The Last Detective

Chapter Two

YOU CAN IMAGINE THE TURMOIL I was in. Anita, the switchboard operator at Realbrew, broke it to me as gently as she could, saying that apparently Mat had been taken to the Royal United only as a precaution after falling into the river, but when you get news like that about your own son you immediately put the worst construction on it. You think everyone is glossing over the seriousness of what has happened so as not to panic you.

Horrific possibilities filled my head while I was driving at high speed to the hospital, putting my licence and my livelihood in jeopardy. Things are never as straightforward as people would have you believe. Matthew was my only child, my entire family. I parked the car in the bay outside Casualty Reception, ran up to the entrance, took a deep breath to control myself, walked in and announced who I was.

I recognized the receptionist, but she gave me one of those plastic smiles that are supposed to ease the strain in Casualty, and told me that Matthew was being examined by Dr Murtah. I asked if he was injured in any way, and she wouldn't tell me a blessed thing, except to take a seat. Oh, and I remember that she half turned away and then took a second look and asked if she had seen me before.

I simply hadn't the mental energy left to remind her that I worked for Realbrew and had brought in a man whose arm had been fractured on the production line the previous week.

I went to a seat in the front row and rubbed the backs of my arms. The gooseflesh wasn't because the place was cold. This was July, remember. I'm often accused of taking life too seriously. No use protesting that I like a good laugh; as I told you, I'm guarded in my reactions to all but the closest friends. That's no bad thing. Anyone who drives for a living has good reason to treat the rest of humanity as wolves and vampires.

Presently, a white-coated man came over to me. He introduced himself as Dr Murtah and invited me to follow him. As we went through a swing door, he announced in the rather formal speech that Asians use that the young fellow – meaning Mat – should be none the worse for his misadventure. There was superficial grazing. And he'd had a jab in his backside. Dr Murtah had thought it wise to give him a precautionary shot of penicillin in case of infection.

He asked me whether Mat often played by the river, and I answered truthfully that I'd had no idea he was there. I could only assume he must have been playing truant from school.

'He is a scholar at the Abbey Choir School, he tells me.'

'Yes. A day boy.'

'Far be it from me to interfere, Mrs Didrikson, but when all is said and done he seems a good lad. We don't want a repeat of this misadventure. If I were you, I would ask your husband to read him the Riot Act. I wouldn't chastise him this time. He had a pretty unpleasant physical shock. However, I would leave the young tearaway in no doubt.'

'I understand.' I didn't say I was divorced. 'Thank you for attending to him, Doctor.'

He waved me into a cubicle and left me with Matthew, a distinctly chastened young tearaway sitting up on an examination couch.

'Mum.' Mat's eyes glistened.

I went to him and held him a moment, not saying a word. I didn't trust my tangled emotions.

He said, 'I'm-'

I put a hand over his lips. 'Later. We'll talk about it later. Not here.'

He said, 'They lent me this dressing gown. My clothes are still wet.'

'Doesn't matter,' I told him.

A nurse came in and asked if we had any transport, and I confirmed that we had. She told me Mat had better wear the dressing gown and sandals home, and I promised to return them later.

I tried to let the practical arrangements fill my mind. I stooped to help Matthew get his feet into the sandals, but he put his hand to them first. He didn't want to be mothered, you see. When he stood upright I was reminded that he was an inch or so taller than I – at twelve years old. It's curious how the relationship has altered since he gained that extra height. It's so easy to fall back into the old ways and treat them as babes in arms.

As we passed through the swing doors again, the receptionist stepped forward with a form in her hand and asked me to fill in a few details. She said it had to be done, and it wouldn't take a minute.

It was just a matter of my name and address and Matthew's date of birth and the name of our GP. While I was filling it in, I was surprised to overhear Matthew in conversation with someone. I looked up and saw him by the tea trolley with an overweight girl with cropped blonde hair and large earrings. She was wearing a blue linen coat, unbuttoned, over a red teeshirt and white jeans and at first it appeared that she was in charge of the trolley. Then she and Matthew came away from it carrying cups and I realized that the coat wasn't a uniform. It was part of her ensemble.

I went over to them. 'I thought you'd appreciate a cuppa,' the girl explained with a dimpled smile. 'Shall we sit down for a minute? How about the back row, Matthew?'

It crossed my mind that she was possibly something to do with the almoner service. I was handed a paper cup. 'Thank you, but I don't think I know you.'

'You may have heard of the name,' she told me. 'Molly Abershaw.'

I hadn't. I didn't know it and I hadn't seen her before. The remark smacked a little of self-importance, I thought.

'You want to get home, I know,' she told us both, 'and I shan't keep you longer than it takes to drink the tea. Did you want a biscuit, by the way, Matthew? I always forget to ask. I have to watch the calories myself.'

