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Authors: Jo Bannister

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BOOK: The Lazarus Hotel
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‘Dot dot dot,' Richard supplied helpfully.

Will's voice was flat with disappointment. ‘It's dead. Fused, I suppose. God damn!'

‘Don't panic,' said Tariq. ‘There'll be a fuse-box somewhere. If there's any wire I can fix it.'

He'd armed himself with the torch against this eventuality. It produced a pathetic worm of light compared with the great slashes that had belted from the chandeliers, but it was enough for him to find the fuse-box tucked away in the pantry and he opened the front. ‘What the hell—?'

Richard was looking over his shoulder. ‘That's pretty dramatic as blown fuses go.'

The inside of the box was running with a whitish fluid that dripped from fuse to fuse and finally to the floor where it formed a greasy, pungent pool.

‘It's bleach,' said Sheelagh in wonder, sniffing it. Her tone altered. ‘Kitchen bleach. Mrs Venables?'

‘She's with Miriam. Has been since teatime.'

‘Do we actually know that?'

Tariq squinted at her. ‘No-o. But there are no padlocks on the kitchen cupboards. Anyone could have taken the stuff.'

‘Same with the rolling-pin,' murmured Will. ‘And the butter.'

‘I know it sounds a bit suggestive,' admitted Tariq, ‘but that's because kitchens
are
full of lethal implements. What did you bring here – paper, pens, a calculator, same as me? You can't have a reign of terror with those. But the kitchen's stocked with knives and forks, and yes, a rolling-pin, butter and bleach. Sure Mrs Venables could have done this. But so could any of the rest of us.'

‘Apart from Mrs V and Miriam, we were all in the conference room when we turned the lights out.' It wasn't a guess: Sheelagh had counted. ‘But after that anyone could have left. Except Will, who was on the switch. And I heard both Richard and Tariq within seconds of the fuse going.'

‘You think that's an alibi for all four of you?' Larry said tightly. ‘Well, we know Richard and Will are in the clear – they were down the lift shaft during one of these incidents. But you weren't. It wouldn't be too difficult to throw bleach in the fuse-box and hurry back in time to hear us wondering what the hell happened.'

‘Hear
us?'
she echoed spikily. ‘Larry, I didn't hear a word out of you until right now. Where were
you
when the lights went out?'

‘OK, OK,' interrupted Tariq wearily, ‘don't let's bicker. Is everyone here now?' He raised the torch and looked round the kitchen, identifying the faces it picked up. ‘Where's Joe?'

They filed back to the conference room. Tariq shone the torch in all the corners but he wasn't there. ‘Stay put, everyone. I won't be long.' When he'd gone, taking the torch, they were left in darkness.

He checked Miriam's room: Mrs Venables, sitting by the bed, looked up at the intrusion. ‘When can we have the lights on again?'

‘Lord knows,' he grunted despairingly. ‘How's she doing?'

The injured woman was still unconscious but there was a little more animation in her face and the rhythm of her breathing suggested Tessa was right and she'd wake before long. ‘No worse,' said Mrs Venables.

‘Somebody sabotaged the fuse-box. Did you hear anything?'

She shook her head, failing to dislodge the cement curls. ‘I had the door shut. Anyway, you were all closer to the kitchen than me.'

Tariq nodded. ‘Just a thought. Have you seen Joe?'

She stared. ‘Is he missing?'

The big man shrugged. ‘Maybe the excitement got to him and he's just gone to the loo.' He bit his lip. ‘Er – wouldn't you be better off with the others in the conference room? I don't like leaving you here on your own.'

‘And I'm not leaving Dr Graves on
her
own,' said the housekeeper stoutly. ‘Not with weird stuff happening again.'

He took her point. ‘When I've found Joe I'll come and keep you company. Till then, yell if you need me.'

Her torchlit smile was both coy and tough. ‘Aye, Mr Straker, and you do the same.'

He searched the newly vacated bedrooms, started on the empty ones. At first he called Joe's name as he went, swinging the beam ahead of him like a blind man's cane, poking it in all the corners. But the further from the conference room he moved the less he liked advertising himself quite so plainly, the desire to find Joe tempered by a reluctance to let Joe find him. His footsteps grew softer, his caution more pronounced; he moved through the dark rooms not so much like a forest animal, which at least knows if it is hunter or hunted, as like a soldier in enemy territory who may find himself playing either part at a moment's notice. He dropped into an unconscious crouch and the hairs along his arms and at the nape of his neck stood up.

