Go Not Gently

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I nearly collided with Jimmy Achebe leaving the hospital. I don’t know who was more surprised.

‘Jimmy!’

He looked startled, poised to run, until he realised who I was. We both spoke at the same time.

‘How are you?’ I asked. ‘I’m so sorry…’

‘I’ve sent a cheque,’ he blurted out.

We both stopped, embarrassed.

‘Yes, thank you. I got it on Saturday. About Tina…’

He looked away, ill at ease, dropped his cigarette and ground it out, pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. I was aware of Agnes moving a little bit further away from us.

‘I’m so sorry. It must be awful, and to be held at the police station on top of everything else…’

He nodded briskly, sniffed and hunched his shoulders against the cold. ‘Yeah,’ he said quietly.

‘I saw in the paper, about the charges. Do you know when it’ll come to court?’

He shook his head again. ‘They don’t tell me anything.’ He raised his eyes to mine. They were shiny, blazing with hurt. He shuddered.

I couldn’t think of anything to say but it seemed abrupt to leave it like that. He spoke first.

‘Better go, visiting my mum,’ he explained. He nodded towards the entrance. ‘She’s in for tests – and now with all this…’ He left the sentence hanging. The murder of a daughter-in-law would be devastating, even for someone in good health, but to have your son all but accused of killing her into the bargain – horrendous.

‘I am sorry,’ I repeated. ‘Bye, Jimmy.’

He dipped his head in reply and wheeled away through the doors and back into the brightly lit corridor. He seemed eager to go. Did he think hiring me had set in motion the chain of events that had led to Tina’s death? Had it? It wasn’t a question I could ask. I’d have to wait for Bill Sherwin’s trial to see if it was answered. But had that association made him uncomfortable with me or was it just the sheer bloody pain of grief and the awkwardness between people who don’t know how to share it?

I didn’t say anything to Agnes about Jimmy and she was discreet enough not to ask. We made our way back to the car. The sun still shone but the bitter wind cut right through my clothing. It was a relief to get into the car.

‘Did you find anything out?’ She fastened her seat belt.

I hesitated. Would it be insensitive to tell her?

‘Please don’t spare me the details,’ she said sharply. ‘Lily’s dead now, she’s at peace, nothing else can hurt her. The least I can do is find out whether her death was inevitable.’

‘They’re going to remove her brain. It’s going to be sent to Malden’s for research.’

‘Malden’s again. What is going on, Sal?’

I sighed. ‘I don’t know. You need to ring Charles and get him to agree to a post mortem. I can’t see he’d object with what we know about the pills. And that’s what I’ll tell the coroner – that we know she was given very high dosages and we want to see if it contributed to her death. I’ll try the police again too.’

There was a bank statement waiting for me at the office along with another exhortation to take out a loan. Hell, they just wanted to get me deeper in debt. Kilkenny Investigations was hardly in a position to pay the bills, never mind a loan.

I got out the Achebe file, made a note of the payment from Jimmy. Clean slate. I put the cheque in my bag to deposit at the bank.

I trembled. The office was freezing. I’d no fresh milk. Sod it, I could do my other calls from home either side of collecting Maddie and Tom.

I rang the police. DS Wignall was out of the office and would return my call when he got back.

The coroner was in. He listened to my concerns. I concentrated solely on the medication Lily had been receiving, and he agreed a post mortem should be held. ‘We’re always happy to arrange a post mortem in a case like this, set people’s minds at rest.’

Or set them thinking.

He needed to hear from next of kin, though, for permission. Meanwhile he would confirm with the hospital that the body was to be held in the morgue until further notice.

When I spoke to Agnes she still hadn’t managed to get through to Charles. She would ring me when she had.

I was ravenous. The children had polished off spaghetti hoops but I wanted something more substantial – stir-fried vegetables and rice. I’d just started slicing things up when the phone went. The police?

‘Sal, this is Agnes.’ She paused.

‘Hello. Did you speak to Charles?’

‘Dr Goulden is here. I think you better come over. He wants to talk to us.’ Her voice sounded strained, shaky. The phone went dead before I could respond.

Ray wasn’t back, Sheila was out. I couldn’t leave the children and I didn’t want to take them with me. I rang Jackie Dobson, whose eldest daughter, Vicky, sometimes babysat. She was saving for a car and every little helped. She was round in five minutes. I asked her to explain to Ray when he got in and I left Agnes’ phone number in case there was a crisis. Digger leapt to his feet, inspired by all the rush of activity; was this his big chance?

‘No, Digger. You’re not coming. Stay.’ He slumped. As I left Maddie and Tom were competing for Vicky’s attention by diving off the sofa.