I'm repeating what she said, more or less, because it gives you an insight into the sort of person Molly Abershaw is, and she had a big influence on what happened. You must have come across her sort, with the cheek of old nick, brazenly going up to people as if they were the oldest of friends.

Matthew had the good sense to refuse the biscuit.

'This is such an exciting story,' Molly Abershaw insisted on telling us. 'I was out at Bathford when I got the call. I really put my foot down on the A4. I was thinking if I don't watch out I'll be in the news myself. It's so important to be first on the scene. My photographer is on his way. We'd like a shot of you, Matthew.'

'You're a reporter?' I said, hearing the disfavour in my own voice.

'Didn't I say? The Evening Telegraph. You don't mind, do you? A rescue story is such a joy to write when we so often deal in tragedy and disaster.'

I told her curtly that we'd rather not have anything in the newspapers.

'Mrs Didrikson,' she protested, 'it's unavoidable. If we don't run the story, the other papers will. It was a major incident by local standards. We won't print distortions, I promise you. That's why I'm talking to you, just to verify the facts. Do say you'll answer my questions.'

'What's the point?' I said, looking for somewhere to get rid of the tea. 'I wasn't even there. I know less about what happened than you do.'

Matthew added in support, 'And I don't remember much.'

She was very persistent. 'Listen, I'm not trying to harass you,' she said. 'I just need to check the essential facts. I don't even know yet whether there's a 'c' in your name.'

'There isn't,' I told her.

'It's unusual.'

'I'd rather not prolong this.'

Instead of taking this as a rebuff, she dipped into her handbag and produced a notebook. 'All right. Just the essential facts. How old are you, Matthew?'

Matthew glanced towards me to see if he should answer and I gave a nod, foolishly telling myself that we might get rid of her after she'd taken a couple of notes. Twelve.'

'And you were playing by Pulteney Weir. With friends?'

'Yes.'

'How many?'

'Two.'

'Who were they?'

'I don't want to get them into trouble.'

'Why – did they push you in?'

'No, I fell. I walked along the edge and tipped over.'

'And nearly drowned, I gather.'

'I don't know much about it.'

I stood up. 'There – that's all the help we can give you. Now, if you'll kindly allow us to pass, I want to get my son home.'

'But we haven't covered the rescue yet.'

'You heard what he said. He doesn't remember.'

'You must remember the man who saved you, Matthew. You saw him when you opened your eyes.'

'Yes.'

'Did you find out his name?'

'No. He was dark and he had a moustache.'

'What sort of moustache?'

Matthew put both hands to his face and traced his fingers from under his nose to the edges of his mouth. 'Like this.'

'Mexican style?'

He nodded. 'He was wearing a striped shirt and tie.'

'Smartly dressed, then. A young man?'

'Not very.'

'Middle-aged, would you say? Over forty?'

'Not as old as that.'

'Did he say anything to you?'

'He was talking to Piers mostly.'

'Your schoolfriend?'

Matthew let out a short, troubled breath. 'Please don't put his name in the paper. We were supposed to be in school.'

'You were playing truant, then?'

I just had to assert myself. 'I don't think this is a matter for the papers,' I told her. 'It's up to the school to deal with it, arid I'm sure they will. Come on, Mat.' I made a move towards the door.

'I wish our photographer had got here,' said Miss Abershaw. 'I can't ask you to wait.'

'No, and we wouldn't.'

She walked with us out of Casualty and offered to drive us home.

I told her we had transport.

I looked along several lines of cars gleaming in the sun, trying to remember where I'd left the firm's black Mercedes. I had been in such a distracted state when I arrived.

'It's over there,' said Matthew, pointing.

Miss Abershaw was still standing beside us. 'You drive a Mercedes?'

Matthew came out with, 'My mother is a chauffeur.'

I said bitterly, 'Yes, put it in your notebook. Do you want the mileage as well?'

'I was only thinking that we all have to work for a living,' she commented, almost as an apology.

I hesitated as she felt for her keys. Do you know, the remark got through my defences? The girl's persistence had annoyed me, but a voice inside told me that she was doing a difficult job. She'd been sent by her editor to cover this story. It was not far removed from my own line of work – my boss, Stanley Buckle, sending me off to meet important clients at Bath or Bristol railway stations. Some of those VIPs turn out to be pretty unfriendly. I said, 'I'm sorry. It's been a hell of a day.'

'Do you think if Maxim, our photographer, called at your house in an hour or so, he could get a picture?'

I got into the car, picked up a card and scribbled our

She said, 'Thanks. I really appreciate it. Will your husband be at home?'

'I'm divorced.'

Matthew spoke up and announced, 'My Dad played chess for Norway.'

I closed the door and started the engine. When we had driven out of the hospital gates I told him, 'You didn't have to say that, about your father.'

'It's true. I'm proud of him.'

I didn't say any more.