Things had changed after the accident, of course. He could get himself in and out of his wheelchair and manage the toilet, and he could drive a specially adapted car, but he was still a cripple and, worse, a cripple who couldn’t get an erection. Sex was out of the question – or, at least, the sort of sex they’d enjoyed before the accident. He did his best to please her with his hands and tongue but it wasn’t enough. He’d known that one day she would take a lover but had hoped she’d be honest enough to tell him, and reassure him that she still loved him, that she was his wife and would be for ever.
He’d suspected for weeks that she’d embarked on an affair, but she’d denied it when he’d asked. But he knew in his heart that she was planning to leave him. She might stay for a few more weeks, maybe months, but there had been a growing coldness in her eyes and long silences in front of the television, so he had asked Jack Nightingale to check up on her.
McBride had confronted her with the evidence – the phone records and the video of her checking into the hotel, – and had asked if she was planning to leave him. She hadn’t said anything. Instead she’d put on her coat and walked out of their house. He had waited all evening and all night but she hadn’t returned – and she’d switched off her mobile phone. McBride knew he couldn’t bear to live without her.
His house, their house, the house they’d lived in for more than six years, was just a mile from the canal. That was the best way, he’d decided. He had painkillers but he’d checked on the Internet and an overdose wouldn’t kill him straight away. He’d die, but from liver failure, and it would be a long, lingering death over several days. His doctor would probably prescribe sleeping pills but it usually took at least three days to get an appointment with him. He thought of cutting his wrists but the idea of slicing through his flesh with a knife made him feel sick. The canal would be simple and quick.
McBride’s wheelchair wasn’t powered so he used his hands to propel it along the pavement. He hadn’t bothered to put on the fingerless leather gloves that usually protected them and his palms were soon muddy and sore. It had rained earlier that evening and the wheels made a swishing sound as he rolled along. The canal wasn’t deep, McBride knew, five feet at most, but standing up wasn’t an option for him. He’d found a length of chain in his garage, left there by the man who had sold them the house. It was heavy, the links the thickness of his thumb, and he had wrapped it around his waist, fastened with a padlock, in case he changed his mind at the last minute.
He rolled up the steep concrete ramp from the pavement to the muddy towpath. To his left there were banks of nettles and beyond them a tall hedge threaded with blackberry bushes. The canal was to his right. A narrow-boat was moored there, dark blue with circular brass-framed portholes and skylights. McBride kept going until it was out of sight, then pulled the chair around so that he was facing the water. He closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven,’ he whispered. He hadn’t been inside a church since his wedding day, and had never thought of himself as religious, but he wanted to die with the Lord’s Prayer on his lips. He continued to mumble it as he propelled himself forward. He had to push hard to get the wheels over the edge but he rocked himself back and forth until he pitched head first into the cold, dark water.
McBride had thought he was alone, but there was one witness – two if you counted her dog, which would be reasonable because the dog was watching as McBride wheeled himself to the edge of the canal and into the water. She was wearing Goth black and had upside-down black crosses dangling from her ears and an Egyptian ankh around her neck. She wore a black leather motorcycle jacket, black leather jeans and high-heeled black boots. The dog barked and looked up at his mistress. She smiled down at him and stroked his head, concentrating on the spot he liked, just behind his ear. ‘Not one of ours,’ she said. The dog panted, drooling a little and showing a fleshy pink tongue. He was wearing a black leather collar with a silver buckle and studs, and hanging from it was a small silver pentagram.
31
The Hillingdon Home sounded grand but it wasn’t. It was a sixties-built concrete block with rusted metal-framed windows and graffiti spray-painted across the doors. As Nightingale finished his cigarette, he peered up at the top floors. Blank faces stared from some of the windows, white smudges behind the glass. It was a local-authority home on the outskirts of Basingstoke, about fifty miles south of London. The car park was full so he had left the MGB in the street, a short walk away. In his left hand he held a bunch of flowers. He had decided he ought to bring something and that flowers were the best bet. He dropped the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and pushed open the double doors that led to the reception area.
He’d phoned ahead to let the home know he was coming and an overweight West Indian woman in a floral dress took him to the office. The administrator was stick-thin with dyed chestnut hair and thick-lensed spectacles perched on her nose. She sat behind a large desk that bore an old-fashioned computer and a plastic nameplate – Elizabeth Fraser. ‘I have to say, it was a bolt from the blue when you called,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘Miss Keeley hasn’t had a visitor in the ten years she’s been here.’
‘We lost touch,’ said Nightingale.
‘I’ll say,’ said Mrs Fraser. She tapped on her keyboard and frowned. ‘We don’t have anyone down as her next of kin.’
‘As I said, we’ve been out of touch.’
She peered at him through her glasses. ‘And the different surname is a concern,’ she said.
‘I think she gave me up for adoption when I was born.’
‘I see,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘Would you have any paperwork to substantiate that?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’m afraid not, it was a private adoption.’
‘I have to say, Mr Nightingale, I’m a little reluctant to allow you access to Miss Keeley without some sort of evidence that you’re a family member.’
Nightingale took out his wallet and removed his driving licence. He gave it to the administrator. ‘This proves who I am, Mrs Fraser,’ he said. ‘As to proving that I’m her son, well, short of a DNA test, I’m not sure how I’d go about doing that. But I’m guessing that if she’s in a local-authority home she doesn’t have any money so it’s not as if I’m here to rip her off. I don’t have any proof that she’s my mother but I was hoping that if I talked to her… I don’t know, Mrs Fraser. My life’s been pretty much turned upside-down over the last week and I just want some answers. I’m hoping I might get them from Miss Keeley.’
Mrs Fraser smiled. ‘You’re correct about the money,’ she said. ‘Miss Keeley doesn’t have a penny to her name.’ She fed Nightingale’s details into the computer, then gave him back his driving licence. ‘I must warn you not to expect too much,’ she said. ‘Miss Keeley was in a psychiatric hospital before she came here, and while she isn’t what we’d classify as mentally ill now, she is uncommunicative. In fact, she hasn’t said a word since she was brought here. From what we were told, she didn’t speak in her last institution either. Not a word. The reason she was moved here was because there was no suitable medical treatment available and she was no longer considered a danger to herself or others.’
‘How long has she been in care?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Well, as I said, she’s been with us for around ten years, and in the hospital for six years, but prior to that her records are patchy. Apparently there was a fire in the home where she lived before she went into the hospital.’
‘So she might have been institutionalised all her life,’ said Nightingale.
‘That’s a definite possibility,’ said Mrs Fraser. She stood up. ‘I think you’ll understand once you’ve seen her.’
She led Nightingale out of her office and down a corridor to a flight of stairs and walked up to the third floor where a male nurse was sitting at a desk reading the Daily Express. He nodded at Mrs Fraser.