Under Orders

CHAPTER 15

‘What?’ I said numbly, dropping my change.

‘Marina’s been shot,’ Rosie repeated.

I went cold and stopped feeling my legs.

‘Where?’

‘Here, on the pavement outside the Institute.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘where on her body?’

‘In her leg.’

Thank God, I thought, she’s going to be all right.

‘Where is she now?’ I asked.

‘Here, by the ambulance,’ said Rosie. ‘They’re desperately working on her on the pavement. Oh God, there’s so much blood. It’s everywhere.’

Maybe my relief was premature. My skin felt clammy.

‘Rosie,’ I said urgently, ‘go and ask the ambulancemen which hospital they’ll be taking her to.’

I could hear her asking.

‘St Thomas’s,’ she said.

‘Go with her. I’m on my way there.’

She hung up. I looked at my phone in disbelief. This can’t be happening. But it was.

Nature has evolved a mechanism for dealing with fear, or hurt. Adrenalin floods into the bloodstream and hence throughout the body. Muscles are primed to perform, to run, to jump, to escape the danger, to flee from the source of the fear. I could feel the energy coursing round my body. I had felt it all too often before when lying injured on the turf after a bad fall. The desire to run was great. Sometimes, when injured, the urge to flee was so overpowering that injuries could be forgotten. There were well-documented incidents of people who had been horribly maimed in explosions running away from the scene on legs from which the feet had been blown clean away.

Now, in the sandwich bar, this adrenalin rush had me turning back and forth not knowing if I was picking up my lunch or retrieving my dropped change or what. For quite a few wasted seconds I was completely disorientated.

‘Are you all right, mate?’ asked the man behind the counter.

‘Fine,’ I croaked, hardly able to unclench my teeth.

I stumbled out of the shop and fairly sprinted back to my car. I pressed the button that opened the garage and yelled at the slowly opening gate to hurry up.

I drove as quickly as I could to St Thomas’s Hospital, which is on the other side of the Thames from the Houses of Parliament. ‘Quickly’ is a relative term in London traffic. I screamed at tourists outside Buckingham Palace to get out of the way, and cursed queues of taxis in Birdcage Walk. Bus lanes are for buses, and sometimes for taxis too, but not for cars. I charged along the bus lane on Westminster Bridge and didn’t care if I got a ticket.

In spite of two jumped traffic lights and numerous near misses, I made it unscathed to the hospital’s casualty entrance. I pulled the car on to the pavement and got out.

‘You can’t leave it there,’ said a well-meaning soul walking past.

‘Watch,’ I said, locking the doors. ‘It’s an emergency.’

‘They’ll tow it away,’ he said.

Let them, I thought. I wasn’t going to waste time finding a parking meter.

Oh God, please let Marina be OK. I hadn’t prayed since I was a child but I did so now.

Please God, let Marina be all right.

I ran into the Accident and Emergency Department and found a line of six people at the reception desk.

I grabbed a passing nurse. ‘Please,’ I said, ‘where’s Marina van der Meer?’

‘Is she a patient?’ asked the nurse in an east European accent.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She was on her way here from Lincoln’s Inn Fields, by ambulance.’

‘Ambulance cases come in over there,’ she said, pointing over her shoulder.

‘Thanks.’ I ran in the direction she had indicated, towards some closed double doors.

My progress was blocked by a large young man in a navy blue jersey. ‘Hospital Security’ was written on each shoulder.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, ‘can I help you?’

‘Marina van der Meer?’ I said, trying to get past him.

He sidestepped to block my way. ‘No,’ he said, ‘my name’s Tony. Now what’s yours?’

I looked at his face. He wasn’t exactly smiling.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’m trying to find Marina van der Meer. She was being brought here by ambulance.’

‘An emergency?’ he asked.

‘Yes, yes,’ I said, ‘she’s been shot.’

‘Where?’ he asked.

‘In the leg.’

‘No, where was she shot?’

‘In the leg,’ I said again.

‘No,’ he repeated, ‘where in London was she shot?’

‘Lincoln’s Inn Fields,’ I said. What on earth does it matter? I thought.

‘She may have gone to Guy’s,’ he said.

‘The ambulance men said they were bringing her here.’

