CHAPTER 9
It was nice being wheeled along the pale laminate floors, the porter skilfully manoeuvring each doorway with not so much as a single bump. There was a nurse with her too, but none of them spoke as the walls slid past. She’d been glad to sink against the cushioned back of the chair, her feet supported by the metal rests. It was surprisingly comfortable; but then, weren’t there experts designing things like that, always bent on improving the… what was that word? The girl at the library. Her husband worked in that field. What was the word..? She frowned. It had been like this ever since that silly young doctor had asked her questions about who the prime minister was. Really! As if she didn’t know a simple thing like that. But some other things had eluded her; words that she knew she should remember, just hovering out of reach. ‘On the tip of my tongue,’ she wanted to say, but that particular organ had taken sides against her, too, refusing to let the words come out as they normally did.
She was guilty of talking too much, she knew that. Sometimes Maggie cut off their conversation with a reminder of work to do in the evenings (she always had such a pile of marking, poor lamb) and she’d put the telephone down with the sense that she’d been rattling on good style, hardly letting her daughter put in a word at all. Now, ironically, that renegade voice of hers was refusing to cooperate. Maybe she was just tired. It had happened before: after her operation. She’d hardly been able to string two words together, feeling the edges of speech slip away into a void.
Maybe that was why they weren’t engaging her in conversation right now. They knew she was too weary, wanted to spare her voice, perhaps. But, as Mrs Finlay listened to the chatter above the desk at the nurses’ station she felt… diminished.
Everything was different down here. She knew there was a nurse just behind her — aware of a flap of striped, grey skirt and beige stocking-ed legs — a tall girl anyway, but from this disadvantaged point the girl seemed to have taken on Amazonian proportions. Mrs Finlay felt as though she had fallen into a strange Swiftian world. It was true, that cliche about people in wheelchairs being ignored. She might have been part of the mechanism itself for all the notice that anyone took.
Mrs Finlay had seen it first when the tall, good-looking man at the end of the corridor had paused. A consultant, she’d decided, noticing his well-cut suit and colourful silk tie; he’d hesitated before an open door several yards in front of her then raised his hand in a salute. Was it someone who had recognised her? She’d seen so many already. Or was he simply being polite? She’d attempted to lift her own hand in reply, the smile automatic, eyes bright. But then as the chair rolled nearer, she realised that he was looking over her, at someone else entirely, and in that moment she knew just how invisible she had become. Nobody up there within the able bodied of the population towering over her really took any notice of a woman in a wheelchair, except to acknowledge that there was one. A woman-in-a-wheelchair.
Strangely she didn’t resent it. The experience was still too new, untested and, besides, it was only a temporary change until she was better. It wouldn’t be long — surely — until they fixed whatever had happened to this stupid side of her; this frozen space that had somehow closed down in that spasm of pain. It had been like a jolt of electric current surging through her, then snapping off one of her terminals. Now all they needed was the right sort of engineer to fix it. Just like the nice young boy who had come to sort her TV when everything had changed to digital.
Mrs Finlay smiled to herself, unable to see the crooked lift of her lips. Yes. Someone would fix it.
Now they were off again, rolling along another long corridor, and she had no idea what was happening, where she was being taken. At the turn of a corner she saw a patient being wheeled along, travelling towards them. It was a woman. And as they passed, their eyes met for an instant and Mrs Finlay saw an expression of pity in the other woman’s face followed by the merest nod of fellow feeling.
In that moment she felt a sudden shock of understanding. She tried to twist away, to raise her hand to make them stop the relentless progress of the chair. But only a low moan issued from her mouth, unheard against the roll of wheels.
And where was Maggie? Why wasn’t she… here. To make them. Stop. Explain what was… going wrong?
‘Detective Superintendent Lorimer.’
‘It’s Mum.’ Maggie sounded out of breath as if she had been running. ‘She’s in hospital. They say it’s a stroke…’
Lorimer heard the catch in her voice just as he caught the glance of the woman across the desk, one eyebrow arched in the faintest hint of curiosity.
‘D’you want me there?’ He hadn’t intended to sound so terse, but with DI Martin listening intently to his side of the conversation, Lorimer wanted nothing more than to be alone with his wife, consoling her wherever she was, unhampered by this review case. The pause from the other end told him more than any words could have: Maggie realised he was busy and was about to tell him not to bother.
‘I can be with you in less than an hour,’ he continued, giving his watch a quick glance. The layout of this unfamiliar office didn’t seem to include a wall clock.
‘It’s okay. I can call you later once I know what they’re going to do.’
‘How bad is she?’ Lorimer asked, turning his head aside from Rhoda Martin’s direct stare.
‘We won’t know until they have all the test results but she’s paralysed down one side and can’t talk too well. She knows me, though. Don’t worry about that!’
He smiled, hearing the relief in her voice laced with a hint of humour. It was bad but not too bad, she seemed to be saying.
‘Keep in touch. Let me know what’s happening and I’ll see if I can catch up with you there. All right?’
‘Thanks. Love you,’ Maggie said.
‘Yeah. Hang in there. Okay?’ Lorimer told her.
As he put down the handset, DI Martin leaned across the desk, eyes hungrily eating the Detective Super’s expression.
‘Bad news?’ Her eagerness was almost palpable and in that instant Lorimer knew he was going to have an uphill struggle even to be civil to this woman.
‘Nothing to do with the case. Now if you can let me know where all the logs relating to the inquiry have been stored for the period in question we can begin to look at what actually happened from the team’s perspective,’ he replied smoothly, ignoring the look of disappointment on her face.
As they discussed the initial stages of the inquiry, Lorimer’s mind was racing. What on earth had happened to his mother-in-law? And how was Maggie coping on her own at the hospital? But, lodged between these two thoughts was another more insidious notion: how had this DI reacted to her old boss’s predicament? Had she fed off Colin Ray’s increasing absences, using them to bolster up her own involvement and hoping for subsequent kudos? There had been something malicious in her expression, as if she suddenly welcomed the prospect of this new SIO having domestic problems of his own. And that would suit them just fine, wouldn’t it? Lorimer swallowed down the guilt he felt at leaving Maggie to sort this one out. He’d make it up to her. Later.
Once Rhoda Martin was gone, Lorimer reached for his mobile phone then, just as suddenly, drew back his hand. The irony of his situation wasn’t lost on him. Colin Ray’s dying wife had taken priority in his life over the high-profile wilful fire-raising case, resulting in Lorimer’s present appointment. For something similar to repeat itself was simply not on. Frowning, he wondered for a moment what his mother-in-law would be experiencing over in the Southern General hospital. She was a feisty old bird, though, and he held her in an affection that he knew was mutual. If anyone could recover from the damage of a stroke, it would be Maggie’s mum.
But suddenly DI Martin’s sharp features replaced thoughts of the older woman in his mind. Office politics had been at work, to the previous SIO’s detriment, Lorimer guessed, though he’d be lucky to prove that. And, besides, that was not within his present remit. What was his main concern was how the case of wilful fire-raising resulting in two horrific deaths had been handled here in K Division. That, and how he was to proceed with the review.
It would mean loads of sifting through all the paperwork for a start and setting up a small team from the existing officers here to read over and reassess the key documents — like witness statements — to ensure that every piece of evidence divulged to the police initially had been acted upon fully, without question. The old cliche of ‘leaving no stone unturned’ had never been more appropriate. It would be hard work and he hoped that the team he eventually chose would be less acerbic than DI Martin, but for some reason he felt he needed to keep her close,
