It was likehe’d stumbled onto the wrong ward. Maybe he had, they were all replicasof each other, after all. But no, it was the correct ward. The menin the neighbouring beds were the same men as before, watching their televisions,oblivious to Morton’s growing panic. Was that it? Had hisfather died and nobody had contacted him? Maybe his phone had run out ofbattery. He checked it and it still had three bars of power and a fullsignal. No missed calls. No text messages. Surely Jeremywould have called? Maybe he’d phoned Juliette first? He staredat his father’s replacement.
‘What?’ MattHargreaves managed to rasp angrily.
‘Where’s myfather gone? He was here.’
Matt Hargreavesgrowled something and turned his head toward the window, as if he couldn’tquite cope with life if he were unable to shout or head-butt anyone whoirritated him.
Morton wasrooted to the spot, staring disbelievingly at him.
‘Hello? You look for Mr Farrier?’ a deep, heavy Eastern-European accent said tohim. He turned to see a tall shaven-haired nurse with a kindly smile onher face. He nodded and waited for the worst. ‘He go down for heartoperation.’
‘Oh,’ was allMorton could manage to say. He left the ward and dialled Jeremy, who wasthree floors above eating a cold Cornish pasty and drinking a hot cup of tea.
‘They had a cancellation, so they broughtDad’s op forward,’ Jeremy said, thrusting the last of the ketchup-drenchedpasty into his mouth. Morton wondered if cancellation was a euphemism fordeath.
‘How long’s hebeen down?’ Morton asked, sitting opposite Jeremy in the deserted cafeteria.
‘About twohours now,’ he answered with his mouth full. ‘It’ll probably take anotherhour.’
‘How was hebefore he went down?’ Morton asked, suddenly feeling nauseous.
‘Terrified, butthen so would I be if I had to have my ribcage cranked open and my heartstopped.’ Morton imagined his father right now on the operating table,neither dead nor alive, occupying some half-way space in the universe whilefate or God or whatever, decided which way he was going to go. ‘He wasactually more gutted that he hadn’t had a chance to speak to you yet,’ Jeremyadded.
‘Did he saywhat it was about?’ Morton asked.
‘No, noidea. I wouldn’t worry about it, though.’
‘No,’ Mortonanswered. But he was worried. He needed to hear whatever his fatherhad had to say to him.
‘Do you want adrink?’ Jeremy asked, standing and downing the last of his tea. ‘I thinkwe could be here a while.’
‘Coffeeplease. Strong.’
As Jeremy stoodat the counter and filled two polystyrene cups, Morton’s mobile rang. Itwas Dr Baumgartner. He told Morton that the results of the DNA test wouldbe back by the morning and he wanted to arrange a meeting to talk about thecontents of the copper box before his return to Birmingham on Wednesday. They agreed to meet tomorrow afternoon, back in the Sherlock Holmes,which seemed as good a place as any to learn the truth about whether or not SirDavid Windsor-Sackville was James Coldrick’s father. With Morton’scertainty over Lady Maria not being James Coldrick’s mother, he still could notrule out Sir David being his father. Something tied the Coldricksto the Windsor-Sackvilles, why else would they have spent the best part ofseventy years hiding the past?
Morton endedthe call wondering at the subtle undercurrent of intrigue he’d detected in DrBaumgartner’s voice. But Morton knew better than to push for a prematureassessment. ‘Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, hurry your work,’ DrBaumgartner would say on a regular basis to slapdash students presentinghalf-baked case files to him.
Jeremy returnedwith the two drinks. ‘Everything okay? You look like you’re notreally with it.’
Morton snappedback from his daydream. ‘Yeah, just thinking about Father.’
Jeremy offereda comforting smile. ‘He does love you, you know, Morton.’
‘I know.’
And so they waited.
They hadfinished their drinks and moved down to the ICU waiting room, which was themirror image of every other waiting room in the hospital. Theirconversation had naturally run dry and the two men sat in comfortable silence,each engrossed in their own thoughts. Morton wondered what was goingthrough his adoptive brother’s head. His own mind leapt like a manic frogbetween disparate problems. He wondered how Juliette had got on with herfirst day back at work. He imagined that the senior officers in thestation would be keeping a close watch, monitoring her every move. Hewould ring her once he’d heard news of his father but who knew when that wouldbe? Nobody was in any hurry to talk to them, it seemed. He feltlike going over to the nurses’ station and asking how soon his father would beable to talk; but that seemed a rather crass and frivolous question to beasking of a man with a ten-inch hole in his chest and no heartbeat.
Morton wonderedif he’d dozed off and was in a bizarre dream when he heard the faint openingbars of Dancing Queen, steadily increasing in volume. He glancedaround the room and realised that he was fully awake and that there could be nodoubt over his brother’s sexuality when Jeremy fumbled in his pocket and pulledout his mobile. He answered the phone and Abba stopped singing. Itonly took a few sentences of half conversation for Morton to realise that hewas talking to Guy. Jeremy was evidently rebutting a suggestion of goingout tonight.
‘Go, Jeremy,it’s fine. I can wait here,’ Morton interrupted.
Jeremy coveredthe handset. ‘No, I’d rather wait here.’
‘Jeremy, he’snot going anywhere and I’ve got your mobile number. Go out. Have fun.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
It felt like he’d been alone in thewaiting room for several hours before a young, female nurse appeared in thewaiting room with a smile on her face. Morton hoped she wasn’t one ofthose people with that condition where they smiled after bad news. Hisbest friend at university, Jon, had burst into hysterical laughter when he wastold that his parents had been killed in a coach crash in Switzerland. Heliterally couldn’t stop smiling all day long and Morton