‘You just wait here a moment, Mr… what did you say your name was?’

‘Halley,’ I said. ‘Sid Halley.’

‘You just wait here a moment and I’ll see. Members of the public aren’t allowed in this section — unless they come by ambulance, of course.’ He almost laughed. I didn’t.

He disappeared through the double doors and let them swing back together. I pushed one open and looked through. There was not much to see. The corridor stretched ahead for about ten yards and met another corridor in a T-junction. The walls were painted in two tones, the upper half cream and the lower blue. Perversely, it reminded me of the corridors in my primary school in Liverpool.

Tony, the friendly security guard, reappeared from the left and strode towards me. ‘No one of that name has been admitted,’ he said.

There was a clatter behind him and a trolley surrounded by medical staff was wheeled quickly by from right to left. I only had a glimpse of the person on it and I couldn’t tell if it was Marina. Then a dazed-looking Rosie came into view.

‘Rosie,’ I shouted. She didn’t hear.

Tony, the guard, started to say something but I pushed past him and ran down the corridor.

‘Oi!’ he shouted. ‘You can’t go in there.’

But I had already turned the corner.

‘Rosie,’ I shouted again.

She turned. ‘Oh Sid, thank God you’re here!’ She was crying and seemed to be in a state of near-collapse.

‘Where’s Marina?’ I asked urgently.

‘In there,’ she said, looking at some doors on the right.

There was a glass circular window and, with trepidation, I looked through.

Marina lay very still on a trolley with about six people rushIng around her. There were two bags of blood on poles with plastic tubes running to needles on the backs of each of her hands. I could see a pool of blood down near the foot of the trolley — it was as though the blood was going straight through her.

‘What are you two doing here?’ asked a voice.

I turned to see a stern-looking nurse in a blue uniform with what appeared to be a green dishcloth on her head.

‘You’ll have to go back to the waiting room,’ she said.

‘But that’s Marina in there,’ I said, turning back to the window. If anything, the activity had intensified. One of the staff was putting a tube down her throat. Her face looked horribly grey.

‘I don’t care if it’s the Queen of Sheba,’ said the nurse. ‘You can’t stay here. You’ll be in the way.’ She mellowed. ‘Come on, I’ll show you where you can wait. You’ll be told what’s happening as soon as we know.’

Rosie and I allowed ourselves to be taken by the arms and led down the corridor. We went round several corners and were shown into a room with ‘Family Waiting Room’ painted on the door.

‘Now stay here and someone will be along to see you.’

I mumbled ‘thank you’ but seemed to have lost control of my face. All I could see was the image of Marina so helpless and vulnerable on that trolley. ‘Please God, let her live.’

I sat down heavily on one of the chairs. I’d again lost control of my legs, too.

‘I’ll send someone in with a cup of tea,’ said the nurse. ‘Now, wait here.’

I nodded. I don’t think I could have moved even if I had wanted to. All I could think about was whether Marina was going to be all right. Rosie sat with her head in her hands. She had been awfully close to the action both on the pavement and in the ambulance.

After a few minutes a kindly woman in an apron brought us a cup of tea each. Strong, full of milk and with at least two sugars, just as I didn’t take it. Delicious.

‘What happened?’ I finally said to Rosie.

She looked up at me. Her eyes were red from crying and she had a hangdog expression.

‘I’m so sorry, Sid,’ she said. ‘We only went outside for a bit of air.’

‘It’s all right, Rosie. It wasn’t your fault.’

But I could see that she thought it was.

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘It was all so fast,’ she said. ‘We were going to walk once round the square, but had gone only a few yards when a motorcyclist drew up and sat there on his machine looking at a map. He beckoned us over to him, pointing at the map. I couldn’t hear what he said due to the noise of the engine. Marina went across the pavement to him and he just shot her. I think the gun was under the map.’

‘Could you describe the motorcyclist?’ I asked her. ‘Would you be able to identify him again?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ she replied slowly. He was wearing a crash helmet — you know, one of those ones that covers the whole face. That’s partly why I couldn’t hear what he said.’

‘How about the motorbike?’ I asked.

‘It was just… just a motorbike,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what type.’

She paused and I could tell she was replaying the scene in her mind.

