The Celibate Mouse (22 page)

CHAPTER 30

Being No-one

Senior Constable Glenwood

Friday: mid-morning.

A
blob of grey mist grew into a patch of light, where the sun shone through the window and struck the wall. His gaze wandered across the navy curtains, paused at the red flowers marching along the hems, following the uppermost line of the chairs and trolley to the bed. Puzzled, he examined the contours of his body, solid under the coverlet. Where was he and why would he be in bed during the day? He glanced at the doorway, but no one was available to enlighten him. Something slid into his mind, but vanished before he could identify it.

A mighty wallop of pain hit, sucking him into a black vortex from which there was no escape. He moaned through clenched teeth, stiffened his legs and pressed his arms down hard onto the mattress. It was some time before his mind managed to focus again. The pain eased into dull throbbing.

‘Maybe I have the flu? It wouldn’t be surprising with this bloody headache.’ His head might fall off any second. He lifted his hand to the constriction above his eyes. A bandage. He fingered its rough contours, tracing the outline of his head, hesitating when he reached the bulge at the back, which extended over his right ear.

An accident? Had to be.
How?

He closed his eyes and willed the pain to recede. He became aware of a regular electronic beeping coming from beside the bed. He opened his eyes again and tried to turn his head, but the pain screamed back. He must have made a sound, because a dark-haired woman bent over him. She leaned so closely, he could smell the chocolate she had been eating and see where her lipstick bled into the cracks of her mouth. Her floral perfume made him want to sneeze and sent his stomach roiling.

‘John! You’re awake!’

How observant. Full marks. Who the hell are you? And who’s John?

His limbs felt heavy and he needed to pee. He tried to hold it, becoming distressed when he realised he couldn’t. Humiliated, he waited for the warm, wet to pour over his bare legs. When nothing happened, he panicked and reached for his penis, but the movement caused a sharp jab to the back of his hand.

He moved his head gingerly to the side. Tubes ran from under the heavy bandage which turned his hand into a giant boxing glove, welded his palm to a board and led to a bottle on a stand above. Further down, another thick tube snaked from under the bedclothes and disappeared over the side of the bed.

Sensation crawled back into his body.
I’ve got a catheter plugged into my dick and an IV in my arm.
He couldn’t decide whether to cry tears of relief or pain. People flooded around his bed, a lad came and shone a light into his eyes.

‘How are you feeling?’ asked the nurses, as they poked and prodded his bandaged head. The dark-haired woman had disappeared.

Someone pressed a tube against his ear for a second, stood back and made a notation on a clipboard. The wide sleeve of the white cotton gown he wore was pushed back, and his arm threatened to explode, as a blood pressure cuff enthusiastically crushed his bicep in a python-grip. It held for endless seconds then eased, far too slowly.

‘How’s your head, John? Want something for it?’ asked a high school lad wearing a stethoscope around his neck.

‘Hm ... who ... are you?’

The ten year-old doctor frowned and leaned close enough for John to smell mint on his breath. ‘Jason Hardgreaves. You’ve known me since I was a kid. In fact, you booted me home when I played truant on several occasions. You can’t remember though, can you, John? Look straight ahead, that’s right.’

The light bobbed around in front of him hurting his eyes.

‘Who am I?’ he croaked, unable to remember Jason what’s-his-name, never mind his own identity.

‘You’re Senior Constable John Glenwood. You had an accident in your four-wheel drive and got a knock on your head.’

I’m a cop? Why can’t I remember? What happened for chrissakes? My car?

The doctor took the clipboard from the nurse, scribbled something and lowered his voice to a murmur. She nodded and walked swiftly away. He laid his hand on John’s arm. ‘You mustn’t worry. Everything will come back, especially if you don’t force yourself to remember. We’ll give you a dose for the pain and you can rest.’ He smiled and left the room.

‘We’ll?
What’s this ‘we’? How many nurses does it take to give an injection? How many antelopes to change a light globe?’ John thought hazily. He must have heard that one somewhere.

His eyelids closed, only to flutter open when a voice screeched in his ear.

‘John?
John?
I was so worried!’
I don’t remember being John. I’m no-one.

The dark-haired woman leant over him again, pawing at his hands. He closed his eyes against the onslaught of her emotion. Someone asked her to leave him be, he needed to rest. A thought edged into his brain. He grasped it for a moment, but it slipped away again.

He opened his eye and saw a green kidney-shaped dish on the side cabinet next to his pillow. He followed the efficient, gloved hands, as they fiddled with the tube running from an IV bag high above to the back of his hand, and injected liquid into the line.

