One Last Lesson (7 page)

With a deft flick of the wrist, she slipped the stubby little gear lever into third and
dipped the accelerator. Instantly, the two-litre Mazda MX5 engine emitted a gentle whine and the car surged forward. Gone was the roar and grunt she’d experienced in other ragtops that were her usual mode of transport and something she just needed to get used to, as whatever it lacked in auditory gratification, it was more than compensated by the pleasurable back-of-the-seat kick she received when it was driven fast.

Rachel
Jones bought the car only three weeks before but already it was starting to feel like the best she’d driven. A petrol-head from an early age, she often spent her weekends hanging around garage forecourts looking at sports cars, trying to convince the macho salesman that a mere woman might be a serious customer if only he would let her take one out for a spin.

It was unfortunate that her salary as a journalist
with the Brighton Argus did not allow her to follow her passion with any degree of gusto, but by working additional overtime and the judicious juggling of her clothes and eating-out budget, it occasionally provided sufficient funds to splash out, as was the case with this two-year old roadster.

When she first met Angus Henderson,
the owner of a much-neglected four year-old Audi estate with several odd bits of boat engine in the back, she was afraid their relationship would flounder before it started, as he showed no interest in cars beyond using them for daily transport, so how could he really understand her obsession?

To her complete surprise, he n
ever once complained about the hours she spent reading motoring magazines or wandering around motor shows and garage forecourts, other than to remark that if ever spotted by his boss, it would be the excuse he was looking for to move him to Traffic.

For the last
couple of weeks, she had been tied to her desk writing articles and features, including one about Shoreham Power Station that would be in the paper later in the week, an update to the Country Diary, including a weekly column of the jobs needing doing in the garden and what delights could be found in hedgerows and fields at this time of year, and a speculative one about the grants available to landowners for planting trees, which her boss promised to put in the paper the next time he had a space to fill.

She
was just leaving the South of England Showground where once a year the fields on either side of the access road, the large barns dotted to left and right, and the huge exhibition halls and pavilions were transformed into the South of England Agricultural Show.

In early June, two and a half months from now, h
undreds of exhibitors from all over the south would arrive here to set up stalls, offering everything from apple juice to tractors, from home-made jam to locally brewed ales, in a three-day extravaganza of dog trials, horse jumping, chainsaw skills and other country pursuits, that attracted tens of thousands of visitors to this rural part of West Sussex.

In her role as countryside and environmental reporter, it was her job to put together a feature on the show which was
always published a few weeks before it started, but she decided to meet some members of the committee ahead of time, to give her readers something to look forward to in the dismal winter months.

It had been a good meeting and she
managed to fill two pages of A4 with notes and if she couldn’t make a good half-page article out of that lot, she might as well hand back her NUJ card now. When it was published, she hoped her readers would find it interesting but it would also go to prove to her boss that her little jaunt into the countryside did have a valid business purpose and wasn’t just an excuse to try out her new roadster.

She
called Angus. The previous evening, they met at nine but as he was tired and didn’t feel like driving into Brighton, they decided to walk to the nearest pub. The apartment block where she lived in Hove called Ashdown, was built on land owned by Sussex County Cricket Club, and as her flat enjoyed extensive views over the cricket ground, she could watch any match from the comfort of her own living room. Alas it was not for free as she and all the other similarly sited apartment owners, were obliged to buy an annual membership for the cricket club as a condition of signing the lease.

When
ever he was involved in a major investigation, he tried to hide the pressure he was under by over-compensating in his efforts to be jolly and attentive, when all he wanted to do was get back to Sussex House and be with his team. But no matter how difficult it was for him to get away, she still wanted to see him and often an evening away from the problems of the case was a good chance to clear his head.

Several times in the evening
, he seemed distracted, even when they made love back at her flat on the fifth floor. If she was being picky, it was not one of his better performances but it was worth it, as he looked refreshed and alert when he left for work early that morning.

She tried calling
him once again but it defaulted to the call answering service and so she tried his office and after a few rings, it diverted to Eileen Hayes, his Management Assistant.

‘Hello Eileen,
it’s Rachel Jones. How are you doing?’

‘Rushed off my feet as usual. How are you? I saw your piece in the Argus
the other day about that new offshore wind farm at Shoreham. I’m glad you think it’s a waste of money, I think so too. I take it you’re after our Mr H?’

‘I am. Is he there?
I tried his mobile a few times but he’s not answering. He hasn’t left it at home again, has he?’

‘
I don’t think so. He’s still in this morning’s status meeting and it’s been going on for ages. That lot are like a bunch of old women when they get going.’

‘I know what you mean. It’s the same
at our place. Tell him I phoned and I’ll call back later. Thanks Eileen, bye.’

She knew
about the meeting but thought it would be finished by now. It didn’t usually go on all morning unless they were discussing some new development or he was giving them a bollocking for the lack of progress or for some error of judgement. Either way, she hoped she would find him in a good mood tonight as she was taking him to meet her friends, Becky and Sam and their new baby.

She was desperate to open up the engine and see what
the little car was made of, but couldn’t do so as she was approaching Ardingly village and several elderly people were ambling about with milk and newspapers in their hands or standing chatting, oblivious to the point where the pavement stopped and the road began. If avoiding knocking down a pensioner wasn’t incentive enough to encourage her to slow down, holding onto her driving license was, as she had already accumulated six points for speeding and she didn’t want any more.