At the last room before the dead end Tariq hesitated a moment, drew a breath to steady his nerve, then punched the door open and followed the torch inside in one swift movement that he'd learned from watching cop shows on TV.

Inside he found what he was seeking. Joe was sitting on the floor under the window, his head sunk on his arms. Releasing his breath in a sigh, Tariq said weakly, ‘What are you doing here?'

Joe didn't look up. After a moment, frowning, Tariq crossed the room and shone the torch in his face. ‘Joe?' It was half a minute before he realized the older man wasn't going to answer.

Richard heard running feet in the corridor and his heart lurched. He kept his shoulder against the door until he was sure that the voice, though breathless, was indeed Tariq's. ‘For Christ's sake let me in!'

Chapter Twenty-One

Tessa couldn't add much to Tariq's first impression: that Joe was far from well, hovering on the brink of consciousness. He seemed vaguely aware of her ministrations, pawed weakly at her hands as if a mosquito were disturbing his sleep. His own hands were clammy and twitched loosely; sweat dewed the creases of his face.

‘Someone did this to him?' Tariq voiced the thought uppermost in everyone's mind. If Joe had become a victim they needed another suspect.

The doctor shook her head. ‘He's ill.'

‘Heart attack?'

‘Maybe, but…' Her forehead knit and she continued her examination. Joe muttered complainingly as she took his pulse – her eyebrows elevating momentarily – and shone the light in his eyes, but most of what he was saying was unclear and the rest made no sense. Tariq made out the word ‘needle'.

Tessa looked up in sudden understanding. ‘When you searched his things, was there a hypodermic?'

‘Not that I found.' Then Tariq's smooth deep voice soared. ‘You think he's a junkie?'

‘A diabetic. Sniff his breath – can you smell the sweetness?'

But Tariq's nose was less well trained than hers. ‘If we can't find his insulin will he die?'

‘No,' she said quickly. ‘I carry insulin. I can keep him ticking over till we can get him to a hospital.'

Larry searched Joe's bag again, still without success. Tessa turned out his pockets but didn't find what she was looking for. ‘Maybe till now he was able to control it by diet. If he's not insulin-dependent he wouldn't have a syringe.'

‘Will you inject him?' asked Tariq.

‘Yes. I'll have to estimate the dose but I can refine it when I see how he responds. Don't worry,' she said, shining the torch into her bag and selecting what she needed, ‘he'll be all right. Thank God you found him when you did.'

Though barely conscious Joe seemed to recognize the syringe and tried to take it from her. ‘No, let me do it,' she said; but he went on fumbling for it. ‘Tariq, would you hold him still?' So he did.

He was still holding him when the convulsion hit, the man going suddenly rigid in his grasp. Alarmed, Tariq looked for guidance, but before ‘Tessa could speak the rigidity turned to violent spasm, the sturdy body arching as if the spine would double back on itself. His arms and legs jerked so that Tariq fought to hold him, like holding a frantic animal. The muscles each side of the heavy jaw clenched, and strange sounds and saliva bubbled from the corners of his mouth.

Tessa's voice cut across the alarm in the room. ‘Don't be frightened. It's a reaction to the insulin. I've probably overestimated the dose a little. He'll soon stabilize. Are you all right, Tariq?'

Tariq had been shocked to the core. He'd held on only because he couldn't think what else to do. ‘Er – fine,' he managed. Already Joe's struggles were weakening; after a minute Tariq tried easing his grip. The older man lay against his chest as if exhausted. ‘Is
he?'

‘He will be,' Tessa assured him. ‘He'll sleep now. We'll put him in with Miriam. At least there was some heat on in there till the power went.'

They'd overlooked that: that when the power fused they lost not only the lights but the heating and the cooker as well. In their favour they had bedding, extra clothes and outdoor wear suitable for a wet, blustery March. But it was going to be a long cold night.

When Joe's bed had been carried round to the sickroom Tariq brought a couple of chairs. ‘One for you so you can look after him, one for me so I can look after you.'

Tessa smiled. ‘Who's going to look after you?'

