“Yeah? Like I dealt with Cook?” His expression was full of contempt. “I don't reckon you’ve got the balls.”
Mitcheson felt a twist of distaste at the man’s coldness. He was no stranger to killing, but he’d had never killed helpless men who were too far gone mentally or physically to pose any kind of threat. Or women. He remembered Lottie Grossman’s instructions to deal with the two old gang members, and felt a momentary self-contempt for having sat and done nothing while those instructions were carried out.
“What about Page?’ he asked.
“Page isn’t your problem. Don’t overreach yourself, soldier boy.”
Mitcheson debated pushing it, but right here wasn’t the time or the place. He left the man standing by the embankment wall and returned to his car. He might have to deal with McManus before long, otherwise his own position was going to be threatened. He didn't relish the prospect.
Mrs Marsh replaced the phone and stood for a while, trying to overcome her sudden feeling of unease. Ever since Norman Page had arrived here, she had felt she was in some kind of limbo. She couldn’t explain why. Maybe it was because most of her residents came from normal backgrounds, mundane and out of the ordinary, free of any mystery. But Page was different. He had arrived as arranged by his solicitor, and since then not a thing. No visitors, no calls, no history and only a couple of letters, since vanished. It was like he’d been put here in the shade to wither and die, unseen and unwanted.
She crossed the hallway towards the back stairs and frowned as her feet crackled through something on the carpet. For heaven’s sake, she thought. How did leaves get in here? And in the kitchen, too. Someone must have left the back door open again. One of the temps no doubt, who didn’t give a fig about health, safety or the heating bills. She bent and flicked the worst of them to one side where they wouldn’t get trampled in any further. She’d get Mrs Donachy to see to it later.
Walking up the stairs, she thought about the call from the young woman — what was the name — Gavin? After so long with no contact and no interest from anybody, why should this woman suddenly be asking questions about Page?
She crossed the landing and peered through the door of Page’s room. She didn’t go in; he was a light sleeper and woke at the slightest noise. One of his hands, she noticed, was clenched tight around the duvet, as if reacting to a sudden pain. A bad dream, perhaps.
She noticed the spare pillow had fallen onto the floor by the window. She could just see it beneath the bed. He obviously wasn’t missing it. She’d pick it up later when she gave him his medicine.
Chapter 12
Riley drove from Uxbridge to Kenton in silence. Palmer, ignoring her rules, sat in the back and smoked, his head to the open window, contemplating the passing scenery as he blew smoke through the gap.
Riley drove as aggressively as traffic would allow, using the speed and agility of the Golf to counter her feelings of anxiety. Occasional glances in the rear-view mirror showed Palmer apparently unconcerned at the ride, and she wondered what the ex-army man was thinking. If he was worried about the attack on his office he seemed well able to conceal it. She wished she could share his air of calm. It wouldn’t take the police long to spot the coincidence of a young woman visiting an old man like Cook shortly before his death; even the most junior traffic cop couldn’t fail to fasten eagerly on that one.
“What are we going to do when we get there?” asked Palmer. “Kick the door in? Toss in a smoke grenade?” He flicked his cigarette through the window.
Riley forced her way between two trucks, drawing angry blasts from both vehicles. She caught Palmer’s eye in the mirror. “I haven’t thought that far yet. She’s a bit of a tough nut. Any suggestions?”
“Sorry. Matrons aren’t my strong point, ever since I puked up over one at junior school during a test for measles. I think it was the uniform that did it. I’ve never been able to date a nurse since.”
“God, you’re a big help,” Riley muttered. But she found the imagery amusing enough to ease her tension and make her slow down. She pulled up outside Brambleside and turned off the engine. If there was anything happening inside, it was all taking place very quietly. There were no more than the usual cars parked along the kerb — all appeared to be empty — and no signs of either ambulance or police in the driveway. It looked very normal and suburban. Maybe Norman Page would be able to talk after all. As long as she could get inside and speak to him.
A tabby cat jumped down from a wall and ambled across to the car, where it turned its back and sprayed the front tyre, tail quivering like an antenna.
“Charming,” Palmer muttered. “Fills you with confidence, doesn’t it?”
“Where I come from,” said Riley, “that’s good luck.”
The cat ducked through the fence in front of Brambleside, and disappeared from view, leaving a faint smell of ammonia drifting through the open car window.
“I’ll go in,” Riley announced. “You stay here and watch out for visitors. If you hear any screams, come and rescue me.”
Palmer showed his teeth. “A piece of RMP advice: use maximum force and go in low. If that doesn’t work, go to plan B.”
“What’s plan B?”
“Run like hell.”
She left him in the car and walked to the front door. The doorbell sounded faintly from within the building and she listened for sounds of movement. Eventually the matron appeared in the doorway. The way she stared past Riley’s shoulder to the road outside and the pallor of her face instantly told its own story.
“Mrs Marsh? What is it? What’s happened?” Riley reached out and touched the woman’s shoulder.
“What do you want?” she demanded in shrill voice. “I’ve already told you, you can’t see anyone-” She began to close the door with a shaking hand.
But Riley stepped forward and blocked it. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she said bluntly. “Tell me what happened.”
Mrs Marsh’s face seemed to fold in on itself and she backed away inside, letting go of the door. Her steely façade was crumbling before Riley’s eyes. “You’d better come in,” she muttered eventually. “But you can’t stay long — the ambulance is on its way.”
Mrs Marsh led the way into the kitchen, where she filled the kettle and switched it on. It was the routine of safety, the automatic response of someone in shock. She seemed content to fuss for a moment, moving things about on the work surface before turning to face Riley as the kettle began to hiss.
The kitchen was large enough to hold two large cookers and twin freezers, and an industrial size dishwasher with its front door open revealing a full load of breakfast plates and cups and saucers waiting to be done. Everything was spotlessly clean, save for a few dried leaves nestling against the foot of one of the freezers.
The matron noticed Riley’s glance and looked defensive. “The cleaner hasn’t been yet. She takes care of that.”
“What happened, Mrs Marsh?” Riley asked. She reached past the matron and switched off the kettle. Mrs Marsh stirred herself and began to make the tea.
“I just…. found him,” she said, replacing the teapot lid with a clatter. “After your call.” Her eyes welled and Riley guessed she was terrified that she was going to be held professionally responsible for Page’s death. She felt sorry for her — there was no accounting for one of your patients suddenly becoming a target on someone’s death list.
“He was dead,” she continued. “Just like that. No warning at all.”
“Was there normally one — a warning, I mean?” Riley asked. For a moment she had a grisly image of inmates filling out a departure card before they could pass on to the next life.
Mrs March shook her head, turning to pour the tea.
“How healthy was he?” Riley asked.
“As fit as you or me,” the matron said firmly, pushing a cup and saucer towards Riley. “He may have been confined to his room — voluntarily, I might add — but there was nothing really wrong with him. Physically, anyway.”