Hands of the Traitor (14 page)

Matt divided his attention between Zoé
and the big Ford. "Anyway, Granddad's only there for a few
weeks."

"Perhaps," said Zoé.

"What does that mean?"

"It means perhaps."

Matt let it drop. He didn't want to think
about a permanent future for anyone in a secure hospital. "Push the
window open, Zoé. This car stinks of damp."

"Of course it does. This car, it is so
old."

Matt grunted. "Older than old. It's a
wreck."

The Ford moved off behind them as they
came out of the service yard, the driver keeping well back. Matt
watched in the rear-view mirror and decided he wasn't having anyone
snooping on his movements.

"Excuse the speed."

He put his foot down and the engine
responded immediately. It still felt strange to sit so close to the
road and so close to the front of the car, but he could fling the
Mini around on its rock hard suspension with a surprising lack of
restraint. The South Memorial Hospital was at least a half hour
drive, but why go the direct route? The big Ford would have fun
keeping up on minor roads.

Zoé pulled her collar up against the
wind ripping through the open window. "Is it all right if I close
it a little?"

"Go on, but don't turn round. We're
being followed."

Zoé pushed the window nearly shut. "Is
this some kind of a silly joke?"

"It happens from time to
time."

The route out of town went around a steep
hill known locally as the Mount before joining the winding road
over the grassy downs. Matt knew that in a couple of miles the road
would dip towards a bend where the camber was all wrong. Huge beech
trees lined both sides of the road, their spreading branches
throwing the corner into shadow. He remembered how in his younger
days he'd taken great delight in setting up the angle of his old
Fiesta XR2, foot flat on the floor, drifting through the radius on
full throttle. It would be interesting to see what the Mini made of
the maneuver.

There were no vehicles ahead. There
hardly ever were. Matt applied full power as the road fell away
towards the trees. As he balanced the car for the adverse camber he
glanced in his mirror. The driver of the Ford had closed the
gap.

The Mini, its front tires protesting,
drifted in a series of ragged steps through the bend. Matt kept his
foot on the floor and let the car surge through the fast twists
that followed in quick succession, then eased back.

"Can I open my eyes?" asked Zoé, her
voice faint.

Matt looked in the mirror. "He's
gone."

"Gone to change his underwear
perhaps?"

"Nobody asked him to stay with us." He
tried to change up to a non-existent fifth gear. Zoé was right,
he'd probably scared the pants off the man.

The red and white sign of the hospital
was too prominent to miss. It made a bit of a change from the
subtle green and gold of the Saint Monica's board. They drove round
the back to the area set aside for visitors.

They were early; visiting time had only
just begun. The car following them down the slope went into a staff
parking bay. With some relief Matt noticed it was an old Opal. The
Ford might have been in some sort of trouble on the bend, or maybe
the driver had lost interest. Certainly no one had followed them
the rest of the way. The orange Mini was becoming more appealing
every day he drove it. It was just a shame it was such a
wreck.

It took nearly ten minutes to be
briefed before being taken upstairs to the room where his
grandfather was in bed. Matt smiled at him lying against a pile of
pillows. The nurse explained that he still needed to be sedated.
Not so heavily today, she said, but still sedated. Matt leaned over
the bed. His grandfather's eyes stayed open, staring at the
ceiling.

"Evening, Granddad," he said softly,
so as not to cause alarm.

"Who's there?" The eyes were either
sightless, or the brain was switched off.

"It's Matt, Granddad. And I've brought
a friend. She's called Zoé."

The pathetic figure in blue hospital
pajamas seemed to be waking from a heavy sleep. Recognition was
slow.

"Sit down, Matt."

Matt looked at the nurse. "You can
leave us now," he said.

She shook her head firmly. "Out of the
question, Mr. Rider. Dr. Jamieson says your grandfather is not to
be left alone with members of the public."

"Except reporters," he
retorted.

The nurse reddened.

"I don't suppose Sister Ewing is
here," he added.

"Sister Ewing is on nights this week."
The nurse wriggled uncomfortably.

Matt began to feel awkward. The nurses
had a thankless job to do, and he wasn't helping. "Okay, I'm
sorry," he said. "It's just that I'm not used to places like
this."

His grandfather seemed so feeble with
his teeth out. They were probably in the plastic box on the bedside
cabinet. His eyes looked red and inflamed, either from lack of
sleep or from the medication they'd been pumping into him. Matt
took hold of the wrinkled hand and watched the gold ring glint. His
grandfather was nearly ninety, but he often looked older. About a
hundred and fifty today.

The red eyes blinked quickly a few times,
as though the rapid blinking would clear the mind. "I can't get it
off, you know. Major Jackson gave it back to me. He said I deserved
it. I cut a man's hand off to get that ring." He began to shake.
"There were two rings. I think I cut both hands off." The eyes
looked anxiously at Matt. "Are you Major Jackson?"

Matt forced a small laugh as he
glanced self-consciously at the nurse. "I'm Matt, your
grandson."

Again the slight awakening. "Yes, of
course. Matt, my lad, how are you? It must be twenty years since I
saw you."

"It's about two weeks," said Matt
quietly. "You were in Saint Monica's. I expect you'll go back there
soon."

A man in hospital pajamas and dressing
gown shuffled at a snail's pace past the open door, shouting abuse
at the nurse holding his arm.

"God save me from old age," Matt
whispered to Zoé as he took hold of her hand. Then he raised his
voice. "I think I've found the girl you met in France,
Granddad."

Zoé pulled her chair closer to the bed as
though one of the family. "You said her name was Sophie," she
added.

