The Cold Calling Part 13

The phone had that distant, rickety ring, what she thought of as a rural ring. It wasn't getting answered. Most likely, Mrs Willis was there on her own. She was going a wee bit deaf and didn't like to answer the phone even if she was aware of it ringing.

The snarl came as she about to hang up. 'Yes!'

'Marcus!' Andy coming on cheerful. 'Andy Anderson. How are you both today?'

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, woman, I'm trying to make an omelette! Soon as I break an egg into the bowl, some b.a.s.t.a.r.d rings.'

'Call back later, shall I? About two?'

'No ... d.a.m.n it, don't do that. No. Please. I'm sorry. Stay where you are. I was going to ring you anyway.'

'Is Mrs Willis no too well?' Marcus was no cook.

'Ah ... not terribly.'

Andy said cautiously, 'What's wrong?'

'Oh. Spot of blood pressure. She has a day in bed now and then, quaffs a few potions. Oh Christ ...' Lowering his voice to not much more than a hiss. 'I don't know what's f.u.c.king wrong. Well, I do.'

'Jesus G.o.d, Marcus.'

'd.a.m.nation! Hold on a minute, Anderson.'

Sounds of clanking pans, oaths. A sixty-year-old man fending, reluctantly, for himself. A force of nature, Marcus Bacton.

Nature was a real presence around the village of St Mary's. You were always aware of its closeness. And of the miraculous.

Lying awake after the Bobby-miracle, she'd relived the other one.

Feeling again the absolute rock-bottom weakness, the alarming weight loss, the cramps, the red lumps on her legs, the hair falling out and the endless, endless journeys to the lavatory to release more blood and mucus into the bowl. Four barium enemas in as many months and three different drugs. Stress, they said, as she herself had said to dozens of other colitis sufferers. The stress of the job and the finding out about Mick's fancy woman.

Then the drugs weren't working any more and X-rays showed her gut was in one h.e.l.l of a mess.

Which was when this schoolmistressy lady had been brought into the General after falling from her bike. Andy, dealing less efficiently than usual with the sprained ankle, provoking the comment, 'You look as though you could do with a long rest, my dear.'

Before they wheeled the lady away, she'd pressed an address into Andy's hand, a holiday cottage in the Welsh Marches. 'Not terribly luxurious, but wonderfully peaceful.'

Except for Marcus Bacton rampaging around the place. But he was just one of the many forces of nature at work in the village of St Mary's.

When she arrived she was getting to the stage of hating her own body. Scared to go out, in case she disgraced herself. Finding herself explaining all this to the housekeeper, Mrs Willis, who'd knocked tentatively at the cottage door this particular afternoon. Everything coming out, all the self-pity. Mrs Willis just listening, never once mentioning alternative therapies, as if she knew instinctively how a nursing sister was going to react to that old rubbish.

But would Mrs Anderson perhaps like to come for a walk with her and Marcus one morning? Well, Mrs Willis, that would be nice, but I have this wee problem about leaving the vicinity of a working lavatory before eleven. What time were you thinking?

Five a.m.? Five? Jesus G.o.d, are you mad?

Mrs Willis was the kind that just nods and smiles but you know you've ruined her day. So that night Andy just didn't go to bed. Stayed up all night, drinking coffee, chain-smoking, going to the lavvy. Some days you could just live in the lavvy, head in your hands, a human sewer.

By four a.m. she was half delirious, aching all over. They were waiting outside. It was painful to pull on her coat and scarf. Outside, it was still dark. Marcus said, Don't b.l.o.o.d.y well blame me, Mrs Anderson. Whatever the old girl says, I don't question it these days.

They clambered over stiles, Marcus leading with his torch. On the edge of a big field, Andy was stricken with a leg cramp and fell down, rolling on the gra.s.s in her agony. Mrs Willis ma.s.saging the leg until the lump went down and then Marcus picking her up. Good G.o.d, woman, you're like a bundle of b.l.o.o.d.y twigs. And it occurred to Andy that there wasn't much weight left to go; she was a living husk, the disease finally draining the life out of her, and she couldn't even cry about it, on account of the parched body wouldn't produce tears any more.

Just before she pa.s.sed out in Marcus's arms, she heard Mrs Willis saying, in a matter-of-fact kind of way, Inside, Marcus. G.o.d knows, she's thin enough. Put her inside the tomb.

'Falconer!' Marcus roared in her ear.

'What?'

'f.u.c.king Falconer!'

Just one aspect that was not so peaceful, the old lady had said. But there was no harm in him.

'Know what the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's done? Four-strand barbed wire fence. Five feet high, no stiles! f.u.c.king c.u.n.t.'

The degeneration of Marcus's language had roughly kept pace with the deterioration of Mrs Willis's hearing.

'I don't understand. What fence?'

'Around the Knoll!'

'He allowed to do that?'

'He owns it. He's bought the f.u.c.king Knoll!'

'Marcus, you're kid-'

'He wants his own little burial chamber like other people want a garden gnome. He's going to do lots of filming up there, for his b.l.o.o.d.y programme. His a.s.sistants will be doing their scientific experiments. They'll be dowsing it and dreaming on it ... Oh, and it's closed to the public between are you ready for this between six p.m. and nine a.m.'

'You mean n.o.body can go there at sunrise? Jesus G.o.d, Marcus. What about Mrs ... Oh no.'

'You wouldn't recognize her. She won't see a doctor, of course. But what would a doctor do? Give her blood-pressure pills?'

'How old is she?'

'That, Anderson, is one of the Big Mysteries.'

'Must be over eighty.'

