Connected (7 page)

The conversion was taken, but the wind gusted,
sending the ball just wide of the posts. It no longer mattered. The referee
blew full-time and a cheer erupted from the students. As the teams lined up to
shake each others’ hands, a large hairy-faced man started towards them from the
touch line. Doug recognised him as the plain-clothed policeman from two days
before.
“Well played lads!” said the man. “Nice try, Mr. Richards.”
Several of Doug’s team-mates turned and eyed him suspiciously.
“You know, you should really get that head and neck looked at. I’ll give you a
lift over to the hospital, if you like?”
Before Doug had a chance to say no, Dean had answered for him. “If you could
mate, that’d be great. I’ll drop by later and take him back to campus.”
“That’s settled then,” said the policeman. “Do you want to take a quick shower
or will you go like that?”
“I’d prefer to shower if you don’t mind.”
“Okay, I’ll be waiting for you in the car park.”

The atmosphere in the guest changing rooms was
typically jubilant, but Doug felt uncharacteristically subdued. Taff’s tenor
voice was leading a chorus of “Wild Rover”, but Doug couldn’t get into it.
Although he didn’t relish the idea of having to talk to hairy-face all the way
to the hospital, he was actually quite glad not to have to stay for the
after-match drinks. His neck was sore and a pig of a headache was taking hold.

In the car park, the big man was standing next to
a dark blue Ford Mondeo and puffing away on a large pipe. As Doug approached,
he flipped open the boot of the car and gestured towards Doug’s kit bag with
the stem of the pipe. He took one last draw and emptied the smouldering
contents onto the gravel, grinding it in with the heel of a large muddy hiking
boot.
“Mr. Richards,” said the policeman offering his hand. “Let me introduce myself
properly. I’m Inspector Bullock. How are you feeling?”
“I feel like I’ve just been hit by a train. Other than that, not too bad.”
“Well, sit yourself there in the front. It’s only about twenty minutes to the
hospital.”

As the car pulled away, Doug slumped into the seat
and turned his head towards the window. For some minutes the two men remained
silent and Doug hoped it might stay that way. Eventually the inspector spoke.
“I’m very sorry about your friend, Mr. Gupta. Were you two close?”
“Kal was my best friend.”
“I’m very sorry,” he said again. Several moments passed, then he added, “I
understand there was a party the night before.”
“Yeah, it was a good one. That’s what I find so difficult to understand.”
“What’s that?” said the inspector, looking straight ahead at the road.
Doug studied the man’s face for a moment. It was relaxed and almost completely
devoid of expression, rather like that of a professional poker player.
“Well, he seemed to be having so much fun. One minute he’s the life and soul
and then the next…” Doug trailed off. The inspector was still looking straight
ahead, his face giving away nothing. “Does the name Sergei Markov mean anything
to you?”
Doug thought for a moment. “Doesn’t ring a bell I’m afraid. Who is he?”
Bullock reached into his coat pocket and produced a photo. “What about this?”
It was a low-resolution black and white print taken from an elevated position
with some kind of wide angle lens. It showed a short, wiry man, probably in his
thirties, dressed in black with ponytail and goatee-beard. It looked a lot like
a man he’d seen talking to Kal at the party.
“The picture is from a time-lapse security camera tape; that’s why it’s so
grainy. Unfortunately, it’s the only one I have right now. Was this man at the
party?”
“I’m not sure. Yeah, maybe. It was quite dark and I’m afraid I’d had a few
drinks so I can’t be certain. Who is he anyway and what’s the connection?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say. Try to remember. Was this man there?”
The car had stopped at traffic lights and Bullock was now turned and watching
Doug’s face intently.
“Yes, I think so. I saw him talking to Kal.”
“Did you hear any of what was said?”
“No, sorry – the music was pretty loud.”
“Did you notice anything else out of the ordinary?”
Doug thought back. A few of the guests had been smoking pot and there were
always plenty of suspicious looking people at Kal’s parties. Some were mature
students, while others were just friends of friends from outside the campus,
but nothing about this one had stood out particularly. Then he thought of
Cindy. He had not seen or heard from her since she had abandoned him outside
Kal’s tower, but feeling disinclined to share this with Bullock, he shook his
head vaguely. “No, it was fairly typical really. Do you think there’s some
connection between Kal’s….” he paused searching for the right word, “…accident
…and this Markov guy?”
“I don’t think anything yet. We’re trying to look at this from every possible
angle and not make any assumptions until we have a clearer picture of the
events surrounding Mr. Gupta’s death. Did your friend strike you as someone
who’d be capable or inclined to end his own life?”
Doug pondered a moment on the inspector’s choice of words; capable or inclined.
There were no doubt people with the inclination to commit suicide, but who
lacked the conviction to go through with it. But surely almost anyone was
capable of it. Perhaps someone afflicted with vertigo would be incapable of
jumping from a great height, but then there were plenty of other methods of
self-destruction.
“Not at all, but what else could have happened? You don’t think he was pushed
do you?”
“That seems unlikely given there were no signs of a struggle.” Bullock paused
for a moment, “Was Mr. Gupta involved with drugs?”
Doug had seen this one coming, but still he hesitated. Part of him wanted to
cover up for Kal even though he could see no benefit in doing so. What about
his parents though? They were very religious. In their eyes it was bad enough
that Kal was no longer a practising Hindu. They didn’t even know he ate meat.
Did they really need to find out he had occasionally dabbled with recreational
drugs?
As if reading Doug’s mind, Bullock added, “There’s no point in trying to
protect him now! He’s dead! I’m just trying to make sure nobody follows him,
and that means I need to know everything whether you think it’s relevant or
not.”
“Yes all right!” said Doug finally, with an air of exasperation. “He had
connections. He wasn’t a heavy user – just a little dope like everyone else,
but he would get stuff for people.”
“A dealer?”
“Christ no! Well - no, not a dealer, but people would ask him to get them stuff
for a party or whatever and generally, whatever they wanted, he could get.”
The two men fell silent once again as the car pulled into the visitors’ car park
of Colchester General Hospital.