"I killed Sophie." The voice trembled
as it rose in volume. "I don't remember, that's the bloody trouble.
I blame those two Heinmans for everything."

Matt patted his grandfather on the
shoulder. "Don't upset yourself."

"Blonde she was." The wrinkled hands
caught hold of Matt's arm. "I fancied her, Matt, I really fancied
her. I wanted to bring her back to Blighty and set up a love nest.
Not that your grandmother would have liked it -- I'd been married
ten years!"

"You've told me that before,
Granddad." Matt could have added, "Lots of times." The build-up for
the joke was very, very familiar. It was new to Zoé. She was
laughing.

The nurse just stared. But what the hell,
this old man had been through enough for his country, and he was
entitled to talk about his exploits. He'd been a hero, but the
world had passed him by. Heroes were soon forgotten when they were
less than physically and mentally perfect.

"Sophie isn't dead. I'm going to
France to see her." Matt leaned forward to make sure his
grandfather understood. "She'll know what happened to
you."

The information was received without
recognition. Matt knew that for years everyone had been telling his
grandfather to forget about the girl. He'd often tried to trot out
the same banality himself.

Supposing he could persuade the ageing
Sophie to come back with him from France; would his grandfather
know the woman again anyway, after all this time? Ken was right,
any French woman would do as far as his grandfather was
concerned.

The medication was fast reclaiming the
patient. Further explanation seemed pointless. The eyes became
sightless again, staring at the ceiling. "Yes, find Sophie for me,
Matt," his grandfather said indistinctly. "But I think she's dead."
The eyes finally closed.

"It would be best if you left now, Mr.
Rider." The nurse's voice carried authority.

Matt pulled the two chairs back to the
side of the room. "I'm going to France to find a woman he knew," he
said.

"That will be nice for
him."

It wasn't worth any further
explanation. No one took the old man's mental trauma seriously; not
even the medical staff.

Something told Matt to drive back across
the downs, just to make sure the Ford hadn't come off at the bend.
Not that he'd feel guilty. People shouldn't try their hand at
tailing unless they could handle their own vehicle
properly.

"I've always liked my granddad." He
took the sweeping bends a little more easily as he chatted. "My
parents thought he was a nuisance, but then they didn't like each
other either."

"He was a nuisance to the family?"
asked Zoé.

"Not to me he wasn't. He was a lovely
old grandfather who used to laugh and joke, play tricks, and tell
outrageous stories about the war. Perhaps the stories were true.
Well, some of them. Maybe."

The ambulance, its blue lights
flashing, almost blocked the road. The police watched while the
crew from a breakdown truck connected a chain to the wreckage of a
dark Ford jammed between the densely packed beech trees. A police
officer signaled to Matt to wait.

"Anyone hurt?"

The police officer studied the Mini's
tax disc and number plate. He would be from the Trinity Green
police station where Matt had once worked, but he didn't know
him.

"Chest injuries mostly. Looks like he
was going too fast. Always been trouble, this bend. We've only just
cut him free. An American, by his papers."

Matt knew he'd be paranoid to imagine
the Heinmans were after him. "Do you have his name?"

Fortunately the Mini's tax disc still
had eleven days to run. The policeman raised his eyebrows. "Miller.
Milton Miller."

"Can I see him? I might know who he
is."

The policeman glanced towards the
ambulance. The emergency team had the man on a stretcher. "Okay,
but don't talk to him."

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Matt. He
walked across the clearing and crouched down by the stretcher. "Is
your name Miller?" he demanded.

The driver of the Ford, a man aged
about fifty, had blood on his forehead, but his eyes were open. He
looked at Matt in surprise. "You're Matt Rider!"

"Never mind about me. Is your name
Miller?"

The man nodded. He was probably in
shock and therefore likely to tell the truth.

"And you work for DCI?"

The man nodded again.

"Did Mr. Heinman send you?"

Matt thought he detected a nod of the
head.

"Tell your boss to keep away from me.
Okay?"

The ambulance crew pushed Matt aside.
"We're taking the patient to accident and emergency," a man in
green coveralls told him.

The policeman came running across. "I
told you not to talk to him."

Matt leaned over the man on the stretcher.
He had time for a final question. "What does Mr. Heinman want with
me?"

The man just stared.

Matt walked back to his car. He should
have asked the last question first.

The ambulance turned in the road and
drove off, siren screaming.

"Do you know him?" asked the policeman
who had followed Matt to the Mini.

"I think he's a newspaper reporter
from America." Matt slipped the car into gear and drove slowly from
the scene.

Zoé had been sitting quietly. "What is
going on?" she demanded.

"It's the man who called to see Ken.
He told Ken he's from the press. He isn't. He works for
DCI."

"And you thought it was Monsieur
'Einman?" Zoé began to laugh.

He decided to say nothing.

"Surely you cannot think Monsieur
'Einman would travel all the way from New York to spy on
you?"

"If the Heinmans weren't in France in
the war, why did they send Miller over to snoop around? They must
be worried about something." He floored the accelerator as they
crested the hill.

"It might be a
coincidence."

"And it might not," he retorted,
stamping hard on the brakes for a bend he'd forgotten about. "My
parents were too busy scrapping to find out what had really
happened to Granddad. I've got a horrible feeling we've left it too
late to get justice."

Zoé sighed. "I was right, I think,
about the hospital. It is depressing. The problem of your
grandfather, it is not yours. Your grandmother should have got
treatment for him."

"My grandmother was a proud woman. She
never talked about my grandfather's problems. She believed that
they'd go away if she hushed them up."