No Peace For The Wicked

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.”

“Physically?”

Mrs Marsh shrugged. “The problem was all up here.” She tapped the side of her head. “And I don’t mean the sex thing, either.” She looked up at Riley and pulled a face. “Well, you know how some old men get.”

Riley didn’t, but she could guess.

“So what did he die of?”

Mrs Marsh held her cup and stared at the tiny bubbles moving slowly round on the surface. In the street a car horn sounded.

“What killed him, Mrs Marsh?” Riley repeated. There wasn’t much time left.

Mrs Marsh’s eyes suddenly filled with something other than professional concern, and she turned and placed the cup on the work-surface. She took a small handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her nose.

“Natural causes, of course,” she replied defensively. “Mr Page wasn’t unwell, but he wasn’t strong, either.” Her words sounded unconvincing.

“May I see him?”

The matron looked horrified at the idea. Then, to Riley’s surprise she nodded with something approaching eagerness. “Yes. I suppose so. But you mustn’t touch anything.”

Riley followed her from the kitchen past heavy pieces of utilitarian furniture dark with age and shiny with polishing. Up stairs lined with thick carpeting and lit by an art-deco window showing wan fairies hovering over large, colourful lupins. The air was musty and over-warm with a heady tang of air-freshener.

The room was cooler than Riley had expected, and if there was any smell lingering here, it was of aftershave. The furniture was simple and practical, and if Page had wanted any personal touches, his wishes had either been ignored or he had no family, no interests and no artistic feelings. It was more of a cell than a home.

The form under the duvet was smaller than she had expected, too. Whatever Page had been in life, he had not been very imposing immediately before or after death.

Mrs Marsh lifted the duvet and revealed the dead man’s face. It was little more than a mask, neither good looking nor evil. There was no obvious sign that his death had been anything but natural, and Riley felt a small twinge of disappointment.

“I came up after your call and checked on him,” said Mrs Marsh quietly. “He was fine, I’m sure… apart from his pillow on the floor. I left it to go back down to get his medicine. He was such a light sleeper.”

Riley looked down to where the pillow had fallen to the floor between the bed and the window. As she bent to pick it up she noticed a large indentation in the fabric. As she placed the pillow on the bed Riley felt the hairs move on the back of her neck. She held her hand above the pillow, fingers spread wide. The indentation was much bigger than her hand, but followed the same outline, with clear impressions of thumb and fingers.

She picked it up again, this time by sliding her hand beneath it. There was a damp patch in the centre on the other side. The old man must have drooled on it. Or coughed. The thought made her nauseous.

Mrs Marsh seemed unaware of anything, her eyes dull with shock. One thing Riley was sure of was that while the matron had followed instructions about restricting access to Page while he was alive, she had taken no part in his death.

“You’re certain no one else has been in here?” she asked carefully. “In the last few hours, for example. When did you last see him alive — for certain?”

Mrs Marsh hesitated momentarily before shaking her head. “I’m not sure,” she said honestly. “Probably last night, when I gave him his last dose. But those leaves you noticed downstairs? They were there when I woke up this morning… in the hallway. The back door must have been left open.” She looked away guiltily.

Before Riley could say anything, a vehicle drew to a halt outside.