‘Hardy’s briefs here,’ she said.
‘Show him in.’
Sian Spenser, a firm-jawed woman in her early forties, was out of breath and cross.
‘I want five minutes alone with my client.’
‘He hasn’t been accused of anything.’
‘Then what the hell is he doing here? Out. Now.’
Baird drew a deep breath and left the room, followed by Angeloglou. When Spenser brought them back into the room, Hardy was seated with his back to the door.
‘My client has nothing to say.’
‘Two people have been murdered,’ Baird said, his voice raised. ‘We have evidence to suggest that animal- rights activists were involved. Your client has been convicted of conspiracy to cause criminal damage. He was fucking lucky that he wasn’t caught with the explosives. We want to ask him some questions.’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Spenser. ‘I want my client out of this building within five minutes or I’ll file a prerogative writ.’
‘DC Angeloglou.’
‘Sir?’
‘Let it be noted for the record that Paul Michael Hardy has refused any cooperation with this inquiry.’
‘Have you quite finished?’ Spenser asked with a quizzical expression that was almost amused.
‘No, but you can take your piece of filth out with you.’
Hardy stood and moved to the door. He paused in front of Angeloglou. A thought seemed to occur to him.
‘How’s the girl?’ he asked, then walked away without waiting for an answer.
An hour later, Baird and Angeloglou were in Bill Day’s office for a debriefing. Bill Day was standing at the window looking out into the darkness.
‘Anything?’ Day asked.
‘Nothing concrete, sir,’ said Angeloglou cautiously.
‘I didn’t expect anything,’ said Baird. ‘I just wanted to get a feel for the people. Get the smell of it.’
‘And?’
‘I think it’s an avenue worth going down.’
‘What have we got?’
‘Almost nothing. The reference in the magazine, the message written at the scene.’
‘
Baird shook his head.
‘It’s not good. There was this huge reception a couple of days before. Hair and fibres is a total disaster. The girl’s room may be better.’
‘What about the girl?’ Day asked. ‘Have we got anywhere with her?’
Baird shook his head.
‘What are we going to do with her?’
‘She’s ready to be discharged.’
‘Is this a problem?’
‘It’s possible, just possible, mind, she may be at some risk.’
‘From these animal-shaggers?’
‘From whoever.’
‘Can they keep her in the hospital for a few more days?’
‘This may be for months, not days.’
‘What’s her mental state?’
‘Upset. Traumatic stress, that sort of thing.’
Day grunted.
‘Jesus, we got through two world wars without fucking stress counsellors. Look, Rupert, I’m not happy with all this but go ahead and find her somewhere discreet. For God’s sake, make sure it’s somewhere the press won’t find.’
‘Where?’
‘I haven’t a clue. Ask Philip Kale, he may have some names.’
Baird and Angeloglou turned to leave.
‘Oh, Rupert?’
‘Yes?’
‘Find me some bloody evidence. I’m getting nervous.’
Six
In just a couple of weeks I had managed to construct a life for myself. I had a house and a garden. The house was old with large windows and a solid, four-square shape and stood on what must have been a quayside long ago. Now it looked forlornly across marshland to the sea, half a mile away.
In the hectic few days after buying the house in November I had asked around in the estate agent and in the shop a couple of miles up the road in Lymne and found a child-minder. Linda was small and slight with a pasty complexion and seemed older than her twenty years. She lived in Lymne and though she was lacking in GCSEs, she had the two main qualifications I was interested in: a driving licence and an air of calm. When Elsie first met her she went and sat on her lap without a word, which was enough for me. At the same time I arranged for Linda’s best friend, Sally, to come two or maybe three times a week to clean the house.
The nearest primary school, St Gervase’s, is in Brask, three miles on the other side of Lymne, and I went and looked through the railings. There was a green playing field, bright murals on the wall, and I didn’t see many tears or children left to fend for themselves. So I walked into the office and filled out the form, and Elsie was accepted on the spot.
It had all seemed almost alarmingly easy: a grown-up life to go with my imminent grown-up job. A few weeks into January, when Britain was starting to get going again after Christmas and when Danny had been staying for five days and was still showing no sign at all of going again, filling my house with beer cans and my bed with warmth, I went to Stamford General Hospital to meet the deputy chief executive of the trust who administered it. He was called Geoffrey Marsh, a man of about my own age so immaculately turned out that he looked as if he was just about to present a television news programme. And his office looked big and elegant enough to double as the studio for it. I felt immediately underdressed, which must have been part of the point.
Geoffrey Marsh took me by the hand – ‘Call me Geoff, Sam’ – and told me that he was immensely enthusiastic about me and about my unit. He was convinced it was going to be a new model for patient management. He took me for a walk up staircases and along corridors to show me the empty wing that I would fill. There was almost nothing to see except how big it was. It was on the ground floor, which I liked. There was a patch of green outside a window. I could do something with that.
‘What used to be here?’ I asked.
He shook his head as if this were an unimportant detail.
‘Let’s head back to my office. We’ve got to arrange some brain-storming sessions, Sam,’ he said. He used my name like a mantra.
‘About what?’
‘About the unit.’
‘Have you read my proposal? I thought the staffing and therapeutic protocols I laid out there were clear enough.’