‘At first I didn’t realise she had been shot. I mean, I didn’t hear a gunshot or anything. Marina doubled up and grabbed her knee and the motorcycle roared away. Then there was all the blood. It literally spurted out of her leg all over the place.’

I looked at her dark trousers and I could see that they were covered in Marina’s blood.

‘I did my best to stop it and screamed for someone to help. It seemed ages before the Institute’s security men ran out. They called the ambulance but that took ages to arrive, too.’

The door into the waiting room opened and I jumped up.

‘Are you with the girl that’s been shot?’ asked the head that appeared.

‘Yes,’ said Rosie and I together.

‘Good. Wait here, please.’ The head withdrew and the door closed.

I paced around the room. It took a huge effort not to run out of the door and back to the circular window.

‘Why don’t they come and tell us?’ I said. But I knew the answer. They were busy doing their best. I prayed that their best was good enough.

‘She lost so much blood,’ said Rosie. ‘I held her leg in both my hands and squeezed hard to stop the blood but it oozed between my fingers and ran all over the pavement. It was horrible.’ She shuddered.

‘You did brilliantly, Rosie. Without you, she would have probably died there on the pavement. At least here she has a chance.’ I hoped so anyway.

The door reopened but it wasn’t a doctor that came in but a uniformed policeman.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said, nodding to each of us in turn, and showing us his warrant card. ‘Do either of you know the name of the young lady who was shot?’

‘Marina van der Meer,’ I said. ‘Do you know how she’s doing? I really need some news.’

‘The doctors are still working on her, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything further.’ He took a notebook out of his pocket. ‘How do you spell her name?’ he asked.

I told him and he wrote it down.

And her age? And he wrote that down, too.

‘And what is your name?’ he asked me.

I told him that as well. Come on, I thought, where’s the bloody doctor?

‘And you, madam?’

Rosie’s name went into the notebook along with our dates of birth, although why they were important, I couldn’t imagine.

‘Are either of you related to the young lady?’ In other circumstances, his use of the term ‘young lady’ would have been amusing. He made Marina sound as if she were about fourteen. She was certainly older than he.

‘I am,’ I said.

‘Are you her husband?’ At least he hadn’t asked if I were her father.

‘No, I’m her…’ What am I? I’m too old to be a boyfriend. I hate the term ‘partner’. I used to partner horses in races. Significant other? No.

‘… fiancé,’ I said.

‘Are you therefore her next of kin?’

I didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Next of kin’ always seemed to go with ‘inform’ and ‘death’.

‘Her parents live in the Netherlands,’ I said. ‘I have their address somewhere at home. She also has a brother. He lives in the States.’

‘And you, madam?’ said the policeman, turning to Rosie.

‘I work with Marina at the London Research Institute. I was there when she was shot.’

His eyes opened wider. ‘Were you? My superiors will want to take a statement.’

He turned away and spoke quietly into his personal radio. I didn’t catch everything he said but I did hear him say ‘witness’.

One of the medical staff came into the room. He was dressed in blue trousers and matching blue smock, with one of the dishcloths on his head.

‘You’re here with the girl who was shot?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She’s my fiancée.’

‘She isn’t wearing a ring.’

‘She will be next week.’ If she lives, I thought. ‘How is she doing?’

‘Not good, I’m afraid. She’s gone to theatre so I’ve handed her over to a surgeon. Sorry, I should introduce myself, I’m Dr Osborne; I’m the duty Accident and Emergency consultant.’

‘Sid Halley,’ I said. He didn’t offer his hand. Germs and all that.

‘Ah,’ he said, nodding, ‘the jockey. I thought I recognised you from somewhere. Well, your girlfriend has lost an awful lot of blood. In fact, I’m amazed she was still alive when she arrived here. There was no measurable blood pressure.’

‘But she will be all right, won’t she?’ I was desperate.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know. Not yet. She was alive when she went to theatre, that’s the best I can say.’

I could hear my blood rushing in my ears.

‘The bullet missed the knee itself so the joint is fine but it tore open the femoral artery where it becomes the popliteal at the back of the knee, hence the blood loss. I think it was probably a small bullet and it didn’t do much damage to the rest of her soft tissue. She was very unlucky.’

