t accept what he says at face value just because he’s so bloody plausible. I’m telling you Greg is a killer and you’ve let him bamboozle you with all his smooth talk. Why don’t you use your brains instead of acting like PC Plod!’

I would have screamed the place down if a nurse hadn’t interceded on my behalf.

‘DCI Carmody,’ she said. ‘I cannot have you upsetting Amy. Can’t you see she isn’t up to being interviewed by the police?’

‘This wasn’t an interview,’ countered Carmody. ‘We were only…’

‘I don’t care what it was—you’re leaving now anyway. The doctor’s on her way round.’

‘But…’

‘No buts—out!’ she told him firmly.

‘I’m sorry I upset you, Amy,’ he said, I suspected more for the benefit of the nurse than because he meant it.

‘Nobody bloody well believes me,’ I ranted at the consultant, who’d swept into the ward with a bevy of medical students as Carmody left. ‘My ex tried to kill me, and so did my client. My client’s got a bloody great cannabis farm and everyone’s covering it all up, including the police.’

‘Do you mind,’ she said, ignoring my diatribe, ‘if these students observe you while I examine you?’

Not at all—the more witnesses, the more chance someone might take me seriously.

The doctor gave the history of my case in a deadpan fashion, describing how I’d been heavily intoxicated on admission, but was still worryingly incoherent even after sobering up. She ran through my injuries with poker-faced professionalism, and asked them what they would do next.

One of the students, a black guy built to be a nightclub bouncer rather than a medic, looked me up and down appraisingly, before saying.

‘Hey—possible psychotic episode here. I’d say full psychiatric assessment for this dude.’

‘Spot on,’ said the consultant, before turning to me. ‘That’s the plan. And we’ll take a urine sample—a high earning professional like Amy is a prime candidate for drug abuse—most likely cocaine.’

‘No drugs,’ I said, appalled. ‘Although you should definitely check for whatever that lying bastard put in my drink.’

‘So we’ll keep her in for observation,’ she continued, ignoring me again, ‘and do a psych evaluation on Monday morning.’

‘But I don’t need one,’ I protested. ‘Do I have to?’

‘It would be advisable—your belief that people are trying to kill you is worrying.’

‘It worries me as well,’ I wailed. ‘Especially as it’s true. Anyway—you can’t keep me here against my will.’

‘Actually we can,’ she replied, a cruel smile playing across her face. ‘We can make an order under Section 5(2) of the Mental Health Act and detain you for up to seventy-two hours. But I’m sure you’ll agree that it’ll be much easier all round if you cooperate.’

I opened my mouth to argue, but she’d already moved on with her entourage. The black guy spun back and winked at me—another hallucination perhaps.

Weighed down with despair, I closed my eyes and tried to sink back into oblivion.

Dave Carmody left the hospital disappointed by how badly he’d handled Amy. Maybe it would have gone better if he’d brought flowers, but somehow that hadn’t seemed appropriate. After all, it wasn’t entirely a personal meeting. He’d volunteered to be the one to tell her they’d taken a blood sample.

It had been a frustrating twenty-four hours all round. To say NCA were being tight with their information was a gross understatement. Then to find out from Ed Smithies via Greg Kelly that Amy lay unconscious in hospital…

For all Amy’s crazy ranting about Greg, she had undoubtedly stumbled on some kind of wrongdoing at JJ Slate. Once Carmody had learned of NCA’s involvement, he’d checked what she’d said. Jim Jupp’s son did indeed have form for drugs. And he recalled the valid point she’d made on their disastrous dinner date. If Isabelle had unearthed a crime, someone other than Ryan had a reason both to kill her and frame Ryan.

He’d come to the hospital with the ulterior motive of asking Amy about what she’d discovered, but instead she’d started raving like a lunatic about Greg, forcing that officious old dragon of a nurse to call a halt to the discussion. He comforted himself with the thought that it wouldn’t have made any difference anyway.

On balance, he was still reluctant to accept Ryan’s innocence, but this new evidence of an NCA investigation tilted the odds. He now felt obliged to double-check to square his conscience. But all the same, he hoped to allay his unease. Allegedly his promotion was “in the bag”, but a disaster before the final sign off might change that.