Under Orders

So how could Juliet Burns afford to have a wardrobe full of designer clothes with shoes to match?

I was mulling over this little teaser when my mobile phone rang.

‘Mr Halley?’ said a voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Superintendent Aldridge here,’ said the voice.

‘How can I help you?’ I asked.

‘Glad to hear that Miss Meer is making steady progress,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Miss van der Meer is awake and doing fine this morning.’ I emphasised the ‘van der’ and there was a moment’s pause while he took stock.

‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Excellent news.’

‘Are you still providing her with a guard?’ I asked him.

‘We are, but I don’t really think it’s necessary.’

‘How so?’ I said.

‘The gunman clearly didn’t mean to kill her in the first place as he shot her in the leg. He was obviously trying only to wound her. In a way, she was very unlucky to be so close to dying. If you wanted to kill someone, you wouldn’t try to sever their femoral artery. Much too chancy. So I don’t really believe that she is in any danger in the hospital. And there’s also that card you left for me. I don’t think “next time” means the following day. I’m afraid the guard will be withdrawn this afternoon at the change of shift.’

Reluctantly, I agreed with his assessment.

‘Did you get any fingerprints off the card?’

‘It’s still with forensics but they weren’t very hopeful. The card appears clean but they are still testing the envelope.’

‘Is there anything you need from me?’ I asked him.

‘Not at the moment. But be sure to let me know if you think of anything.’

‘So what do you do now?’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Where are you going to send your task force to find this gunman?’

‘I don’t have a task force,’ he said. ‘This wasn’t a murder and I have limited resources.’

‘But it was a shooting in broad daylight in a London street.’

‘Mr Halley, have you any idea how many shootings take place every day in London streets?’

‘No.’

‘Well, it would surprise you. There’s about one shooting a day that results in injury or death. And there’s a gun crime somewhere in London on average every five or six hours. There were more than a dozen armed robberies last week in the Met area alone, and there’s a murder at least every second day.’ He paused for effect. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘If Miss van der Meer had died I might have had a few officers in a team to help find the gunman. Thankfully, she didn’t, so I don’t get the resources. We are too busy trying to catch some other poor sod’s killer.’

‘But it may be the same person who killed Huw Walker,’ I said.

‘Who?’

‘The jockey at Cheltenham.’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I’ll give Gloucestershire police a call.’

‘Ask for Chief Inspector Carlisle,’ I said, but he too was busy with another case. A child killer had more fascination for the media than the death of a ‘crooked’ jockey.

‘Right,’ he said, and disconnected.

I’d better investigate this myself, then.

Marina was sitting up in bed looking much better when I returned to see her at four thirty. I had brought with me a suitcase of things for her but I needn’t have bothered.

She was already wearing a pretty pink nightdress and a matching cotton dressing gown. Her hair was clean and neat and she had applied some makeup. And, I noticed, the stitches had been removed from her eyebrow and lip.

‘You look wonderful,’ I said, giving her a kiss. ‘Where did you get the nightie?’

‘Rosie had it sent over from Rigby and Peller. Isn’t she fantastic?’

‘Absolutely,’ I agreed, sitting down on the chair beside the bed. Rosie was beating herself up unnecessarily for allowing Marina to get shot. It wasn’t her fault and no one but she thought so.

‘A policeman did come to see me this morning,’ said Marina. ‘He asked me if I could describe the man who shot me.’

‘And can you?’ I asked.

‘No, not really. It all happened so fast. I remember him looking at a map and beckoning me over to him. He was wearing black leathers and a black helmet, you know, one of those with a full front and a dark visor. That’s why I couldn’t see his face. That’s about it.’

‘Are you sure it was a man?’

‘You think it might have been a woman?’

‘It’s possible,’ I said.

‘No.’ She paused. ‘I’m pretty good when it comes to spotting women, even if they’re wearing motorcycling leathers.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. It was a man. If it had been a woman I would have looked at her bottom.’

‘What for?’ I said.

‘To see if it was smaller than mine. Silly boy.’

‘Do you do that all the time?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘All women do it.’

And I thought I was the one who looked at women’s bottoms.

‘What else did the policeman say?’ I asked.

‘He asked if I would recognise the motorbike.’ She laughed. ‘I told him it had two wheels but that didn’t seem to help. I don’t know what type it was. I wouldn’t know if I’d had all day to examine it.’

‘But it was blue,’ I said. I didn’t know.

‘No, it wasn’t,’ she said. She stopped with her mouth open. She closed it. ‘It was red. How funny, I didn’t remember before.’ She paused for quite a while. ‘It also had a big red fuel tank with yellow flashes down the side. And the rider had more yellow bits on his trousers, along his thighs.’

‘Could you draw the shape of the yellow flashes?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘They were like lightning bolts.’

‘Good girl,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you some paper and a pencil.’

I went off in search of them and eventually managed to borrow a pad and pen from the nursing station. Marina set to work and had soon produced some drawings of the lightning type flashes on the fuel tank and on the motorcyclist’s leather trousers.

Just as she finished, a nurse came in and told me it was time to go. ‘The patient must get some rest,’ she said, and stood in the open doorway waiting for me to leave.

‘See you tomorrow, my love,’ I said to Marina, giving her a kiss.

‘OK,’ she said, yawning. She did look tired but so much better than yesterday.

I made my way down to the exit. What a difference a day makes. I didn’t notice anyone at the hospital reception desk who was desperately looking for the Intensive Care Unit as I had been just over twenty-fours hours ago. But then I wouldn’t. A crisis doesn’t make you grow a second head or anything; the turmoil is on the inside. Invisible.

When I had been riding, Saturday morning had always been a ‘work day’ in Andrew Woodward’s yard and I assumed that nothing would have changed. On a ‘work day’ the horses would do ‘work’. A large string of them would be out on the exercise grounds early, galloping hard to increase their stamina and speed. Preparing a horse