‘But have you stopped the bleeding?’ I asked frantically.

‘Yes, I have for the time being but it’s not that simple. I am worried about further bleeding into her internal organs.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘We had to give her a great deal of blood and other fluids to replace what was lost, to fill the pipes up again, as it were.’

I nodded. I knew all about having to have blood.

‘Well, we had to give her an awful lot due to the continuous bleeding.’

‘Didn’t you apply a tourniquet?’ I asked.

‘Something similar. We applied direct pressure to the leg but you have to release it every ten minutes or so otherwise the lower leg begins to die. Whenever we did, the arterial bleeding started again. So, we had to give her much more blood than her whole body normally holds.’

I’d been correct; it had been going right through her.

‘This produces an added problem. Such a large transfusion severely dilutes some of the factors in the blood. It also causes a reduction in usable platelets. The combined effect is to reduce the ability of the blood to coagulate. It’s called dilutional thrombocytopenia. The factors are essential to keep the arteries from leaking blood and causing diffuse bleeding at various points in the body, especially in the internal organs like the kidneys. Until her body can replenish the factors and the platelets naturally, she is living right on the edge. I have to be frank — I believe that any further bleeding might be more than she could take. It would require more transfusion which would further reduce the usable platelets, which in turn would lead to more bleeding and eventually to a complete collapse of her system.’

‘But…’ I swallowed, ‘when will we know?’

‘The next few hours are critical. If she survives that, then her chances are reasonable.’

‘Reasonable’ didn’t sound reasonable enough to me.

‘How long will she be in theatre?’

‘Not long, I imagine,’ he said. ‘She’s gone to have a better repair of the artery. It’s risky but the surgeon and I thought it was better to fix the artery now so that it didn’t rupture again, which might lead to catastrophic failure.’

‘How do you fix an artery?’ I asked.

‘Using a graft,’ he said. ‘We take a piece of vein from her other leg and sew it into the artery to bridge the gap made by the bullet. The procedure is quite normal and is used all the time for heart bypass operations. The problem here is the need to keep blood loss to an absolute minimum.’

I wasn’t really listening to the details. ‘When can I see her?’ I asked.

‘After theatre she will be taken to intensive care. You’ll be able to see her there but she’ll be sedated and asleep. We will try to keep her blood pressure as low as possible for a while. Look, I’m sorry, but I must go now. I’m needed elsewhere.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. It was insufficient.

He went out, leaving Rosie, me and the policeman.

‘She’s in the best hands,’ said the policeman kindly.

I nodded. I felt so helpless.

‘I left my car on the pavement outside the hospital,’ I said. ‘I’d better go and move it.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the policeman. ‘You’re not to leave until you’ve given a statement to my super.’

His super turned out to be Detective Superintendent Aldridge of the Metropolitan Police who arrived with another plain-clothes officer in tow. They showed me their warrant cards.

‘Thank you, constable,’ said the Super, dismissing our uniformed friend.

‘I’ll go and check on your car, sir,’ he said to me. ‘What’s the registration?’

‘It’s probably been towed away by now.’ But I gave him the registration anyway, and the keys.

The Superintendent wanted a blow-by-blow account of everything both Rosie and I had done all day. It was tedious and my mind was elsewhere.

‘I’m going to find out how Marina’s doing?’ I said finally with exasperation.

‘All in good time, Mr Halley,’ said the Super.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Now.’

I stood up and walked to the door.

‘Please sit down, sir.’ He said it with a degree of stiffness in his tone.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m going to see my fiancée.’ The term was beginning to grow on me.

I didn’t really blame the police. All too often the villain of the piece is the husband or the wife, the boyfriend or the girlfriend. It always seemed to me that to do one of those tear-jerking press conferences appealing for the murderer of a loved one to give themselves up was tantamount to holding up a banner with ‘I DID IT’ blazoned across it.

If he wanted to arrest me, let him. I had a cast-iron alibi in the sandwich man. And I wanted to see my girl.

But that wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped.

I went to the reception desk and asked if Dr Osborne was available.

Sorry, he’s busy.

Could they tell me where Marina van der Meer was? Or how she was?

Sorry, she’s no longer in this department.