The traffic was snarled up along Wilmslow Road. The delay gave me plenty of opportunity to worry. Goulden must have got Agnes’ address from the phone book, or maybe it was in Lily’s notes at Homelea. Presumably he had heard from the police. I wished I’d been able to talk to DS Wignall before I’d set out. Had they actually interviewed Goulden yet? Why did he want to talk to Agnes and me? More threats?

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. It was freezing. The heater in the car worked but gave out an ominous stench of burning rubber that caught at the back of my throat. I turned it off. Gazed out at the people walking by: clusters of students in a range of clothing styles – grunge, Joe Bloggs, mod, high street – making their way back from the universities; a large party of women and children in saris and shalwar-kameez, the vivid-coloured, silky material flapping in the wind; an old woman bundled in layers of faded dark clothes peering in a litter bin; a man teetering on the kerb edge, arms wheeling, shouting at the sky.

‘Come on,’ I muttered. I inched forwards till we reached the junction. The lights were out. A traffic cop was just arriving. Two drivers had managed to collide and were out of their cars, one red-faced, screeching at the other. At last I wheeled right and drove on to Agnes’ house. There were no lights on even though the day was fading. There was a Volvo parked directly outside which I assumed was Dr Goulden’s. I rang the bell.

He opened the door. Why not Agnes? Half-smile. ‘Miss Kilkenny.’

Ms actually.

‘Do come in.’

I stepped into the hall, gloomy without the lights on. His bulk made me feel small and vulnerable.

‘Where’s Agnes?’ I demanded.

‘We’re in the back,’ he said.

I headed along to the back room.

‘Jesus Christ!’

Agnes sat in her armchair by the gas fire. Her wrists were bound in front of her, her mouth taped up. The creel with its washing lay broken in the corner.

‘I had to restrain her.’ He spoke calmly. ‘She became distressed. I could have used a sedative,’ he patted his pocket, ‘but she’d have been out for the count. She had the carpet tape out when I arrived.’ He motioned to the table where the roll of heavy-duty tape lay.

Agnes’ eyes glittered furiously. I was appalled. I turned on him. ‘Untie her, now. What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is assault. Are you mad? Untie her.’

He made no move. ‘We’ve got to talk,’ he said. ‘I’m taking you both to the hospital. We need to see Mr Simcock, the consultant. I realise you’ve had some concerns about Mrs Palmer.’ The man was cracked, going on about the need to clear things up while he’d bound and gagged Agnes.

‘Untie her,’ I insisted.

He looked at me, wearily.

‘This is ridiculous. I’m ringing the police.’ I snatched up the phone, my heart galloping. The line was dead. He’d ripped out the wires. The realisation brought with it a kaleidoscope of images, mainly from the movies. None of them pretty. A wave of panic. He really was off his trolley. I felt the buzz of fear froth my blood. I relived the endless moment of terror from my past, waiting for the knife to slide in, watching the blob of spittle dance.

He smiled thinly. ‘The hospital.’ He stooped to lift Agnes, his thick, straight blond hair falling forward.

‘Wait!’ I tried to steady my voice. ‘Take those things off her first. We’ll come to the hospital but not like that. Untie her.’

‘Get on with it.’ He brushed past the pair of us and opened the door. I moved to step outside, his arm shot out and he grabbed my hair. Used it to bang my head against the door frame. The sickly pain made me reel, reminding me of childhood falls. His other hand still held the kitchen knife.

Agnes cried out.

‘Don’t mess me about,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘You’ve caused enough trouble, you silly bitch. You, you wait here till she’s in the car. You come when I say, understand?’

I did.

He glared at me, considered for a moment. ‘If she screams…’

‘She won’t.’

He twisted round and before I could draw breath yanked the tape from her mouth. Agnes yelped in pain, then pressed her lips together. A band of red bloomed round her mouth where the tape had been.

‘Don’t!’ I swallowed hard. He ignored me. He fumbled with the rough cord around her wrists for a minute before cursing in exasperation. He went into the little kitchen, rummaged in a drawer and returned with a small vegetable knife. He sawed at the cord; the knife was sharp and cut through it quickly. Agnes rubbed at her wrists.

‘Come on,’ he snapped, ‘in the car.’ He made to take Agnes’ elbow but she twisted away and pushed herself to her feet.

‘Go on.’ He jerked his head. We went down the hall to the door.

‘She’ll need her coat,’ I said. ‘It’s freezing out there.’

‘Get it,’ he hissed at Agnes. She reached for it from the hooks in the hall, put it on, taking her time.