‘So Forensic haven’t come up with anything?’ I asked, forlornly, already knowing the answer.
‘Some tyre tracks,’ Makinson informed me. ‘Small sample of the same type as on Davis’s Range Rover, but nowhere near enough to be conclusive. Oh, and some really good ones that are a perfect match with your Cavalier.’ He enjoyed telling me that.
I stood up and turned to Les. ‘Is it all right if I have a go at K. Tom?’
He looked at Makinson, who shrugged his shoulders. ‘Be our guest,’ he replied.
‘Cheers. Maybe I can appeal to his better nature, convince him that a confession would be in order.’ Winking at Isles, I added, ‘Failing that, I’ll kick the shit out of him.’
I could have done it, I know that. Last night, in the Sculpture Park, I coud have put the gun to Davis’s head and blown his brains out. And in the years afterwards, whenever I woke in the night filled with doubts about what I’d done, I’d have conjured up that image of Lisa, lying in the bath of blood, and fallen back to sleep again.
I went down to the canteen for a mug of sweet tea, and succumbed to a vanilla slice while thinking about how to handle K. Tom. I decided to cause him as much grief as I could. That way, there’d be no need for acting.
The hospital is only a couple of streets away from headquarters, and parking spaces there are auctioned by Sotheby’s since they sold most of their land for office developments, so I walked. The afternoon visitors had left and meal trolleys were monopolising the lifts, so I climbed three floors rather than wait. My, I was catching up on my exercise today.
The PC on guard duty was sitting outside Davis’s private little room. ‘They’re changing his dressings,’ he told me, after I showed him my ID.
‘Has he much to say?’ I asked.
‘Not to us, sir, but he’s plenty of chat with the nurses. Has them eating out of his ‘ands, running about, doing favours for him. Sometimes I feel as if I’m the villain. Takes me all my time to get someone to fetch me a cup o’ tea from the machine.’
‘Right. We’ll see about that,’ I said, pushing the door open.
Three figures turned to me, two of them wearing nurses’ uniforms and the third an expression of loathing.
‘Detective Inspector Priest,’ I announced, showing my card.
‘Sorry, Inspector,’ the older nurse said, straightening up, ‘we’re just changing Mr Davis’s dressings. I shall have to insist that you leave.’
‘That’s all right,’ I replied, looking at him. ‘I don’t faint at the sight of other people’s blood. Neither do you, eh, Tom?’
‘What do you want?’ he hissed.
‘I came to see where you were shot. The officer who fired at you has a certificate for marksmanship — I’m thinking of revoking it.’
The older nurse came to the foot of his bed as I positioned myself at the other side. He was propped up on several pillows, bare chested except for the bandages on his right shoulder. His right arm was across his body, rubbing the top of his other arm, the way he’d done in the snooker room.
Boss nurse said, ‘This is highly irregular, Inspector. It isn’t a matter of you fainting. We have to consider the patient’s privacy and the risk of infection. I’d be…’
‘Look,’ I interrupted, ‘from now on, he has no privacy. As for infection, I’ve had all my jabs. I’m staying, so why don’t you just get on with it?’
She made a few tutting noises and muttered threats about taking it further, but went back to the task of snipping away the old bandages. The young nurse, who was only a green belt, noticed Davis massaging his arm and said, ‘Is that still bothering you? Would you like the doctor to look at it?’
‘N-No. It’s n-nothing,’ he stuttered, holding his hand still but not removing it.
‘Have a look at what?’ I demanded, grabbing his wrist and yanking it away.
‘How did you get that?’ I asked, as he pulled his hand free from my grasp and placed it back over the mark on his upper arm.
He glowered at the young nurse and the older one took a step backwards, holding a pair of scissors towards me. Davis hyperventilated, his face reddening alarmingly, and his body jerked backwards and forwards.
‘I asked you a question, Davis,’ I yelled at him. ‘How did you get the mark on your arm?’
He took a long slow breath, staring at the pattern on the quilt over his legs. ‘I banged it,’ he replied. ‘In the garage. I banged it.’
The PC outside had managed to find himself a cup of coffee. ‘You haven’t time for that,’ I told him, holding the door to Davis’s room open so I didn’t lose sight of him for a second. ‘Radio HQ straight away. Tell them to get a photographer here, as soon as possible. Then find out where Superintendent Isles is and tell him Charlie Priest wants a word, urgent.’
He dashed off to a window, where the reception was better, and I went back inside. It wasn’t necessary — he was already under arrest for attempted murder — but I did it just the same. I wanted to see their faces. I said, ‘K. Tom Davis, I am arresting you for the murder of Lisa Davis. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence.’
There was a chair for a visitor in the corner. I sat on it, hoping the photographer wouldn’t be long. The marks had been on Davis’s arm for twelve days but I didn’t want my case thwarted by a miracle recovery. I rocked back on two legs, leaning against the wall at an impossible angle, watching him, wondering if I’d still be able to make it to Annabelle’s for supper. I wanted to — I deserved it — but there was work to do, and people to talk to. Happy, happy, happy, happy talk.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The waiter slid Annabelle’s chair underneath her and, when she was settled, lowered the huge leather-bound menu into her hands. She was wearing her purple suit, no make-up, no blouse visible, no jewellery. If the architecture is right, you don’t need decoration. Her hair had grown longer, and she’d tied it up on the top of her head. I dragged my eyes away to study the menu the waiter was manoeuvring into my grasp.
It could have been The Book of Kells, hand illuminated, written with the imagination of a Stephen King, but it was only a menu. I studied it for key words, like chicken, or steak.
Annabelle leant across and whispered, ‘Can we afford this, Charles? There are no prices in my menu.’
I smiled at her, saying, ‘Don’t worry about it. I think the prices in mine are for two.’
‘Ho ho,’ she laughed. ‘You will be lucky.’
The wine waiter brought the bottle we’d ordered earlier and went through the usual ritual. I waved a hand for him just to pour it. When he’d gone, Annabelle said, ‘You were telling me about K. Tom Davis. So how did you prove it was him?’
‘Right,’ I replied. ‘It was all down to highly skilled detective work.’
‘Well, of course.’
‘Absolutely. I took a SOCO round to Broadside — Justin’s house — and he cut a slice of apple that was just the right thickness. Don’t ask me how he worked that out. Justin offered it to the parrot — Joey — who promptly bit straight through it and ate the piece. So he tried again, this time with a piece of turnip. Joey sank his beak into that and either didn’t like it or it was too tough for him, so he let go. SOCO sliced into the turnip and unfolded it, and voila! A perfect imprint of Joey’s beak. Have you ever studied a parrot’s beak?’
‘No, not at close range.’
‘They’re amazing. Incredibly powerful, yet they can be so gentle. When they bite, the top part makes a puncture wound, but the lower mandible leaves two incisions, so you receive three bites for the price of one. Justin says it’s the most excruciating pain imaginable, and he should know — he’s broken most of his bones at various times.’
‘And the imprint of Joey’s beak matched the mark on K. Tom Davis’s arm?’
‘Mmm. Exactly. We couldn’t prove it was Joey, but he’s certainly been bitten by a macaw. According to Justin, it’s a wonder he didn’t mark K. Tom for life. Any idea what you’re having?’