‘Thank God,’ he muttered, closing his eyes. Shut out the world, you need to remember ... blessed darkness descended.

When he awoke, the patch of sunlight had darkened to a bruised thumbprint on the wall. He frowned and winced, as the pain returned. His stomach growled. Agitated movement alerted him to the dark-haired woman, ensconced in the chair nearby, knitting.
Who’s for the guillotine?

He watched, terrified, as she thrust her work into a basket down by her chair, leapt to her feet and bustled over to him. ‘Darling! You’re awake. Oh John, I thought we’d lost you!’ she cried, her voice sliced through his head like a sabre. He tried to ‘shush’ her with a wave of his hand. She grasped it, crushing the IV line probe. He squeaked but, oblivious to his distress, her grip tightened.

A hoarse shout came from somewhere–himself. A uniformed police officer rushed into the room, looked wildly around, thrust his head into the bathroom and whirled back to face the bed, where a flood of medical staff gathered, checking drip lines and inspecting the catheter. John struggled to free his hand from the woman’s rapacious grasp, but her grip only got tighter. Tears flowed down his cheeks and he felt himself void. Finally he managed to gasp, ‘Let go, for fuck’s sake, let go! You’re hurting me, damn it!’

Everyone stopped still and looked at him. The woman dropped his hand and burst into tears.

‘John, I’m so sorry,’ she sobbed, and collapsed into the arms of a nurse, who led her out of the room. John could hear her wailing outside, begging to be let back in. No, no ... The doctor picked up his hand and gently unwound the bloodied bandage. The cannula had pierced the wall of his vein and deeply penetrated his flesh. He needed to call on every ounce of self-control he possessed not to scream. Amid a chorus of comforting words, they extracted the IV line, dressed his hand and administered more sedation and pain-killers.

‘Thirsty,’ he heard his voice croak piteously.
Green light.
The words popped into his mind. He didn’t realise he’d spoken aloud.

‘A green light? Have you remembered something?’ Hardgreaves’ face lit up. ‘We’ll let them know! Someone’ll bring some tea, John, just a sip and then you’ll sleep again.’

The doctor raced out of the room and spoke urgently to the young police constable who returned to the room. ‘Senior, have you remembered something?’ he asked eagerly.

‘I don’t know.’ John’s headache throbbed menacingly, but he knew this was important. ‘I think ... it just popped into my head. Green light.’

‘Okay, I’ll phone it in.’

The young constable shot out the door and the nurses came back. Within seconds, John’s head was gently lifted and a plastic spout placed in his mouth. The beaker tilted and warm, sweet tea dribbled onto his parched tongue.

‘Thank God someone had some common sense,’ he thought, sucking hard on the spout. Tea poured into his mouth, overflowing onto his chin. ‘No, John, don’t try to drink too fast, mate,’ you’ll drown!’ A cloth dabbed it up and the beaker was withdrawn.

The notion came into his mind that although he didn’t know anything about himself, a cup of tea was a great comfort. Who was the dark-haired woman? Was she his wife? He knew he was in hospital,
but where?

***

Friday: late afternoon.

John appreciated the attention which they lavished on him and tried to reciprocate, but the one thing they wanted of him, he couldn’t give: answers to the questions they asked. Especially those of the man called Maguire. He answered as best he could, but the Detective Inspector was disappointed. Officialise came out of his own mouth, each carefully worded phrase sounding as though he was addressing court.
Where had that come from?
‘Perhaps I really am a copper.’

The eager light in their eyes showed him how much his memory mattered, but for the life of him, John couldn’t remember the events leading to his accident. They’d told him he’d run off the road on the way to Ipswich to see someone and it had not been an accident.

‘Can you remember leaving home?’

‘Try to visualise the road, the bends in the road. Just close your eyes and let your mind flow.’

When it became apparent he was distressed by their persistence, the exhortations changed.

‘Relax. It’ll come to you.’ But they couldn’t disguise the anxiety in their eyes. Instinctively, he knew something terrible had happened. He realised he was under guard, or being protected, but didn’t dare ask which.

A uniformed police officer, a Senior Sergeant, walked into the room. ‘How’re you feeling?’ he asked. John acknowledged he’d been better. ‘You had an accident in your Land Rover, Monday night on the Ipswich Road, at Cord Creek.’

‘They told me,’ John muttered irritably.

‘You came off the road, and someone hit you with a tyre lever.’ Being protected then.

Green light. The words flickered into his mind again and then vanished. Tears of frustration pooled in his eyes. Senior Sergeant Harris twitched a handful of tissues out of the box on the side-table and pushed them gently into his senior constable’s hand. John raised the wad and awkwardly wiped his eyes.

