Felicity was chatting away in a falsely cheerful voice about nothing of consequence. Mark was holding his phone in his hand and had an earpiece in one ear. He was listening to the News Quiz and giving his grandfather a running commentary, explaining the questions and repeating the jokes.
Their babbling was getting on his nerves and Henry desperately wanted Felicity and Mark to shut up. In the end he decided that the only way to achieve that would be to respond. So he opened his eyes fully and spoke.
‘It’s all right, I’m all right,’ he said. ‘I’m fine. But I need some peace.’
Felicity reached out to touch his face, her eyes full of joy and hope, in spite of everything.
‘Oh, Henry, you’ve come back to us,’ she murmured.
‘Yes, yes,’ he snapped, pulling away from her touch. ‘But everything hurts. I’m in the most awful pain. Will you please go away and give me some peace.’
Felicity looked offended. Hurt even. Henry was sorry about that, but he didn’t know how else to play this. Mark merely looked puzzled. Until recent events, even before Charlie’s death, Henry had been hoping that his grandson might be the person to eventually take over Tanner-Max, to handle all aspects of the business, including the undisclosed side involving Mr Smith. Henry had been quite sure that Charlie would never be able to do so. Stephen Hardcastle could not even be considered: he wasn’t family. Tanner-Max was a family business, always had been and, Henry still hoped, always would be.
But Mark was young and new to the business. There could be no question of him taking over the reins for several years at least. Right now Mark knew no more than his grandmother about Tanner-Max. Indeed, Henry suspected that Mark knew a great deal less than his grandmother. Like Henry, Felicity was prone to keep her thoughts to herself, but there had been times he could have sworn she knew exactly what was going on in his mind.
Henry reached out with his good arm and took his wife’s hand. He saw her face light up. He knew that she loved him, regardless of the secrets and lack of communication. It warmed him to see her react in that way.
‘Listen, darling, I need a bit of time, that’s all,’ he said, managing a strained smile. ‘Why don’t you and Mark leave me to sleep for a couple of hours. I’ll be stronger then.’
‘But we want to know what happened, Granddad,’ began Mark. ‘I mean, who would want to shoot you? And why? What’s going on, Granddad?’
Henry didn’t look at Mark. He continued to stare at his wife.
Felicity was well aware what was expected of her. She and Henry had been sweethearts since they were teenagers. She knew that her husband required her to do his bidding, as she had done for the last fifty years. In return he’d given her an enviable lifestyle and a wonderful family. True, that family was now a shadow of its former self. Their only son was dead. Their son-in-law was dead. Their grandson was missing. Their daughter was in a state of anguish. And now Henry had been shot.
Nonetheless, Felicity knew what was required of her, and that Henry was confident she would comply with his wishes, as always.
She did, too.
‘C’mon, Mark,’ she instructed. ‘Let’s leave your granddad alone. Let’s do what he wants. We need him well again. All of us.’
Mark began to protest, but Felicity got to her feet and put a hand on her grandson’s shoulder, soothing, quietening.
Henry’s attention had already left his wife and grandson. They had been dealt with. His gaze was fixed on the woman sitting by the door.
DCI Nobby Clarke stood up, stepped forward, and introduced herself.
‘I’m from the National Serious Crime Squad,’ she said.
Henry nodded.
‘I hope you feel well enough to give me a few minutes,’ Clarke continued.
‘If granddad isn’t well enough to talk to his family then he isn’t well enough to talk to the police,’ Mark protested.
Henry raised one hand, effectively silencing him.
‘It’s all right, Mark,’ he said. ‘I can do a few minutes. Fred is still missing. I must help if I can.’
Mark looked ready to protest further, but his grandmother ushered him out of the room.
‘We’ll be back in a couple of hours,’ she said.
Henry waited until she and Mark had closed the door behind them.
‘Tell me who’s sent you,’ Henry commanded.
‘Um, uh, Mr Smith,’ Nobby replied, her voice little more than a murmur.
She looked and sounded somewhat self-conscious. But her answer was the one Henry had hoped for.
‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘I need your help, DCI Clarke. It’s possible that Mr Smith will be able to ascertain why this has happened to my family, and who is responsible. Then again, it may not be possible, because these events may be unconnected to my work for Mr Smith.’
‘That sounds like a riddle,’ responded Nobby Clarke. ‘And I can’t help unless you are honest with me, Mr Tanner. I reckon I only know half the story.’
Henry nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I will tell you everything. Everything I know, anyway. I don’t have any alternative.’
Clarke moved closer to the bed.
With some difficulty because of the pain he was in, Henry hoisted himself up into a sitting position. He had no intention of embarking on any sort of serious conversation whilst lying flat on his back.
But the movement dislodged a splinter of shattered bone in his injured shoulder. He was later to be told that this did no serious damage. However, the excruciating agony which seemed to be attacking his every nerve end was such that Henry fell back on to his pillow with a blood-curdling scream.
A nurse arrived in the room at once. The Brunel wing at Southmead was that sort of medical establishment. Or, at least, it was in May 2014, with as yet only 150 patients installed, way below its projected capacity of 800.
Henry was gasping for breath. He seemed incapable of further speech. In any case Nobby Clarke was asked to leave the room at once.
Cursing under her breath, she did as she was told.
Seventeen
Joyce and Molly were a mile from Southmead when Molly’s phone bleeped to signal an incoming text message.
She opened the message, gasped, then emitted a little cry, which caused Joyce to take her eyes from the road and glance anxiously at her daughter.
Molly was staring at her phone, in shock.
‘What is it?’ asked Joyce.
‘It-it’s Fred,’ stumbled Molly. ‘I have a message from Fred.’
‘What?’
Her mother almost forgot to steer and the car lurched across the road. Joyce recovered just in time to avoid a head-on collision with an oncoming vehicle.
Molly was so preoccupied by the message on her phone that she seemed not even to notice.
Spotting a lay-by ahead, Joyce pulled over. When she turned to her daughter, Molly was still staring at the screen of her smart phone, frozen in a kind of limbo of disbelief.
‘What?’ Joyce enquired again, hardly believing her ears.
‘It’s Fred, it has to be Fred,’ Molly repeated. ‘This message can only be from Fred.’
Joyce immediately snatched the phone from her daughter and looked at the screen, her heart racing.
The message was brief and to the point.
I need to see you and mum alone. Get mum to take you to where we saw the big buck. Don’t tell her where you are heading until you’re on your way. And don’t tell anyone else anything. I’m all right. But I need you both. Fred.
‘Do you recognize the number?’ Joyce asked, studying the screen carefully.
‘No, no, I don’t,’ replied Molly. ‘It’s not Fred’s number. But we know that. It couldn’t be, could it? Fred left his phone behind.’
‘If it is Fred, then he must be using somebody else’s phone,’ said Joyce.