The Careless Word (#8 - The Craig Crime Series) (4 page)

Chapter Four

St Mary’s Healthcare Trust. 6.30 p.m.

St Mary’s main building just off the M2 was familiar territory for the police. Every young constable visited its Emergency Department more often that they wanted to, whether to take statements from doctors, accompany prisoners who needed examined, or to break up a brawl at the weekend. It used to be only weekend nights that fights broke out, but with the drinking culture in the UK, practically every night in the ED was party-time now. Some hospitals in England even had dedicated police; they were called so often. Was it any wonder that so many police officers married hospital staff?

It was a trap that Craig had resisted falling into throughout his career; partly because he’d dated an actress for nine years and partly because it was mostly the junior ranks that lived in the ED. He’d finally succumbed to the siren call of the health service three months before, when he’d started dating Katy Stevens, a consultant physician. They’d met on a case but it was only John’s engagement to Katy’s best friend Natalie that had caused them to see each other again.

As Craig walked down St Mary’s main corridor deep in thought, Liam was having thoughts of his own, mainly that if he never saw the inside of a hospital again he’d be a happy man. He’d been there too often over the previous two years, once during a case involving patients’ murders and twice more as a patient himself, first poisoned and then shot at by perps. He didn’t fancy his luck again.

After a minute’s walking Craig turned sharp left down a corridor that led to the well-lit ED. Their survivor was in a side-room on its admissions ward, with a P.C. standing guard outside. Craig nodded the young constable off for coffee and pushed at the room’s half-open door. They were greeted by the sight of a jet-haired young man whose skin was almost as pale as his sheets. His eyes were closed as they entered and they stayed closed, giving no acknowledgement that anyone had entered the room.

Craig halted several feet from the bed and scrutinised Fintan Delaney, gathering information from everything he saw; even the man’s lack of response. There was nothing on the bedside table except the obligatory water, and a menu card waiting to be completed for the next day. Liam lifted it idly, wondering when seared salmon had become health service fare.

Craig’s eyes scanned the young man’s narrow face, seeing everything. Delaney was handsome, even a man could see that, and young; he looked even younger than his reported twenty years. His eyes could be brown, green or blue, black hair with any of those was common on these shores; Craig’s own blue eyes were testament to that. But something made Craig veer towards brown and something about the young man’s features reminded him of Andy White, a D.C.I. from Dungiven in the North-West. Without asking a question or hearing a word, Craig knew the boy was from Derry or somewhere close by.

While Craig scrutinised the patient, Liam did the same to his boss, smiling to himself. He knew exactly what Craig was doing; it was a technique that they all learned. Distant information mining or end-of-the-bed diagnosis in health, so Natalie had told him during a drunken debate at her engagement bash. The art of divining information about a person without them saying a single word.

When Craig had learned as much as he could in silence he lifted a metal chart noisily from the end of the bed, watching the patient for some response. A faint flicker of the young man’s eyelids said that he’d heard.

The chart was headed ‘Fintan Delaney’; a good Irish name. It went with his colouring, typical of the dark Irish of the North-West. ‘La Trinidad Valencera’, a ship of the Spanish Armada, had wrecked in Kinnagoe Bay in Donegal in 1588. Generations of Spanish-Irish blood and looks had been the local result.

Craig continued reading Delaney’s notes. Date of birth, first of May 1994, address, The Prehen Estate, Derry/ Londonderry in the North-West. He’d guessed correctly. He patted himself mentally on the back as Liam watched the whole proceedings with a smirk. Finally, when Craig had learned all he could from the chart, he spoke.

“Mr Delaney.”

The boy’s lids flickered again but remained stubbornly closed.

“I’m Superintendent Craig and this is D.C.I. Cullen. Can we have a word?”

Again, nothing. It left Craig with a dilemma. Was this a man in shock? After all, he’d almost been blown to buggery. Or was this someone who didn’t like the police? Craig gave a wry smile. Hard though it was to believe for all those who knew and loved them, he knew that the police weren’t popular with the whole world.