Could they tell me how to get to the Intensive Care Unit?

Sorry, ask at the main reception desk.

There was a large notice pinned to a board above the desk. It read: ‘Our staff have the right to work free of verbal or physical abuse from the public.’ I understood the anger that can be present in such places. It is anger born out of fear, frustration and hurt.

I swallowed my own anger and left the A amp; E Department in search of the main reception desk. I found that I had acquired a shadow in the form of the Superintendent’s sidekick.

‘Making sure you don’t leave the hospital, sir,’ he said.

‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘You lot must know where Marina is. Do me a favour and get on your blower to find out.’

He punched numbers into his mobile phone and talked briefly.

‘Can you turn that phone off, please,’ said a man in the corridor. ‘Mobile phones are not permitted in the hospital.’

‘I’m a policeman,’ said the officer.

‘And I’m a doctor,’ said the man. ‘Mobile phones can interfere with medical equipment so turn it off.’

‘OK,’ said my shadow but he listened for a few moments longer.

‘She’s still in the operating theatre,’ he said to me. ‘We have a guard outside.’

Marina needed a guard inside, I thought, a guardian angel.

‘I’m going to the Intensive Care Unit to wait for her.’

My shadow nodded and we went together to the main reception desk to get directions.

I sat on one of the chairs outside the door to the Intensive Care Unit, opposite the lifts. My shadow sat alongside me and time passed very slowly.

I looked at my watch. Unbelievably it had been only fifty-five minutes since Rosie had rung me in the sandwich bar. It felt like hours.

I thought about Marina’s parents. I had only met them a few times. They had stayed with us in London last year at Easter, and we had been over to stay with them in Holland during August so Marina could show me where she was brought up. I should give them a call. I ought to let them know that their daughter was fighting for her life. I hoped she was still fighting. But it would have to wait. I didn’t have their number with me and I wasn’t leaving to get it.

Who else should I call?

Perhaps I should tell Charles. I’d welcome his support.

Charles! For God’s sake! If they, whoever ‘they’ might be, were trying to pressurise me into stopping my investigation by shooting Marina, they might try and shoot Charles, too. Marina was shot a little over an hour ago. Lincoln’s Inn Fields to Aynsford takes about an hour and a half by car, maybe less by a traffic-weaving motorbike.

‘I’ve got to make a phone call,’ I said to the policeman. ‘Now! It’s urgent!’

There was a big ‘No Mobile Phones’ sign on the door to the unit.

Too bad, I thought, this is an emergency.

I moved down to the end of the corridor next to the window and switched on my mobile. Come on, come on. SIM not ready.

At last it was and I dialled Charles’s number. Thankfully he answered at the fourth ring.

‘Charles,’ I said, ‘this is Sid. Marina’s been shot and I’m frightened that you might be next. Get out of the house. Take Mrs Cross with you and then call me.’

‘Right, on our way,’ he said. ‘Call you in five minutes.’

Thank goodness for military training. But it was not the first time I’d had to do that and, on the previous occasion, I had been right to warn him. I remembered and, apparently, so had Charles.

I waited near the window and the five minutes seemed to be an eternity.

He called.

‘We’re safely in the car and well away from the house,’ he said. ‘Is Marina…?’ He couldn’t finish.

‘I’m at St Thomas’s Hospital,’ I said. ‘It’s touch and go. She’s in theatre but it’s not too good.’

‘I’ll drop Mrs Cross and then come on.’

‘Thanks, I’d like that.’

‘I think I’ll call my local bobby and get him to watch the house.’

I didn’t think anyone had a local bobby any more.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’m in the Intensive Care Unit waiting for Marina to come out of the operating theatre. It says ICU on the hospital notice boards.’

‘I’ll find it,’ said Charles, and I was sure he would.

I went back to sitting with my shadow.

Where had Marina got to? She should have been here by now. Had something gone wrong with the operation? Was she not coming to Intensive Care because she was already dead? Should I go to the morgue? Oh God, what should I do?

I played things over and over in my mind. I was becoming convinced that she had died. What was I doing, sitting here on a chair next to a policeman?

One of the lifts opened. I jumped up but it wasn’t Marina. It was Superintendent Aldridge and Rosie. The poor girl looked about half her normal tiny self and absolutely exhausted.