'I was going to take her to the Knoll this morning. I was sure ... b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Andy, I love that place. I believe in it. I don't give a s.h.i.+t what anybody-Did I tell you about the lunatic American woman?'

Andy said, absently, 'Lunatic what?' She was thinking about Mrs Willis. If I could bring down the sun for Bobby, why couldn't ...

'American woman,' Marcus said. 'This American woman rang me about half an hour ago. One of these who talks so fast you're lucky if you can answer one question in three. Trying to find her sister, last heard of working at Falconer's place. I met the girl, actually. Wanted to know about the Knoll. Told her about Annie.'

'Oh, aye?' If I can bring the High Knoll sunrise to Elham General, why can't Mrs Willis fetch it to the bottom of the hill?

'And, of course, she was involved in Falconer's stupid dream survey and so she wanted to sleep at the Knoll, and I said, you know, best of luck but don't expect a holy miracle. Now the girl's written to her sister describing this horrific nightmare and ... Oh, I don't want to talk about it. I've had a bellyful today. She told me she saw a black light over the Knoll.'

'Americans are impressionable people, Marcus.'

'No ... Mrs Willis!'

'A what?'

'A black light. Over the Knoll.'

Andy s.h.i.+vered, clutching the housecoat to her throat.

'I don't know what to do,' Marcus said. 'I'm at my wits' end.'

'OK, look. I'm coming down.'

'You?'

'I owe her everything, Marcus. I'll talk to the hospital. I'll get time off. I'll be there tonight, all right?'

'That's b.l.o.o.d.y good of you, Anderson.'

'Jesus G.o.d, it's the least-A black light? '

'I don't know what she meant either,' Marcus said. 'But it does have an ominous ring of death to it, doesn't it?'

XI.

Riggs, the boss man, turned slowly and looked into s.p.a.ce for a moment before inclining his head. He smiled with all the warmth of a polecat greeting a rabbit.

'This is my dad, sir,' Maiden said. 'Norman.'

Riggs had a thinner man's face. An oddly sensitive face with fine translucent skin; you could see tiny veins underneath, like the filaments in a light bulb. There was something extraterrestrial about Riggs; you always thought he could read your thoughts, and this struck you anew every time you saw him.

'Honoured to meet you, sir.' Norman hung around, like someone waiting to be called into the witness box. 'Reading about you the other week. Now what did I read?' He pretended to think for a second or two. 'Jarvis. You nailed Terry Jarvis. I nicked his dad, must've been four times. John Karl Jarvis. GBH mostly. Aggravated burglary, once. By, that were a hard b.u.g.g.e.r ...'

'Family trait, Mr Maiden. Sit down. I'll fetch another chair.'

'I'll get it, sir,' Norman said, and he did.

Riggs sat. His narrow, bony face smiling at Norman with its full, genial mouth while its eyes remained cool, occasionally seeking out Norman's boy.

Who stayed glazed, focused on nothing, smiling inanely from his bed. Playing damaged. Brain in dry dock. Attention-span of a goldfish.

'You're looking a bit blurred, Bobby,' Riggs said. 'You were lucky.'

'So they tell me, sir.'

'Oh, before I forget ... Roger Gibbs, managing editor of the Messenger group, was asking me about a picture of you, recovering as it were. Perhaps the two of us together. I wasn't too happy. Co-operate with the local press whenever you can, always been my motto as you know. But in this case, a wounded hero picture ...' Riggs shrugged. Well ... up to you, Bobby.'

It was also, when you were in his presence, impossible to believe Riggs was bent. He always looked fully at you; he was always calm. One day soon, Riggs would be promoted and leave Elham. Within three years, he'd be an ACC, maybe even a chief constable, living a chief constable's lifestyle and all of it paid for. A cottage here, a villa there and Tony Parker safely retired.

Face to face with Riggs, you knew he was never going to be nailed. He was direct, ruthless, efficient, had important friends; but he was also, oddly, a copper's copper. Got results but never pinched the credit; the lads liked working for him. n.o.body Maiden knew would have wanted Riggs to go down.

'I was suggesting, sir,' Norman said, 'that he should make a list of all the toerags who had it in for him.'

'Oh.' Riggs lifted an eyebrow. 'You think it was like that, do you, Mr Maiden?'

'Copper gets knocked over, it's not usually a drink-driver, sir.'

'Not a drink-driver.' Riggs pinched his nose. 'What do you think about that, Bobby?'

'I wouldn't know, boss. Would I?'

'Obviously not. You don't remember anything, Mike Beattie tells me. Unless something's come through.'

'No. Not a thing.'

'How long before you're out?'

'Few days.'

'Some nerve damage, they're saying. You may be walking around in a bit of a fog for a while.'

'Should sort itself out, boss.'

'Have to see, won't we, Bobby?'

Norman looked at his watch. Maiden flashed him an imploring glance. s.h.i.+t, Dad, don't walk out on me. Whatever this b.a.s.t.a.r.d's really come to say, I don't want to hear it.

'By heck,' Norman said. 'It's nearly five o'clock. Be missing me train.'

Surprisingly, Riggs stood up. 'Yes, I have an appointment, too. Speaking engagement.' He made a wry face. 'Magistrates' a.s.sociation annual dinner. Just wanted to make sure the lad was all right before I went home. Can I give you a lift, Mr Maiden?'

'Very kind of you, sir, but I like to walk.' Patting his stomach. 'Don't let retirement get the better of me.'

'That's the spirit. Well, I'll see you again, Bobby.'

'Thanks for looking in,' said Maiden.

Watching the two of them, strolling companionably down the ward, smiling at other patients. The visit over almost before it had started.

What's he going to do to me?

Coincidence.