Or was it option number three; did Delaney have something to hide? Was that why he was playing deaf? The only way to find out was to ask a professional. Craig nodded Liam to stay in the room and walked into the corridor, following the sound of voices to the nurses’ station. A woman was hunched over the desk reading and didn’t hear him approach. Craig coughed and she looked up; he could tell from her age and badge that she was a student.

“I’m Superintendent Craig. Could I speak to the doctor caring for Mr Delaney, please?”

The girl startled at the sound of his rank and Craig sighed inwardly, wondering when he’d become the bogey-man. He made a note to ask Katy why people always reacted that way to the police and then he smiled again, as unthreateningly he could. The girl raced off down the corridor, returning a moment later with a male doctor in tow. He looked almost as young as she did and Craig laughed at the reversed stereotype; who said old age began when the policemen started looking young?

The young man extended his hand formally. “I’m Dr Hinton. Mr Delaney is my patient.”

Craig indicated a row of chairs and sat down. “I wonder if you can help me. You probably know that Mr Delaney was the sole survivor of an explosion this afternoon and, as such, he’s a valuable witness. Could you tell me if he’s fit to be questioned, please? At the moment he seems unable or unwilling to respond.”

Hinton blinked furiously and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a tiny notebook, not unlike the ones that P.C.s used. He flicked quickly through its pages until he reached one headed ‘Fintan Delaney’. Craig tried reading the medical shorthand upside down but gave up at the third acronym. Hinton moved his head across the page as he read, flicking back to the left side periodically, like the carriage of an old typewriter. Finally he made a satisfied sound and closed the notebook, then he stared at Craig and began reciting from rote.

“Mr Delaney hasn’t spoken since he was brought in this afternoon at three o’clock. He’s been examined by a neurologist, Dr O’Neill, and her opinion is that there’s no physical damage, except cuts and bruises, but that the shock of what Mr Delaney experienced has rendered him mute.”

Craig interrupted. He’d seen post-traumatic responses before. What he needed to know was how long it was going to last.

“When is he likely to recover, doctor?”

The junior doctor shrugged, not rudely but in bewilderment. “To be honest I don’t know. Dr O’Neill said it could be days or weeks, and she couldn’t tell how much was involuntary and how much was Mr Delaney simply clamming up. There’s no way of telling at the moment.”

And short of torture, which wasn’t a sanctioned interview technique, they would probably never find out; although Craig was sure that Liam would be keen to try. He had a sudden thought.

“Has Mr Delaney opened his eyes at all since he was brought in?”

Hinton flicked through his pages again then nodded. “He co-operated with all the visual field tests, so he would’ve had to. But he definitely hasn’t spoken.”

Craig nodded and rose to his feet. “How long do you intend to keep him here?”

Hinton clambered to his feet, keen to even up the status. “He’ll be moved to the Neuro ward as soon as they get a free bed, but how long for will be up to Dr O’Neill. She’ll do a ward round tomorrow at ten-thirty and decide then.”

Craig nodded and took out a card, scribbling his mobile number on the back.

“Mr Delaney may have been the target of the explosion which means that his life could be at risk. We won’t know for some time, so we’ll be leaving an officer here to guard him. Could you please ensure my card gets to Dr O’Neill and say that I’ll drop by tomorrow morning to speak to her?”

With that Craig headed back to Delaney’s room. As he went to enter he was greeted by an obstacle; Liam had found a chair and was sitting against the door. Craig’s entrance tipped him forward.

“What the hell?”

Craig turned swiftly towards the bed, just in time to see Fintan Delaney’s eyes fly open at the noise. He shut them tightly again, so tightly that they wrinkled like a man’s twenty years his senior, and Craig knew Delaney was keeping his eyes shut deliberately because they were the police. He crossed to the bed and leaned in close to Delaney’s ear, speaking loudly enough for Liam to hear him across the room.

“Mr Delaney, I know you can hear us and I know that you can see; I’ve spoken to your doctor.”

The only response was a further tightening of Delaney’s eyelids. Craig continued.

“You’ve been in an explosion and you were the only survivor. Four people died, so we’ll need to speak to you, no matter how long it takes. I’m leaving an officer outside your door and I’ll be back tomorrow to speak to your consultant. I realise that you’ve been through a trauma but we need your help.”