She turned right into College Road and to her relief, the village
soon ended and the countryside began. She zipped past Ardingly College and when the speed limit changed to fifty, she overtook the van in front. From a vantage point on a section of high ground, a long straight beckoned but first she needed to get past a slow-moving tractor that was up ahead, hauling animal feed. She edged closer and braked gently as she watched the stacked trailer swaying from side to side, trying to gauge how much room there was for her.

The
tractor driver acknowledged her presence and edged into the side of the road, allowing her to pass. The road was narrow with high hedgerows on both sides and the large rear tyres of the tractor looked enormous from the low seat in her car. She drew level and the young driving waved an apology for holding up traffic, but grinned inanely when he noticed her skirt had ridden up several inches above the knee.

She glanced up to give him one of her trademark scowls
, reserved for lechers and perverts, when suddenly she spotted a grey shape nosing out of the hedge about twenty or so yards ahead. She stamped on the brakes and blasted her horn but in less than a second, her car slammed straight into it.

Frustrated at not finding a parking place,
DI Henderson left his car on double-yellow lines and placed a homemade ‘police business’ sticker on the windscreen. Before closing the door, he removed a bunch of lilies from the passenger seat, bought from a garage when he stopped for petrol and a quick sandwich, and self-consciously made his way through the car park.

Rushing through the entrance of The Royal Sussex County Hospital, he almost tripped over an old bloke in a wheelchair
, hovering near the door, hoping someone would push him outside for a smoke. It would come as no surprise to find he was being treated for lung cancer or emphysema, as he knew only too well from many of his own ‘clients,’ that many people possessed a limitless capacity for self-harm.

Without breaking stride, he headed straight for Intensive Care. He knew the way as he had been through these doors many times before, the last
time to see an old con who fell through a roof while trying to break into a cash and carry through the skylight.

H
e called out to the nurse manning the reception at IC, ‘here to see to Rachel Jones,’ and she buzzed him through, although he gave her little choice unless she wanted another casualty on her hands when he smashed head first into the door. Walking down the corridor, he was trying hard not to look inside the rooms at the battered bodies and damaged heads but slowed before he reached Rachel’s room as he could hear voices inside. It wasn’t the Argus’s editor, Terry Davis or her direct boss, Gary Henson as he expected but sitting close to her bed were her parents, Phil and Karen.

He
had been going out with Rachel for five months and during that time had met her parents once or twice and even though he didn’t know them that well, he liked them. He kissed Karen and shook Phil’s hand before leaning over the bed and embracing the patient, taking care to avoid becoming entangled in the myriad of tubes and wires that were connected to the back of her hand and then snaked down below the covers to her chest.

Her eyes were open, but the spark was dull, like a log fire at the end of a long night. ‘Welcome back girl, I understand you’ve been out of circulation for a few hours.’

She tried to smile. ‘That’s a bad joke even for you Mr H. Anyway, the nurses told me everything that’s been going on.’

There was a scraping noise behind him and
he turned to see Phil pushing a spare chair towards him.

‘Thanks,’ he said
and sat down.

‘Do you remember anything about the crash?’

‘Is this a formal police interview or are you just trying to sound like a reporter?’

‘You’ve forgotten none of your acerbic wit, I’m sorry to say.’

She moved, setting off a jangling of wires and tubes as she tried to lie more comfortably. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t remember much after leaving the Show Ground.’

‘The doctor
I spoke to, said you might lose your memory for a while but it’ll come back in time.’

‘That’s a relief.
I’m not much bloody use as a journalist without one.’

‘
Rachel,’ he said solemnly, ‘as you probably know, it was a fairly bad smash and I’m sorry to tell you, as I know how much you loved that car, but your pride and joy is now a complete write-off.’

‘Bloody hell!
I finally find a car I really like and then…this. I’m gutted.’

‘I called the Accident Investigation Unit and they said the sub-frame was badly twisted, the engine
had shifted on its mountings and most of the body panels were bent and twisted.’

‘How are the other people?’

‘The woman you hit, Mary Davidson was treated for shock and whiplash but the child in the back was fine. The tractor driver suffered a bad gash to the head when he struck the steering wheel but he was allowed home after treatment.’

‘
I’m pleased to hear it and thank the Lord that I was insured.’

‘If you weren’t, I’d probably be out of a job for going out with a criminal but you should get back more or less what you paid for it as you haven’t owned it for more than a couple of weeks. The guy I spoke to in Traffic says no fault is attached to you. The blame is on Davidson.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Maybe for the next one you should to go for something bigger. These little two-seat sports cars don’t offer you enough protection.’

In an everyday situation,
a comment like that would have been incendiary and lead to an instant red card and an early bath, as she was addicted to cars in the same way an old uncle of his was addicted to booze as there was no way she would ever buy a ‘sensible’ saloon or a sedate hatchback.

What he knew about cars wouldn’t fill a dust cap but he did know that the little sports car
s she liked, were too low on the ground and offered little protection from flying debris, stinging insects or mindless idiots throwing stones or lighted cigarettes for a lark, and he had seen at first-hand the damage caused to a small car after it had been in collision with a lorry.