‘I’ve spoken to the hospital,’ the Super said to me. ‘Miss Meer is still in surgery but she should be coming here shortly. I was told to tell you that nothing’s changed.’

I was hugely relieved.

My shadow had stood up on the arrival of his boss, and Aldridge sat down next to me on one side with Rosie on the other.

‘Now, Mr Halley, I know all about you.’

I looked at him quizzically.

‘There’s not a copper alive who doesn’t, not a detective anyway.’

I wasn’t sure whether it was flattery or not. Every detective also knew all about the Kray twins.

‘So?’ I said.

‘Was this shooting of Miss Meer anything to do with your investigations?’

I knew it was a question I would be asked. But I hadn’t expected it to be asked quite so soon.

I was saved from the immediate need to answer by the appearance through the door of another dishcloth-wearing medic.

‘Mr Halley?’ he asked.

I stood up. My heart was thumping in my chest.

‘My name’s Mr Pandita,’ he said. ‘I’ve been operating on the lady with the bullet wound in her leg.’

‘Marina van der Meer,’ I said.

‘Quite so,’ he replied. ‘She’s now been transferred here.’ He cocked his thumb towards the double doors behind him.

‘How is she?’ I asked.

‘The operation went well. Now it’s a matter of time.’

‘What chances are we looking at?’ asked the Superintendent.

‘Reasonable,’ said Mr Pandita.

‘How reasonable?’ I asked.

‘She’s a fit young girl and obviously a fighter, otherwise she would have died in A amp; E, or even before. I give her a better than fifty-fifty chance. I don’t think there will be any brain damage.’

Brain damage!

‘Why would there be?’ I asked numbly.

‘If there was a lack of oxygen to the brain for more than a few minutes,’ he said, ‘then there would be damage. Even though her body was very short of blood for a while, her heart didn’t stop at any stage so she should be all right in that department. But her heart must have been pumping next to nothing round her so there’s always a risk.’

‘Can I see her?’ I asked.

‘Not just yet,’ he said. ‘The nursing staff are with her, making her comfortable and setting up all the monitoring equipment. Soon. But she’ll be asleep. We’ve given her a sedative to keep her blood pressure low. I’ll tell the staff you’re here and they’ll come and get you when they’re ready.’

I nodded. ‘Thank you.’

He disappeared back through the door and I sat down.

I looked again at my watch. It was only three thirty. How could time pass so slowly?

‘Where were we?’ said Superintendent Aldridge. ‘Ah, yes, did this shooting have anything to do with any of your investigations?’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘I am presuming this wasn’t a random shooting,’ he said, ‘and that Miss Meer was specifically targeted by the gunman.’

‘But he would have had to wait there for ages,’ I said. ‘It was only by chance that Marina came out when she did.’

‘Assassins can wait for days or weeks to get a single opportunity if they are determined enough,’ he said.

And, I thought, if it was the same person who had attacked Marina in Ebury Street, he had had to wait for her then, too.

‘So, I ask again,’ he said, ‘do you think this has anything to do with your investigations?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘If you mean do I know who did this, then the answer’s no. If I did, I’d tell you, you can be sure of that.’

‘Do you have any suspicions?’

‘I always have suspicions,’ I said, ‘but they’re not based on anything solid. They’re not actually based on anything at all.’

‘Anything you say might be useful,’ he said.

‘Do you remember the jockey who was murdered at Cheltenham races two weeks ago?’

‘I remember that horse — Oven Cleaner — died,’ he said. ‘Now, that was a shame.’

‘Yes, well, a jockey was murdered on the same day. Then a racehorse trainer appeared to kill himself. Everyone, and especially the police, seem to think he committed suicide because he’d murdered the jockey.’

‘So?’ he said.

‘I believe the trainer was in fact murdered by the same man who killed the jockey and that it was made to look like suicide so that the police file on the jockey’s death would be conveniently closed. And I’ve been saying so loudly and often for the last ten days to anyone who’ll listen.’

‘What has any of this to do with Miss Meer being shot?’ he said.

‘Last Friday, I was warned that, if I didn’t keep my mouth shut, someone would get badly hurt. And now they have.’