More silence. Liam joined Craig at the bedside and spoke in a stage whisper. The loudness of his voice was enough to make Delaney wince.

“Do you want me to have a go, boss? I’ll get him to open his eyes.”

The threat was clear and Craig smiled, knowing that Liam was trying to provoke a response. He did. Delaney’s previously still hands gripped the bed cover like a life-belt. A few hours of undiluted Liam and Delaney would definitely speak, if he didn’t die of shock first. Tempted as he was Craig decided against it. He leaned in again.

“D.C.I. Cullen and I will be back tomorrow morning. Let the officer outside know when you’re ready to talk.”

Craig turned on his heel, beckoning Liam to follow and they exited the room in a deliberate show of noise. Fifty feet down the corridor Liam spoke.

“Either he’s in shock or he’s guilty of something, boss.”

Craig nodded. His suspicious mind said guilty, but of what? Planting a bomb and then waiting there until it went off? Not the dissidents’ style and other terrorists did suicide bombing much more efficiently. If Fintan Delaney had meant to kill himself in the blast then he’d failed abysmally.

Possible explanations flew around Craig’s head until he settled on what he knew. Only two things were certain. Delaney knew more about the explosion than he was telling them, and it wouldn’t be long before he would talk.

***

Holywood. Tom and Mirella Craig’s home. 10 p.m.

Lucia Craig glanced at her mother’s back as she stood at the cooker, then she caught her big brother’s eye and made a face, staring at her nose until her eyes crossed and making both Craig and Katy laugh. The first two courses of the meal had passed easily enough in chat and pleasantries, but they all knew that Mirella was gearing up for the main event; to grill Katy on everything from her background and parentage to her views on children, education and, most importantly of all to Mirella, music.

Mirella had been a professional pianist all her adult life, touring prestigious concert halls for years before finally retiring, to play for charity and practice every day. It was during a tour that she’d met Craig’s father, when they’d been in the same conference centre in Venice. She’d left her home in Rome to be with him and brought up both her children to be musical and play instruments; Craig the piano and Lucia the violin. But she’d been horrified by her scientist husband’s preference for technology over music, and her son’s testosterone driven adolescent abandonment of music to run around a football pitch. Craig had started playing occasionally again, but he would never practice often enough to please his Mum, just as in Mirella’s eyes no woman would ever be good enough for her son.

Tom Craig watched as his wife turned from her Aga and drew breath for her first interrogation of the night, then he glanced quickly at his son and made his move. The worst Mirella could do was huff with him, and he could get past that by puffing his GTN spray and holding his chest in mock-pain. Having a heart attack wasn’t an experience he’d like to repeat, but the one he’d had the year before had got him out of plenty of scrapes since.

Tom Craig’s baritone reached the air before Mirella’s Italian-English could. “So Katy, Marc tells me you’re a physician at St Mary’s? Do you enjoy it?”

Katy spotted Mirella’s quick scowl at her husband, immediately knowing what she’d had planned. She answered his cue gratefully, starting a ten minute round table discussion on medicine and science that everyone genuinely enjoyed. As it reached its natural conclusion over pudding Mirella drew breath again, squinting at her husband as if daring him to speak. He didn’t but Lucia did, launching into a Q and A about Natalie and John’s wedding that lasted through coffee and relocation to the living room. This time it was Craig who headed his mother off at the pass, recounting the painting of John’s laboratory with jokes that even she laughed at, although they could all see that her good humour was starting to fray. Craig felt vaguely guilty about blocking her every attempt to question Katy but a quick glance from his father said not to; he knew exactly what was on Mirella’s list.

At eleven o’clock Craig noticed Katy starting to fade and he grabbed at the opening, retrieving her coat from the hall. As they were leaving Katy smiled at Mirella and said.

“Ringraziamento per il pasto meraviglioso, la signora Craig. La linguine era incredibile, come era tutto. Spero di rivederti presto” (Thank-you for the wonderful meal, Mrs Craig. The linguine was amazing, as was everything. I hope to see you again soon.)

Everyone gawped, including Craig, but Mirella beamed from ear to ear, answering Katy in an effusive flood of her native tongue, that said everything from “You’re very welcome, please come again” to “would you like the recipe?”