Immediately they met Tariq had been aware of the powerful alloy of strength, intellect and understated sexuality that made up Tessa McNaught. He was used to professional women, women who wielded authority, women who made full use of their own magnetism; but there was something different at work here and he still hadn't worked out quite what it was. The sway of self-possession, perhaps. That cool, calm exterior hid only a cool, calm interior on which the views of others hardly impinged. She'd mentioned a husband, which surprised Tariq a little until he remembered that he worked nights and she worked days.

The same inborn autonomy also explained some less appealing traits: her habit of speaking her mind unfettered by discretion, of distancing herself from the group when it suited her. She gave scant consideration to her effect on other people, to an extent that was both a strength and a weakness. She was not reliant, nor did she invite reliance. It all made her easier to admire than to like; but Tariq was a man for whom admiring women was easy, and usually enough. He found her deeply impressive.

He would have died rather than say any of that. Instead he chewed his lip reflectively. ‘I'll get another chair.'

Tessa laughed out loud, the first time anyone had done so for some time, and the hazel eyes danced. ‘Are you always such a clown?'

‘Um – probably.'

‘Well, go and be a comfortable clown in your own bed. I don't need watching over. Anyway, I think Mrs Venables is going to sit with Miriam so we can keep one another company. We'll call if we need you.'

‘No,' he said, serious now, ‘it's too risky. Too much has happened already. I'm not leaving two women to cope with him alone. Mrs Venables, why don't you get some rest in the other room? You could give Tessa a break halfway through the night if they're still both OK.'

The wrinkles on Mrs Venables' brow reflected the grey corrugations of her perm. Though plainly unwilling to leave her employer with strangers, she'd been on watch for eighteen hours with hardly a break; if she didn't take the chance to sleep now she'd nod off at her post, a poor guardian for the helpless woman. ‘You'll both stay here? You'll call me if either of you's going to leave?'

‘Promise,' said Tariq.

‘And if she wakes up?'

‘And if she wakes up. Go on, get a break while you can.'

The housekeeper nodded, reluctantly conceding the wisdom of it. In the doorway she turned back. ‘And if—'

‘Mrs Venables, if she snores, sneezes, rolls over or starts whistling “Dixie” I'll call you. I promise. Now go!' She went.

Tessa examined the big woman by torchlight, Tariq watching from a respectful distance. ‘I think she'll wake up before long.'

‘Then maybe we can find out once and for all who hit her.'

‘If she remembers. People often don't after concussion. Or they think they remember but it's wrong, they dreamt it.'

‘So even if she says it was Joe we still can't be sure?'

‘Not beyond reasonable doubt,' Tessa said wryly. She turned then to her newest patient, played the torch over his stolid sleeping countenance. ‘He's not going to hurt anyone else, you know. Not in this state. You should get some sleep while everything's quiet.'

He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I know, I worry too much. But I promised Mrs V. Besides, Joe waking up isn't the only danger. If it was him who hit Miriam you're probably safe enough. But if it wasn't, neither of them will be much help if the real culprit comes back.'

They were alone with the sleepers. Tessa spoke her mind. ‘I can only express a medical opinion. I didn't know any of you before we came here, I certainly don't know anything about Joe that you don't. But pathologically it makes sense. He's been under a lot of stress – he's been through a double grieving, and before he found his feet he was planning this. Stress is a major factor in maturity-onset diabetes.

‘We know he was behind a lot of what's happened. He launched a hate campaign against the people he blamed for his daughter's suicide. Then at the last minute someone he needed to carry it through let him down. He was already wavering between sanity and the other thing. Suppose fury tipped him over and he hit her? The emotional stress of that would send his need for insulin soaring. A healthy pancreas responds, a fragile one loses control.' Her gaze was steady. ‘I'm not saying that going into a diabetic coma proves Joe attacked Miriam. I'm saying it would be consistent medically.'

It was the least unpalatable of the options before them. Joe had a motive, he'd had time to plan his actions and enough freedom to carry them out. He and Miriam were friends; she'd have lowered her guard with him in a way she wouldn't with the others. He could have booby-trapped the lift as easily as anyone else. But carrying so much anger in his heart brought on a disease that betrayed him into the hands of his victims. As well as medical consistency there was a kind of justice to that which almost compelled belief.

BOOK: The Lazarus Hotel
6.66Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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