In the Accident and Emergency wing there was a
small reception desk, but nobody visibly in attendance. Doug took a seat while
Bullock went over to the vending machine in the corner. “Tea or coffee?” he
asked.
“Tea please, white with sugar, thanks!”

A small boy of about ten sat opposite, proudly
sporting a blood-stained bandage around his head. Next to him sat a balding man
distractedly trying to read a newspaper. A tall, slim nurse walked by, but
ignored them.
“Excuse me!” said the man, clearly frustrated. Do you know how much longer the
doctor will be?”
The nurse stopped, sighed and turned round slowly. She stretched a thin smile
across her face. “Not much longer now.” Then she noticed Doug and the
expression broadened into a real smile that was both warm and friendly. She had
shortly cropped light brown hair, blue eyes, gentle, well proportioned features
and a perfect complexion. “Hello, I didn’t see you there. Has anyone checked
you in yet?” Her accent had a slight antipodean twang, not quite harsh enough
to be Australian, so Doug ventured Kiwi.
“I’m impressed! Finally someone with the intelligence and good judgement not to
call me an Aussie!”
Bullock stood up. “I think I’ll leave you in the capable hands of this lovely
young lady now, if that’s okay with you, Mr. Richards. Make sure you tell the
doctor you were unconscious for over a minute. Your coach said he’d be along to
pick you up later and take you back to campus.” He started heading for the door,
then stopped and turned. He fumbled in his breast pocket for a moment and
produced a card. “If you remember anything else about the other night, call me
on this number.”
“Okay, will do,” said Doug. “Thanks for the lift,” he added, as Bullock pushed
through the door.
The nurse took some details then disappeared down the corridor. Doug watched
her as she left. What was it about nurses’ uniforms? This one certainly seemed
to be tight in all the right places, and although not in the least revealing,
seemed to beautifully highlight the contours of the shapely young body inside.
As if feeling his eyes on her, she looked back over her shoulder and smiled.
“I’ll be back for you in a minute,” she said flirtatiously.
“I’ll be ready!” replied Doug in a similar tone. The balding man huffed.

As Doug waited, he thought of Cindy again. For two
days now, he had heard nothing. He’d tried calling her mobile, but the number
had been disconnected. Was she in some kind of trouble? Had she had an
accident? Did she know something about Kal’s death? Was that why she had run
away before the police had turned up? For all Doug knew, she could be dead
herself. For forty-eight hours, such questions had plagued him day and night,
but almost as strong as the curiosity to find answers, was his desire to feel her
naked body against his, and conclude what they had started. This was more than
a usual case of lust. This was pure, wild, unbridled animal attraction. He just
had to have her.