‘I’m sorry, I know you want the answers, George, but I can’t think ... this head ...’ George? Where had that come from? He couldn’t remember his own name for more than a few seconds unless someone told him. He shuffled his feet carefully, wincing as his ankle throbbed. Something constricted it. A bandage?
Why?
Oh, the accident.

‘Don’t worry, mate. Just take it easy and get some rest.’

‘How much rest do they think I need?’
He muttered ‘thanks’ politely, and waited for–George–to follow up with more questions, but the Senior Sergeant left after assuring him they’d protect him and work it out.

Work what out?
Protect him. Niglets of fear squirled in his gut. What did he have to be afraid of? Or who? Again something stirred deep in his mind, then vanished.

The dark-haired woman was blessedly absent. She’d hovered over his bed, getting in the way of the nursing staff, until they threatened to send her home. After that, she retired to a corner of the room and glared at everyone. John tried not to meet her pleading eyes.

He’d finally heard someone call her ‘Nola,’ and refer to her as his wife. His wife? That old woman? He glanced down at his hands. Callused, tough fingers, broad hands, one encumbered by a needle and tube strapped into it. He raised his free arm, examining the corded muscles, tanned and faintly freckled.

‘How old am I?’ he wondered. He plucked the neck of the white hospital gown back, tucked his chin down and peered inside.
Grey chest hairs?

‘Well, black and grey. Perhaps Nola is old enough to be my wife ... or me her husband ... ‘

He closed his eyes, the better to shut out the world, information overload, un-remembered wives, green lights, coppers ...

And he slept again.

CHAPTER 31

Back To the Drawing Board

The Killer

Friday: noon.

T
he information filtered slowly into his hysterical mind, that now conscious, John Glenwood would talk. Fear squeezed his chest. Was he having a heart attack?

He took deep breaths to calm down and respond coherently to the informant, an ex-girlfriend who worked at the hospital. Impatience surged through him as she waffled on about other matters, unaware of being used.

After speaking with her, he went to the china cabinet, took out an exquisite crystal glass and poured a generous belt of whisky. He switched on the stereo and selected Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto, inserted the CD, pressed the play button and settled himself into an armchair to think.

Spare time during the day was a rare treat and he planned to make the most of the time. A sick relative necessitated Gloria’s absence for at least 24 hours, an unexpected bonus. ‘But no more smashing things ... you’ve got to get a grip.’
She’s not completely stupid.

Three things to cope with, Susan Prescott who remained a nuisance, and something which occurred to him minutes ago and caused him to fear he might be losing his focus. Connie said that Edna had kept a diary all her life. ‘I need to get to the cottage before Daniella and Libby clear it out. They’ll be preparing for the wake this afternoon, I’ll slip over there then.’’

Satisfied, he turned his thoughts to the urgent problem of John Glenwood. Terror wreathed through his mind, constricted his throat and nestled in his stomach. He had to save himself by finding a way to avert disaster. Another attempt on the senior constable would be difficult, but not impossible, even with security doubled. How had the man managed to survive the massive dose of insulin? Someone must have worked out what it was and taken the appropriate action. ‘All that trouble for nothing,’ the killer muttered resentfully, thinking of the effort taken to start the diversion and get into the hospital without being seen.

He couldn’t go back to the hospital. One glimpse of him might be enough to remind Glenwood of their appointment the night he was run off the road. The tyre lever, scrubbed, bleached, boiled in water and stowed in the safest place of all–the boot of the killer’s car. He remained confident that not a speck of blood or hair remained to be discovered by a forensic team.

He searched his mind to come up with a new plan, but an hour passed before a sure-fire way of killing the senior constable occurred. How to implement the idea? His plan needed to be put into effect immediately, before Glenwood regained his memory. The first part was simple. Drive to the next suburb after dark, step over a low front fence and cut a small branch off a tree which grew just inside an elderly couple’s yard. They were deaf and had no dog to alert them to an intruder.

The second part involved a packet which a previous girlfriend left in his office after she’d run screaming with rage during the fight a year ago, which he’d manipulated in order to end their relationship. She wouldn’t come back for the box now, but if she did, it could easily have been discarded.
So sorry.

The third action was the hard one. How to put the plan into operation? The locks on the outside entrances to the hospital would have been changed after the attack on the two police officers. Entering through the boardroom was no longer an option, so how to do it? And the man was being guarded around the clock.

Think. Keep calm.

He changed the CD and leaned back in his chair, allowing more glorious music of Mozart to cleanse his mind of all but solving the problem at hand.

Minutes later he thought of the perfect solution.