What had Herb been told to do that he hadn’t done?
Was it something to do with the gambling and the credit cards, or was there something else?
I turned on the bedside light and wrote out the words in full on a notepad:
YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE WHAT YOU WERE
TOLD. YOU MAY SAY YOU REGRET IT, BUT
YOU WONT BE REGRETTING IT FOR LONG.
I studied it carefully.
Maybe Herb hadn’t “not done” something that he’d been told to do, perhaps he had “done” something that he’d been told not to.
But to whom had he expressed regret for his inaction or action? And why had he regretted it? Because it had been wrong or because it had placed him in danger?
Still so many questions and still so few answers.
“Leave the investigating to the professionals,” the chief inspector had said to me. But how long would they take? And would I still be alive by then?
Maybe it was time for me to start poking a few hornets’ nests, and hope not to get stung.
I went into the hospital just after seven-thirty on Wednesday morning. Claudia was so much improved, sitting up in her uncomfortable bed without as much as a murmur about backache, and she was eating a breakfast of muesli and natural yogurt.
“Well, look at you,” I said, smiling broadly. “You obviously had a better night than me.”
“Why? What was wrong with your night?” she asked.
“Lumpy hotel bed,” I said.
“Why didn’t you go home?”
Ah, I thought, careless. Now what do I say?
“I wanted to be nearer you, my darling.”
“But what a waste of money,” she said with mock disapproval of my profligacy. “If I have to stay in here another night, I insist you go home. I’ll be fine.”
Little did she know that there was no way I was going home and neither was she. It was far too risky.
“You look well enough to run a marathon,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll chuck you out just as soon as Dr. Tomic’s seen you.”
“The nurse says he’s usually here by eight.”
I looked up at the clock on the wall, the one that had driven me mad the previous day when Claudia had been in the operating room.
It was ten minutes before eight.
As if on cue, Dr. Tomic swept into the room. He had the blue scrubs on but this time wore a doctor’s white coat over them.
“Good morning, Claudia,” he said, and he nodded at me. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better than last night,” Claudia replied. “But I’m rather sore.”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s normal. I had to make incisions in the abdominal wall. They were only small but still painful. Do you think you are well enough to get up?”
“I have been,” she said, almost in triumph. “I went to the loo last night and again this morning.”
“Good,” he said. “Then I think you can go home today. I’ll see you in ten days to check on everything and take out the stitches. Until then, take it easy.”
“Great,” I said. “She will. I’ll see to that.”
“And,” he went on, “we’ve had the first results from the tests.”
“Yes?” Claudia said. “You can tell me.”
“The right ovary seems clear, but, as I feared, there were some cancer cells in the peritoneal fluid. Not many, but enough.”
We were all silent for a moment.
“Chemotherapy?” Claudia said.
“I’m afraid so,” said Dr. Tomic. “But maybe just one course. Two at most. I’m sorry, but it’s the best way forward.”
He left us digesting that not-so-tasty morsel, rushing off no doubt to cut out bits from another desperate cancer patient. It was not my idea of a fun job.
“Let’s look on the bright side, my darling,” I said finally. “The right ovary is clear.”
“That’s true,” Claudia replied, trying to be a little enthusiastic.
“So we might still have kids,” I said.
“If the chemo doesn’t make me infertile,” she replied gloomily.
Even the thought of being discharged from the hospital didn’t cheer her up much, especially when I told her we weren’t going home but to my mother’s house in Gloucestershire.
“Nick, you’ve got to be kidding” were her exact words.
“Nope,” I said. “And Mum is so looking forward to it.”
“But I want to go home,” Claudia whined. “I want my own bed.”
“But how would I look after you there when I have to go to work tomorrow?”
“And how, pray,” she asked drily, “are you going to go to work tomorrow from Cheltenham?” She paused briefly. “Come on, Nick, please let’s just go home.”
Now what could I say? I could hardly tell her I was worried we might get murdered on our own doorstep. She probably wouldn’t have believed me anyway.
I was convinced that Lichfield Grove in Finchley was far too dangerous for us and there was no way I was knowingly going to place my new fiancée into jeopardy. I’d been lucky last time, very lucky, and I’d had to run for my life. There was no way that Claudia would be able to run after having had two incisions through her abdominal wall. And who was to say I’d be lucky again?
And to live, I had to be lucky every time.
My best chance surely was to be where the assassin wouldn’t be and to remain where he couldn’t find me. He only had to be lucky once.
So, I decided, returning to Lichfield Grove was completely out of the question.
“My mother is so looking forward to it,” I said again. “And you yourself said it would be nice to go down and see her after the operation.”
“Yes,” she replied, “but I didn’t mean straight from the hospital.”
“Oh come on, darling,” I pleaded. “If your mother were still alive, we would probably go and stay with her.”
It was a low blow, well beneath the belt, and to someone who was in no state to receive one.
We rarely, if ever, spoke of Claudia’s parents. They had left her, aged eight, to spend the day with her grandmother, but they had never come back. Their Ford Escort had been driven off the cliff at Beachy Head straight down to the shingle beach some five hundred feet below.
The inquest had apparently returned a misadventure verdict rather than one of suicide. There had been some doubt as to which of the two had been driving at the time or whether some malfunction of the car had been the cause. But either way, Claudia blamed them both absolutely for leaving her alone in the world.
I thought it was quite likely the true reason behind all her weird paintings, but it was a topic that I raised rarely, and then with great care and tact.
“Nick, that’s hardly fair,” she said crossly.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I do want us to go straight to Mum’s.”
“But what about my things?” she said.
“You’ve got many of them here with you,” I said. “And I collected a few more yesterday from home.”
“And I definitely can’t go to your mother’s without my makeup,” she said defiantly.
“I’ve collected that too,” I said, trying not to sound too triumphant.
We went to my mother’s, but not before I’d received another tongue-lashing over my extravagance in hiring a car for the trip.
“And what’s wrong with our Mercedes?” Claudia had asked angrily.
“I thought you’d rather have a bit more space after your op,” I said, all sweetness and light. “The SLK is so cramped for the passenger.”
And rather conspicuous, I thought.
The man at the Hertz car rental center had tried to get me to hire his “Car of the Week,” a bright yellow Audi convertible with shiny chrome wheels. “It would suit you, sir,” he’d said eagerly. “Your sort of color. Makes a big statement.”
I had opted instead for a bog-standard, four-door blue sedan with not so much as a “Go faster!” stripe down the side. I wanted to blend into the background, not stand out from it.