“Mr. Richards? Dr. Singh will see you now,” said
the nurse. “Down the end here, and it’s the second door on the right.”
Doug stood up and started down the dimly lit corridor. Suddenly, he felt his
stomach churning. He stopped, looked around dizzily and threw up on the floor.
Within a few seconds the nurse was at his side with a waste bin and some
tissues.
“I’m sorry,” said Doug. “I think I must have got up too quickly.”
“No worries, let’s just sit you back down for a moment. Put this on the floor
like this and put your head between your knees - that’s right. Just stay like
that for a few minutes, while I get someone to clean this up.”
A little later, a rather gaunt looking man in his thirties or early forties
appeared wearing overalls and carrying a mop and bucket.
“Thank you Pavel” said the nurse, appearing from around the corner. The man
nodded and started slowly cleaning up the mess. She then led Doug to a nearby
examining room where he lay on the bed and waited.

Dr. Singh was a slight man, probably in his mid
forties with short hair and a moustache. “How are you feeling, Mr. Richards?”
His voice was quiet and confident, and carried a heavy Indian accent.
“My stomach still feels a little delicate, and I still have a headache.”
Singh’s face darkened. He took a pen light from his pocket and shone it into
Doug’s eyes while asking him to explain exactly what had happened. As Doug
recounted the salient points leading to his blackout, the Doctor examined his
neck and torso, then tested his reflexes.
“And they said you were unconscious for over a minute?”
“That’s what they said, although for me it didn’t seem as if any time had
passed at all. One moment I was diving for the try-line, and the next I was
lying on my back looking up at a ring of faces.”
“Hmm. I think I’m going to keep you in for a little while. If the head-ache
disappears, and you don’t suffer any more nausea, you’ll be free to leave in a
couple of hours.”
“Is that really necessary? I mean, I just banged my head. Isn’t it natural I’m
going to have a headache?”
“Yes, the chances are you’ll be fine, but any concussion resulting in loss of
consciousness needs to be taken seriously. I want to keep you under observation
a little longer, just to be sure. If any other symptoms present, we may have to
schedule a scan, but for now you should rest. Did you have plans for this evening
Mr. Richards?”
“Well no, not really I suppose. I could do with finishing a computing
assignment, but with this headache, I probably wouldn’t be able to concentrate
enough anyway.”
“Right! Well, Nurse Baker will get you some ibuprofen for the headache and I’ll
come by and see you in an hour or so.”
Doug was moved to another room where he was able to lie quietly while the
headache subsided. He texted Dean to let him know he wouldn’t be ready for
another couple of hours and then settled down for a nap.

He was finally awoken by the Doctor and examined
again.
“Okay, I think it’s safe enough to let you go home now, but if you experience
any further disorientation, nausea, headaches or any other problems at all,
then call this number and get yourself back here at once.”
Doug thanked him and wandered out to the reception, where Dean was busy
chatting up the nurse.
“Still alive then?” said Dean, looking round. “Come on then you clumsy oaf.
Let’s get you back to campus.”

The “Fox and Hounds” was an old-style, spit-and-sawdust
country pub, ten minutes walk from The Fields on the way to the village. The
clientele, a mixture of farm-worker and country gent, chatted and drank while
some hit from the seventies rattled from an old jukebox. Some were playing
cribbage, others bridge, and a strong sense of community could be felt among
them. Peter once again thought how different things were up here - different in
a good way. It took a while before he realised what else was missing; the
incessant buzzing, whistling and pinging of fruit machines that had invaded
so many of the pubs down south, were pleasantly absent.

Roger was sitting in the far corner, nursing an
empty glass and looking expectantly at the door. When he saw Peter, he sprang
to his feet and ordered two pints from the bar. “So how are you getting on with
the den?” he asked.
“Pretty well, thanks,” replied Peter, wondering whether to mention the audio
files. “Just routine correspondence mostly,” he added, deciding to hold out
until he understood what he was dealing with.
Roger nodded absently. “It must be a big help for Isabelle, having you there.”
“I hope so.”
“She’s an extraordinary woman, Isabelle, isn’t she? Incredible knowledge of the
classics … and quite a theologian too.”
Peter nodded hesitantly, an uncomfortable silence ensuing, in which they both
took large swigs from their glasses.
“Beautiful day today!” exclaimed Roger. “Did you manage to get out at all, or
was it all work?”
Peter smiled. When all else fails, talk about the weather. “Yes, glorious!
Isabelle and I went for a stroll down to the post office this afternoon. The
scenery around here is quite stunning isn’t it? How long have you lived in
these parts?”
Roger explained how he’d moved into the parish four years earlier, after
graduating from theological college. Peter was initially surprised, the curate being
at least in his mid-thirties - too old to have graduated so recently. He then
remembered the change of career from research chemist to clergyman.